Chapter 23
The last reservation at Dolores’s dress shop was Norman Winterile.
Being an only son, he normally had no business commissioning dresses instead of uniforms, but this time was different.
It was because Norman had proposed himself as Rieta’s partner for the Imperial ball celebrating her return. Of course, the idea hadn’t been his own. The Duke of Winterile, his father, had heard that Rieta’s partner seat was still vacant and forced the suggestion upon him.
Trying desperately to build a connection with the Saintess, the duke had showered Rieta with gifts—dresses, shoes, accessories. Naturally, it was Norman who had to prepare everything. His father only moved his mouth, never his hands, so Norman had to juggle his heavy workload while making unplanned errands outside.
“Is the dress finished?”
“Yes. I received a letter from Lady Robellon. She said we just need to come today.”
“Then let’s depart. Let’s see if a single dress can really forge some grand connection.”
The designers of Dolores’s dress shop, especially its owner Lady Robellon, were known for their gentle temperaments but exceptional skill—skilled enough to craft gowns for royalty. Normally, trends were set by high-born ladies or royalty themselves, but whenever Lady Robellon revealed a new design, even the knockoffs sold out instantly, causing a storm in high society.
So her pride was sky-high. Unless the location was utterly unreachable, she required the one who ordered the piece to come in person to retrieve it.
“My lord, I could go in your stead…”
“No. It’s safer if I go.”
“Ah…”
It was rare for nobles to visit personally. Most sent their attendants. Norman’s valet, Flynn, usually did such tasks. But this time, Norman chose to go himself. Everyone knew just how volatile the duke’s temper was. If Flynn made even the smallest mistake, being dismissed would be the least of his worries.
Besides, the thought of having to deliver the dress to Rieta at the temple afterwards only worsened Norman’s frown. He rubbed the scar on his forehead.
“My lord, was this dress ordered for the Saintess?”
“Yes.”
“She’ll be delighted. You two were close, weren’t you?”
“We weren’t.”
The reply was shockingly curt and emotionless. Flynn, who had tried to lighten the mood, shut his mouth. Hadn’t they been close? Norman had always made time to see the Saintess despite his busy schedule… Flynn stole a side glance at his master but wisely decided to stay silent. Norman’s expression wasn’t just grim—it was darkened entirely.
And that was the right choice.
Close?
Norman had never considered Rieta a friend. To him, Rieta Rosanac was merely “the daughter of the Rosanac house, whom Charlotte considered a friend.” Nothing more. Nothing less.
The reason it had seemed otherwise was simple: Charlotte was kind and had treated Rieta warmly, and Charlotte loved hosting tea parties. Norman had made time only for Charlotte’s sake. Rieta was irrelevant.
Had Charlotte still been here, Norman would have gladly arranged a dress for Rieta—only so he could gift Charlotte an even more dazzling one. And the ball partner he’d have chosen would not have been Rieta…
He winced as a dull ache radiated from the scar on his forehead. Even though it had long healed, the pain lingered faintly.
If not for his father’s orders, Norman would never have bothered with this dress at all. He just wanted to get it over with quickly.
“Where did that noble’s maid have the furs delivered?”
But then—here was a clue. Norman clenched his fist so tightly his nails dug into his skin, without realizing it. His head was full of Charlotte.
“L–Lady Robellon…”
Delice, the seamstress who had once blushed at Norman’s presence, now cowered before his intimidating air.
“My lord Winterile, I apologize, but I cannot reveal such information.”
Lady Robellon smoothly stepped between them, wearing a polite but firm smile. Revealing client information was strictly forbidden. Besides, the customer had used an alias. She seemed to be a maid of a noble household, but had concealed both her master’s name and her own. Clearly, she didn’t want her identity exposed.
Gentle though Lady Robellon normally was, she was uncompromising when it came to her work. Even the heir of Winterile wasn’t exempt.
“…I let myself get carried away. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
A noble just apologized to me?! Delice stared in shock, though Lady Robellon wasn’t deceived. Many nobles smiled while secretly pressing gold pouches into her hand, and she was braced for it.
“Furs, then. I see. No doubt they’re for a cold place… A great many furs would be needed.”
“…”
“And children’s coats too—by the dozens. I hope those little ones will stay warm.”
“…”
Norman stared at her without blinking. She had met many nobles before, but Norman’s eyes were unusually chilling. Like the deep sea, the navy of his irises was dark and devoid of light, holding only cold. Meeting his gaze sent shivers down one’s spine.
“…Then may I see the dress now?”
“…Pardon?”
Lady Robellon had expected further interrogation. Instead, Norman answered in the same hard tone:
“The dress. I’m pressed for time.”
“…Ah. Of course. This way.”
She was surprised he relented so quickly, though unease lingered. Still—at least he hadn’t tried to press gold into her hands. That would have been worse.
While Lady Robellon and Delice went to fetch the dress, Norman approached the window. Through the half-open panes, his gaze fell upon the waiting carriages outside. Then he looked again at the stacks of furs piled on the table—already packaged, ready for shipment.
That meant…
The carriage wheels are larger than usual, reinforced with thick iron and wrapped in chains. That’s for rough terrain. If they’re carrying furs, the only destination could be the Snow Mountains. The only domain there is Nostri. And at this time of year, who else would order so many furs but Nostri?
“Damn,” Norman muttered.
Among the letters he’d received from the information guild, one had mentioned Nostri. He’d dismissed it as nonsense and burned it at the time. But what if it had been true?
What if Charlotte really was in Nostri, bringing furs to withstand the cold?
The troubling part was the line: “In the arms of the white-haired woman was a child.”
If that woman truly was Charlotte—why was she holding a child?
Just then, Flynn, who had been silent, mumbled quietly:
“It’s not that cold yet… Why order so many coats? Maybe it’s for an orphanage, preparing for winter in advance?”
“…Wait. What did you just say?”
“Eh? Oh… I said, preparing winter clothes in advance…”
“Before that.”
“…That it might be for an orphanage…”
“Yes. An orphanage.”
If Nostri had an orphanage, then the child Charlotte had been holding could have been one of its children. Despite all the pain people had caused her, Charlotte had always donated and volunteered tirelessly. If there were an orphanage in Nostri, she would certainly have cared for the children—or at least sent them supplies like coats.
Then it all made sense. The furs, the dozens of children’s coats.
Now there were only two things left to confirm:
Whether an orphanage truly existed in Nostri.
And whether that white-haired woman was indeed Charlotte.
“Deputy Commander, why does the Captain look like that?”
“Shut it. Quiet.”
At Edmund’s sharp reply, the mountain trackers fell silent. None dared press further. From the very start of the expedition, Ash’s face had been rigid. It seemed there was more to it than the threat of monsters. Normally, Ash never betrayed his emotions, which only made his grim expression more unsettling.
Pedro, who had climbed up to the mid-slope, returned with his hair and clothes dusted in snow.
“I searched the entire area. Not a single trace of monsters.”
Was that a relief, or not? Pedro dropped his massive axe into the snow and cracked his stiff neck. If there truly were none, good—but what if the traces had simply been hidden? The uncertainty gnawed at him.
Then Ash, who had been scanning the surroundings in silence, lifted his gaze skyward.
“Pedro.”
“Yes?”
“Do you see that?”
“…Looks like a crow. Though… rather large.”
Ash narrowed his eyes at the bird circling above. In the next moment, his eyes widened in alarm. He drew his sword from his hip—the blade gleaming with a frosty blue aura. Pointing at the bird, he barked:
“Shoot it down!”
“Huh?”
“That’s no crow! Ready your bows!”
At his command, Pedro hefted his axe again, while Edmund and the others drew their bowstrings. That was no crow.
As if hearing Ash’s voice, the creature shrieked with an ear-splitting screech and dived. As it neared, its true size became clear—enormous.
“Loose!”
At Ash’s shout, Edmund’s arrow flew first, followed by dozens more. Yet even with shafts piercing what looked like its wings, the beast didn’t falter. Ash lowered his stance and sprinted toward its descent path.
Planting one foot firmly, he clenched his teeth and slashed as it entered range.
With a hiss that split the air, his blade cleaved it in two.
Blood splattered across the snow as the beast crashed down.
But even with its neck severed from its body, it still lived. The bird-like creature screamed hideously. Pedro prodded its head with his axe blade, grimacing.
“Heh. In all my life, I’ve never seen something this cursed…”
Ash silently gazed at the blood soaking the ground. Monster blood was pitch black, thick as tar, and stank of burning.
Pedro grumbled, irritated:
“Great. Now monsters can fly too?”
