In the empty, silent room, Gerald closed his eyes and listened.
The voices of Killon and his nieces—girls he had never met—drifted to him from elsewhere in the house.
Rage coiled in his chest like a living thing, but he swallowed it down. Contained it.
*Not yet. First, find the boy.*
He set down his teacup without a sound.
"Kay."
A shadow detached itself from the darkness. Kay dropped to one knee before him.
"Follow Killon. Find Perido."
Kay vanished as silently as he had appeared.
Moments later, quick footsteps echoed down the corridor—Olive's familiar stride, though faster than usual.
"Enter."
Olive stepped inside, his face tight with barely contained outrage.
"Baronet Killon appears to be rushing tomorrow's funeral through with shameful haste. Many nobles haven't even received notice yet." He paused, his jaw working. "And also..."
The silence stretched.
Gerald did not rush him. He lifted his cup and waited.
"The bodies of the Count and Countess..." Olive's voice wavered. "They were so badly damaged that they've already been cremated. Only urns containing the ashes will be present at the funeral tomorrow."
His voice cracked. He could not finish.
No nobleman cremated before the funeral.
*Ever.*
Gerald's tightly closed eyelids rose slowly.
His silver eyes—pale as winter frost, bright as lightning—blazed with a cold and terrible fury.
The porcelain teacup in his hand crumbled.
It did not shatter. It simply *collapsed*—reduced to fine white dust that sifted through his fingers like snow.
His scarlet lips parted.
"...How *dare* he."
Olive shuddered involuntarily.
He had known the Duke nearly his entire life. He had seen him in battle, in grief, in pain.
He had never seen him this angry.
---
Marin pursed her pink lips and studied the map spread before her with fierce concentration.
She had been staring at it for days now. She could trace the terrain with her eyes closed.
"This is absurd." The words escaped her like a groan. "It's impossible to get there in a week."
She knew exactly how far it was from the West to the South. Even Olive had said that a ten-day journey, at a brutal pace, might be completed in seven.
*What do they call it? Courage born of ignorance?*
Tormented by the injury that kept her from traveling, Marin had secretly packed her belongings. If she could summon the courage, she would go alone.
And so she had begun studying the map obsessively.
The distance from West to South was vast even in a straight line—and mountains kept interrupting the route.
She was confident in the saddle, but not confident enough to cross mountain passes on horseback.
And if she encountered bandits while traveling alone? *Disaster.*
Even if she somehow arrived safely, what then? The Duke's cold, withering stare?
"Haah..."
She lifted her head from the map and drew a deep breath.
No matter how many plans she devised, they all led to the same conclusion: *foolhardy.*
*He doesn't like noise. How is he coping with the rattling of the carriage? Is he eating properly? The mandrelson must be nearly gone by now. I should have taught him how to prepare it himself. How many nights has he gone without sleep?*
"What has you so lost in thought?"
"I was thinking, not exactly—" Marin turned, expecting Zero. "Who are *you?*"
This quiet archive saw few visitors. She had assumed it was him.
Her eyes went wide.
Before her stood a man of breathtaking beauty.
Long silver hair cascaded past his shoulders, gleaming like starlight—like the Milky Way given form. Behind elegant spectacles, his eyes were a deep, cold blue. His lips curved in a slight smile, scarlet and alluring.
*Dazzling.* There was no other word for it.
"We meet for the first time." He inclined his head with graceful formality. "Zeromian Rodel Sant. Zero's elder brother."
His gaze was warm, his tone amiable.
"Ah—hello." Marin scrambled to her feet and bowed, flustered. "I'm Marin."
"I've heard a great deal about you from Zero. I'm pleased we could finally meet."
Zeromian smiled sweetly.
"I see."
Marin returned a tense smile and averted her gaze slightly.
*So this is his true form.*
The one who so often appeared as a child now stood before her as he truly was.
*What does this mean?*
In the novel, he had revealed his true appearance only long after meeting the heroine. And his real name had never been disclosed at all.
*Zeromian Rodel Sant.*
Abbreviated... *Zero.*
But *Sant?* She had heard that name somewhere before.
The surname lodged in her mind and refused to leave. She turned it over silently.
*Sant. Sant...*
*Could this truly be the Northern Ducal House of Sant?*
*Is this man... a Grand Duke of the North?*
The realization struck her like cold water.
Marin stared at Zeromian, whose blue eyes watched her reaction with keen interest.
*Don't let him see that you've guessed.*
She quickly lowered her gaze and smoothed her expression.
If the Western Ducal House held back the monsters of the desert, the Northern House defended against the creatures of the mountain ranges. And the northerners were far less public than their western counterparts—shrouded in mystery and rumor.
That was why she hadn't immediately recognized the name.
*This may be a novel, but for another ducal heir to be so close?*
There were only *four* such houses in the entire empire.
If he usually used a false name, he clearly wished to keep his identity hidden. So why reveal the truth so casually to someone he'd just met? Did he assume a commoner wouldn't understand the significance?
"Why do you look so surprised?"
His voice remained pleasant, but a sharp glint flickered in those blue eyes.
"Eh? Ah, that..." Marin fumbled for words. "You look *so* much like Mr. Zero."
"People often tell me that."
"Yes! You really are remarkably alike. I imagine when Mr. Zero grows up, he'll look exactly like this."
"There's no handsomer man in the empire than myself." Zeromian's chin lifted with playful arrogance. "So if Zero grows to resemble me, he's quite fortunate. Wouldn't you agree?"
He winked.
"Absolutely," Marin nodded earnestly.
Her immediate agreement seemed to catch him off guard. Zeromian suddenly removed his glasses and began polishing them vigorously with his sleeve.
The tips of his ears, visible through his silver hair, had turned decidedly pink.
*All that confidence, and a single compliment flusters him?*
It was unexpectedly endearing.
Zeromian replaced his glasses and cleared his throat, his expression carefully neutral.
"By the way—you never answered my question."
"What?" Marin blinked.
"What were you thinking about so intently?"
Only then did she remember how this conversation had begun.
"Ah... it wasn't anything important." She hesitated. "I was just wondering how His Grace is doing."
"There's nothing to worry about. He's the strongest man in the empire."
"Worried..." Marin repeated the word slowly, as though tasting it. "You say *worried?*"
She realized, suddenly, that she hadn't even named the feeling until now.
"You *were* worried, weren't you?"
"I... yes." She nodded slowly. "I suppose I was. I've been worried about His Grace."
The Duke, as Zeromian said, was the strongest in the empire—the protagonist of the original novel. He would face hardships and trials, but ultimately, everything would end well.
*Could it be that, living beside him these past weeks, she had grown... attached?*
Marin shook her head firmly.
*No. It's simply professional responsibility. That's all.*
She nodded once, decisively, organizing her thoughts.
Zeromian watched with undisguised curiosity as she alternately shook and nodded her head. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Thank you, Mr. Zeromian."
"Oh? You've sorted through it all already?" His tone was light, amused.
"Yes. You reminded me of my professionalism."
"How remarkable. It seems I'm capable of providing such wisdom."
He praised himself without a trace of irony, and Marin nodded in agreement.
"Yes. You truly are wonderful." She began folding the map before her with practiced efficiency. "I cannot help but worry—but I also cannot neglect my duties. May I take my leave?"
"Certainly."
"Then—until next time."
She smiled brightly and walked out of the archive.
Zeromian remained where he stood, watching her retreating figure.
"*Extremely* interesting."
His blue eyes sparkled with the light of someone who had just discovered a fascinating new subject for study.