The Meaning of a Bottle of Traditional Liquor Offered by a Northern Woman (01)
"...Selfish person."
For Azkal—who had steeled himself to endure any resentment from Selasier, true feelings he'd never voiced to her—this reaction felt unduly harsh.
He had fallen in love with the girl at first sight, yet the circumstances forced him to let her go. Could one call it tragic? If it had been nothing more than a pure, heartbreaking tale of woe, surely yes. But unfortunately, that tragedy claimed another victim.
Humans are like that at times. When driven to the edge of their sanity, they lose all reason.
Selasier's utter rejection of faith as truth in the world. Azkal's willingness to wound his own daughter just to keep her near.
A tragic love story might stir pity in others. But to the one person in the world who mattered—Selasier—it was nothing but the repulsive excuse of a coward who'd fled.
"I didn't expect understanding. I told you I'd made up my mind."
He had forsaken his paternal bonds to keep his daughter close, vowing to bear any curse or blame with stoic calm. But there was a world of difference between imagining it and facing it head-on.
Now, hearing those words of resentment straight from Selasier, his heart rebelled uncontrollably.
"You don't expect understanding?"
Her voice was quiet yet steady, but fractured in places—like the struggle just before an explosion.
Selasier stared straight at her loathsome father, on the verge of madness with revulsion, and said, "No. You just ran away out of fear."
So what if he harbored such feelings? What did that change? That he loved her? That it was acceptable to leave her hurt because of love?
"The daughter you claim to have loved so much was only seven years old."
He'd loved his wife but had to let her go for the sake of his position. He'd loved his daughter but had to ignore her for the same reason.
To Selasier, it all rang hollow—just convenient excuses he'd crafted to suit himself.
"If you loved her that much, you should have let go of something else. The family headship instead of Mother! The North instead of me!"
Selasier's father, Azkal Hiatt, had been the Hiatt family's golden son, full of promise. The North and the Hiatt name were his home, treasures he had to protect.
So he had to choose. His wife or the family headship. The North or his own side. Both precious, but impossible to hold together.
When forced to pick, Azkal chose the North and the family. That was all.
"You shouldn't have married Mother at all, then."
Selasier had resolved to accept it all. The Grand Duke of the North, whom she called father, valued the North and the family above her and her mother.
But because of one boy, that mask—which showed no sign of cracking—hid a victim weeping from a pitiful tragedy.
She spoke in a voice as cold as befitted the Hiatt family's eldest daughter.
"In the end, because of your stubbornness, Father, Mother and I couldn't escape the chains of that so-called love."
Your love was nothing but a self-serving distortion, she meant.
"How pathetic."
At the same time, Selasier thought vividly of Kalen's face.
In a way, he seemed no different from her father. It all came down to choice.
Azkal couldn't withstand the external pressures of Northern tradition and abandoned her mother and herself.
Kalen was different. Even surrounded by fog and beasts with no escape, when she could only burden him with her personal wounds instead of helping...
How could she forget the sight of him willingly shouldering it all?
One arm to a beast. The other to her.
It must have grated on him. It had to have been a hindrance.
Anyone in the world would have ditched her in that situation—as naturally as her so-called father had abandoned her mother and her.
"A father who left his daughter to wallow in loneliness until she wanted to die."
In her weakest moment, he became her steadfast support. He whispered the long-craved promises and hopes into her ear.
Even in their short time together, he alone earned her promise of faith—because of that.
Her deepest desire lay right there. How could she not reach out?
...How could any woman not fall for him?
"...Selasier."
"As promised, I'll take the family headship. Your Grace. Keep your word about holding it until I'm of age."
Facing the utter collapse of her emotional walls, Selasier confronted an overwhelming wave of feelings she couldn't contain.
The terror she expected was instead filled with unexpected warmth. It felt more peaceful than before she'd accepted it.
Just like atop Hiatt Mountain with Kalen.
Her heart, lightly tinged crimson, shifted entirely toward one person.
The knights entrusted with her guard who betrayed her soon after. The revolting Torun. Makbel, whose long service made the shock all the worse. And her father, lost in delusions of his tragic past while truly abandoning his daughter.
All those false bonds faded away. Only one promise remained—pure and true.
No grand oath, just pinkies hooked and thumbs pressed together.
That very simplicity made it the most trustworthy.
The promise with the boy still guarding her beyond the door.
Calling him "Your Grace" instead of "Father" would brand Azkal with an irreversible scar.
The Grand Duke, who thought he acted for his daughter's sake but truly for himself, was abandoned by the wife and daughter he so loved.
It was an eternal regret, impossible to erase.
Selasier roughly wiped her tear-soaked eyes, glared at Azkal, and stormed out of the room.
"Your Grace..."
What if he'd abandoned everything for family instead? Would things have been different?
Azkal endlessly repeated Selasier's words, staring at the firmly shut door.
BAM!
"Ah. You've come out."
Worried someone might target Selasier, Kalen had been guarding the family head's chamber—growing a bit weary—when he unexpectedly overheard voices from inside.
He couldn't make out Azkal's words clearly, but Selasier's agitated cries echoed right to his ears through the door.
From what he could gather, there was some complicated history between father and daughter.
So Kalen had planned to comfort her when she emerged. Instead, he froze in surprise.
Selasier burst through the door and flung herself straight into his arms.
"Just a moment..."
The voice mumbling from his embrace was drenched in pathos, trembling like she was gripped by fear.
"Just... let me stay like this a little longer..."
Unfamiliar with hugging people, Selasier clung tight, as if afraid he'd slip away.
A bit stifled, Kalen scratched his chin, then gently loosened her arms and held her comfortably.
"If you squeeze that hard, I can't breathe."
"..."
Those words seemed to trigger something. Selasier's mumbling grew even more tearful.
"I... I've never hugged anyone... And I'm a woman, but so tall..."
She who had despised her own body. Tall, yet with pronounced curves at bust and hips. Inadequate as a woman, as a knight.
Remembering her words, Kalen held her even more tenderly. It felt like the right thing to do.
"Kalen."
After holding her a long while, her breathing steadied. Yet she didn't pull away, just spoke from his arms.
"You won't leave, right?"
Having heard her accuse her father of abandoning her mother and herself, was this born of that anxiety?
His guard duty was effectively over, so "I'll leave" would be the honest answer. The proper one.
But even Kalen, sharp as he was, knew this wasn't the time for blunt truth. Instead of words, he patted her back soothingly.
And so, the North's greatest crisis—the civil war—ended in an unexpected victory for Selasier Hiatt, surprising everyone.
All applauded her triumph. But that the decisive factor was a single boy—and not even a Northerner—remained a secret known only to those on Hiatt Mountain that day.
Torun the Young Lord spent the next while rotting in prison.
Imperial law required elaborate procedures before sentencing. It was only natural it would take time.
Until an imperial envoy arrived, Torun Hiatt remained locked in his family's underground cells.
The Claire Empire's imperial family sought to consolidate power. A troublesome Northern noble caught in the banned slave trade wasn't something to overlook lightly.
But Azkal and Selasier's swift handling ensured Torun bore the full punishment alone.
Days passed in such fashion.
"A festival?"
"Yeah. A festival."
With his promised guard duty fulfilled, Kalen was preparing to depart when Selasier made her proposal.
A traditional Northern festival. That's what her extended hand offered.
"It's more like a grand bonfire-viewing gathering passed down through Northern tradition than a full festival, but..."
Selasier bowed her head slightly, hands clasped behind her, murmuring.
"If you really hate it, you could just rest..."
With her making it obvious she'd be disappointed if he refused, turning her down felt rude.
The North placed great stock in traditions, so he was curious what it'd be like.
"...Are there bets or games? Like contests heavy on luck?"
He asked with a hint of excitement, imagining traditional festival games.
"Hm? Bets?"
"Well... I don't think there's anything you'd call a bet."
Seeing Kalen's crestfallen look, Selasier hurriedly added,
"But if we look hard enough, maybe there is! Someth... something you might want to win..."
Was it his imagination, or did Kalen's lips twitch upward just a bit?
"I'll go."
Thankfully, Kalen agreed to join her at the Northern traditional festival.