Chapter 6
Five days after the fire, the body of Duke Winfield was returned to his estate.
The tears shed that day were enough to measure just how kind and beloved a lord he had been.
Not just the ladies and noblewomen, but also young men and elderly gentlemen alike dabbed their eyes with handkerchiefs.
There wasn’t a single person among them who hadn’t once felt the Duke’s compassionate gaze.
Even he, such a man, fell victim to fire—just like the hereditary illness that plagued the family.
The royal investigation team dispatched in haste concluded the incident to be a simple “accident.”
They claimed the blaze began while attempting to light a fire in a poorly maintained cabin.
After citing a few similar past cases, the investigation was wrapped up with suspicious swiftness.
The funeral carriage halted in front of the chapel at the center of the village. In front of it stood a bier adorned with evergreen branches and winter blossoms.
Servants of the ducal household, dressed in immaculate uniforms, carefully placed the gilded coffin atop the bier and stood holding its handles on either side.
They now turned to look at the pitiful boy beside them.
Benedict Philip Winfield.
A boy who had lost his mother at five, and now his father.
He had inherited a cruel genetic illness, yet still retained the playful spirit fitting his age. There was no one present who did not adore his innocent charm.
However, after the Duke’s death, Benedict seemed to instinctively understand that his childhood had come to an end.
Standing tall in a flawless suit, he already looked like a distinguished gentleman.
“Wait,” he said briefly to the servants and stood in silence.
Then came the sound of another procession approaching from beyond the gates.
A carriage drew near. Benedict bowed his head, and everyone else lowered themselves almost to the ground.
Clack. The carriage door opened.
From Benedict’s lowered gaze, a pair of black leather shoes came into view.
Without hesitation or warning, the owner of the shoes stepped forward and pulled Benedict into a warm embrace.
“…!”
Startled by the sudden gesture, Benedict quickly placed his hands on the other’s chest and took a step back.
Fortunately, it was easy to break away.
Momentarily forgetting their difference in status, Benedict looked up, eyes wide.
There stood a beautiful blond boy, staring at him with sad eyes. It was hard to believe he was only fourteen, given the grace he carried.
“I’m sorry… Benedict,” the boy murmured, awkwardly clasping his now-empty hands behind his back.
Considering his rank, such behavior seemed ill-suited.
“No, I was the one who was rude, Your Highness,” Benedict replied.
“Don’t be so stiff, Benedict. We’re practically…”
He trailed off in a soft voice, “…like brothers, aren’t we?”
In truth, they were distantly related by blood. Their ancestors had been brothers, though five centuries had passed since.
“Your uncle must be waiting,” the prince said.
Though they were hardly close enough to be called relatives, the prince always addressed Duke Winfield as “uncle.”
“Shall we proceed?” he asked.
Standing before a coffin was a privilege reserved only for priests and royalty—those deemed the most “exalted” among all.
But the prince shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I wish to follow behind him—as his nephew. He was a man worthy of the greatest respect.”
Moved by the prince’s heartfelt words, nearby mourners began to weep more openly.
Soon, the requiem began to play—its somber tones dragging everyone into death’s embrace. The priest, the coffin, and the bereaved entered through the main door of the chapel.
Villagers and servants flooded in through the side doors until the chapel was filled to capacity. The priest’s prayer lasted nearly an hour.
Then came the final farewell.
Normally, the coffin would be slightly opened during the ceremony, but not today.
No—couldn’t be opened was more accurate.
Over half the body had been burned, and it had already been a week since his death. Nothing inside that coffin could resemble the once-glorious duke.
Villagers placed white paper flowers atop the coffin—handmade by the women of the town, more lavish and beautiful than real flowers.
With each flower placed, mourners shared a few final words with the duke.
“Rest peacefully, my lord.”
“I know you’ve earned the highest place in heaven.”
“We’ll remember your kindness forever.”
As he listened to their trembling voices, thoughts of his father, long suppressed, flooded Benedict’s mind.
After his mother passed, his father had loved Benedict twice as fiercely, trying to make up for her absence.
“You’ve already mastered triple-digit multiplication? At this rate, you’ll be teaching me soon!”
“You want to beat me in a test of strength? Now that’s something to look forward to!”
“Just grow up healthy, that’s all I ask. I’ll find a cure for your illness, I swear it.”
Following those gentle memories came Benedict’s own final, cruel words to his father:
“You’re a coward, Father.”
He clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms.
Those words had never been sincere.
Even as he spoke them, he knew they weren’t. But he had never gotten the chance to apologize.
He had assumed there would always be a “next time.”
How foolish he had been—to ruin their final moments with words he didn’t mean.
Tears finally broke free and ran down his cheeks. Until now, he had suppressed them even after hearing the news.
When they had soaked his face completely—
The air in the chapel suddenly turned icy cold. It felt as though winter itself had crept inside.
“Of all places… how dare she…”
“She knows no shame…”
Some of the mansion’s servants were whispering angrily.
Sensing something was wrong, the villagers turned their attention to one spot.
There stood a pale-skinned girl.
Despite wearing a black dress, her striking red eyes and white hair made her presence feel almost sacrilegious.
Though she seemed intimidated by the atmosphere, she gently placed a handmade paper flower on the Duke’s coffin.
“How dare she show her face here!”
Unable to hold back any longer, several servants blocked Lucien as she tried to leave.
“Take your filthy flower and get out!”
“He wouldn’t want anything from someone like you!”
Lucien was the sole survivor of the fire.
At one point, some had suspected she might be the culprit. But the royal investigation cleared her of all suspicion.
Most importantly, she had been found in the Duke’s arms. A man like him would never protect the one who started the fire.
Had he not shielded her, she too would have perished.
Despite knowing this, the servants could not hide their hatred toward the girl who lived while their master died.
Some still whispered, “She must’ve been the one who killed the Duke.”
“I…”
Lucien tried to speak with newfound courage, but they didn’t let her.
One of the servants snatched her flower and hurled it to the floor.
“!”
Shocked by the violence, Lucien could only stare at the crushed flower.
Now misshapen and sad, it looked all the more pathetic atop the polished marble.
…Ah.
That flower had been her way of honoring the Duke’s final request.
He had spoken in jumbled words, but one thing had stuck in her heart:
He asked her to help Benedict.
That alone had felt like his truest wish.
She didn’t want to ignore that request—the man who gave her life had made it.
But perhaps coming here today, hoping to keep that final promise, had been selfish.
Lucien survived because of the Duke’s death. Did she truly deserve to mourn him?
The answer was simple.
She bent to pick up the fallen flower and return home—but someone else got to it first.
Following the white gloves with her eyes, she looked up.
It was Benedict.
He studied the crumpled flower for a moment, then gently kissed its damaged petals.
His striking violet eyes emerged from beneath his dark hair as he turned a fierce gaze past Lucien, toward the servants.
“Who dares touch my father’s flower?”
“But, Master, that girl—”
“Girl?”
His voice rose sharply.
“Lucien is the one my father protected with his life. Do you not understand what that means?”
“But young master! That girl— I mean, that lady—is just…”
“Go on then. Say who my father died protecting.”
The servants fell silent. They couldn’t bring themselves to say “a wandering troupe’s orphan.”
They couldn’t bear the thought that their great master had died for someone like that.
“You will,” Benedict said, placing Lucien’s flower calmly back on the coffin, “honor Lucien as you would my father. She carries his legacy.”
“Young master!”
“How long will you keep calling me that?”
They went quiet again, reminded that he was no longer merely “young master.”
Though formalities remained, Benedict was now the de facto head of House Winfield.
As the servants stepped back and softened their stance, Benedict turned to Lucien again.
There was confusion in their eyes. In the past month, their lives had been upended.
But each of them now held one certainty.
Lucien had resolved to dedicate herself to helping Benedict—no matter what.
And Benedict…
“Just as I loved my father… I will love you, Lucien.”
