The halls of Morgain Estate whispered. Maids lowered their voices behind closed doors, and stewards shared glances as they passed one another. Rumors clung to the walls like fog—thick, persistent, and impossible to ignore.
"He threw a head at Lady Zaria."
"They say it belonged to a mercenary."
"Was it true she sent them after his fiancée?"
"Lord Trafalgar… snapped."
At the heart of it all, in a vast chamber lined with heavy tomes and dark banners, Valttair du Morgain sat behind his desk, listening silently. The flames in the hearth crackled lazily, casting long shadows across his fur-lined cloak and the wolf sigil etched into his rings.
Then—he laughed.
It started low, a rough exhale, and rose into a sharp, amused chuckle that echoed off the stone.
"So… you've made your first move," he murmured to himself, his eyes gleaming with quiet intensity. "Not bad… not bad at all."
He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his chest.
'Trafalgar du Morgain… perhaps you were never a mistake after all. Perhaps you were the one I was waiting for.'
And now, Valttair's expectations had risen—higher than ever.
The heavy doors to Valttair's study slammed open.
Lady Nyxa strode in with purpose—tall, fierce, and draped in a deep crimson gown that matched the fire in her eyes. Her silver pauldrons clicked softly with each step. She was still half-armored, as if expecting battle at any moment.
"You will explain what happened to my daughter," she demanded, voice sharp as a drawn blade.
Valttair didn't even flinch. He calmly lifted his gaze from the documents he'd been reading and gestured lazily to the seat across from him.
"Sit, Nyxa. And mind your tone."
Nyxa remained standing. "You know damn well what Zaria claims—he threw a severed head at her feet, covered her room in blood. And you find this amusing?"
"I find it… educational," Valttair said, leaning back. "Maybe she finally learned there are consequences."
"You're protecting him?"
"I'm acknowledging that he reacted—brutally, yes—to betrayal. Zaria sent men after his fiancée, perhaps to have her robbed... or worse. Trafalgar retaliated."
"You have no proof!"
Valttair's voice turned cold. "I don't need proof. I have instincts. And in this house, mine are law."
Nyxa's fists clenched, but she said nothing.
"You've always opposed me adopting him," Valttair continued, voice lower now. "And yet, of all my children, he's the only one who dares to act. That makes him useful."
Nyxa's eyes narrowed. "He's dangerous."
"Good," Valttair replied, smiling faintly. "This world doesn't need soft men."
---
The road stretched ahead—wide, dusty, and flanked by low pine-covered hills. The carriage rolled steadily, wheels creaking gently. Inside, Trafalgar sat silent, his dark blue coat still stiff with dried blood.
'I wonder what happened to me... could it have been the feelings from the original Trafalgar that led me to kill someone?'
Aubrelle leaned slightly toward him, arms crossed but eyes soft.
"It seems," she said lightly, "that we'll have to change your clothes before we reach the Academy. Unless, of course, you want everyone thinking you fought a war before orientation."
Trafalgar glanced down at his hands—dried crimson cracks flaking from his knuckles. He flexed them once.
"You're not wrong," he muttered.
A pause.
"…Sorry," he added.
Aubrelle tilted her head. "What for?"
"For… that. For letting you see me like that. For leaving you behind. I just—"
"—did what you had to," she cut in. "You've changed, Trafalgar. But I don't dislike it. Actually…" she leaned a little closer, teasing smile returning, "I think I like this version of you more. You seem… I don't know. Stronger. A little more masculine, perhaps."
He blinked. "Seriously?"
"Very."
A breath of silence passed. Then, Aubrelle shifted, resting her head gently on his shoulder. His coat crackled from the blood, but she didn't seem to care.
"You sure you want to do this? I'm filthy. Your dress is—"
"I don't care about that. Not even a little," she whispered. "I'm here for you. Always."
Trafalgar didn't speak. But something tightened in his chest—an ache he couldn't name.
Then Aubrelle raised her voice toward the front of the carriage.
"Albert, take the next detour. We'll stop in the town before the academy. My fiancé needs new clothes."
Albert's voice came clear through the driver's partition.
"Understood, milady."
The carriage rolled on.
The town wasn't large—just a quiet settlement nestled between cliffs and pines, with cobbled streets, clay-tiled roofs, and an old clocktower ticking lazily over the main square.
Albert brought the carriage to a smooth halt near a tailor's shop. The horses neighed softly as Aubrelle stepped down with grace, her presence commanding subtle awe. Trafalgar followed.
Whispers started the moment they appeared.
"That's a Morgain carriage..."
"Could that be the boy from the Northern Lineage?"
"And the girl... isn't she from House Rosenthal?"
People didn't approach—but they watched.
The Morgain name held weight. Everyone across the continent knew them as the Guardians of the North, a family both feared and respected. House Rosenthal, meanwhile, was famed for its ancient contracts with magical beasts and its unbroken bloodline of summoners.
Trafalgar didn't care about their stares—but he noticed Aubrelle walking slightly closer to him.
Inside the shop, the tailor froze the moment he saw them. Pale, he bowed deeply.
"M-my lord, my lady... what an unexpected honor. How may I assist?"
"We need a full set for my fiancé," Aubrelle said calmly. "Dark, formal. He encountered some... trouble on the road."
"Of course," the tailor nodded, already measuring Trafalgar with his eyes.
In the fitting room, Trafalgar wiped his hands clean with a cloth. The red stains were mostly gone—but a faint tint remained under his nails. He stared at them for a moment before changing.
Outside, the murmur of townsfolk carried through the window.
"…the younger son?"
"No, the adopted one."
"He looks... cold."
Trafalgar stepped out in a fitted navy-blue coat, silver embroidery decorating the cuffs, and deep black trousers. A new cloak rested across his shoulders, fluttering gently in the breeze.
Aubrelle looked at him and nodded, satisfied. "Perfect."
He raised an eyebrow. "That good, huh?"
"Better than good. You look... like someone no one should mess with."
Albert appeared at the door. "The horses are ready, milady."
Trafalgar glanced at his old bloodstained coat, now folded neatly in the corner. He didn't take it.
Some things were better left behind.
The carriage rolled out of the town's southern gate, its wheels crunching over frost-dusted dirt as morning mist curled between the trees.
Trafalgar leaned back against the window, arms folded. His new clothes still felt strange. Aubrelle sat close, her eyes drifting between the landscape and him.
"You haven't said much," she murmured.
Trafalgar kept staring out the window. "Not much to say."
A beat passed.
"Do you regret it?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer right away.
Then: "No."
Aubrelle turned toward him. "Why not?"
He tilted his head, his blue eyes steady. "Because if I hadn't done anything, nothing would have changed. I still don't understand what led me to do it, but I think that old version of me is gone..."
Aubrelle smiled faintly. "I know."
Trafalgar shifted his gaze to her. "So why do you stay? I've killed a man. You saw me covered in blood. You saw the way I threatened Zaria. Aren't you afraid of me?"
"No," she said. "Because I know what kind of man you really are."
He scoffed lightly. "Even after all that?"
She leaned closer, resting her head on his shoulder again.
"Especially after all that."
Trafalgar went silent for a moment, feeling the weight of her words press against his chest.
"…Thanks," he said, voice low.
"No need," she replied, closing her eyes. "Just keep being you."