A short while ago, Andrew had been busy distributing wheat and barley to the gathered people.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a blonde woman approaching—supported by a neighbor's child.
No. Why did she come here?
It was none other than Andrew's younger sister, Hillen—the one he cherished and worried about more than anyone else in the world.
"I need to step away for a moment—my sister's here."
Andrew pointed toward Hillen. His fellow knight, well aware of Andrew's family circumstances, readily nodded and waved him off.
"Go ahead, go ahead."
"Thanks."
Andrew pushed his way through the crowd and approached his sister.
"Hillen!"
"Andrew!"
Hillen's pale face lit up with a smile as she waved at him.
She looked far older than her actual age. Her skin was sallow, her cheeks hollow and thin—nothing like the rosy glow of youth she should have had.
How can you come out to a crowded place like this when you look ready to collapse at any moment?
Andrew's heart ached just looking at her. Worry and frustration tangled together, and he found himself grumbling before he could stop.
"You can barely manage a walk in front of the house—why on earth did you come all the way here?"
"I came to see my brother working up close."
"What's the point of that?"
"Because you never come home to see me, that's why."
Hillen glanced at Andrew playfully, then gave a soft, teasing laugh.
"You live in the barracks now, so I can't even see you when you're this close. You don't come home on your days off. You haven't visited once since the day you returned from the battlefield. So I had no choice but to come to you."
"I'm busy. Very busy."
"Leviche told me that Uncle Karl comes to the house three or four times a week."
"That's..."
Andrew twisted his lips and glanced in the direction of his fellow knight, Karl.
"That guy overdoes it. He skips night training like it's nothing, so he struggles every morning trying to make up for it."
"Pfft..."
Hillen smiled bitterly, as if she knew Andrew's words weren't entirely true.
Then she spoke carefully, watching his expression.
"I wish you'd make peace with Father and come home more often."
Andrew's expression instantly hardened at the mention of their father.
He had hated his alcoholic father for a very, very long time.
After Andrew's mother had passed away, his father had drowned himself in drink and neglected his young children completely. Andrew had been forced to take on the role of head of the household from far too young an age.
Hillen—like their mother—had always been frail and sickly. She needed medicine. She needed care. She needed someone to pay attention.
When the Saint had still been alive, Hillen could at least receive help during the rituals held several times a year. But after losing the Saint in the war, even that small mercy was gone.
So Andrew had joined a group of hunters when he was only ten years old—just to earn enough coin to support Hillen and keep their useless father fed.
Whenever Andrew left home for days at a time to hunt in the mountains, he was gripped by a paralyzing fear: What if Hillen is dead when I get back?
His damned father—who may or may not have even noticed Andrew's terror—was no help at all. He would simply get drunk and spout the same pathetic laments over and over.
"If only I hadn't done that back then... It's my fault. It's all my fault..."
"I'm sorry, my love... I embarrassed you until the moment you died... I made the wrong choice... I was blind... That witch took my soul... I wasn't in my right mind..."
Sometimes, his father would grab Andrew by the shoulders and scream—whether in anger or anguish, Andrew could never tell.
"Do I look like a bad man to you?! Huh?! I couldn't help it! I had no choice! Don't look at me like that! Yes—yes, I am a bad man! I ruined everything! But it was all for my family! For my family!"
Every time his father got drunk and started ranting, Andrew felt a little more of himself wither away.
Andrew's expression was filled with disgust as he thought of his father now.
I used to respect you.
Before Ronheim had been conquered by Arrental, his father—a knight sworn to protect the Saintess—had been Andrew's hero.
A knight who guards the Saint. A chosen guardian of Ronheim.
Andrew had once believed there was no other man in the world as wonderful as his father. He had vowed to himself that he would become someone just like him.
But right after the war, when Andrew's mother had finally succumbed to typhoid fever and died, his father had been utterly, completely broken.
It had been excruciatingly painful for Andrew to watch the man he'd admired turn so ugly, so pathetic.
His expectations shattered. His admiration curdled into disgust. Beyond disappointment, Andrew had begun to loathe his father.
"It's not just you who's struggling. Why abandon your family? Was Mother the only family you had? What are Hillen and I to you, Father?"
In those days, there wasn't a single household in Ronheim that hadn't lost someone. So many people had died in the war.
It had been a difficult time for everyone.
Unlike other families—whose loved ones had been killed on the battlefield in an instant—Andrew's family had been given time. His mother, who had been suffering from illness for years, had simply passed away quietly at home.
They'd had time to prepare themselves. In a way, they were better off than those who'd lost family members suddenly.
And yet, his father was the only one who couldn't overcome his grief. The only one who couldn't move forward when everyone else had.
I didn't understand it then. I still don't understand it now.
If only Father could have taken care of Hillen. Just that. Just her.
Then I wouldn't have had to leave home every time with the fear that my sister might be dead when I returned.
Damn you, Father. Go to hell.
Andrew had lived like that for years—resenting his father, hating him.
He'd never wanted to become a knight. The very idea disgusted him, because it meant becoming like his father.
But staying at home had become unbearable.
So Andrew had become a knight after all—because once you enlisted, your salary was delivered directly to your family, and you lived in the barracks. You didn't have to go home.
It was an escape.
From his father. From Hillen.
Even though he'd run away, Andrew still felt crushing guilt toward his sister.
That's why he felt even more affection for her now. More protectiveness.
Andrew glanced at Hillen's pale, fragile face.
I didn't mean to abandon you.
Hillen looked up at him with longing eyes.
"Come home more often, Andrew. Please? Father's changed a lot. You saw it yourself last time—when you visited, he didn't even touch alcohol."
But Andrew coldly refused his sister's plea.
"...If that's what you came here to say, then go home."
"Andrew, I don't understand why you're so harsh with Father—"
"Go home, Hillen."
Andrew pulled a coin from his pocket and handed it to the neighbor boy who'd helped Hillen walk here.
"Please take good care of Hillen. Get her home quickly and safely. Thank you, as always."
He was just about to turn away from his sister when—
—the area around them erupted into noise.
People were all staring in one direction, murmuring and pointing.
"You bitch! Where the hell did you come from to find me here?! Get away from me!"
At the center of the commotion stood an old woman with wild, disheveled white hair. She wasn't even wearing a coat despite the cold. She was shouting and swinging her fists wildly.
And standing right in front of her—
—was Chloe.
Fortunately, the knights had already restrained the old woman, so Chloe appeared unharmed.
Andrew heard the murmurs rippling through the crowd.
"That poor, delirious old woman is going to cause a real accident one of these days..."
"What should we do? If she keeps this up, the Princess of Arrental will get angry and order her arrested, won't she?"
"Oh, that poor old woman. She must think the Princess is the Empress..."
"She's possessed by a demon, clearly. What else could make her act like this?"
Andrew looked at Chloe with a critical eye.
She's probably furious. She'll order the old woman arrested and thrown in the dungeon without a second thought.
But when he looked more closely, Chloe didn't seem angry at all.
In fact, she didn't seem to have the presence of mind to be angry.
She was standing hunched over, her head bowed so low that her face wasn't even visible.
Wait... something's wrong.
Andrew, still watching Chloe with a frown, turned back to Hillen.
"Get home quickly, all right? I need to check on the Princess."
After giving Hillen firm instructions, he pushed through the crowd toward Chloe.
No matter how much Andrew hated and doubted Chloe's every move, she was still someone he had sworn to protect as a knight of Lord Callius.
Andrew carefully placed a hand on Chloe's shoulder as she stood there, trembling.
"Your Highness, are you all right?"
Chloe didn't answer.
Instead, the only sound that came from her was—
"Hah... hah..."
—the faint, ragged sound of gasping breaths.
"...!"
Andrew crouched down and peered at Chloe's face.
Her complexion was deathly pale—almost translucent.
Why does her breath feel so... cold?
It must be an illusion.
A human's breath can't possibly be this cold.
Andrew convinced himself he was imagining it and shouted loudly to snap Chloe out of whatever daze she was in.
"Your Highness! Snap out of it! What's wrong?! Take a deep breath—slowly, slowly...!"
But despite Andrew's shouts, she continued to sway unsteadily, her breathing heavy and labored.
The moment Andrew—alarmed—reached out to steady her—
—she lost consciousness completely and collapsed into his arms.
"Your Highness!"
To be continued...
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