Lord Edork Daviancilo drew his final breath two days after that heavy rain—
a downpour that soaked every corner of the city as if to signal an inevitable loss.
Since morning, the mourning house had been cloaked in silence. All family portraits in the halls and main rooms were veiled in black velvet—except for one: a grand painting of Edork in the front room, watching the world with calm eyes, as though reluctant to leave.
Even the sky made no effort to feign brightness. Gray clouds hung low, pressing down on the stone rooftops of the old city and casting a bleak light that washed everything in pale hues.
Carriages belonging to noble families began arriving before the morning could clear. Their iron wheels screeched against the wet cobblestones, filling the air with the long groan of grief. Among them, one carriage stopped closest to the main courtyard—the De Vare family carriage.
As head of the family, Leonhart De Vare stepped down, clad in a long coat, his face carved from stone. Without a word, he took his place by the coffin, standing still like an ancient tomb sentinel.
His expression, as always, revealed little.
But behind that quiet gaze, there was something far more complex:
Grief... and a curse.
Yes. As though his old friend—Edork—had died while leaving behind an invisible weight upon his shoulders.
Behind the coffin, the voice of the high priest began to echo. His tone was solemn, yet felt as though it was being swallowed by the thick sorrow in the air. The ancient verses, though majestic, failed to ease the hearts of those gathered.
Leonhart remained unmoving. His eyes fixed on Edork's face, now frozen—pale skin, sharp cheekbones, a body that had lost both weight and soul.
And then… his gaze shifted.
To the front row of mourners.
A little girl sat silently, her black dress plain and simple—far too modest for a family as grand as the Daviancilos. Her hair was tied into a low bun. Her face was calm, almost still—too still for a ten-year-old.
Adreena.
The child barely blinked.
She didn't cry.
She didn't even flinch.
But her eyes… they were familiar.
Dark brown.
Edork's eyes.
Leonhart said nothing. But those eyes pulled him back to the day before the funeral—the final time he saw Edork.
The Day Before
Edork's chamber was as silent as an unburied tomb. The sharp scent of medicine hung in the air, mingled with the sourness of a body long bedridden.
There was no pleasantry.
"Never think of divorcing her."
It was the only sentence Edork had managed. His voice was frail, but the tone—sharp as a decree from a throne.
Leonhart nearly lost composure. The veins in his hand tensed. His chest tightened. He wanted to protest, to refuse—but the sight of Edork's wasted body, a living shadow of the past, stopped him.
In the end, Leonhart merely turned away.
No goodbye.
No final words.
And when Edork whispered his name with his very last breath...
Leonhart did not turn back.
Now, all of it felt like a blade—buried slow and deep.
Back at the Funeral
The final prayer was spoken. The priest's voice faded.
One by one, the nobles approached the coffin. Flowers were placed inside. No one spoke.
But when King Charles took his turn, something shifted.
Instead of simply placing a flower and stepping back, the king removed his royal cloak. Silently, he joined the pallbearers, lifting the coffin with the servants and carrying it to its final resting place.
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
But none dared question it.
Today, Charles was not a king.
He was a grieving friend.
And his wounds… weren't visible on the skin.
They were buried much deeper.
Behind the crowd, murmurs crept through the silence:
"Didn't he have a daughter?"
"Yes. Lady Adreena. Only ten, isn't she? I've seen her once."
"But… the Daviancilo line is always led by men. Perhaps she'll be married off. Perhaps one of us might be… lucky."
Gossip.
From old nobles with hungry eyes and dead hearts, their whispers cutting deeper than blades.
Leonhart heard it all. He stood still, his eyes fixed on the ground. But the veins in his neck were taut, and his jaw clenched hard.
He would not act. Not today.
But he had seen their faces.
And he would remember.
---
SLAM!
The sound of a palm hitting the desk echoed through the once-quiet study.
"Tomorrow?!"
Leonhart snapped. His voice lashed like a whip.
"The funeral just ended yesterday!"
His loyal butler, Agron, stood by the door, his face aged ten years in just two days.
"I didn't expect it either… Lord Edork must have made the request directly to His Majesty. I don't even know when it was…"
Leonhart rubbed his temples with both hands. Before him lay a royal decree—the ink still fresh, its golden wax seal split clean.
He read it again. Hoping, foolishly, for a mistake. A loophole. A line he could refuse.
But there was none.
The will had been validated by the king himself:
The marriage would take place tomorrow.
Between Leonhart De Vare and Adreena Daviancilo.
He flung the letter across the desk.
"He's even more troublesome dead than he was alive…"
His voice wasn't angry.
It was tired.
Heavy.
And slightly… wounded.
Agron said nothing. There were no words fit for this moment.
Leonhart leaned back in his chair, eyes staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow… the world would change.
And he wasn't ready to bear the weight of that sacred sin.