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The last words he left me were a request to wait.
I sensed instinctively that this wait would be the final one I would ever endure for Valentin. He was going to Libertan. As the forgotten presence resurfaced, I recalled that Libertan was one of the most fundamental reasons Valentin had pushed me away. Unable to return in the worst-case scenario, he could not bring himself to promise me a tomorrow.
I put Valentin's letter in a drawer without reading it.
The next day, Igor visited.
We shared several conversations that had been postponed until then. I was quite surprised to learn that although he was a member of the Royal Club, he had also been performing various secret missions within Makhachkala as a Horgan. With Horgans scattered everywhere, I began to wonder if I was the only one who hadn't known of their existence.
A sense of pride was visible on Igor's face whenever he spoke of the Horgan. Perhaps that name served to instill a sense of patriotic purpose and enthusiasm in young nobles. It acted as both a lighthouse and a muzzle—infecting one another, weaving and monitoring each other like a spiderweb, thereby granting a sense of belonging and accountability.
His unfamiliar yet intriguing side evoked a strange emotion within me.
If I had chosen to be with Igor, I would have encountered this side of him today, and perhaps many other facets of his true value. The mere thought was an interesting and pleasant experience, but such days would no longer come.
Unlike Sergei, with whom I had grown close as an innocent childhood friend, Igor and I had met on the premise of romance and marriage. When the premise loses its meaning, the relationship loses its meaning as well. Human ties are truly fleeting.
That was the extent of our conversation.
Contrary to the momentum and atmosphere of the previous day, Igor did not utter a single word regarding the glances or the tension that had passed between us in the past.
I vaguely guessed the reason. Igor had not come to reveal his true feelings to me. He might have simply wanted to see with his own eyes—a signal from me that I could give him. The lingering regret that a missed opportunity might come around once more.
Igor was not a petty coward like Valentin; he neither showed nor forced such feelings upon me. And so, we parted, promising to meet again.
I missed Valentin... but I did not open the letter.
Three days later, I had lunch with Duchess Illyn and her daughter.
The Duchess hinted that she wanted to use me as a diversion to draw the attention of the rebels. After I readily agreed, we spent a long time discussing the method.
Oksana, who would normally have sat beside me holding her breath as if she weren't there, or naturally stepped away, was the one who offered opinions most fervently. In the glances she occasionally cast toward me, I saw a desire for recognition that hadn't been there before. I wondered if this was the face I wore when dealing with my siblings. I couldn't ignore it.
Before long, my name appeared in the corner of the newspaper again. Not even a month after receiving assassination threats, news broke that I would be attending the opening banquet of the Laksere Museum of Everything.
Since I had a history of attending a public prayer service even after two assassination threats, this fourth instance of boldness was not particularly strange.
Four days after the article was published.
I returned to the Imperial Palace.
Everything in the palace was as it had been. Vasily, Tatyana, Ivan, Fedora, Sergei, Emma... we met, laughed, and enjoyed ourselves just as usual, to the point where the time spent trapped in that bleak old castle felt like a dream.
Occasionally, I showed my face at banquets and let out a hollow laugh upon hearing absurd rumors. Most of those who showed an active interest in me were turned away by Sergei. I heard rumors that a new fiancée had been decided for Igor, but I couldn't confirm the truth even through Emma.
I missed Valentin... but I did not open the letter.
When summer arrived and my father's illness worsened, he urged Vasily to marry quickly. Normally, Vasily would have laughed it off, but this time was different. We began preparing to welcome the new Empress of the Ohala Empire, meticulously examining the twenty-eight portraits that had arrived at the imperial court.
In the meantime, time flowed with surprising speed, and autumn returned.
Valentin had not yet returned to me.
Swoosh—.
It was a night where a black downpour flowed upon the wind.
A white horse, its long mane fluttering, galloped across the swampy, muddy ground.
Between the pouring rain, one could see weeds bowing their heads and an ash tree, broken clumsily in two, unable to withstand the strong winds. The man's gaze, which had been piercing through the darkness while repeatedly checking his surroundings throughout the ride, finally stopped at the black castle walls shrouded in the shadows of the night.
"I can finally catch my breath now, beauty."
As he lifted a fedora as black as the sky, the white breath of early winter scattered like mist. Though it wasn't his first time, the walls felt as unfamiliar as they had last winter. Turning past the walls, a desolate clearing and a ruined outpost appeared.
Entering the partially destroyed castle, he tied his horse next to ten other horses resting in a row. Recalling fragmented memories, he pushed a nearby bookshelf, revealing a bleak and steep staircase leading underground.
At some point, as he continued walking, groping the wall with his fingertips.
"Who is it?"
"...A messenger. I have come to deliver an imperial decree."
As he calmly took out the letter, a large hand reached out from the darkness and snatched it away.
"Correct. Your name?"
"The White Weasel with a shotgun."
As the field of vision brightened as if waiting, the man—the one who called himself Weasel—covered his eyes with a familiar gesture. Before he could fully open his eyes, the mysterious figure who had been descending the stairs spoke with a metallic tone.
"That gun on your waist doesn't look like a shotgun."
"The gun I have is a revolver, not a shotgun, and I am a human, not a weasel."
"I feel like we've had a similar conversation before. What are you doing? Hurry up and follow me."
Weasel entered deeper into the basement, clutching the letter. If he wasn't mistaken, the space seemed wider than before. Those wearing the dark green Ohala military uniforms were also more common than before. And at this point...
"..."
Strange. I should definitely be hearing terrible screams.
Strange.
It is unnervingly quiet.
Weasel swallowed hard.
While receiving the imperial decree, he had been told roughly about the situation here. He knew that all missions related to the rebels had been successfully concluded half a year ago, and that the special forces, Horgan, had been disbanded immediately.
Therefore, by now, all of them should have been half-drunk or half-smoked, focusing on card games or collapsed in sleep. But this atmosphere was as if...
"Ugh."
Suddenly struck by a rotting stench, Weasel grabbed his nose.
"The smell is bad, isn't it? Bear with it. It's killing us too."
Such an intense scent cannot be forgotten once smelled. As he continued walking, unable to even breathe properly due to tension, someone gave him a light push.
"Captain."
He saw the man's back. There was no mistake; it was the back of the man from his memories. Swallowing his saliva, Weasel stepped inside the iron bars he had finally reached.
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