The Royal Wedding
Marquis Axel examined the young man's appearance.
Young—far too young to speak of time. And if that time spanned centuries, then even more so.
Yet the young man spoke of time. A man who looked younger than the marquis's youngest child claimed to have lived in the same era as his family's founder—and to have seen him with his own eyes.
Is he simply reciting something he pieced together about the family's history?
But what the young man had said was unknown even to Axel himself. How could an outsider know secrets that even the head of the house did not?
A shout—Lies! Don't dare toy with me!—rose to his throat, but stopped there.
At that moment, someone came to mind.
An exceedingly old man. As far as Axel knew, he had come to this land—Osnover—more than three hundred years ago.
There were few in Osnover who did not know his name. Yet even fewer knew his face.
Because he had hidden it away in the distant northern lands.
"…So you are the Duke of Dithmarschen."
The young man neither confirmed nor denied it.
Instead, a deep smile spread across the lips of Count Meyer, Wilhelm, seated beside him.
The Meyer family—the foremost house of the Hilderson clan—had served a single individual for hundreds of years.
Would the head of such a house smile like this if he were regarding someone else as his master?
Axel's suspicion hardened into certainty.
"I imagined you as someone much older."
"Most people do. It's a natural misunderstanding."
"How can you remain so young?"
A mage? Or perhaps of mixed blood?
Unconsciously, Axel brushed his cheek with his right hand. His own face, well past fifty, was lined with wrinkles and streaked with gray in his beard—yet the man before him, who had lived for centuries, had not a single wrinkle, nor even a gray hair.
"Who knows? I'm always asked that, but I have no better answer. Even if you were to inquire further, there is no way for you to become like me."
Then Ulrich added,
"And this is not a place to discuss immortality. Don't harbor pointless expectations."
"Even if you say that, anyone who sees you would find it hard not to."
"I understand."
The marquis sat back down and fixed his gaze on Ulrich.
"You said you saw my ancestor with your own eyes."
He asked how such a thing was possible.
"Axel—if you believe that I am Ulrich of Dithmarschen, then you must also believe that I have lived for over three hundred and fifty years."
"I confirmed it at the Grand Temple of Solna."
Right after the civil war ended, Marquis Axel had investigated Ulrich of Dithmarschen.
Not just Axel—anyone in Osnover had done the same.
He was the man who had ended a decades-long civil war in an instant, and many believed he would soon establish a new royal dynasty.
"Then you must also have confirmed that I am an outsider."
The marquis nodded.
The temples recorded many things—births, marriages, deaths, inheritances. And among these, the most significant records were sent to the archdiocese and compiled again.
According to the records at the Grand Temple in the former capital, Solna, Ulrich of Dithmarschen had become the husband of Countess Hilde of Dithmarschen more than three hundred years ago.
After fifty years, when Hilde died, he inherited her title.
As for Ulrich's origin, it was described with only two words: outsider and unknown.
Normally, even outsiders of noble birth would not have missing records—but there were exceptions. When great upheavals occurred, like the Osnover civil war, temple records could be lost. Or, if one's origins lay among free folk or slaves from distant lands, tracing them could prove impossible.
The marquis recalled what Ulrich had said earlier about his family's origins.
A certain mercenary leader had come to Osnover, disbanded his company, and then the family's founder had settled in this land.
"…Are you saying that you led that group?"
That mercenary captain… was you?
"At the time, I used the name César de Guise."
"De Guise? That sounds like the surname of some lofty fairy."
"I had a rather unusual connection."
The custom of placing a title between a given name and surname was once an ancient fairy tradition. In the present age—after three eras of humanity—it was no longer common.
Axel repeated the unfamiliar name to himself, but it meant nothing to him. He had never heard it before.
To begin with, Axel knew little of his own family's past. They had never been wealthy enough to keep detailed records, and the marquisate they held now had lost much of its lineage during the chaos.
"Is there any way to prove it? I've never heard that our house had ties to Dithmarschen while it still retained its lineage."
"Ask Archbishop Vinicio. He knows that my former name was César, and he also knows of the connection between you and me."
The marquis began to respond, then paused, tapping his temple with his finger.
If it were anyone else, he might doubt it—but testimony from the archbishop was not easily dismissed.
"…I see. I've always wondered."
After a long moment of thought, he spoke again.
"I knew too little beyond my grandfather's generation. We were said to have been castle lords for generations, but there must have been a beginning somewhere. Unlike you, we had too many gaps."
He muttered to himself that he had never even considered the possibility of nomadic origins.
"You don't seem disappointed."
"It is unexpected. But I am satisfied to learn the truth about my relationship with the former marquis you spoke of. It was far too close to be explained as that of a mere vassal. I tried to uncover the reason, but there were no records—only that we had shared a very deep bond since ancient times."
"If you think about it, it's because the beginning was the same. You all left the same homeland and settled here. It seems that beginning was forgotten over generations."
"Forgotten… would be too kind. It would be more accurate to say it was erased."
What noble would proudly admit that their founder had been a wandering nomad? It was far easier to gloss over it as though the lineage had simply been lost.
"I suppose I'd hoped we might be some distant branch of a noble line."
"And that's why you kept the marquis's surname."
"There was also loyalty, in my own way."
The marquis gave a bitter smile.
"Duke of Dithmarschen—do you remember what they looked like?"
"Not their appearances. Only the kind of people they were, vaguely."
Four hundred years—an age compounded over generations. One might recall deeds or character, but faces would be impossible to remember.
For a moment, the marquis wanted to ask if he resembled his ancestors, but instead let out a long sigh of quiet disappointment.
"…Then why did you come to see me? To create a sense of familiarity by bringing up a past I didn't even know? To have me stand with your adopted son—or to prevent a clash?"
"I won't say that's entirely wrong. As you know, this country has shed blood for far too long. And it has only been five years since that bloodshed stopped. I do not wish to see it repeated."
The marquis stared at Ulrich for a moment, then slowly shook his head.
"I don't want to repeat that wretched ordeal either. But what can I do? Even if I alone raise a different banner, what would it change? I'd only be branded a traitor and excommunicated. And I do not represent all the nobles—only a part of them."
"If it were just you alone, that would be true."
Just one person?
The marquis looked at Ulrich with puzzled eyes. It sounded as though there were more threads of the past yet to be revealed.
"Axel, you may have influence, but you are not the one who controls everything. So even if you alone change sides, it would cause some surprise, but it wouldn't break their resolve to oppose Richard and the Hilderson clan."
"But," Ulrich added,
"what if I were to meet several more people after this?"
The marquis stared blankly, almost incredulous.
"…You truly are a man with many connections."
"I have lived through quite a long and turbulent time."
A short while later, Ulrich left Marquis Axel's estate with Wilhelm.
There was no send-off.
To ensure their visit remained undiscovered, every light inside and outside the estate had been extinguished, and only when darkness had fully settled were the two of them practically ushered out.
It was an unnecessary precaution.
The streets of the capital, Iselburg, were deserted at night. The celebration of the royal wedding had been overshadowed by the looming threat of civil war, leaving only tension hanging over the city.
"Sir Ulrich… earlier, you spoke about the marquis's ancestors."
Wilhelm walked a step behind him.
"It may be a rude question, but… how do you know such things?"
"Are you asking whether my connection to them is too thin?"
"Yes."
Watching Ulrich recount the lineage of Axel's ancestors and descendants, Wilhelm had felt it was excessive. He seemed to know far too much about people he had parted ways with long ago—as if he had observed them directly.
That was not the Ulrich Wilhelm knew. Occasionally, he would reflect on how time had changed his past connections—but he never went beyond that so easily.
"The Pantheon… no, Kormillius taught me."
At the mention of Kormillius, Wilhelm flinched.
"I am not a dragon. Even if I wished to remember everything, I cannot. Memories fade with every passing moment. Yet I still know the marquis's lineage in such detail—why do you think that is?"
"…Did they not simply hand you the imperial crown?"
"They gave me a book along with the crown."
A record—detailing every trace Ulrich had left in Osnover.
"It was a record of how the connections I formed in these northern lands unfolded. The cause, the process, and the result. It even tried to capture fleeting encounters I no longer remember."
Wilhelm let out a hollow laugh.
"They're persistent."
He had known that Kormillius had tracked Ulrich's movements and schemed to place him on the throne—but he had not realized they had pursued him to such an extent.
"It turns out that skimming through it and returning it was useful after all."
"Even though the current situation was created by them."
"…Yes."
At that moment, footsteps sounded ahead.
It was Fritz.
Wilhelm's son emerged from the shadows of the night and stopped before them. Seeing his rigid expression, Wilhelm's face hardened as well.
"Fritz, what is it?"
Then his gaze shifted past his son.
The person who should have appeared next was nowhere to be seen—the one Ulrich had sent for, when there had been no word.
"…Where are Archbishop Vinicio and Priest Roberta?"
Before Fritz could answer, Ulrich had already begun to move.
The three of them headed toward the temple.
The main gate stood half open. Outside, faint moonlight illuminated the surroundings, but inside, even the windows were shut—leaving the interior in complete darkness.
Yet in one place, a dim orange glow flickered.
Beneath the altar at the end of the corridor.
A single oil lamp cast its light, and Roberta knelt with her back turned.
She was praying.
Praying over the fallen old man before her—
Archbishop Vinicio.
The red robes that symbolized his office were soaked through with blood, darkened to a deep crimson.
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