* * *
Nael, so sensitive to cold and afraid of fire, wouldn’t even build a fire if stranded alone.
He needed constant care—Killian had to be there for him.
The killing aura around him was so sharp, not even a rabbit dared come near.
This road to the villa—they’d traveled it often as children.
Leafless branches trembled in the breeze, shaking snow to the ground like mocking laughter.
A sound that always put him on edge.
The endless snowfall, the air sharp enough to cut flesh, the long winter—its end was near.
He’d been dreaming of taking Nael south with him.
He planned to rid himself of his father and that witless son, then pass the barony to Nael.
What did it matter if Nael wasn’t fit to rule?
Killian would be there.
If Nael wished to stay in the south, so would he.
A yearly visit to the north would be enough to keep affairs in order.
His unblinking eyes, frozen in the wind, felt like they’d soon ice over.
His reddened eyes stung, and moisture gathered.
He looked down at the hand clutching the reins.
That morning, Nael had been warming his gloves by the fireplace, worried his hands might get cold.
He’d looked so laughably cute that Killian had instinctively pulled him close.
Nael had flailed in surprise.
And then… even when Killian undressed him entirely, he hadn’t resisted.
He had accepted him.
Every time Killian saw Nael, he turned into a beast—some mindless creature stripped of reason, driven only by instinct, crawling on all fours.
He kept doing things he couldn’t even explain to himself.
He deliberately treated Nael harshly, spoke coldly, cut him off. Yet Nael was always there.
Quietly, obediently, waiting just as Killian had instructed.
Nael cried easily. Killian saw him wipe away tears with the back of his hand more than once.
Once, he had reached out to brush them away… but his arms had dropped limply, fists clenched.
He ran around like a stray dog that had lost its master.
His horse, breathing raggedly, began to slow, snorting weakly.
Caw! Caw!
A few birds circled overhead in the sky.
He found it. Cracking the whip, he violently drove the horse forward.
Time was of the essence. How many hours had Nael been out there, trembling?
As soon as they reached the villa, Killian would warm his frozen body in hot water.
Feed him warm, freshly made soup.
Call Norman to examine him.
Killian fixed his eyes forward, racing ahead with one goal: to bring Nael back.
Killian leapt off the horse. His boots sank deep into the snow, reaching up to his ankles.
His breath came in painful gasps, sweat streaming down his face.
The closer he got, the more his teeth clattered from fear.
This road, leading him forward, felt like a cliff’s edge—like the end of the world.
“Hah… hah…”
The most sturdily built carriage had collapsed on one side.
Nael had to be in there.
The once dazzlingly luxurious carriage was now reduced to nothing but rubble.
His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
“Nael.”
Killian’s fragile grip on reason snapped as soon as he saw the scene before him.
A twisted corpse of the coachman lay some distance from the carriage.
Inside was Ren.
“Goddamn it!”
Tracks led away from the carriage.
One of Nael’s boots, stained with scattered drops of blood, lay there.
That was all Killian could find.
Nael had been injured.
He had dragged himself away, but the trail ended abruptly.
Someone had taken him.
“Your Highness!”
Aiden struck flint to light the torch.
The sudden illumination revealed the full horror of the scene.
Killian knelt, his fingertips brushing against the bloodstains.
Clear droplets soaked into the grooves of his fingerprints.
He brought his hand to his mouth and licked it.
The metallic taste of blood lingered before fading away.
Killian stood up, twisting his lips into a grimace.
Anger throbbed so violently that even his scalp ached.
“Tell Norman quietly. About the body… at the villa. Goddamn it!”
His voice came out like sandpaper scraping down his throat.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Deploy the men. Search the surrounding area.”
Killian licked his lips.
Nael’s blood, mingled with his own saliva, moistened them.
He paused, swallowing dryly.
“Search everywhere. Leave no stone unturned.”
As if trying to erase Nael’s traces, the sky poured down ash-colored snow.
Killian looked up at the unfeeling heavens, his red eyes filled with resentment.
Even the weather was against them.
Killian scoured the area until dawn bled through the night.
No matter how fast he rode, a single night wasn’t enough to cover this ground.
Still, on the off chance that Nael might be clinging to the fortress wall, he kept riding back and forth between the villa and the fortress.
He couldn’t shake the image—Nael’s frail body dangling from a tight rope, tinged with blue, swaying in the cold wind.
[Is the Northern winter very cold?]
[Brutally so. But if you stay inside the manor, it’ll be warm.]
The endless snow obscured everything, and no matter how hard he stared at the fortress, he couldn’t find even a single strand of Nael’s hair.
He had to believe Nael was alive.
Had to.
But still… was he shivering somewhere, alone and injured in the cold?
The boots on his small feet were made from fox fur, taken from animals grown fat all winter.
But even that wasn’t enough to survive a night outdoors.
The fury spreading in all directions turned into a heavy migraine pounding against his temples. Killian ground his molars together.
By the time the sun finally climbed fully into the sky, his exhausted horse came to a halt, barely able to breathe.
The cursed snow began to ease only when Killian, chilled to the bone, returned to the villa.
Even his steel-hard body couldn’t withstand the cruel wind of deep winter.
“Haa…”
Killian rubbed his face with both hands.
He brushed the snow from his hair roughly, then—masking his turmoil with his usual air of authority—gave orders.
The mask might soon shatter, but for now, he managed to keep his face composed.
“Gather all the retainers and keep them in one place. We can’t let them communicate freely. Someone from the ducal house, living off our wealth and favor, took Nael. No one leaves the premises until we find him—not even their families.”
Killian poured himself a drink.
His reflection wavered in the clear liquid.
He looked like one of those stammering knights he had scolded earlier—weak, shaken.
He let out a bitter laugh.
Not even on the battlefield, facing thousands, had he ever been this desperate.
He had always been cold, rational, always making the right calls and leading his men to victory.
Now, his bloodshot eyes looked as if the whites had turned red.
He downed the clear liquor in one gulp.
The burn in his throat brought sharp clarity.
He stood abruptly, strapped on his sword, and started moving.
His body, deprived of even an hour’s proper rest, felt sluggish like a turtle.
“The retainers?”
“They’re quiet. A few tried to protest, but most seem to be assessing the situation. Those who opposed Nael receiving his own territory have been isolated.”
Killian’s face twisted like a demon just emerged from hell. His every step seemed to blaze with fury. All the frustration of the fruitless search coalesced into a single boiling point.
From beyond the frost-covered window, a thin trail of gray smoke rose into the sky like a thread.
* * *
