Chapter 12
He worried that the voice might wake her, but she seemed already sunk in deep sleep, not even flinching. As Ajen slowly walked down the hill toward the tall blond man striding quickly up the slope, he recognized him immediately.
It was Retvian, the duke’s eldest son and heir. He was climbing so quickly that before Ajen had even taken a few steps, Retvian had already reached him and Arlen in a single bound.
“Where’s Arlen?”
“She’s asleep. She seems tired.”
Retvian naturally stepped up to Ajen’s back and carefully received Arlen into both arms. The moment her weight left his back, a gust of cold air rushed into the empty space, leaving it chilled.
“I’ll take Arlen from here.”
When Retvian held her in his arms, Arlen, still half-asleep, instinctively burrowed into her brother’s chest, her eyelids fluttering open just a sliver.
“Mmh… Ret brother…?”
“Yes, my sweet princess.”
As Ret pressed a light kiss to her forehead with a smile, Arlen gazed drowsily up at the brother she loved and gave a faint, bashful smile.
“How did you know to come…?”
“Our princess wasn’t in the castle, so I came to fetch you. Rest easy and sleep more—I’ll bring you home safely.”
When Ret gently rubbed his cheek against her forehead, Arlen smiled faintly and let her eyes fall shut again.
For a while, the three of them walked in silence.
In Retvian’s arms, Arlen breathed softly in slumber, while Ajen followed a few paces behind them. With her figure hidden by Ret’s back, he could only see strands of hair and the hem of her dress swaying. The absence of her weight on his back left him feeling hollow and cold again.
Once certain Arlen was asleep, Retvian lowered his voice to ask Ajen,
“How was today?”
“After entrusting the new child to the orphanage, she came here for a bit of rest.”
“Ah, the one brought from the capital, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“Her health was alright?”
“There was nothing unusual, but she did seem tired, and I think she was running a bit of a fever. We were about to return.”
“I see.”
For Arlen, that was a remarkably uneventful day. Retvian, relieved, nodded and walked on in silence.
Ajen’s gaze fixed on the man’s back as he carried her away with the natural entitlement of one who had every right.
That place—no matter if Ajen became a full knight—could never be replaced.
It stung, but he had to accept it. Years spent at her side had taught him what truly mattered most to her, something more precious than anything else.
…Only now had he come to understand.
Inside the castle, Retvian laid Arlen gently onto her bed. Sitting at her side for a while, he stroked her face and watched her intently—his one and only sister, always so dear and always so fragile. Her cheeks were flushed with warmth from a slight fever, while her hands and feet felt cold.
After holding her hand for some time, he finally entrusted the care of the sleeping Arlen to Gina, her maid, and quietly left the room.
Seeing Retvian emerge, Ajen—waiting outside—bowed respectfully. Ret returned the gesture with a quiet, “Mm.”
“This autumn, you’ll be formally knighted, won’t you?”
“Yes… most likely.”
“Good. I look forward to it.”
Patting Ajen’s shoulder encouragingly, Ret walked away.
Ajen stood gazing after him for a moment, then turned his eyes silently toward Arlen’s closed door.
Ajen was different from his past self in every possible way.
It wasn’t only appearance, heritage, or race. His build was different, his talents were different. Even his temperament and expressions had changed.
Whether those differences came from his new body, from the influence of the warm people of Castle Shuel, or from the searing regret he carried from the moment before his previous death—he didn’t know. But he realized this truly was rebirth.
He had been given a new body, and with it a new personality, a chance to live differently. A second life, a second chance.
But she… she was hardly different at all from the girl he remembered. It was almost as if she had been carried over exactly as she was.
He could no longer recall every detail of her face in his past life, but he knew that then, too, she had shone with those clear green eyes, golden hair like gathered sunlight, and a smile as soft and sweet as cream.
She was still dazzlingly beautiful, still gentle and kind, helping many people. He, too, had been saved once again by her hand.
And still—she was frail.
When she was first born, the ducal household had been filled with joy. With two healthy sons already heirs to the title, a daughter was a blessing—so angelic and lovely that everyone wanted to dote on her.
The duke and duchess were delighted, and her brothers adored her, eager for every chance to play with her.
But as she grew and her illnesses worsened, that joy began to fade.
Where most children gradually grow stronger as they leave infancy, Arlen only weakened. She fell ill often, fainted easily, and her health was constantly fragile.
Doctors were summoned from everywhere, but none offered hopeful words.
Renowned physicians were brought from afar, rare medicines were purchased in abundance—but her health never truly recovered. None could promise her long life.
The duke’s face became shadowed with worry, the duchess’s eyes never dried of tears. Even her brothers, who once played with her so freely, became cautious, afraid to touch her too roughly, as if she were delicate glass.
Servants and nurses, too, treated her as though she might shatter at a touch, or collapse never to rise again, always watching her with pity.
At last, the family managed to secure one physician who seemed able to keep her condition stable, granting him immense wealth to ensure he would remain in Shuel.
But even the young Arlen herself saw all this.
She grew up watching her loved ones weep, worry, and struggle because of her.
The gentle-hearted child loved her family—her father, mother, her two brothers, her nurse, and everyone who cared for her. And she knew she was the cause of their sorrow.
She believed she was the source of their unhappiness.
That if only she had not been born, or if another healthy daughter had taken her place, her family would have been far happier.
And so she tried to become a better daughter, a better lady, a better person.
If she could only be good and kind, perhaps her parents and family would feel less miserable.
Since her life, so fragile, cost them so much, she thought she ought at least to repay them by being of some comfort.
When she was gone, she wanted people to remember not just, “That child suffered so much,” but rather, “She was such a good daughter. Such a lovely young lady.”
So that her parents would not regret having brought her into the world. So that she might lessen their burden of grief, even just a little.
That was the wish of the young girl.
And if she could dare hope for a little more—that God might grant some small grace—she wished that those she loved would remember her fondly: “She was such a good child, such a good lady.”
Her family, who loved her dearly, soon realized that their little girl was forcing herself to be too good.
A small child, sick and weak, who never complained, never cried, but only smiled bravely—it tore their hearts apart.
So they resolved to stop weeping in front of her, to stop worrying too obviously. They would smile, stay calm, and accept her frailty with composure.
Instead of wasting energy fretting over what might come, they chose to fill each of her precious days with joy.
And so Arlen grew up free.
She was spared the uncomfortable obligations of high society, the stiff posture and heavy gowns of noble daughters.
Instead, she wore light, simple dresses and low, comfortable shoes. She moved freely through the town below, mingling with commoners. The duke and young lords ensured strict security so that she could wander safely.
So when, one day, she brought home an orphan boy with violet eyes—obviously mixed-blood from the Sleur race—saying, “He wants to become my knight,” no one in the household stopped her.
Of course, behind the scenes, the boy’s background was thoroughly investigated to ensure no hidden danger.
But in this way, ironically…
Arlen’s fated short life became Ajen’s divine opportunity.
Had her life not been destined to be brief, Ajen—an immigrant-blood orphan from the slums—would never have been allowed near the duke’s noble daughter. He would have lived and died watching her only from afar.
If she could have lived long and free of suffering, he could never have stood by her side.
It was precisely because her life was fragile and fleeting that he was able to draw near.
He was even allowed to long for a place closer still.
He grieved for her pain—yet at the same time, selfishly, he felt grateful. A wretched parasite who clung to her suffering, he still remained.
But if he could stay by her side until the end—if he could guard her happiness until her last breath—perhaps then, even a worthless creature feeding on her pain could claim a place by her side.
That autumn, the investiture ceremony of the Luterne Order of Knights was held.
It was one of the great events of Shuel, drawing not only the ducal family and vassals, but many townsfolk as well.
Only three squires were to be knighted that year. At sixteen, Ajen was the youngest of them. Standing upon the platform, he cast a glance toward the back of the stage. There sat his lady, the duke’s daughter, smiling at him with pride and joy.
Kneeling on one knee with head bowed, Ajen waited as the Duke of Luterne approached.
The priest beside him sprinkled holy water over Ajen’s head and recited prayers.
Ajen then took the duke’s hand and pressed his lips to it respectfully, folding his own hands in solemn prayer and bowing low.
“I, Ajen of Baerun, pledge my sword and shield to His Grace the Duke of Luterne…”
But his words, though formally addressed to the duke, in truth belonged to another—the one seated far behind.
“I swear to serve my lord with loyalty, to uphold honor and glory…”
It was not his own honor he longed to uphold, nor the glory of the duke.
“I swear to protect my lord until my final breath, to strike down the last of my lord’s enemies with valor…”
The one he wished to protect was not the duke. The enemies he wished to strike down were not the duke’s foes.
“I swear, as is a knight’s duty, to protect the weak and to uphold the justice of God.”
But the one he meant to protect was not some nameless weak. The justice he longed to defend was not divine law.
He had become a knight for one person alone.
