CHAPTER IV: IN THE WAKE OF REVELATION
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THE iron door creaks open with a grating wail, its rusty hinges screaming into the chill of the shadowy chamber. Twin torches flickered along the damp stone walls, their flames throwing twisted, writhing shadows across the gloom.
At the center sat Marquis Valegrim, shackled to a weighty chair. The clink of chains echoed softly as the iron restraints at his ankles scraped against the cold floor. Once a figure of dignity and influence, he now slouched in a throne of iron and dark wood, his fine garments replaced by a filthy tunic.
His once-proud demeanor had given way to a look of fear and hopelessness. At the sound of armored boots drawing near, his head jerked toward the doorway, eyes wide and frantic, like a cornered beast seeking any means of escape.
Then, Grand Commander Frederick stepped into the room.
Dressed in solemn ceremonial armor engraved with the emblem of the Order of the Vildblod, he walked with the steady confidence of someone well-acquainted with battle. His youthful face bore the quiet confidence of experience, and a faint, knowing smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
"Marquis Valegrim," he said, his voice low and smooth. "How do you find the interrogation chamber? Cozy enough for your refined tastes?"
The marquis remained silent, just as he had since his arrest last night. He still refused to speak as if silence itself were his final act of defiance. Commander Frederick noted how unyielding the man was.
His colleague and informant, Commander Arnold, had already uncovered compelling evidences— documents, ledgers, and names proving the marquis was selling women and children to the nobility.
Years ago, Marquis Valegrim had survived an attack on his manor and faked his death, spreading a rumor that the estate was haunted. But in reality, the ghost story was a cover to keep people away, so no one would discover that the abandoned manor was being used to hide abducted women and children.
The Order had also managed to uncover the identities of the noblemen and noblewomen involved in purchasing the trafficked women and children, and arrests were already underway.
"Still refusing to speak, are we?" Frederick said, settling into the chair across from the marquis. He leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting. "Perhaps you'd like to hear a story instead."
He paused, then began. "There was once a naive young blond boy who roamed the street of Denmark until a respected and generous marquis took him in. The boy was welcomed with kindness, dressed in elegant clothes, offered rich food, and met with warm smiles. But eventually, he uncovered a terrible reality. The kindness and the care that they showed to him was all an act. A carefully crafted illusion to increase his value, so he could be sold for a greater profit."
The marquis's eyes widened as he listened, but Frederick continued his tale. "The marquis and his family sold the boy so they could earn more money. They think they washed their hands of him but a year later, he returned and slaughtered the marquis's entire household in revenge. Quite the tale, isn't it? A perfect revenge story, don't you think?"
The marquis stared at him, stunned. "How... how do you know that story?"
Frederick smiled, a chilling smile that sent a cold wave through the room. "Ah, so you can speak after all. Oh, I almost forgot to mention the boy's name. He's Arthur and he was originally from London. Does that sound familiar?"
The marquis's eyes widened, the color in his face ebbing away with each word that spilled from Frederick's lips. He stared at Frederick, eyes darting over his blond hair and blue eyes. It was familiar to him. "No... that name... it can't be. Don't tell me—"
Frederick stood and slowly approached the bound marquis, extending a hand in a mock greeting. "They call me Frederick Andersen now, that's the name I was given. But I was born Arthur Mountbatten. You remember him, don't you? The child you adopted, shattered, and sold off to a filthy noblewoman like some worthless commodity. It's... oddly satisfying, seeing you again after all these years, Marquis Valegrim. I must say, I'm impressed you survived my first visit. Shame about your wife and servants, though. They weren't so lucky."
The marquis rose from his seat, only to trip on the cold stone floor, having forgotten that he was still tied to the chair. His face twisted in fear as he recognized the man before him.
A wave of regret washed over him that he had forgotten the face of the innocent boy who had once accidentally crossed his path while aimlessly wandering the streets of Denmark. The marquis had taken the boy in, not out of kindness, but with the intention of grooming him for a profitable sale. Both he and his wife had a hidden past steeped in human trafficking, a dark business they had been secretly involved in for years.
It all began with the marquis and his wife posing as kind and respectable nobles, a pretense they used to lure and adopt children into their estate. They provided food and shelter, but only until the children grew beautiful and appealing at which point they were sold to wealthy aristocrats who sought out attractive young children. The attendants were complicit in the scheme as well.
Frederick still vividly remembers begging the marquis to spare him and the other children. His pleas were coldly dismissed as he was sold to a noblewoman without a second thought. The memory of the months he spent enduring that woman's vile touch haunts him. Eventually, he seized a chance to escape, fleeing her home to live in hiding as a beggar.
During his time on the streets, an old beggar taught him how to fight and resist manipulation. Life in the gutter hardened him and gave him strength. Fueled by years of pain and a burning desire for vengeance, Frederick could never forget the marquis's cruel smirk the day he was sold. That image stayed with him, driving him to plot his revenge. One day, he returned to the estate and slaughtered everyone inside.
Frederick's murder plan for revenge had been nearly flawless except for one fatal oversight— he didn't make sure his victims were truly dead. Because of that, the marquis survived. Frederick hadn't been too concerned about that at first. He figured if the man regretted and changed his ways, there was no need to hunt him down again. But the marquis hadn't changed. He had returned to his vile human trafficking business.
Grinning darkly, Frederick crouched down so his eyes met those of the quivering noble. "Tell me," he asked, full of sarcasm, "how enjoyable is it to snatch away and sell off helpless women and children?" His voice dropped, laced with threat. "You'd better answer before my sword decides for you."
That was the moment the marquis knew his end had come. He could see it in the cold, unflinching gaze of the man before him. This man was capable of killing him without a second thought. The marquis nearly died by his hands in the past. For the first time in his life, true regret gripped him. He regretted letting greed and selfishness rule his heart. He regretted the countless women and children he had sold for profit. Most of all, he regretted ever crossing paths with the innocent boy he once took in— now a grown man standing over him with vengeance burning in his eyes.
He didn't want to die.
Driven by panic and desperation, he stammered, "I-It wasn't me! I-I'm not the one behind it all!"
Frederick paused, intrigued. "What are you saying? That someone else ordered you to traffic humans against your will?"
The marquis's lips quivered as he confessed, "N-No… I mean, I did it. Voluntarily. I sold them for profit. But… I wasn't alone. I wasn't the true mastermind. We only followed orders... his orders. He funded everything. He's the reason I survived your massacre. We called him our benefactor."
Frederick's eyes narrowed. "And who is this benefactor you speak of?"
"H-he told us his name is Edward… I never learned his surname or saw his whole face. But I remember...he had blond hair, blue eyes… just like you. A-and a cross scar on his chin…"
The trace of a smile Frederick's wore disappeared as swiftly as mist.
And in the silence that followed, the door to Frederick's past cracked open— something much more sinister emerged.
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MORNING sunlight bathed the towering spires of the Knight's Headquarters, casting a golden sheen over its slate roofs and weathered stone walls. Dorothea ascended the steps with the composure of one who had reached a firm and consequential decision — the kind of choice that steals sleep and carries weight. The rhythmic sound of her boots in the hall reminded her of whispered prayers and freshly made vows.
Following the previous day's strenuous events, she had neglected to formally notify the Grand Commander of her intention to accept his offer. She had now returned to the headquarters with the express purpose of doing so.
At the entrance to the Grand Commander's office stood a red-haired knight, guarding the door.
"I am here to speak with the Grand Commander," Dorothea stated.
"Ah, you must be the woman who singlehandedly bested several of my fellow knights and expressed a desire to join our ranks," the knight responded with a polite smile of recognition. "I regret to inform you that the Grand Commander is currently on leave. He mentioned he was in need of rest following yesterday's events."
"I understand," Dorothea replied with a measured nod, concealing both her disappointment and her curiosity.
The knight went on, eyes gleaming. "But still, Grand Commander Frederick was amazing. He took down all the enemies by himself! I wish I could be like him someday..." He continued, speaking at length and with evident admiration of the Commander's prowess.
Outside, the morning had matured into a warm, still day. Instead of heading home, Dorothea wandered toward the town gates. She had already helped her mother in the fields, and her mother had urged her to take a break and enjoy herself. Maybe she had earned this brief moment of leisure.
As she walked along the cobblestone streets of Jutland, her muscles began to loosen. The town buzzed with morning commerce, filled with the aroma of fresh bread. Sunlight played across the red-tiled rooftops, and the townsfolk moved about like a vibrant, noisy painting, carefree and full of life.
Dorothea ended up in the central plaza, a ring of stone surrounding a humble fountain. Merchants shouted beneath colorful tents, and a street musician strummed a lighthearted tune near the old clocktower. And then, she saw him.
Frederick— the charming flirt.
He wasn't riding a proud horse or clad in polished armor, nor was he draped in ceremonial attire. Instead, he sat slouched on a bench warmed by the sun, beneath an old oak tree. His coat was wrinkled, his hair ruffled and tousled by the wind, and a half-empty bottle of something dark dangled from his gloved hand.
"Seriously? Drinking this early in the morning?" Dorothea thought.
He hadn't noticed her. His eyes were fixed on the square, not with the piercing focus of a leader, but with the hollow stillness of someone gazing through the world rather than at it, as if his thoughts wandered far beyond the stone and sunlit bustle, lost in some quiet, unreachable corner of himself.
Did something happened to him?
For a moment, worry flickered in her eyes. She approached in silence, and the bench gave a slight creak as she sat beside him.
"I thought you said you were tired," she said, eyeing him with a raised brow. "So I figured you'd be sleeping off the exhaustion at home. And yet, here you are…" Her eyes drifted to the half-empty bottle in his hand. "Drinking before the sun's even climbed all the way up. Let me guess, maybe some unlucky girl finally saw through your charm and turned you down?"
Frederick glanced sideways. His eyes, the color of clear skies after rain, were clearer than she expected but filled with a kind of quiet desolation and there was no playful glint on it.
"Worried about me, Dorothea?" he said with a faint, crooked smile, trying to wrap humor around his sadness. "If it means getting your attention and a good scolding, maybe I should make this a daily habit."
She rolled her eyes, half-relieved. Maybe he was still his usual annoying self after all. Maybe her worry had been misplaced. "Hardly. I'm just reminding you that as the man who leads the knights, you should take care of yourself. Otherwise, you'll waste away, and the Order will be left without its excellent leader."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Touching. It's good to know you hold me in such high regard."
"I don't deny it," she said matter-of-factly. "I saw you fight yesterday and your men believe in you. They speak of you with pride." She paused, hands folding neatly in her lap. "Anyway, I went to the headquarters earlier to give you my answer, but your office was empty."
Frederick didn't say a word, just waited for her to continue.
"So I came to tell you that I have decided to accept your offer."
She had expected him to smirk in victory, or maybe even offer a cocky remark since he won. After all, she had just stepped into the very path he'd hoped she'd take. But instead, he gave her a hollow smile, its warmth stolen by whatever haunted him, and gave a quiet nod. "I'm glad," he said softly.
Dorothea felt a surge of irritation rising within her. She dislikes Frederick's flirtatious antics, but what grated her nerves even more was the mask he wore now. The empty smile, the feigned indifference, as if nothing inside him had unraveled.
"That's your response?" she burst out, her voice cutting through the air like a snapped bowstring. "That's all you have to say after everything?"
"Huh?" Frederick blinked, caught off guard by her sudden flare of emotion.
"Don't give me that empty smile," she said, her voice trembling somewhere between anger and worry. "That's not like you. If something's wrong, stop pretending. Just cry if you need to!"
Her voice carried further than she'd intended, and a few passersby began to glance their way, drawn by her raised voices. Whispers stirred in the crowd. Flushed with sudden embarrassment, Dorothea stood abruptly, grabbed his arm, and tugged him up from the bench.
"Come with me," she said, softer now, but no less firm like someone reaching out to save a man drowning in silence.
Frederick trailed silently without a protest behind Dorothea as she guided him through tight alleys and tangled paths, the sounds of the town fading into the distance.
Neither of them said a word. Their silence wasn't awkward. Just weighty, like the stillness that lingers before a storm breaks.
They walked beneath an arch of ivy, climbed a gentle slope, and stepped into a secluded clearing nestled between murmuring trees and the weathered remains of a stone wall. The spot felt forgotten, partially reclaimed by nature, with beams of sunlight piercing the canopy like blades of gold.
Frederick looked around. "Where are we?"
"It's a place hardly anyone visits anymore," Dorothea replied, already scanning the ground. "I used to sneak off here when I was a kid."
"To hide?" he asked.
"To breathe," she said, bending to pick up a fallen solid tree branch. She tossed another one to him. "Today, these are swords."
Frederick caught it mid-air, lifting an eyebrow. "Huh? What's this supposed to be for?"
"I noticed you've been down," she answered simply. "I know we're not close so I don't want to pry but even if you don't want to talk, you need some kind of release." She gave a small shrug. "I figured a bit of make-believe sword fighting might help."
He stared at the branch in his hand. "What are we, ten?"
She gave a wry smile. "When I'm upset, I come here and spar with shadows. It helps burn the heaviness out of me. Maybe it will do the same for you."
He looked at her thoughtfully, then let out a quiet laugh. "So if I swing this stick at you, all of my sorrow will vanish?"
"No," she replied, dropping into a ready stance. "But it might remind you that you're still here. And that you're not alone."
Frederick stared at her. The intensity in her eyes and the resilience in her stance made something deep within him stirred awake.
He lifted his branch and matched her stance. "Alright then. Just don't get upset when I win."
"In your dreams," she shot back, launching the first strike.
Their branches met with a sharp thud, bits of bark flying. There was nothing graceful or refined about it. Just chaotic, unfiltered, and raw. Dorothea smirked as she deflected one of his blows and a brief but sincere smile tugged at Frederick's lips.
They moved through the clearing like a storm, unrestrained, breathless, alive. The heaviness in Frederick's chest didn't disappear, but it shifted. It is no longer a crushing weight, but more like a bruise. Something that could, with time, mend.
As they stood there in the scattered sunlight, sticks still in hand and hearts pounding, Dorothea glanced over at him, let out meaningful words, "See? Not every fight is about winning. Some are just meant to be fought."
They stood in the ground with ragged breathing, a comfortable silence stretched between them. A warm breeze rustled the leaves overhead, scattering golden flecks of sunlight across Frederick's face as he leaned on his makeshift sword, still catching his breath.
He glanced over at Dorothea, who was brushing bark dust from her clothes, and this time, a genuine smile curved at the corners of his mouth. But this one softer, steadier than the hollow grin he'd worn earlier.
"You know," he said, eyes glinting with a trace of mischief, "if this is how you plan to cheer me up every time I'm down. Dragging me off to secret places and beat me with tree branches, I might start getting sad on purpose so I could spend time alone with you."
Dorothea shot him a glare sharp enough to cut wood. "Don't make me actually knock you out next time."
He laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. No more flirting… for now."
"Not just for now. Seriously, stop flirting with me for good."
"I'm afraid that's not something I can promise," he replied and she only clicked her tongue at him.
A quiet moment followed, the intensity of earlier emotions settling between them like dust in the light. Frederick's smile faded into something more genuine, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer.
"Thank you, Dorothea. For pulling me out of that square. For not letting me fall too far."
She glanced at him, caught off guard by the sudden honesty in his words. But instead of replying, she simply nodded, her face unreadable, the silence saying enough.
Frederick rested more of his weight on the branch, his usual cocky air tempered now by something steadier. "And about you joining the knights," he added as he stood upright again, "I meant what I said earlier. I'm genuinely glad."
"I didn't accept it for your sake," Dorothea replied, her voice firm. "I did it for the people."
"I know," he said with a nod. "That's exactly why it matters. You'll be a real asset. The others will realize it soon enough."
He took a step closer and gave her shoulder a playful tap with the branch. "I hope you're prepared for your first training session tomorrow early morning. Don't be late."
Dorothea arched a brow. "Bad luck for you. I'm a farmer's daughter so waking up early is a second nature."
Disappointed, he let out a sigh. "What a shame. I was already planning a punishment for you if you showed up late."
She rolled her eyes. "Well, now I'm even more motivated to get there early. Pretty sure your so-called punishment is just an excuse for something naughty."
A grin spread across Frederick's face. "I wouldn't do that." He feigned shock, placing a hand over his chest. "Dorothea, I'm wounded. I offer a perfectly professional warning, and you go and sully it."
She gave him a dry look, unimpressed.
He spun the branch in his hand like a sword. "Sounds like someone has a very dirty imagination. Are you sure you're ready for knighthood? That kind of thinking could be a distraction during drills."
"Oh, please," she replied, crossing her arms. "You're the one who seemed way too excited about disciplining your new recruit."
He leaned in just a bit, smirk still intact. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like seeing you flustered."
Dorothea stood firm. "Nice try. It's going to take more than your bad jokes and innuendos to throw me off."
Frederick stepped back with a playful salute. "Challenge accepted, my future knight."
She shook her head, trying to hide the amusement tugging at her lips. "You're unbearable."
"And yet," he said with a wink, "you're still here, and you cheered me up."
She turned to walk away, tossing a glance at him over her shoulder, "Only because I'm too tired of watching you sulk."
Frederick laughed and followed her.
They followed the concealed trail back, branches lightly brushing against them. The silence between them felt different this time. It was gentle and calm, broken only by the crunching leaves beneath their feet and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees.
The town square unfurled ahead like a faded watercolor in the morning haze. Frederick paused just before they emerged into the open, his brow furrowing in quiet reflection. "You know… today could've turned out much worse for me."
Dorothea stopped, turning to face him, her eyes sharp with the weight she sensed beneath his words.
"I'm often sure of what I'm doing," he confessed. "I used to think I could handle any challenge thrown my way and I felt like I was getting stronger, but recently... it's felt like I'm barely holding it together."
She studied him quietly, then said, "Then let someone hold it with you."
His eyes met hers, and something unspoken passed between them. Something deeper than obligation and flirtation. Something more genuine.
"We're not friends," Dorothea said, voice cool but steady. "And I still can't stand you and your flirtations but if you ever need someone to listen, I can always lend you my ear. Don't you dare forget that." Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode ahead.
Their footsteps blended into the distant murmur of the town as they made it back to the town square. And for the first time in days, the heavy weight on Frederick's chest loosened, and his world, just for a moment felt a little less dark.