Winter Omen
Adel heard all sorts of stories about Isaac.
“It's Populus.”
It started with Yonas. When she asked how he'd made an anemone out of snowflakes, that was the name he gave. Populus. A name taken from a larch tree, he said.
“It's my friend's name.”
“Your friend?”
“It's a spirit. I got to know it thanks to big brother.”
Yonas told Adel about everything that had happened between him and Isaac while she'd been away for nearly a year. Playing piano together. Peeking into Populus's memories. Naming it in the ruins where the larch tree stood. Learning spirit arts from Violet. Finding the spirit stone through a lesser spirit. Performing magic in sync with Populus at the competition.
“Isaac did all that?”
“Yeah. I couldn't have done it without big brother.”
The more she heard about Isaac, the stranger Adel felt.
Mom... Mom...
After his unique constitution manifested, Isaac had sought her out day and night without rest. He was a clever child, considerate to the servants, but to Adel, he was still just her little boy. One she could hold in her eyes without pain, one she'd vowed to cradle forever.
But that's what made it hurt. It was agonizing. Painful.
It felt like the reason her own flesh and blood—born from her own womb—was suffering, was all because of her.
When she'd married Helmut for political reasons, it wasn't just the belligerent tribes who resented it. Goethe's vassals, who had lost so much in battles with the tribes. Goethe's soldiers, who had witnessed their comrades' deaths firsthand. They voiced their concerns and anger. Even the old church's priests had cursed the union between Helmut and Adel.
Any child born from them could never be normal, they said. How could he sully his lineage with barbarian blood? They demanded he take a proper noblewoman from the kingdom's bloodlines as his principal wife.
The bishop of Bern even refused to baptize Isaac. Both Isaac and Yonas had been baptized by a new church pastor from afar. Of course, the bishop later reconsidered due to the old church's influence and performed the rites belatedly, but his reluctance never faded.
A marriage without blessing. A birth without blessing.
Isaac had borne the full weight of that cursed beginning.
So when Isaac writhed in agony from his unique constitution, Adel felt it was all her fault. To hide her feelings, she left the manor—not just to seek a cure, but because she couldn't bear watching her son suffer.
Two years like that. When she'd returned about a year ago, there'd been no improvement in Isaac. The boy was still tormented.
Gazing at the vibrant blue flowers blooming in the central garden, Adel had despaired and departed again.
But in the meantime, unbelievable changes had occurred.
“You mean young master Isaac? His swordsmanship is something else. Must take after you, madam.”
The guard captain said.
“After coming back from Binvelt, he's... changed a lot. He returned taller, and his appetite's grown too. Sorry, madam. I don't know much. All I've seen is the young master beating the guards senseless in front of the marquis...”
“If I may be so bold, maybe he's discovered women...”
The servants chimed in with their own takes.
“No, the young master's definitely in love. He cherishes Enet so much.”
“Clara! Sorry, madam. The kid's still young. Don't worry. To this nanny, the young master hasn't changed a bit. Still as deep-hearted as ever.”
Hearing these tales from Adel, Schrader burst out laughing.
“That's probably the young master's heart realm at work.”
He shared another anecdote about Isaac.
“It was young master Isaac who thwarted Marquis Dietrich's plot and schemed to turn it to our advantage. His Excellency wanted to execute him as an example, but the young master was looking much farther ahead.”
“Helmut backed down? Isaac really did that...?”
“The young master now is strong, brilliant, and worthy of respect. He's growing into someone remarkable.”
Schrader smiled at Adel's reaction and continued.
“Sometimes, he even surpasses the insight of myself or His Excellency. Especially at the competition—his ploy caught us completely off guard.”
As if he'd been waiting for her to ask, he went on about Isaac.
Isaac had read Botmer's moves faster than anyone in Goethe and countered them. He'd secured independent lord status and killed Botmer's servant to claim justification for war.
“He won a war outright, and though the details are unclear, rumors say he's earned the old church's favor too. Botmer's two thousand troops withdrew on papal orders. And word is he even received a holy relic. Thanks to that, Goethe bought ourselves a lot of time.”
“The more I hear, the less it sounds like Isaac.”
Adel muttered, downing her wine. Her aching finger had become a sturdy pillar. She should be thrilled, but the change didn't bring unalloyed joy.
How desperate must he have been to change like this? How cornered to grow up so fast? Hadn't she forced him into it?
“...And magic?”
Adel asked in a slightly trembling voice.
The Granak tribe harbored resentment toward the kingdom's magic. Until a decade or so ago, the kingdom hadn't treated tribesfolk as people. Goethe had been forbidden by the royals from using lethal magic, but they'd wielded it freely against tribesmen.
So the older tribesfolk trembled at the sight of mages. But Adel was as much Goethe as she was Granak. And Goethe was a house of magic.
Whether Isaac could use magic mattered deeply to her—even if it drew royal scrutiny.
“...”
Schrader slowly shook his head, teacup in hand.
“As expected... huh.”
“Officially speaking.”
“Pardon?”
“The young master can't use magic. He mustn't be able to. The name Zeke von Goethe still hangs over us like a yoke. The royal nobles still fear it. But at least his unique constitution won't cause uncontrolled mana rampages anymore.”
It was a cryptic answer, yet a full one to Adel's question.
Adel's mouth fell slightly open. Schrader's wrinkled lips curved upward.
“I've told you time and again, haven't I? The young master isn't cursed. In the boiling molten iron, he didn't break—he hardened.”
“...”
“I know what you're thinking. A mother's heart always regrets what she couldn't do, wonders if more would have changed things.”
“You always read my mind, Schrader.”
“I've served His Excellency since childhood. Just be proud. That's what the young master wants.”
“Thank you, Schrader.”
“Your wine's gone cold. I'll heat it up.”
Adel stayed at the manor a few more days. She caught up with Yonas, played like old times. If Isaac had still been gripped by mania, she wouldn't have lasted a day before packing up. But now, there was no need.
“Mom, who composed this piece?”
One day, as they played piano together, Yonas asked.
It was Tristis Draco.
“Who knows. Your grandfather? I wrote it down from the tune he used to hum.”
“So he named it too?”
“No, I did. He was so fierce, they called him the dragon. Why?”
“Populus loves it most.”
“Does he? Too bad. Your friend doesn't show up for me.”
“He's right here now.”
“Really? Tell him thanks for listening.”
Adel stroked Yonas's head as he played on, lost in the music.
“If your grandfather were alive... he'd have made peace by now. He'd love seeing you two grown.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. What's next?”
That afternoon, a carriage arrived. Its door bore the emblem of an owl clutching a laurel wreath beneath eight stars—the Royal Academy.
The coachman dismounted and hauled a chest from the luggage compartment.
“Dean Marcel Reich sent this personally. It's a communication device using the artificial circles Baron Binvelt devised.”
Isaac wolfed down his meal.
“No one's stealing it. Eat slower.”
“Thanks, Hans.”
Isaac was practically shoving his face into the stew bowl. He crammed rye bread straight into his mouth.
It was a hunger beyond words.
Asra watched him silently, sipping cold ale. After a long wait, the giant old woman opened and closed her mouth repeatedly.
There were sacred questions to ask. Ones unfit for casual answers over dinner.
So Asra waited patiently, despite an impatience unbefitting her age.
Ulern lay on the table as if it belonged there. Isaac had passed Ulern's trial.
On the morning of the sixth day—the fastest among all who had ever claimed it.
Even Brunscar, called the legendary great warrior, the dragon, had only lifted Ulern on the evening of the seventh day.
Isaac was a full day faster. Fitting blood of Brunscar, Asra thought, though she burned with curiosity about how he'd passed.
“Whew—now I feel alive.”
Five bowls of stew, three hunks of bread, six strips of jerky. A sack each of dried fruit and nuts—all gone before Isaac set down his spoon.
“Ready to answer?”
“Oh, were you waiting? I got lost in eating.”
Isaac wiped his mouth and scratched his forehead sheepishly.
In his past life, even scraping by on hard bread amid his house's ruin hadn't brought such hunger. The post-Ulern famine was vicious.
“Ulern is no mere sword. It holds the blade's memories—a mirror. What you saw there defines you.”
Asra calmly explained the trial and posed her question.
“What did you see there?”
“A wolf spewing dust and ash.”
“And?”
“A bull with broken horns. An owl, a black viper...”
Isaac recounted what he'd seen.
“...Whom did your blade point to? With whom did you match Ulern?”
“Brunscar. But not just him. I faced many things within myself.”
Asra's face remained impassive through the exchange, but her torso leaned intently toward him.
Not even Brunscar had drawn all forty-seven chieftains' shades.
“A warrior breaks. A shaman embraces. A mage schemes. What did you choose?”
“Nothing.”
“What was the final scene you saw?”
“The snowy plains melted under spring rain. Butterflies filled the sky.”
“...”
Having heard all the answers, Asra crossed her arms and fell silent for a moment.
“Satisfied?”
“We move.”
Asra rose. Her height brushed the tent ceiling.
“Where to?”
“While you trialed, Botmer advanced. Toward Winterband, they say. Even Goethe's vassals have joined his host. At this rate, Winterband falls—to beasts or men.”