Carves Memories
"Some distances cannot be measured in miles, only in years of silence."
Part One### The Hunting Grounds
Whispers slithered through the crowd like serpents.
There was blood on his sword as well, wasn't there? Perhaps the young Duke feigns unconsciousness to escape the consequences of murdering the Princess...
The murmurs grew louder, bolder, as suspicion crystallized into something far more dangerous.
"Your Majesty, please—steady yourself. We must not surrender to despair. Nothing has been confirmed."
As the Queen Dowager swayed, her face ashen with grief and fury, Madame Pinatelli seized her arm and whispered urgently.
"In this moment of crisis, you alone possess the composure necessary to find Her Highness. The kingdom needs its Queen."
The Queen Dowager's unfocused gaze slowly sharpened. She drew a shuddering breath.
Yes. I cannot crumble. Not now. I must find Medea.
"Confine Samon immediately. He is not to be released until the truth of this matter is fully revealed."
Her voice rang with cold authority.
"Mother! You would treat my son as a criminal?"
The Regent lurched forward, face contorted with outrage.
"Samon is your grandson as well! This is unconscionable!"
But the Queen Dowager's expression remained carved from ice. She did not deign to respond, merely gestured for the knights to carry out her command.
The Regent bit down on his lip until he tasted copper, acutely aware of the crowd's hostile scrutiny.
What in damnation happened out there? Why was Samon discovered unconscious in that godforsaken clearing? Where has Medea vanished to?
"If we fail to locate Medea, my son will be branded a murderer. We must find her—at any cost!"
Meanwhile, Grand Duke Jason observed the unfolding chaos with narrowed eyes, his gaze fixed on Samon's blood-drenched form.
With Medea's disappearance, his carefully laid plans had crumbled to dust. Worse still—she might not have merely vanished. She might have met her end at Samon's hands.
A cold, indefinable rage coiled in his chest.
How dare you lay hands on her? A worthless wretch like you wouldn't even warrant my attention were it not for the Claudio name.
The servants confirmed it was the Fourth Princess who introduced those wolves to the grounds. Yet somehow, Samon stands accused as the sole perpetrator?
The implications were inescapable.
Those two conspired together. Samon Claudio attempted to court both factions simultaneously—myself and the Fourth Princess—just as I once did.
The audacity of it kindled Jason's fury to a white-hot blaze.
"Your Highness, Grand Duke of Castullo—I beseech you. If you could but offer some assurance that my son harbored no ill intent toward the Princess..."
"Why was I not consulted before you embarked on such a momentous scheme?"
Jason's voice could have frozen the summer air.
"Your Highness...?"
"What I require are obedient instruments—not ambitious conspirators who presume to construct their own little kingdoms!"
"Your Highness, I... I was shortsighted. Forgive me."
But Jason had already turned his back, dismissing the Regent with contemptuous silence.
He beckoned to his personal retainers, voice dropping to a conspirator's murmur.
"Dispatch search parties immediately. Find the Princess before anyone else does. I must be first."
If she yet lives, I shall be the hero who rescues her from mortal peril.
This was an opportunity Jason refused to squander.
✦ ✦ ✦Part Two### The Campane Plains
Though dusk had painted the sky in shades of ash and amber, the military encampment blazed with triumphant light.
Torches flickered against the gathering darkness as soldiers gathered around roaring bonfires. A massive wild boar rotated slowly on a spit, its skin crackling and glistening, while enormous cauldrons bubbled with rich stew.
"Did you see their faces? The Rasai turned white as bone when we descended upon them!"
"Finally—vengeance on those cowardly dogs who spent years harrying our flanks!"
Laughter and boasting filled the night air as Valdina's soldiers savored their hard-won victory.
But within the command tent, silence reigned—a stillness utterly divorced from the revelry outside.
A man stood motionless, his attention fixed upon a small wooden figure cradled in his palm.
Silver hair fell to his shoulders, catching the lamplight like threads of moonlit frost. His eyes—clear, pale blue—held the luminous quality of winter ice. The combination lent him an ethereal beauty, noble and austere.
It was an appearance utterly at odds with the massive greatsword propped against the tent's central pole—a brutal weapon that spoke of battlefields and blood.
He possessed the air of a holy man rather than a warrior—more priest than soldier. Upon one cheek, so faint it escaped notice unless one looked closely, lay a thin scar. Together with his luminous silver hair, it resembled nothing so much as a sacred stigmata.
The Holy Slayer
Peleus de Valdina, King of Valdina
For a decade now, this man had waged ceaseless war against the nomadic tribes of the Great Plains. Tonight marked a pivotal victory.
"Your Majesty."
D'Angel, captain of the Agema—the elite royal guard—ducked through the tent's entrance with a weary sigh.
"Celebrations such as this come rarely. Surely Your Majesty might permit himself a moment's respite?"
Rather than reply, Peleus closed the locket in his hand and slipped it into his breast pocket—close to his heart.
Wherever the battlefield carried him, he always kept that pendant near: a small portrait of a young girl with hair as silver as his own.
"Relaxation is a luxury I have not yet earned."
His gaze drifted to the vast map spread before him—a representation of the endless plains they had fought across for so many years. Flags bearing Valdina's colors now covered territory that had once belonged to their enemies.
"Indeed, this triumph belongs largely to Her Highness the Princess. Had we not received intelligence that the Rasai's provisions were ablaze and their forces in disarray, our surprise assault would never have succeeded."
D'Angel nodded as he spoke, but Peleus's brow furrowed.
"You truly believe Medea orchestrated this?"
"Sissair delivered the message himself—and that man would sooner swallow a blade than speak falsehood."
"..."
"Her Highness has always possessed a keen intellect, Your Majesty. Should we not rejoice that the young Princess has matured into someone capable of aiding your cause? Yet you seem... troubled."
Peleus's pale eyes darkened with concern.
This is not like her. She has never been bold enough to dispatch such correspondence before.
"Something has happened to Dea."
The words emerged soft as a prayer—and heavy as a curse.
When a person transforms so suddenly, it is invariably accompanied by pain. By trial. By suffering.
And I abandoned her alone in that palace.
"Your Majesty cannot shield Her Highness from every danger. You left your royal seal in her keeping—you did everything within your power."
Peleus had long grown deaf to the whispers that labeled him an incompetent king—one who had effectively ceded governance to his younger sister in order to protect her. Even during those crucial early years after his coronation, when establishing royal authority should have been paramount, his priority had remained unchanged.
"Was it truly the best I could offer?"
His voice had dropped to barely a murmur.
"Her face has grown hazy in my memory. How much has she changed? How tall has she grown?"
> " On the day I departed... I couldn't even bid her a proper farewell. "
He should have turned back. Just once. To look upon that small face, wet with silent tears.
He should have reached out. Just once. To hold those trembling fingers.
But instead, he had marched away—and those round eyes, watching him go with desperate longing, had haunted him ever since.
How could I have asked her to wait? I couldn't even promise I would survive to return.
The words had died unspoken on his tongue.
After their father's death, Peleus had been forced to depart immediately. The army had wavered on the brink of collapse; his presence was the only thing that could steady them.
He had been little more than a boy himself—barely a man. How could he have possibly explained to his younger sister, already ostracized by the kingdom she was born to, that he had no choice but to abandon her for a battlefield where death stalked every shadow?
He hadn't possessed the words. Or the courage.
"Perhaps... you might send a letter? Her Highness is surely old enough now to understand the circumstances that kept you away."
D'Angel's voice was gentle with concern.
"Or perhaps one of those wooden figures you've carved?"
He gestured toward the corner of the tent where a row of small dolls stood in careful arrangement.
Ten wooden figures. Ten little girls with carefully carved features.
Each year, another doll had joined the collection—each one slightly taller than the last. Peleus's imagination had filled in what memory could not: this was how Medea must look now.
Yet no matter how hard he tried to recall, his sister's face grew ever more indistinct. Her bright smile, her sunny warmth—all of it fading like morning mist beneath the relentless sun of passing years.
"With this victory and the Rasai's defeat, the end of this war draws near at last."
D'Angel's tone brightened with genuine hope.
"Soon, Your Majesty, we shall return home."
"...Yes."
The word emerged distant, distracted.
Rather than respond further, Peleus withdrew the pendant once more. His fingertips traced the delicate portrait within—the curve of a small girl's smile, frozen in time.
Soon, Dea. I will come home soon.
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