#45. The Boy with Hurion's Treasured Sword, To the Northern Lands.
“Record... Object?”
Rusillan stared at the hazy image of Emilia flickering to life, her violet pupils trembling faintly. Her mind was a whirlwind after the unbelievable tales she'd just heard.
“Yes. As you can see, Emilia always longed to set out on journeys. Treason doesn't suit someone like her.”
“Hold on—does that mean you knew this would happen and recorded it in advance?”
“Let's say I foresaw it through Brikal's eyes. The hero's fall and the kingdom's decline.”
Rusillan stroked her chin and nodded slowly.
“I've heard of your extraordinary talents and foresight, but this is no simple matter...”
To Rusillan, it was a tantalizing offer. If the revolution succeeded, it would avenge centuries of grudges and bring warmth to her exiled territory's people instead of the biting northern cold. For her struggling subjects in that barren land, she had to grasp Rosel's hand. Above all, if the current king was abusing the saintess, revolution was inevitable. Defying the Empire's Holy Church would invite invasion, so confessing the false prophecy and atoning to the Church before it became public scandal was the wise path.
“Hah... Brikal, you fool, stirring up trouble after all...”
But it wasn't a decision to make lightly. Revolutions weren't won by noble banter. Rosel, who had risen from commoner to duke in mere years, lacked deep noble roots, leaving little foundation for trust. Without a prestigious lineage, there was no compelling reason to fully back him.
Moreover, Rosel's act of smashing the servant's head on the first day eerily mirrored Brikal.
How could a revolutionary resemble the tyrant he sought to overthrow? It would be mere power-lust.
“What reason do I have to trust you? On the first day, I saw shades of Brikal in you.”
“Haha, is that so?”
Rusillan’s words drew a low chuckle from Rosel. He called out to Gellion waiting outside.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Bring Roden.”
With Brikal gone, there was no need to hide Roden anymore. And the boy might unintentionally convince Rusillan. Hoping Roden's strength would bolster the revolutionary alliance, Rosel had summoned him.
“You called for me, my lord?”
Moments later, Roden entered the study. Rusillan’s eyes widened in shock as she gazed at him. She'd seen it clearly—on the first day, at the front of the banquet hall, he'd collapsed bleeding. Even in the dim light, with her aged eyes, that scene was etched in her memory.
“H-how is that boy...?”
“Come here, Roden.”
At Rosel's call, Roden bowed his head and approached the sofa, standing beside him. Rosel patted the boy's rear proudly, like a father with his daughter.
“What a fine lad. Who'd have imagined he'd deliberately botch things for me and my daughter?”
Rosel's eyes dripped with affection, as if gazing at Silia. Where else in the world was a thirteen-year-old willing to risk his life for a girl's convictions—not even his own life, but her beliefs?
Rusillan, equally impressed, slammed the sofa armrest.
“Hah... I thought it odd to flip the table in a tense standoff, but deliberately? For the lord and his lady?”
Roden sheepishly rubbed his nose and scratched the back of his head. Rusillan studied him. For a mere child servant, not even blood kin, to voluntarily risk death for his lord after all these years—it was hard to believe, even for her.
Of course, Brikal might not have killed him, but the drunkard looked ready to draw blood. And she'd clearly seen the wine bottle shatter.
“No, I distinctly saw the wine bottle break...”
Roden glanced at Rosel, his eyes brimming with admiration.
“My lord sacrificed his hand.”
“What...? Rosel, you sacrificed your hand? Crushed the bottle with your grip?”
Gripping and shattering a bottle like that would drive shards inward, carving deep wounds. Rosel, equally sheepish, held out his right hand. Though treated by the physician, the scars still marred his palm.
“Hah...”
A commoner boy risking his life for his lord was baffling enough, but a noble sacrificing his own flesh for a disposable servant? Unfathomable. Sure, it was just a palm, but in that frantic moment, Rosel's selfless act awed her.
Humans in crisis lose reason, fixating on escape. They act first, regret later—a natural instinct. But Rosel defied it. In chaos, he'd caught both escape and protection. Rusillan couldn't help but see him anew.
A fresh shock, like eyes opening to the world. A man suited to turbulent times, one who could carve his path amid chaos. Perhaps Duke Rosel was that man.
Of course, it might be a leap. Saving one servant didn't make him a kingdom-saving hero. But the tender gaze between lord and servant felt like a changed future approaching.
She cherished her own commoner servants too. But in that situation, she'd have smashed his head. Then what? Learning later of his sacrifice for her, she'd regret it bitterly. Humans live in regret's cycle, but the extraordinary break free.
Now, Rusillan's expression lit with genuine interest. She straightened from the sofa. If revolution was inevitable, joining him benefited her—and her people shivering in the snowfields. Ample reason to ride this intriguing wave. Not full trust yet, but enough for deeper talks.
“...So, what's the plan?”
For the first time, vigor filled the veteran’s eyes.
“Sword Count Nebron... Think you can sway him?”
Having heard the full plan, Rusillan leaned back on the sofa, leg crossed, face worried. Nebron Count had secluded himself in his southern territory after losing his youngest daughter, abandoning public duties. Winning him over wouldn't be easy.
But Rosel's smile held firm.
“That's my task ahead. Just trust and wait, Grand Duke Rusillan.”
“Trust and wait? What have I seen to earn that trust? We've never fought side by side.”
“I understand. It sounds like grasping at clouds.”
“Precisely.”
“Look out the window. Ten wagons stand ready, all loaded with armaments. Siege Captain Duraton will lead them north with you.”
“...What?”
Rusillan rose and approached the window. Outside, Duraton bowed politely as planned.
“...”
Ten wagons prepped for departure, as if she'd already joined the revolution. It irked her slightly—moving a step ahead—but Rosel's initiative was jaw-dropping.
“We have plenty of arms in the north.”
“Not ordinary ones. Duraton will demonstrate upon arrival.”
“...Not ordinary?”
The wagons held high-explosive shells and rare modern weapons, all developed for this day. To show Rusillan the revolution was no jest.
She returned to the sofa.
“...How long have you prepared?”
“Quite some time. Just in case.”
“But how can you be sure they'd target the north?”
“I can't. I can only hope you believe in me, Grand Duke.”
“Hmm...”
Rusillan’s gaze unfocused as she nodded repeatedly, lost in thought. A pivotal turn in her twilight years. Whether up or down, she knew Brikal's long reign meant decline. If the saintess's false prophecy was true, toppling them served the kingdom. The kingdom first, then the people. Her deliberation didn't last.
Her life was nearing its end anyway. If she could stake it for her subjects' futures, no regrets—like Rosel on that first day. Revolution meant war and sacrifice, but she'd lead the vanguard.
Her eyes fell on Roden, spotting the glowing sword at his waist. She'd dismissed it as a mundane gift from Rosel, but now her aged eyes widened. She recognized it at last—the treasured sword of a comrade from decades past.
“...Roden, was it?”
“Yes, Grand Duke Rusillan.”
“That sword... It was surely King Hurion's. How do you have it?”
“Ah.”
To Roden, it was a 'prize'—worn even to sleep, bathed with it, by Rosel's leave. Commoner servants couldn't carry blades without permission. But Rusillan's pupils dilated at the sight.
“Sir Dubel gave it before departing. 'Guard the clear pond well,' he said.”
“May I see it?”
Roden unbelted the sword and handed it over. Rusillan caressed the scabbard, murmuring as if recalling King Hurion.
“Hah... It's real. Truly the late King Hurion's treasured sword.”
She'd seen Dubel wear it, heard it was gifted before the king's death. Now it rested in a boy's hands—the brave, wise Hurion's blade. Why had Dubel given it to this child? Seen echoes of the king in him?
“'Guard the clear pond'... Sir Dubel must have seen traces of King Hurion in you, Roden.”
“...Th-that's too high a praise. How could I dare...”
Rusillan, moved, returned the sword. The 'clear pond' evoked Elond Kingdom under Hurion—pure, selfless goodwill everywhere. Now, with pathetic Brikal, it explained gifting it to a thirteen-year-old.
She smiled faintly at Rosel.
“Very well. I'll add my spoon to your resolve.”
“Thank you, Grand Duke.”
“No thanks. Success isn't guaranteed. This is just to reclaim the spring breeze my people lost.”
Rosel nodded with a smile. Rusillan gazed warmly at Roden, sword now belted.
“A boy bearing Hurion's treasured sword...”
“Haha, Roden's more than worthy.”
“Heh heh heh, indeed. A precious child. Truly.”
Rosel beamed proudly alongside her. He couldn't fathom why Dubel left the sword, but Roden deserved it. Reckless or not, diving into peril for his daughter made him brave and admirable.
“But I have a condition, Rosel.”
“What condition?”
Rusillan smiled fondly at the poised Roden.
A servant sacrificing for his lord. A lord for his servant. Their bond transcended class, deeply moving her. Roden could fill the trust gap with Rosel.
“Roden—may I take the boy north?”
“...Pardon?”
“To ensure no impure thoughts taint your resolve, I need a shield too.”
Roden gaped.
“M-me!?”