Chapter 21

Journey

The Hilderson clan is the bloodline that rules the Kingdom of Osnover.

The origin of the clan lies in the Ducal House of Dithmarschen. This family, which governs the polar regions of the Kingdom of Osnover, ended a civil war several years ago, established a new dynasty, and formed marriage alliances with the kingdom’s major nobles.

“A wedding?”

Roberta asked. She was tearing off a piece of bread.

At noon, she was having a meal with Ulrich in the lord’s manor. Ever since she had been appointed as the chief priest, the two had shared at least one meal together almost every day.

Since they lived in the same space, it couldn’t be helped. As someone staying under another’s roof, she couldn’t very well ask for separate meal times. Because the temple had been burned down due to the sins of her predecessors and the civil war, she was living in the lord’s manor. Whenever the lord or his retainers dined or had tea, she would join them.

Humans truly are creatures of adaptation. Living in the same space as such a peculiar lord had felt unbearably awkward at first, but after more than a year, it had become comfortable.

“It seems there will be a state marriage for the crown princess.”

“A state marriage?” Roberta asked as she tore into the white bread.

“A state marriage? Who is the partner?”

“The eldest son of Marquis Quille. Since it hasn’t been long since the civil war ended, they likely judged that it would be more stable to bring in a son-in-law from within the country rather than from abroad.”

Ulrich added that the groom might inherit the grain-producing region in the southwest of the kingdom.

“Oh… that sounds like a good idea.”

The Kingdom of Osnover had endured a civil war for 32 years. Since it had only been five years since that long and arduous war ended, as Ulrich said, it was a time to prioritize stability.

“Then you should probably send a gift, my lord. The crown princess… from your perspective, she is your granddaughter, isn’t she?”

“That’s true. But the gift isn’t the issue right now.”

“Pardon?”

“Richard has sent me an invitation asking me to attend.”

Richard—the name of the King of Osnover.

And also Ulrich’s adopted son. The one who ended the civil war was the very young man—no, elder—sitting before Roberta.

Ulrich had ended the civil war, but he had not taken the crown. When the faction that had brought him the crown urged him, he sent someone from his clan in his stead. That person was his adopted son, Richard.

Roberta dipped her bread into the soup and thought.

‘…I heard he didn’t even attend the coronation.’

Hadn’t the old priest she met on her way here said so? That even on the day his adopted son ascended the throne, the lord of Dithmarschen never left his territory.

Would such a man really leave his domain just because his granddaughter was getting married? If anything, it would be more likely for him to head into the Ice Peninsula under the pretense of preparing a gift.

“You won’t be attending this time either, will you?”

“No. This time, I intend to attend.”

Instead of asking further, Roberta tilted her head.

“It seems there is a troublesome matter.”

A troublesome matter?

“It wasn’t clearly stated in the letter, so I don’t know either. That child, Richard, doesn’t seem to fully grasp the situation himself. However, from experience, he must have judged that it was something he couldn’t resolve on his own.”

“And that’s why he invited you, my lord?”

“Exactly.”

A problem that required the lord, who rarely left his domain, to step in personally? And not just anyone—the king of an entire nation couldn’t solve it himself? Roberta narrowed her eyes. This was no ordinary issue.

“And the reason you’re telling me this is…?”

Was he giving her notice because he would be absent? Roberta was the chief priest. She held a position that could influence the territory almost as much as the lord. Of course, not in terms of actual authority, but at the very least, she could be told to manage things well during his absence.

But his reply was delayed. Holding a piece of bread dipped in soup, she felt unease slowly rise within her and turned her head to look at Ulrich. As always, he held a teacup filled with pine pollen tea and looked quietly at her.

“…Do you wish for me to accompany you?”

Surely not.

“Indeed. Roberta, I would like you to come with me.”

“Are you speaking seriously?”

She asked with an awkward smile.

When was the last time she had left the territory with Ulrich? It was when she had headed toward the Ice Peninsula with a visitor from Carbonihar—just a few months ago.

Thinking back, it had been unlike her. She had let her emotions sway her and taken on an unreasonable risk. She had no regrets, and in fact, it had been a rewarding experience.

Compared to that journey, attending a royal wedding would be little more than a leisurely outing. She had spent nearly a year restoring the diocese ruined by her predecessors, and had completed major rites such as infant sacraments. Leaving her post for a short time would not be an issue.

Still, was there any real need for her to attend?

Her duty as a priest outweighed any curiosity about the lord.

“I’m sorry, but—”

As she was about to refuse, the steward attending at the lord’s side, Bernhard Meyer, handed her a neatly folded letter. It was written on pristine white paper—so fine that it seemed far too valuable to be used for an ordinary letter, resistant even to water.

“….”

Roberta checked the contents and froze with her mouth slightly open.

“It’s permission from His Holiness allowing you to temporarily leave your post.”

Blinking several times to make sure she wasn’t seeing things, she had no choice but to acknowledge that the seal stamped on the paper was indeed the Pope’s seal.

It was an order. And not just any order—it was a direct command from the Pope, completely different from what Ulrich had said. It was not merely permission to leave her post temporarily, but an order to comply with all requests made by Ulrich, the lord of Dithmarschen.

How could the Pope place a priest of the Holy Church—a priest responsible for managing an entire diocese—under the authority of a secular ruler? And how had such a document even been obtained?

“H-How could His Holiness…”

Instead of answering, Ulrich simply smiled faintly.

At that moment, Roberta recalled that he wrote letters frequently. At dawn, in the middle of the night—since he rarely slept, he often spent his time writing. Alonso had mentioned it as well. The lord sent letters even more often than she did. Among those letters, it would be stranger if none had been sent to the Pope.

After all, it was the Pope who had appointed her as chief priest. Alonso, the bishop of the Noire Grand Temple, had recommended her, but the approval had come directly from the Pope. The Dithmarschen diocese itself was under the Pope’s direct jurisdiction. It was only natural that Ulrich had connections to him.

‘Just what kind of past does he even have…?’

She felt both incredulous and, at the same time, strangely understanding. Yes… better than a dragon. At least the Pope is human. The fact that she could think like that made her let out a hollow laugh.

After living alongside him for over a year, she must have grown too accustomed. The old her would never have rationalized things this way. With a resigned, almost self-mocking smile, she spoke.

“…You won’t be departing immediately, will you?”

“We leave tomorrow morning. If you have any work, finish it today.”

She let out a small sigh and picked up the bread she had torn earlier. A journey required a full stomach. Forcing herself to eat, she soon rose from her seat.

“You are leaving?”

As soon as Roberta left the dining hall, Bernhard asked.

The steward, who had stood silently throughout the meal, finally spoke once he was alone with Ulrich. After taking a sip of tea, Ulrich answered.

“Well… I haven’t decided yet.”

Not decided—meaning it was not a refusal to leave. It carried the implication of a possible farewell, and Bernhard, knowing this, trembled. Never before had Ulrich spoken like this.

He had always known it could not last forever. Anyone who served him knew that their master would one day leave. But at least Bernhard had hoped—desperately—that it would not happen within his lifetime.

Ulrich would not return. Though he wanted to deny it, Bernhard had served his master for far too long. By not calling it a farewell, Ulrich was merely leaving behind a sliver of hope that he might return.

Bernhard opened his mouth as if to say something, hesitated, and then closed it again. Even if he tried to persuade him, could he truly change his will? And after all these years of granting their requests and staying with them, could they bind him again?

“But preparations must be made.”

Ulrich set down his teacup and looked at Bernhard.

“Bernhard, descendant of Hohenlohe. If I do not return, you will become the lord here. At that time, you will no longer be Bernhard of the Meyer family, but Bernhard of Dithmarschen.”

“Can I… truly replace you?”

His voice trembled—weak, as if weighed down or frightened. It could not be otherwise. Bernhard knew his master’s past far more deeply than Roberta did.

For hundreds of years, since the Hilderson clan—including the Meyer family—had come into the world, they had served a single man, piecing together his identity from the fragments he let slip.

Because of that, the clan had come close to understanding that their founder was a being so extraordinary that even the pantheon of gods would be astonished. Living under such a being stirred indescribable emotions. And now, he was to let that being go—and even take his place.

“Do not worry.”

Ulrich smiled, as if he understood Bernhard’s feelings. It was a gentle smile—one so faint that only a few could perceive it.

Some said their master was a man without emotions, but that was the judgment of fools who had only glimpsed fragments. Time had simply dulled him, making all experiences familiar.

Even Roberta, after spending enough time with him, could occasionally read his emotions. The more one came to know him, the clearer it became—he was a soft-hearted man. Especially when it came to children. And perhaps, to him, all humans were like children.

“You may feel unsettled for now, but you will soon be fine. I have taught you everything required for this position. Bernhard, you are more suited to this role than anyone.”

“I almost wish I were inadequate instead.”

“If that were the case, someone else would be standing in your place.”

Bernhard lowered his head for a moment, then glanced to the side. The boy, Fritz, stood there, unsure of where to look, his thoughts clouded with confusion.

He had been meant to serve the master in Bernhard’s stead soon, yet now he was told that the master would be leaving. Like Bernhard once had, the boy likely knew nothing but a life of serving him.

At least Bernhard had spent decades by his master’s side, but Fritz had experienced nothing. Feeling pity, Bernhard placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke.

“If you are going, would you take this child with you?”

Ulrich looked at Fritz. When their eyes met, the boy trembled. Not out of fear of his master—but out of the fear of being abandoned, like a helpless child.

“This reminds me of the past. Hilde was the same.”

Ulrich nodded.

The next day, the group departed from the city of Freiche.

Ulrich took Roberta and Fritz with him, and the three rode their horses toward the warm southern lands. But as they crossed the hills, Ulrich pulled the reins and stopped, turning to look back at Freiche.

More than three hundred years ago, he had visited that place with a certain young lord as his companion. His memory insisted that everything had been buried under snow—snow so deep it rose higher than a man’s head. And even in summer, the snow from the previous year had not melted.

He had only intended to stay briefly—at most a few days or weeks. But fate had brought forth a girl, and her name was Hilde.

It was then that Ulrich of Dithmarschen etched his name into history.

Now, he stepped out of his memories and looked at present-day Freiche. Under the summer sunlight, not a trace of last year’s snow remained.

And yet Ulrich was still Ulrich of Dithmarschen, just as he had been then. Even the sight of him leaving Freiche was no different from the day he had first arrived there.

“…”

He smiled, and gently bowed his head toward someone unseen. Then he urged his horse forward and descended the hill.

Now, he could no longer see Freiche—

—and Freiche could no longer see him.