Albert left the throne room with unhurried steps.
Each stride felt like walking on broken glass. Not from pride, not from shame—but because his body was reminding him that he had just pushed himself past its limits. His left shoulder throbbed with heat, his right wrist was numb, and somewhere between his ribs and shoulder blade, a pulse of pain beat in rhythm with his heart.
He didn't know exactly when his joints had shifted out of place. Perhaps when he parried Aldus's third strike. Perhaps when he twisted his body for that thrust from below. Perhaps when he dropped to that cold, humiliating marble floor.
It didn't matter. What mattered was fixing it before anyone noticed.
The corridor toward the rear garden was deserted. Servants were busy in the banquet hall, nobles still gossiping in the throne room. Albert turned left, slipping through a small wooden door left unguarded, and found himself in a small courtyard behind the main building.
The garden was quiet. Just yellowing grass, a few neglected rose bushes, and a stone bench beneath an old tree shedding its leaves early. Albert sat on that bench, feeling the cold stone seep through his trousers.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Breathed in. Breathed out.
Then he reached for his left arm.
Dislocated shoulder. Not his first. In his previous life, he'd experienced the same thing falling from a military truck in the rain. The field medic who treated him then—an old man with practiced movements—had taught him how to fix it himself. "You won't always have a doctor beside you," the man had said. "Learn to feel your own bones."
Albert moved his shoulder slowly, feeling where the humerus had shifted from its socket. Not too severe—only partially displaced. Enough to limit movement, enough to hurt with every deep breath.
He raised his right hand, placing it on his left shoulder. His fingers probed, searching for the correct position.
Then he pulled.
The sound was clear in the garden's silence. Not loud, but wet—a sound that shouldn't come from a human body. Pain radiated from his shoulder to his neck, down his spine, to his fingertips. Albert bit his lip, stifling the scream that nearly escaped.
What came out was a short, heavy growl. Like an animal caught in a trap.
He sat still for a moment, letting the wave of pain subside. His breath came in short puffs. Cold sweat dampened his forehead.
Next, his wrist.
He gripped his right hand with his left, feeling the joint that had shifted. Not as bad as the shoulder—only slightly misaligned. But to fix it, he needed to pull at just the right angle, with just enough force, without damaging the surrounding ligaments.
Albert bit his lip harder. Then he pulled.
Another sound in the quiet garden.
Another growl escaped his throat—longer this time, deeper, like something rising from the pit of his stomach. His fingers clenched, nails digging into his palms. The pain felt like something stabbing from inside his bones.
He let himself double over for a moment. Forehead touching his knees. Breath coming in irregular rhythms. Around him, the garden remained silent. Leaves fell slowly. The neglected rose bushes swayed in the wind.
It lasted a long time. Or it felt like a long time. He didn't know.
"Who... are you?"
The voice made him tense.
He lifted his head slowly. At the garden's edge, between two overgrown rose bushes, a woman stood.
Her hair was silver. Not grey like the elderly, but genuine silver—lustrous, long, cascading over her shoulders. Her face was young, perhaps Alena's age, but her eyes...
She held a rose stem in her hand—a white rose, half-bloomed. In her other hand, small pruning shears for arranging flowers.
She looked at Albert. Her eyes were pale blue, like the morning sky on a cold day. And in those eyes, Albert recognized something. Not fear. Not disgust. But sharp curiosity—the kind that didn't know its boundaries.
"What are you doing?" she asked again. Her voice was clear, steady.
Albert didn't answer. He just looked at her, assessing. Her dress—light blue silk, silver embroidery at the cuffs, cut that wasn't ostentatious but clearly expensive. Not a servant. Not an ordinary noble. On her chest, a small pendant shaped like a lion—the royal crest.
Damn.
"Nothing you saw," he finally said. His voice was hoarse.
The woman approached. Her steps were slow, unhurried, as if she were walking through her own garden—which she probably was. Each step brought her closer to the stone bench where Albert sat. Each step made Albert more aware that he couldn't stand quickly, couldn't pretend nothing had happened.
"Sit down. I don't bite." She laughed softly. "I know. You bite."
Albert didn't respond.
The woman stopped before the bench, looking down at Albert. Her eyes moved—over his pale face, the sweat on his forehead, his still slightly crooked right hand. Then to his left shoulder, which he was trying to keep from moving too much.
"Your shoulder," she said. "You put it back yourself?"
"Yes."
"Your wrist too?"
"Yes."
She sat on the bench beside Albert. Not at the far end, but close enough that Albert was acutely aware she wasn't keeping her distance.
"I saw a soldier do that once," she said. "When I was young. My father brought a wounded soldier to the castle. His injuries were severe, the physician hadn't arrived yet, and the soldier... he pulled his own arm back into place. Just like you did just now."
Albert didn't remember ever hearing that story. "And?"
"And I cried." The woman smiled—a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Not from fear. But because... I didn't understand why someone would have to do that to themselves."
"Maybe because there was no one else to do it for them."
The woman looked at him. In those pale blue eyes, something stirred. Not curiosity anymore. Something deeper.
"Are you always like this?" she asked.
"Like what?"
"Like there's no one who can help you."
Albert almost laughed. But the laugh turned into a grunt as his shoulder moved too quickly.
The woman reached out her hand. Her movement was slow, like someone approaching a wary cat. Her fingers stopped a few inches from Albert's shoulder.
"May I?"
Albert looked at that hand. Long fingers, clean, without calluses. A hand that had never held anything deadlier than flower shears.
"No need," he said.
"But you're in pain."
"I'm used to it."
The woman withdrew her hand, but she didn't leave. She just sat beside Albert, watching the garden as the afternoon sun began to slant through the trees. In the distance, sounds from the castle drifted faintly—applause, laughter, the clink of glasses.
"They're celebrating your victory," she said.
Albert didn't answer.
"But why do you act like you don't feel like a victor?"
"What I saw at Vallenwood wasn't victory."
"What did you see?"
"Corpses. Stench. People crawling through the mud with their entrails hanging out. Children who lost their mothers. Mothers who lost their children." Albert looked at his hands. "I don't need a medal to remember that."
The woman was silent. Then, in a softer voice, "Do you regret it?"
"Regret won't bring them back."
"But you do regret it."
Albert didn't answer. Against his chest, Rashid's crescent pendant felt warm—perhaps from his body heat, perhaps from something else. He didn't know.
The woman stood. She picked up the white rose that had fallen into her lap—Albert hadn't noticed when it fell—and placed it on the bench between them.
"For you," she said. "As thanks."
"For what?"
"For reminding me that victory isn't always as beautiful as they say."
She turned and walked slowly out of the garden. Her silver hair glinted in the sunlight, then disappeared through the wooden door.
Albert sat on the bench, staring at the white rose beside him. He didn't pick it up.
***
The mansion provided by the King stood on the eastern side of Eltz Castle—not too large, but more than enough for a newly made Baron whose territory boundaries were still unclear. Two floors, a small front garden, and—most luxurious of all—a bath with hot water piped through copper tubes from the kitchen below.
Albert had bathed. The hot water had helped a little, but the pain in his shoulder and wrist still felt like nails driven into his joints. He sat in a chair by the window, a thin robe hanging from his shoulders, his hair still damp. The golden lion medal lay on the table beside him. Around his neck, the crescent pendant still hung.
Outside, the sun was beginning to set. The sky was golden orange, like distant fire. Like Vallenwood when it burned.
The door opened abruptly.
Alena entered, having changed from the dress she'd worn in the throne room. Now she wore a simpler gown in deep red, her red hair braided loosely to one side. Her face was fresh, clean, showing no signs of travel or exhaustion.
But her eyes... her eyes looked at Albert in a way that made him uncomfortable.
"You've bathed," she said.
"Yes."
"Eaten?"
"No, not hungry."
"The servants will bring food later." She walked in, closing the door behind her. Her steps were slow, unhurried. She stopped in the middle of the room, looking at Albert.
"You... are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Don't worry."
"Your clothes are still damp... you'll get sick."
"I'm fine."
Alena approached. She took the cloth draped over the chair back and stood behind Albert. Her movements were slow, gentle—she began drying Albert's hair with it.
Albert froze. He didn't know how to react.
"You didn't write," Alena said. Her voice was soft, not accusatory. Just a statement.
"I was busy. Conditions at the front made it hard to find time to write."
"Three months."
Albert didn't answer.
"Three months, Albert. No word. I didn't know if you were alive or dead."
"I'm sorry..."
"Sorry isn't enough." Her hands stopped. "But I'm not going to be angry. I just... I just wanted you to know."
She resumed drying his hair. Silence. Only the sound of the cloth and their breathing.
"What happened at Vallenwood?" Alena finally asked.
Albert stared out the window. In the distance, the sky was darkening.
"Many died."
"I heard. You saved that city."
"No. I just lasted longer than anyone else."
Alena didn't answer. Her hands moved to Albert's shoulder—and stopped. She felt something beneath the fabric.
"Your shoulder..." she whispered.
"It's nothing."
"Nothing?" Alena set the cloth aside, walked around to face Albert, and knelt before him. Her eyes—warm brown, the same eyes he'd seen in Götthain's garden years ago—were now wet.
"What happened to you out there?"
Albert looked at her. In her eyes, he saw fear. Not fear of enemies, but fear of losing him.
"I can't tell you," he said. "Not now. Maybe never."
Alena bit her lip. Her hands reached for Albert's—his right hand, still swollen at the wrist.
"You hurt yourself," she whispered.
Albert didn't answer.
"In the garden earlier, someone saw you. A silver-haired woman. The King's daughter, Princess Seraphina. She said you... you hurt yourself."
Albert closed his eyes. So that was the princess. The lavish mansion, private garden, white roses. Now it all made sense.
"I was just fixing my body, which had some issues."
"You could have asked a physician for help."
"There are no physicians on the battlefield."
"You're not on the battlefield now."
Albert opened his eyes. "Alena."
"Yes?"
"I've tried. I've tried to be the hero they praise. I've tried to forget. But I can't."
Alena looked at him.
"Every time I close my eyes, I see them. Klaus. Stefan. Lukas. Gerold. Gerda. And so many more. I see their faces, I hear their voices, I feel their hands pulling me down." His voice cracked at the end. "I don't know how to stop."
Alena didn't answer. She just gripped Albert's hand tighter.
"I can't help you," she finally said. "I don't know war. I don't know what you've been through. But I can be here. I can listen, if you want to talk. I can be silent, if you want silence. I can..." She paused, drawing a breath. "I can wait for you."
Albert looked at her. In those warm brown eyes, he saw no deception.
"I brought someone with me," he said.
Alena blinked.
"Luise. Sir Gregor's granddaughter. She protected me through the war. She... she helped me."
"Do you love her?"
The question came without preamble. Honest and straightforward.
Albert didn't know how to answer.
Alena took a deep breath. "I've heard things. From the soldiers. About the two of you on the battlefield. How close you were. They said she saved you when you were wounded. She watched over you every night. She..." She stopped.
Albert didn't deny it.
"I'm not angry," Alena said. "I just... I don't know what to feel." She looked at Albert. "You made me a promise in Götthain's garden. You said we had a choice. Does that still stand?"
"Yes."
"Then I choose to wait." She gripped Albert's hand tighter. "I don't know if you'll choose me in the end, but I won't leave. Not because of duty. Not because of the betrothal. But because..." She didn't finish the sentence.
Albert felt something in his chest. Not warmth—but something heavier. A different weight. A burden that didn't drag him down.
"Alena."
"Yes?"
"I don't know if I can be a good husband. I don't know if I can forget any of this. But I promise... I'll be honest with you. No matter what happens."
Alena smiled. A small smile, wet at the corners.
"That's enough," she whispered.
Albert opened his mouth... then closed it again.
Outside, night had fully fallen. Stars began appearing one by one. In that room, Albert sat in his chair, Alena's hand clasping his, and for the first time in a long while, the voices in his head quieted slightly.
But in the corner, beyond the door left slightly ajar, Luise stood still.
She had come to say dinner was ready, but she didn't enter. She just stood behind the door, hearing everything. Hearing Alena's gentle voice. Hearing Albert's broken words. Hearing promises she had never received.
She stepped back silently. Her footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet.
In the hallway, a servant approached, about to ask something. Luise shook her head. "Later," she whispered. "Let them talk."
She walked to the end of the corridor, standing by a window overlooking the garden. Outside, the moon was rising. Its light was pale, cold, illuminating the neglected rose bushes.
In her hand, she held something—a feltwort cigar, newly arrived from Albert's father.
She tucked it into her pocket.
Inside the room, lamps were being lit. Shadows danced behind the window. Luise watched for a moment, then looked away.
She walked to the kitchen, told the servants to send the food to Albert's room. She herself wasn't hungry. She just sat on the back steps of the mansion, watching the stars, letting the night pass.
Tomorrow, she would still guard Albert. As she had promised.
That was enough.