The Death Notice
Three months had passed since Piel went missing.
Her mother believed her daughter was still alive. No — she had to. She no longer wished to go mad.
But everyone else in Bayorn had already concluded that the young lady was dead. Chief Butler Alred had even considered holding a funeral without a body — until the Young Lord put a stop to it.
Alred. That is not what Mother wants.
In Viscount Bayorn's prolonged absence, the Young Lord's word was absolute. Alred bowed his head. He understood precisely what those words meant.
The old butler had no desire to watch the lady of the house lose her mind either. The vermilion-haired girl he had served for more than thirty years was as dear to him as a granddaughter. The funeral would be postponed for as long as it took — until she found some measure of peace again.
The Viscountess's mind only frayed further with time. Had she been a stranger rather than the mistress of Bayorn, outsiders would already have branded her a madwoman, a creature possessed. And yet it was understandable, given the depth of the love she had borne her daughter.
In her own heart, she had as good as killed the girl herself.
It had begun so simply — a desire to escape the stifling castle, a decision to attend the victory parade. From that single act had come the unspeakable sin with her own son, and worse still, the Hero's notice, and this despair cascading down upon them all.
Could the Viscountess have known that one small transgression would bear such monstrous fruit? Of course not. But ignorance did not erase the guilt, nor the responsibility that came with it.
Late one night, beneath a full and brilliant moon, while the servants slept, Darin took up an ornamental dagger and began to cut herself. After three days of this, she nearly drew the blade across her own throat. A wretch who could not even protect her daughter — who had delivered her into danger — deserved to die.
Mother.
A soft voice cut through the bedchamber, firm and chiding. It belonged, of course, to Kael. He was the only one left who could still call her that.
Beyond the window, her son watched her with murder in his eyes — murder not directed at his parent, but at his own failure to protect his sister.
K-Kael…?
Darin's gaze found him at last, and with it the terrible wounds carved into his barbarian's body. The gashes matched, precisely, the places she had cut herself.
She understood then. This boy knew better than anyone how to stop his mother from dying by her own hand.
Ah — Kael, don't…
She wanted nothing more than to escape the torment and the guilt. She set the dagger down all the same.
For Kael, preventing his mother's suicide was almost effortless. Who was the most precious person in that woman's world? He knew the answer better than anyone. Hold that person hostage, and the rest followed.
Using one's own life as leverage against one's mother was a monstrous thing for a son to do — beyond mere unfilial conduct, something closer to pure abomination. But a beast who had already raped his own mother was hardly going to hesitate. Three days of watching her carve herself open had exhausted the last of his patience.
Besides, for a man who commanded neither holy power nor magic, this was the only method available. A mere barbarian could not simply conjure some convenient suicide-warding spell.
And so Kael found himself grateful that she loved him. Better she break than he lose her entirely.
What thoughts moved behind Akael Bayern's unreadable face, no one could fully know — but this catastrophe had clearly changed something in him.
He had failed to protect the woman he loved.
He had failed to protect the blood kin he cherished.
These two failures were inescapable facts — as Young Lord of Bayorn, and as a man. And so Kael no longer forced himself upon his mother. Even a beast, if it cannot defend its mate and its young, forfeits the rights of a male.
The day he took her into his arms again of his own will would come only after every threat that hunted her had been annihilated.
He knew, too, that forcing himself on her now would shatter what remained of her mind. And tragically, his prediction proved exact. Grief for her lost daughter, compounded by her son's blackmail, drove the Viscountess's fragile temperament still further into ruin.
On a day of unusually bright sunlight, the servants witnessed it for themselves.
M-My lady?
The Viscountess — always so impeccably composed — was wandering the gardens in rags. Or near enough: a sheer negligee that left her shoulders and calves bare, her hair a wild tangle, as though she had left her mind somewhere behind her. Had she dreamed of losing her daughter again? She had not even put on shoes. Barefoot, she had fled the house to search for the girl.
She looked like a child, but the Viscountess had always been a woman of sharp intellect. For a noble lady bound by dignity to display such a spectacle before the household meant she had been driven to the very edge of the cliff.
Everyone, withdraw.
Each time it happened, the Young Lord restored order with quiet efficiency. Stroking his convulsing mother's arm, guiding her back to her chambers — to any observer, he was the picture of a devoted son. A grown man wrapping his coat around his mother's bare shoulders so she would not catch cold, treating her with such exquisite care that even the barbarians of Bayorn felt their chests tighten at the sight.
Not a single idle word is to leave these walls.
Was it because Viscount Bayorn had been gone so long? Or because Kael refused to lose another member of his family?
Whatever state Mother is in, you and I were raised on her grace.
Akael's charisma and ruthlessness only grew sharper by the day. Even that warning had been delivered as gently as he could manage. The implication was clear enough: if word of this leaked beyond the castle, not even the household of Bayorn would be spared. The hatred in the barbarian's eyes did not need a named target.
Loyalty and fear together sealed every mouth. Even among the most upright of companies, some whisper might have been expected to escape — yet Bayorn Castle remained astonishingly silent. It spoke both to the closed nature of Bayorn society and to how deeply the people cherished their Viscountess. From the chief butler down to the lowest servant, every one of them pretended not to see their lady's disgrace, and soothed her as best they could, in ways large and small.
In time, the Viscountess's residence was moved to a villa on the castle's outer grounds — by the Young Lord's order. It was not that the son was ashamed of his mother and wished to hide her. The main house was saturated with memories of the vermilion-haired woman and her daughter. Every time she opened her eyes, some trace of the girl would catch at her vision and fill them with tears. The move could not wait.
Akael rose before dawn and fulfilled the duties of Young Lord until evening. As the only direct heir of Bayorn still capable of conducting business, his days were a blur of ceaseless labor. He had to manage even the internal household affairs that the lady of the house had once overseen.
Young Lord, it is past time you took a consort.
With the Young Lord the only one among their masters still in possession of his faculties, the household of Bayorn lived in constant unease. They petitioned their heir to produce an offspring — only to be dismissed.
I have already chosen my mate. Do not concern yourselves.
He repeated the same words and brushed every petition aside. When they asked who she was, he only said, You will know in time, and left it at that.
And into this already ominous situation, a letter arrived at the viscounty.
From your sovereign, Baikal Westmore.
A personal missive from the Northern Grand Duke, lord of the winter mountains, addressed directly to Young Lord Akael.
Perhaps because the master of House Bayorn had been absent so long. The letter was filled with generous offers — that he himself would serve as the Young Lord's stepfather. It read almost as though Viscount Bayorn were already among the dead.
Rrrrip.
Kael tore it in half without a word and discarded it at once.
He had been a member of the Hero's party that felled the Demon King, yet his reward had been no more than elevation to a countcy. The Grand Duke's proposal of merger should have been tempting. The Grand Duke had only daughters; inheriting the Grand Duchy was not entirely a fantasy.
And still the Young Lord's hands had shown no hesitation as they destroyed the letter. There would be no compromise on this. Between the Grand Duchy and a certain vermilion-haired girl, the choice was obvious.
Did the heavens themselves wish to weep with a mother who had lost her child?
Since Piel's absence, the sky had often hung pale and washed-out, and rain fell without warning in seasons that had no right to it.
And just as that sorrow was swallowing House Bayorn whole —
The elite warband of Bayorn, the Huscarls, returned from their long absence.
The news they brought their young master was no kinder than anything that had come before.
"…Young Lord."
"Viscount Bayorn is dead."