The dining table at Götthain Castle had never been this long. At least, not in Albert's memory.
Dark oak polished to a gleam, covered in white linen that smelled of flowers. Ceramic plates from the lower kitchen now lined up neatly across the table. Silver spoons, thin glass goblets imported from the south, candles in silver holders burning softly at the table's center.
Baron Friedrich sat at the head, Lady Elara to his right. Alena sat beside Albert, her fingers playing with the edge of her napkin unconsciously. And across from Albert, a little girl sat in a chair too tall for her, her legs dangling, not touching the floor.
Albert looked at her. The little girl—perhaps three, nearly four—had curly blonde hair at the ends and green eyes like her father and Albert. She sat quietly, both hands in her lap, occasionally glancing at her mother with a confused expression she didn't try to hide.
She didn't know who Albert was.
Not that she'd never heard of him—she probably had. "Your brother," Elara would say, again and again. "Your brother is at the battlefield. Your brother is a hero." But those were just words to her. To her, Albert was a name mentioned in bedtime prayers, a story that made her mother cry, a figure in the small painting in the sitting room she'd never seen move.
Now that figure was before her. Alive. Breathing.
The little girl stared at Albert. Albert stared back. Neither spoke.
Elara broke the silence. "Edeline, this is your brother, Albert. The brother Mother always told you about."
The little girl nodded slightly. She didn't smile, didn't speak. Just stared with green eyes exactly like Albert's, with an expression equally hard to read.
Albert wanted to say something. But his throat felt dry.
"You've grown," he finally said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears.
Edeline looked at him for a moment. Then she said, in a small voice nearly swallowed by the large room, "Mother said you were somewhere far away."
"Yes. Very far."
"And you fought?"
"Yes."
"Did you win?"
Albert didn't know how to answer. Beside him, Alena squeezed his hand under the table. Lady Elara smiled—a smile that tried to be strong, but her eyes were already wet.
"Yes," Albert finally said. "We won."
Edeline nodded again, satisfied with that answer. Then she picked up her spoon and began eating her soup with careful movements, her tongue poking out slightly as she brought the spoon to her mouth.
Friedrich, who had been silent, raised his glass. "Let's eat. The food's getting cold."
They ate.
Cream of mushroom soup—the same recipe from Albert's childhood. Roasted meat with black pepper sauce, mashed potatoes with butter, warm white wheat bread. Everything tasted familiar, tasted like home.
But amidst all this familiarity, Albert felt something off. Something that had shifted. Something he couldn't put his finger on.
Perhaps because he sat here with scars on his body and troubling memories in his head. Perhaps because he saw his mother smiling with wet eyes. Perhaps because he saw his little sister who didn't know him. The food tasted bland on his tongue.
After the meal, servants cleared the dirty plates to the kitchen. Elara told Edeline to play in the sitting room. The little girl looked at Albert once more before walking out, her steps short, her skirt dragging on the floor.
Now only the four of them remained. Friedrich, Elara, Alena, and Albert.
"Now," Friedrich said. "Tell us."
Albert sat in his chair. In his head, he'd been preparing these words since leaving Vallenwood. A polished version, one that wouldn't make his mother cry too hard, one that made everything sound like a difficult journey that ended well.
But he remembered his promise to Alena. "I'll be honest with you. No matter what."
He looked at his father.
"In the first battle," he said, "we lost twelve men. Klaus—a Valeran man-at-arms—died in the sixth month. Stefan died in the second year. Lukas died in the Valley. Gerold died in a tent. Gerda died at Vallenwood." He paused. "There are many other names. Dozens. Hundreds."
Elara closed her eyes. Her hands clenched the napkin in her lap, her knuckles white.
"I led them," Albert continued. "I brought them to the battlefield, I gave the orders. And many of them died because of my orders."
"What did you do out there?" Friedrich's voice was low.
Albert looked at him. "I did what had to be done. I killed."
The word hung in the air. Elara opened her eyes, but she didn't cry. Alena held Albert's hand tighter.
"I killed many people," Albert said. "At first, I counted them. Then I stopped counting." He drew a breath. "At Vallenwood, during the final assault, I... I didn't kill quickly. I wounded them. I let them live, let them scream, let the fear spread."
Alena turned, looking at him with eyes he couldn't read.
"I did it deliberately," Albert said. "I wanted them to be afraid. I wanted them to go home and tell their comrades. Because that was more effective than killing them all." He paused. "It worked. They retreated. The city held."
Across the table, Friedrich sat in silence. His face showed no anger. But something in his eyes—something Albert couldn't recognize.
"I don't regret it," Albert said. "Because if I hadn't done it, my men would have died. But I'm not proud of it either. I just..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
The room fell silent.
Then Elara wept.
Soft weeping, held back, escaping in quiet sobs. She covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking.
Alena released Albert's hand, walked around the table, knelt beside Elara. She didn't speak. Just held the woman's hand, letting her cry.
Edeline appeared at the doorway. Her face was confused. She saw her mother crying, then looked at Albert, then back at her mother. Her lips began to tremble.
"Mother..." she whispered.
Elara lifted her face, trying to smile. "It's all right, dear. Mother is just... Mother is just happy your brother is home."
But Edeline didn't believe it. She saw the tears on her mother's cheeks, saw her mother's trembling hands, heard a voice that didn't sound like happiness.
She started crying too.
Not quiet crying like her mother's. Loud crying, full crying, unashamed. She stood at the doorway, mouth open, tears streaming down her round cheeks, her voice filling the room that suddenly felt too small.
Elara rose, gathered her daughter, held her close, stroked her hair. "It's all right... it's all right, dear. Your brother is home. Mother is happy. Look, your brother is home."
Edeline looked up, staring at Albert with wet eyes, with an expression she couldn't hide.
Albert didn't know what to say. He wasn't good with children. He wasn't good at talking to people who couldn't be reasoned with through logic.
He just stood, walked toward Edeline, and knelt before her.
"You're Edeline, aren't you?" he said.
The little girl nodded, still sniffling.
"I'm Albert. Your brother." He paused. "I'm sorry it took me so long to come home."
Edeline looked at him. Her tears still flowed, but her crying began to ease.
"Mother tells stories," she said, her voice hoarse from crying. "Mother says you're a hero."
"I'm not a hero."
"But Mother said—"
"Mother was wrong." Albert smiled. A small smile, imperfect. "I'm just your brother who was away for a long time."
Edeline looked at him for a moment. Then she reached out her small hand, touching the scar at Albert's temple.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"Not anymore."
"Really?"
Albert almost laughed. "No, I'm lying. It hurts a little."
Edeline nodded, satisfied with the honesty. Then she said, "Tomorrow, let's play."
"I'll try."
"But—"
Albert raised a finger to his lips. "I'll buy you something sweet later."
Edeline smiled. Her first smile that night.
Behind them, Elara was still crying. But her tears were different now. Tears of relief. Tears held back for three years, finally released.
Friedrich rose from his chair, walked to the window, turned his back to them. His shoulders rose and fell slowly.
Alena remained beside Elara, holding her hand. Her eyes were on Albert.
***
At the training grounds behind the castle, Luise stood before a wooden door.
She didn't enter. She just stood there, listening to the sounds within. Metal being sharpened. Slow, steady movements, back and forth—a sound she'd known since childhood.
She knocked.
"Come in. Door's not locked."
His voice was hoarse. Hoarser than she remembered.
Luise opened the door. Inside, Gregor sat on a wooden bench, a training sword in his lap, a whetstone in his hand. Candlelight from the corner cast dancing shadows on the cracked stone walls.
He was old. Older than Luise remembered. His hair was almost completely white, the skin on his face sagging, the hand holding the whetstone trembling slightly.
But his eyes were the same.
Those grey eyes looked Luise up and down, and then he said, "You've grown."
Luise almost smiled. "You've aged, Grandfather."
"Cheeky."
He stood. The training sword in his hand—the same wooden sword he'd used to train Luise since she could stand. There were still teeth marks on the hilt, from when little Luise got frustrated because she couldn't parry his strikes.
They stood facing each other.
"Show me," Gregor said.
Luise drew her sword. Not a training sword—a real sword, a gift from Albert after the battle of Vallenwood. The blade still gleamed despite countless uses, the hilt wrapped in leather worn thin in places.
A Götterbaum Black Steel sword, custom-made for Luise by Borin.
Gregor looked at the sword, then at Luise. "Good."
He attacked.
His movements were slow. Slower than Luise remembered. But his strength was the same. The wooden sword struck Luise's blade with a sharp crack, numbing her hand slightly.
Luise countered. A quick slash from the left, deflected by Gregor with a movement she'd known since childhood. A thrust from below, parried with a twist of his wrist.
They exchanged blows. In the cramped room, only the sounds of wood and metal clashing, breathing quickening, footsteps on stone.
Gregor stepped back. His breath came in gasps. "You've... gotten faster."
"I train every day."
"Good."
He attacked again. Faster this time, harder, as if he didn't want to lose. But Luise had read his movement from the start—an attack from the right, feint, then a thrust to the chest.
She dodged, countering with a slash to the arm. Gregor blocked, but his sword nearly slipped from his grip.
They stopped.
Gregor looked at the sword in his hand, then at Luise. His breathing was heavy, but his eyes sparkled.
"Enough," he said. "I'm not as strong as I used to be."
Luise sheathed her sword. She didn't know what to say. Something in her chest felt tight.
Gregor sat on the wooden bench, setting the training sword beside him. He looked at Luise with eyes no longer sharp as before. Now they were gentle.
"Tell me," he said.
Luise sat on the bench across from him. She told him everything. About the journey to Vallenwood, about the battles on the walls, about the nights Albert woke with screams caught in his throat.
About how she sat beside him, held his hand, whispered words she'd never said to anyone.
Gregor listened. Didn't interrupt, didn't ask. Just sat there, his wrinkled hands in his lap, watching his granddaughter with eyes that saw more than what Luise said.
When Luise finished, Gregor was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You've fallen in love with him."
It wasn't a question, but a statement.
Luise didn't answer. She just stared at the stone floor, where small ants marched in lines carrying breadcrumbs from between the cracks.
"I don't know," she finally said. "Maybe."
Gregor sighed. A long sigh that made his chest rise and fall slowly.
"You know," he said, "your grandmother—she was my comrade once."
Luise looked up. She'd never heard this story.
"I was a young knight back then, arrogant and foolish." Gregor smiled faintly. "She was assigned to my unit. I hated having a woman as a partner. But she... she never backed down. No matter how hard I tried to drive her away."
He paused. His eyes gazed into the distance, toward some place Luise couldn't see.
"One day, I nearly died. Ambushed in the forest. She saved me, wounded in the arm, in the back, everywhere. After that, I never tried to send her away again."
Luise looked at her grandfather. On that wrinkled, aged face, she saw something she'd never seen before. Longing.
"Do you know what she said before she died?" Gregor asked.
Luise shook her head.
"She said, 'Don't let our granddaughter be as stubborn as you were, Gregor. Tell her to follow her heart, not her head.' That was it."
Gregor laughed. A short, rasping laugh.
Luise didn't know what to say. She just sat on that wooden bench.
"I can't," she finally said. "He already has a fiancée. His fiancée... she's a good woman. They love each other."
Gregor looked at her. "Who said you had to take her place?"
Luise didn't answer.
"I'm not saying you have to marry him, have children, live happily ever after." Gregor shrugged. "I'm just saying, don't be foolish. Don't deny your feelings just because you think they're improper. Feelings matter, whether proper or not."
He stood, picked up his training sword, placed it on the wooden rack in the corner. His movements were slow, like a man who knew he wouldn't hold that sword again.
"You'll go back to his side," he said. "Not because you're his guard. But because you want to. That's all."
Luise stood. She wanted to say something. But no words came.
Gregor walked to the door. At the threshold, he stopped and turned.
"Luise."
"Yes?"
"You've made me proud."
He left. His steps were slow, halting, disappearing into the dark corridor toward the barracks.
Luise stood alone in that room. In her hand, she still held the sword Albert had given her. In her chest, something was warm.
She looked at the sword for a moment, then put it away.
Outside, the moon was already high. Its light was pale, cold, illuminating the castle rooftops wet with dew.
Luise walked out, toward the main barracks, toward the room prepared for her.