Chapter 2
01. Unspoken Words (1)
“Basbourg, you say…?”
In the central council chamber of the enormous palace—once the main royal palace of the Léon Empire, now called the Presidential Palace—President Angzola Renicourt muttered under his breath with an uncharacteristically heavy tone, rubbing his forehead. He was one of the rare disciples who had built a bond during the days when Frédéric Belmartier still held the podium, and for years he had cherished Anaïs like his own niece.
Right after the execution of the royals, Anaïs had said she “just found out,” yet she boarded the train to Basbourg—as if she had planned to do so from the very beginning. To be precise, the train was headed for Reims, the city right next to Basbourg. By the time Angzola and his fellow revolutionaries realized what had happened, it was already too late. Charlotte shook her head, saying she never imagined Anaïs would go straight to the station immediately after that.
The chamber, filled with the leaders of the revolutionary army, was drowning in an awkward, oppressive silence. Some worried about Anaïs heading to Basbourg; others felt she was still needed in Seine. Yet no one dared speak—at least, not until Ariane Champollion broke the stillness, twisting a strand of her sleek black hair around her finger and speaking in a voice dripping with disinterest.
“She doesn’t look the part, but she’s got incredible resolve, that girl.”
“Don’t talk about her like she’s some stranger, Ariane.”
“You’re the one overreacting, President. Anaïs isn’t fifteen anymore; she’s twenty-five. A grown woman knows where she belongs. What right do we have to tell her otherwise?”
How do you stop a doctor who wants to go heal patients? Ariane’s cynical question left the room in silence again. Everyone knew there was no clear reason to stop Anaïs from heading to Basbourg. This time, the silence was broken by Edmond Lambert—the young strategist of the revolution, and the one who had clashed most fiercely with Anaïs over the execution of the royals. Taking the cigarette from his lips, he exhaled a thin stream of smoke like a sigh, eyes fixed on the ornate marble table at the center of the room as he spoke.
“I agree with that. Anaïs would be most useful if she stayed in Seine. But showing the world that we’re paying this much attention to the southern civil war? That’s not a bad thing.”
His smooth voice carried as he pushed back the thick golden hair that had slipped over his shoulder, neatly combed and tied in a single tail. The president gave a few irritated coughs. No one could deny that Edmond was the one most pleased about Anaïs going to Basbourg—and that fact alone stung Charlotte, who had buried herself in a corner, guilt gnawing at her for failing to stop Anaïs.
“Edmond, even now you have to—”
“But what I’m curious about is this, Charlotte.”
Snuffing his cigarette into the ashtray and grinding it out, Edmond’s pale green eyes glinted coldly as he continued:
“She said she wouldn’t come back?”
“Yeah. Said this isn’t where she belongs.”
The groan that followed came from President Renicourt, while the others were left wondering why Anaïs would decide to leave forever just because of a clash over the royals’ execution.
Only Ariane, who had been watching the drama unfold with quiet amusement, noticed the strange, dangerous undertone creeping into Edmond’s demeanor.
⚜ ⚜ ⚜
The news that the republican government had executed the entire royal family imprisoned in the eastern tower spread across Léon like wildfire. Some called it a brutal act; others were shocked that they had gone so far as to kill the dethroned emperor himself. Yet for the common people—who had long suffered under the tyranny of the crown—most cheered the decision of the revolutionary government.
The one place where no one had time to cheer was the South.
Basbourg—the heart of the monarchist restorationists and the battleground of their civil war with government forces.
The government troops had believed without question that killing all the royals would crush the spirit of the restorationists. They were dead wrong. Even after learning that every royal was gone, the restorationists didn’t falter. If anything, their loyalty burned brighter—they vowed to avenge their liege and restore the old order, rallying their forces to fight harder than ever against the government army. At their head stood the young commander of the Basbourg fortress, Countess Catherine de Basbourg.
Dunant was one of the smallest villages in Basbourg.
Count Basbourg, who had sworn fealty to Antoine XIII, was notorious both for his loyalty and for his ruthless exploitation of the southern populace. It was no surprise that when he sparked this civil war, he gave no thought to the suffering of the people. Nor were the government forces in any better shape. Aside from a handful of military men who had joined the revolutionary army during the Great Revolution, the troops facing the monarchists now were practically mercenaries under the warlord Ardignan. Even when Renicourt’s officials tried to impose some order—and that was only when they genuinely cared for civilian safety—there were limits to what they could do.
Though small, Dunant lay too close to the battlefront to escape the ravages of war. Its population—already meager—dwindled by the day, and injuries and deaths were so frequent that the entire village was on the brink of collapse.
Neither the restorationists nor the government spared a thought for the growing misery of the people. And in the midst of this crumbling land, there lived a young man struggling to survive like everyone else.
His name, as the villagers called it, was Léo Serdieu.
With reddish-brown hair and gray eyes, this broad-shouldered man hadn’t lived in Dunant long. He had arrived late last summer, stayed a few days at the inn, and soon settled down completely. For all his imposing looks—bordering on arrogance—Léo Serdieu was polite and warm-hearted. People took to him easily, and he blended into the rhythm of village life with surprising speed.
“Mr. Serdieu, where are you headed?”
“Need to make a trip to Verdoy.”
Clad in worn, unremarkable clothes, Léo was stopped on the road by a village boy. When the child heard him mention Verdoy, his eyes went wide with alarm.
“But the grown-ups said Verdoy’s dangerous today!”
Léo paused mid-step and stared into the distance. Then he crouched to meet the boy’s gaze. His reddish-brown hair—messy yet strangely neat—shimmered as a cool breeze stirred it. In a calm, low voice, he said:
“That’s why I’m going. Because people are in danger.”
His large, steady hand ruffled the boy’s hair. The child smoothed his tousled locks with a curious look and asked:
“Can I come too?”
“Hey, you brat! Didn’t I tell you not to follow Mr. Serdieu around?”
The boy’s awkward question was cut off by his uncle—Léo’s neighbor—who playfully tapped the boy’s forehead with his fist before waving Léo on. With a silent nod of thanks, Léo quickened his pace. The man’s voice rang out after him:
“Serdieu! Be careful out there!”
Turning at the shout, Léo flashed a warm, easy smile. The man shook his head as if to say what can you do?—yet he stayed rooted there, his face quietly impressed.
That day, Léo Serdieu stood on the edge of a battlefield. Not to fight—today’s clash raged through Verdoy’s streets. Cannon fire and gunshots thundered in a deafening symphony; blood and shell casings streamed like rivers, and the stench of powder and gore fouled the air. From a vantage point on higher ground, Léo surveyed the chaos below.
The men in navy uniforms were Ardignan’s troops. The monarchists and the government-aligned military still wore the same black coats as when they were imperial soldiers—not so long ago—save for the revolutionary badge on the latter’s chest, making them barely distinguishable otherwise.
The only ones easy to spot in this hell were the civilians. Léo didn’t often come to battlefields, but when he did, it was to carry out wounded or dead civilians caught in the crossfire—an unasked, yet utterly necessary duty.
Scanning the scene, his eyes fell on a slight woman standing helplessly beside an unconscious man. She carried a medical kit—clearly a doctor—and seemed unable to move the man, whose limp body was far larger than her own. The safe zone wasn’t far; with some effort, she could have managed—if she weren’t alone.
“I’ll help—”
Léo sprinted toward her—then froze in his tracks the moment her face came into view. A bitter curse echoed in his mind. A silver-haired doctor. I should have guessed… But regret came too late. The woman’s trembling voice burst out in stunned recognition before he could react.
“Prince Léonard…?”
Her hand flew to her mouth as if to shove the words back in. Eyes darting wildly, she checked to see if anyone had overheard. Her silver hair glinted in the smoky light, framing a face he knew all too well.
A high-ranking officer of the Revolutionary Army.
The young firebrand once called the Herald of Dawn.
“…Anaïs Belmartier.”
And, as of a few days ago, the woman who had become the sworn enemy of Léo Serdieu—also known as Prince Léonard Antoine de Charlois, second son of the fallen Léon Empire.
