Luise woke with her heart pounding.
The morning was still dark. Only a thin light seeped from beneath the door, just enough to see the unfamiliar ceiling. She sat on the edge of the bed, breath ragged, cold sweat soaking her back.
The dream still clung to her eyes. Albert in a green cloak, standing at a grand altar with gold carvings. Beside him, a woman in a white veil, fiery red hair cascading over her shoulders. Nobles applauded. The King smiled. And in the back row, lost in the indifferent crowd, Luise stood empty-handed, watching Albert's retreating back.
She didn't remember when she started walking out. Didn't remember if she cried. All she remembered was the cold marble floor beneath her feet, and the sound of great doors closing behind her.
Luise rubbed her face with both palms. Cold sweat. Her face was hot. She muttered, "Damn it..."
No one heard. This room was hers, only hers. Small, simple, without a garden-facing window like Albert's. But enough for a guard.
She stood. Feet touched the cold floor. The cold helped, a little.
A foolish dream. A foolish dream from a foolish mind.
She took the water pitcher from the table, poured it into the copper basin. The water was cold—very cold, like the river in Götthain during spring. She washed her face, neck, hands. Water soaked her nightshirt sleeves, but she didn't care.
In the tarnished metal mirror on the wall, she saw her reflection. Tangled black hair, violet eyes with dark circles beneath them, pale lips. A small scar on her left neck—a keepsake from the battle at Vallenwood, when a stone nearly crushed her head.
She stared at the reflection for a long time. Then she turned, reaching for her training clothes hanging behind the door.
***
The mansion's back courtyard was deserted.
Luise stood in the center, a wooden practice sword in her right hand, body slightly lowered in a fighting stance. The morning wind bit at her skin, but she was accustomed to it.
She began to move.
First slash—horizontal, fast, from left to right. Wind hissed. The second slash followed, from right to left, faster.
She imagined an enemy before her, imagined a body that needed to be subdued, imagined a sword that needed to be parried. But in her mind, what appeared wasn't an enemy.
Red hair cascading over shoulders. A soft voice in a lavish room. "Albert..."
The third slash was harder. Wood cut through the air with a sharp sound. She spun, slashing upward from below—a move meant to split an opponent's chest. But in her eyes, what she saw wasn't an opponent. But hands clasped tightly together, a voice breaking, a promise she never received.
"I can wait for you."
Fourth slash. Fifth. Sixth.
The wooden sword danced in the morning air. Each movement faster than the last, each swing heavier. Her muscles heated, sweat began dampening her forehead, but she didn't stop.
She imagined Albert standing at the altar. Imagined the white-veiled woman smiling beside him. Imagined thunderous applause, deafening cheers, and herself standing in the crowd, smiling, clapping, like a puppet taught to smile at the right moments.
Seventh slash. She spun too fast, her left foot slipping on the wet grass. She fell to one knee, knee striking hard ground, pain shooting up her spine.
She stayed there, kneeling on the damp earth, chest heaving, breath ragged.
Stupid! All of this is stupid...
She rose. Her knee hurt, but she didn't care. She raised her sword again, continuing her movements. Slash. Thrust. Parry. Each move harder, wilder, as if trying to destroy something. But there was nothing to destroy. Only air. Only shadows.
Until, at some point, her hands began to tremble. Not from exhaustion—she'd trained to her limits too many times before. But from something else. Something she'd tried to bury since the first night in Vallenwood, when Albert held her hand and called her name.
She let the sword drop. Wood fell to the ground with an inconsequential sound.
She stood in the middle of the courtyard, hands empty, breath racing, and let herself feel what she'd been trying to ignore.
Not anger. But exhaustion. An exhaustion with no cure, that couldn't be healed by sleep or training.
She took a long breath. Exhaled slowly.
Then she bent down, picked up the wooden sword, and resumed her practice. Her movements were slower now. More measured.
She no longer imagined enemies.
***
Albert sat in the chair by his window, watching the garden below begin to catch the morning light.
He hadn't slept all night. Not because of nightmares—tonight the voices only whispered from a distance, not like usual. But because his mind wouldn't stop.
His meeting with Alena yesterday. Her words. The promise he'd made. A promise he didn't know if he could keep.
"I can wait for you."
He touched the crescent pendant on his chest. The metal was cool, but it felt warm in his palm. Or perhaps that was only because his hand was too cold.
A knock at the door, then it opened.
Luise entered, still in her training clothes, hair damp with sweat, face slightly flushed. In her hand, a rectangular wooden box.
"This," she said. Her voice was flat, as always. She set the box on the small table beside Albert. "From your father. A courier arrived yesterday with it."
Albert looked at the box. Simple carvings on its lid—the Götterbaum tree. He opened it. Inside, neatly arranged, feltwort cigars. Twenty sticks. Maybe more.
He took one, feeling the rough texture of the wrapping paper between his fingers. Dried feltwort leaves, tightly rolled, mixed with rose petals and a touch of honey. A familiar aroma—sweet, bitter, reminiscent of the fields on Götthain's southern slopes.
Two years. He'd never been this far from those fields.
Luise still stood beside him, watching. Didn't ask. Didn't speak. Just stood there, as always, as she always did.
Albert lit the cigar with a sulfur match—his last one, his supply nearly exhausted. A small flame flickered at the feltwort's tip. The first smoke entered his lungs, warm, familiar.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Let the smoke do its work. Calming the nerves that had been tangled for months like a knotted thread.
When he opened his eyes, Luise was still watching him. Her eyes—violet, with dark circles beneath them—followed his every movement.
"You want some?" Albert asked, offering the cigar.
Luise blinked. "Me?"
"You asked before, on the road to Vallenwood. You were curious. Now it's your turn."
She hesitated. Her hands—always ready to draw a sword, always ready to deflect an attack—now moved uncertainly, like a child reaching for candy in a glass jar.
She took the cigar carefully, like a foreign object she didn't understand.
"Inhale slowly," Albert said. "Not too deep. Just into your mouth, hold it a moment, then exhale."
Luise put the cigar's tip to her lips. Inhaled.
Smoke filled her mouth. She held it for a moment, then exhaled. Nothing happened.
"It doesn't—"
She coughed. Not an ordinary cough—a hard cough that came from her chest, making her double over, hand pressing her stomach. Her eyes watered.
Albert almost laughed, but held it back. "I said not too deep."
Luise raised her head, eyes red, face flushed. "You—you didn't say it would—" another cough.
"Slowly."
She tried again. More carefully this time. Smoke entered slowly, not too deep. She held it a moment, then exhaled. A small cough, but not as bad as before.
After a few puffs, her body began to relax. Her tense shoulders lowered. Her ever-watchful eyes softened slightly.
"This is... strange," she said, her voice hoarse.
"Good?"
"Maybe—maybe?" She looked at the cigar in her hand, then at Albert. "How long have you been smoking these?"
"Since two years ago. Since before the war."
"And you never told me?"
"You never asked."
Luise snorted. But she didn't return the cigar. She inhaled again, longer this time, deeper. Smoke emerged from her nostrils in two thin streams.
Albert watched her. This woman—always silent, always watchful, always ready to die for him—now sat in the chair beside him, watching the rising smoke, with a strange expression. Not relaxed. Not calm. But... slightly looser.
"Albert," she said suddenly.
"Hmm?"
"Have you ever thought about selling these?"
Albert looked at her.
"This thing." Luise raised the cigar in her hand. "I've never seen anything like it. The first and only time I saw it was from you. It's... different. The aroma, the taste, the effect... it doesn't intoxicate, but it calms. The nobles would love it."
Albert was silent. He had thought about it for a long time. Since he first successfully made smokeable feltwort. But he'd always hesitated. Was it ethical? Was it worthy? Was he just looking for a reason to plant more, own more, control more?
But now, watching Luise sit beside him with a cigar in her hand, looking at him with eyes slightly calmer than usual, he understood. This wasn't just about money. It was about something he could build. Something not tied to blood and death.
"I've thought about it," he said. "From the beginning. But I wasn't sure."
"And now?"
Albert looked at the cigar in his hand. Smoke rose thinly, spiraling toward the ceiling, disappearing into the shadows.
"Now I'm sure."
Luise nodded. Didn't ask further. She just sat there, smoking slowly, watching the garden below begin to fill with servants and guards.
"Luise."
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
She turned. Those violet eyes looked at him with an expression hard to read.
"For what?"
"For this." Albert raised his cigar. "And for everything."
Luise didn't answer. She just looked at Albert for a moment, then returned her gaze to the garden. But at the corner of her lips, something like a smile appeared.
They sat there, in the quiet room, smoke rising slowly, and for the first time in a long while, Albert didn't feel alone. Not because Luise was beside him. But because there was something he could build, something that wouldn't leave more corpses behind.
The smoke continued to rise, carrying away nightmares, carrying away memories, carrying away the burdens he had borne alone.
And beside him, a woman with violet eyes and a small scar on her neck smoked slowly, her movements growing accustomed, her breath steadying.
Albert watched the rising smoke. He'd been thinking about this from the beginning. Since he first planted feltwort on Götthain's southern slopes. Since he rolled those leaves with his own hands, trying, failing, trying again.
He didn't know if this was a good idea. Didn't know if nobles would want to buy something so unusual.
But he knew one thing: this was his. Not inherited, not given, not stolen. Something he built from nothing, with his own hands, with Götthain's soil, with patience learned across two lives.
And now, with Luise beside him, with smoke rising slowly, he knew he could do it.
He looked at his cigar, nearly finished. Its tip glowed red, a thin ash hanging, ready to fall.
"Luise."
"Hmm?"
"Are there more in that box?"
Luise looked at the wooden box on the table. Plenty left.
"Yes," she said.
"Good." Albert stubbed out his cigar in the stone ashtray. "We're going to need a lot."