So You're Alive
In the quiet hours of early dawn, the Duke of Craitan, the family physician, and the head butler gathered inside the ducal study.
"What is this about? Make it brief. I must depart shortly to submit the adoption papers."
"Your Grace, are you truly certain of this?"
"An adoption, and so abruptly... When I raised the subject in the past, you were adamant that you had no intention of taking in an heir."
"I was."
"Then why now?"
"Adopting a child without a single word of warning—the vassals will surely think I have lost my senses."
The butler offered no denial.
"Draft a letter with an appropriate explanation so no unnecessary noise stirs among them."
"Our little guest cannot be the lost young lady."
At the butler's pointed reminder, the Duke's hand froze.
Even under a gaze as sharp and frigid as frost, the butler pressed on without flinching.
"Were the young lady still alive today, she would be a respectable young woman of twenty. Not a child barely four or five years of age."
Gauging the tense atmosphere between the Duke and the butler, the doctor cautiously cleared his throat.
"Still, her resemblance to the late Duchess is uncanny. For a moment, I truly thought the Duchess herself had returned and was seated before me."
The butler harbored the exact same sentiment. In truth, when he first witnessed the girl stepping down from the carriage, he had wondered if the late Duchess had risen from the grave.
Over the past two decades, countless charlatans had stepped forward claiming to be the lost daughter. Yet the Duke had never needed more than a few words with them before handing down immediate execution or condemnation for fraud and sacrilegious slander. Some had lost their lives; others were stripped of every possession and cast into the gutter. Toward those who dared impersonate his flesh and blood, the Duke had never spared a shred of mercy.
Which was precisely why this sudden adoption of Lefonya was so profoundly unprecedented.
The butler let out a quiet sigh.
"If it troubles your heart that she looks so much like the late madam, there are many ways to support her without an official adoption."
"I know full well they are not the same child. I am not mad enough to confuse the two."
"……."
"Nor am I adopting her simply because she shares Laila's face."
Laila. Even turning that name over on his tongue stirred an ache so tender his heart threatened to stop. It was the name of the first and only woman ever loved by the Duke of Craitan, a man widely feared as cold-blooded.
"It may appear reckless, but my resolve is anything but light. Nor do I have any intention of casting the child aside on a whim."
The Duke offered no further explanation. Or rather, there was nothing he could put into words.
"I felt a presence within her."
"A presence, Your Grace?"
It was a power so faint that even the Duke, whose senses had been honed to razor sharpness through his mastery of aura, could only detect it by straining all his focus. Yet something undeniably resided within that frail little frame.
The moment they first met, he had channeled his aura into her to investigate, but nothing tangible had presented itself. Even so... his aura had stirred, drawn toward some inexplicable, enigmatic power. How could he possibly articulate that sensation?
Lefonya.
He knew she could not be the daughter born between himself and Laila. Yet the instant he laid eyes upon her, an overwhelming certainty had gripped his chest: This is my child.
As ridiculous as it sounded, he felt that if he let her go now, he would regret it for the rest of his days. The heightened instincts awakened by his aura commanded him to cherish her.
"I haven't felt anything like it since the day I fell in love with Laila at first sight."
"Pardon?"
"Perhaps... I have simply grown exhausted."
A self-mocking murmur spilled from his lips. Twenty long years. While the entire world insisted his daughter was dead, the Duke had spent two decades scouring every corner of the empire in search of her.
The butler sighed softly and opened a leather-bound folder.
"Allow me to deliver the investigation report regarding our young guest."
Though her age did not align with their missing daughter, her terrifying resemblance to Duchess Laila demanded a thorough inquiry.
"Across the Empire, there are sixty individuals registered on identification tags under the name 'Lefonya.' The unregistered population is estimated at roughly one hundred and seventy, but not a single one among them is five years old as of this year."
"Not one?"
"Yes. Assuming the child might have misjudged her own age, I broadened the search to include any child named Lefonya between the ages of four and six. There was one six-year-old on record, but the child was male."
The Duke stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Is there any chance someone from Laila's family bore a child out of wedlock and abandoned her?"
"She has no ties to Rowald County, the late madam's ancestral house," the butler replied firmly. "As Your Grace knows, the main lineage of House Rowald was severed long ago in that tragic accident. The sole surviving member of that family is—"
"My wife's father. None other."
"Indeed. Count Rowald alone. Even if we were to entertain the impossible notion that he took a mistress and sired a child... he would have kept her under his wing and raised her himself."
The Duke's fingers tapped rhythmically against the mahogany desk.
"How fares Count Rowald these days?"
"Well enough. Though he still refuses to cast so much as a glance in whichever direction Your Grace happens to be standing."
"I am the sinner who cost him his cherished daughter and granddaughter. It is a blessing in itself that he still agrees to see Havel and Pelence."
"Yes. We have also inspected the residence where the young lady was staying. The owner of the property is a man who rarely sets foot there and appears to have no connection to her whatsoever."
The Duke fell silent, weighing the details in his mind.
"Our little guest is clean—far too clean. There is virtually no trace of her having lived a past."
Could a living person truly exist without leaving behind a single footprint in the world? It defied reason.
"Then at the very least, she shares no blood with our house."
What, then, was this lingering sensation? Before his eyes flashed the memory of that five-year-old child—audacious without fear, yet unsettlingly composed.
"So much happened yesterday in the span of a single day. Yet do you know what she asked me?"
At his bitter chuckle, the butler remained quietly attentive.
"She asked if I regretted it. There was no anxiety in her voice, nor did she seem to care in the slightest, asking as if she were inquiring about a stranger's affairs."
And yet, when scraping frosting off a slice of cake, she had watched his expression with wide, nervous eyes, terrified she had committed a grave offense.
"The young lady appears noticeably indifferent toward matters concerning herself. ...Well, perhaps it serves as a defense mechanism," the doctor offered, raising a hand timidly. "Even while examining her injuries, she did not shed a single tear; she remained remarkably placid. When the young masters were five, they would wail the moment they saw a drop of their own blood."
Recalling another detail from the household staff, the butler spoke up.
"When the maids bathed the young lady, they noted that her body was covered in scars."
"Given that she survived on the streets alone, that is not entirely surprising. Young children suffer injuries in ways adults cannot fathom."
The butler nodded in agreement with the doctor's explanation before continuing.
"The issue lies in her reaction. When the maids lamented how terribly painful the wounds must have been, she barely reacted, as though they were discussing someone else's scars."
"Having lived on her own, the world could hardly have been a gentle place for a five-year-old," the physician remarked with a somber smile.
The Duke recalled the sight of Lefonya carefully scanning every line of the adoption document before signing it.
"Now that I think of it, she seemed capable of reading, despite being only five."
"She likely never received proper instruction. Children on the streets often pick up literacy on their own out of sheer necessity to survive."
Duke Craitan pushed back his chair and stood, preparing to depart for the Imperial Palace. The butler fell in behind his long strides, concluding his morning briefing.
"I have received word that the young heir of House Villemon will soon succeed to the ducal title. As Your Grace must attend the ceremony at the palace, your ceremonial uniform will need to be refitted."
The Duchy of Villemon was renowned throughout the empire as a supreme house of the sword. For generations, they had produced the empire's mightiest knights, commanding a military prowess that stood shoulder-to-shoulder with House Craitan.
"Ah. That insolent fledgling."
Due to certain internal tragedies, only the young heir and his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Villemon, remained to uphold the family line. The heir was merely nine years old this year—far too tender in age to inherit ducal authority—leading the Dowager Duchess to assume the regency.
"He is about to formally assume the title of Duke, so you must refrain from calling him a fledgling or a greenhorn."
"The Dowager Duchess would never have surrendered her seat so willingly."
"Indeed. He will be recorded as the youngest Duke in imperial history. Following the succession rites at the palace, a banquet will be held at their estate, so please accord it the proper courtesy."
"Leave the babysitting to someone else. I have my hands full tending to another child at the moment."
Without another word, the Duke of Craitan strode out into the corridor toward the imperial carriage.
The very morning after Lefonya placed her blood upon the adoption papers, Duke Craitan submitted the documents to the imperial court without a moment's hesitation. Rumor had it he stormed the palace gates at dawn, badgering the court clerks to process the decree immediately.
The imperial throne ratified the request, and Lefonya officially became a daughter of House Craitan.
Gossip regarding the Duke's sudden adoption spread through high society like wildfire, leaving everyone burning to uncover the child's identity.
"...Heavenly."
The very subject of those rampant rumors, Lefonya, was currently fluttering her eyes open beneath the gentle kiss of warm sunlight. The morning rays streaming through the arched window beside the bed woke her, as they did every morning.
A bed so plush it felt like floating on a cloud, a silky duvet woven from imported textiles procured through exclusive maritime trade, and pillows that never left her neck stiff or aching.
For the past few days, Lefonya had been enveloped in an absolute, flawless comfort she had never experienced in her entire life.
Of course, that did not mean her days were entirely carefree.
Where on earth is that heirloom hidden?
Even while juggling fittings for tailored dresses and dainty slippers, and submitting to checkups by various physicians to monitor her health, Lefonya tirelessly explored every corridor of the estate.
Yet this frail, malnourished body tired so quickly that merely mapping the mansion took several days.
By now, she had grown remarkably accustomed to dining alongside the Duke and touring the grounds under the watchful guidance of her assigned maid.
When noon arrived, the Duke—who had vanished to parts unknown—would suddenly materialize out of thin air to share lunch with her before she resumed her search.
And when evening fell, as if he had transformed into some kind of mealtime sprite, the Duke would come marching back to dine with her once more.
Was that all?
"Ponya."
"Yes?"
"...Ponya."
"Huh?"
"Hah. Ponya."
"Yes!"
The instances where he called her name for no apparent reason were multiplying by the day!
Whenever she dutifully answered the Duke's endless roll call, the maids standing behind them would clutch their hearts and pretend to swoon.
"My lady, the way you answer is just too precious!"
"Even the way she nods her head so earnestly is utter perfection."
"How can she respond so clearly? Could our young lady be a prodigy?"
...This household is thoroughly unhinged.
"Hah. Ponya."
And worst of all was the Duke of Craitan himself, who kept repeating her name over and over with that insufferably smug, satisfied grin on his face.
"……."
"Why aren't you answering? You're supposed to say 'yes' again, cute like before."
Their exchanges inevitably concluded with Lefonya, her patience worn paper-thin, glaring daggers at him.
Because she had been abandoned in the month of April, the abusive orphanage director had always referred to her by the name of a spring fruit harvested that month. Detesting the label, Lefonya had chosen a name for herself.
One that was easy to memorize, easy to say.
Of course, no one had ever called her by it. Even after she fell into the clutches of the Pope, she was referred to strictly as his "eldest daughter." Hearing that very name spoken aloud by so many voices in this estate felt bizarre and foreign.
Since exploring the mansion late into the night was out of the question, she washed up and retired to bed early, as befitted a five-year-old.
"Sweet dreams, my lady."
After reading through two illustrated fairy tale books and singing a gentle lullaby, the maid waited until Lefonya drifted off before quietly slipping out of the bedchamber.
Click.
The moment the door latched, Lefonya opened her eyes.
"Phew. Feels like all I did today was eat."
Lefonya patted her pleasantly full stomach.
Even so, thanks to her tireless walking today, she had finally completed the architectural blueprint of the main estate inside her head. While not flawless, by calculating the thickness of the outer walls and the turns of the corridors, she had even deduced the locations of the hidden passages connecting each floor.
Yet no matter how thoroughly she analyzed the layout, there was no obvious vault where the relic might rest.
Could the family heirloom be kept somewhere other than the main residence?
The Craitan Family Heirloom was managed exclusively by the head of the house and reputed to be sealed away in the deepest sanctum of the estate. Naturally, only the patriarch himself knew its true form.
A secure sanctuary where no thief could reach it. A place he can frequently inspect with his own eyes.
Logically, that meant it had to be located somewhere inside the main building.
"Mmh..."
Lefonya mentally re-examined her calculations, searching for any blind spots she might have missed.
Rattle!
A sudden gust of wind rattled the terrace windowpane. Lefonya snapped her head toward the noise.
"Huh?"
Beyond the glass, a dark silhouette flickered against the terrace railing.
What is that?
Furrowing her brows, Lefonya crept cautiously toward the terrace and unlatched the French doors.
Whoosh!
The instant the doors cracked open, a fierce wind rushed in as if it had been lying in wait. Drenched in pale moonlight, Lefonya's silver hair whipped wildly across her face. Startled, she squeezed her eyes shut before a cry could escape her throat.
And in that very breath, a boy's youthful, cold voice drifted down from right above her head.
"So you're alive."