Herigal Drasil stepped out of Duke Broissco's office, his expression unreadable, but his thoughts were anything but calm. He really didn't understand his father-in-law. How could he remain calm after losing a daughter? And who knows if there was someone's hand behind this crisis?
The Duke was efficient—a man who carried the weight of his title with ease. He was respected by his people, unwaveringly loyal to the kingdom, and deeply devoted to his wife. In many ways, he was the model of a noble leader.
But as a father? He fell short.
Herigal had seen enough during his brief marriage to Cassandra to recognize the cracks in the Broissco family dynamic. The Broissco children were raised with discipline, strength, and the expectation of greatness. Yet warmth and affection were foreign concepts in this household.
And Sierra… she had it even worse than her older siblings. She was raised with nothing—no discipline, no strength, no expectations. She hadn't even been given a name. No one had cared about her existence until now.
For all the Duke's power, he had never truly protected his daughters.
Herigal sighed inwardly. Perhaps it was inevitable. A man who had carried the weight of a dukedom for two generations—who had even earned the title of God of War—couldn't afford to show softness, not even to his own children.
But still… the one who died was not just anyone. She was the second child of the Duke. Herigal and Sandra were husband and wife for two years or more. But, Sandra was the Duke's daughter all her 17 years of life.
Herigal tightened his gloves, casting a glance over his shoulder. The office door was already shut, sealing in the Duke's stoic demeanor and curt efficiency. Even in grief, the man had handled everything swiftly—finalizing the necessary paperwork and granting Herigal permission to bring Cassandra's ice coffin back to their own territory.
"Captain, are we ready to depart?" one of his men asked, standing at attention.
"Yes," Herigal replied flatly. "The Duke has finished everything on his end. We'll take her with us."
His subordinate hesitated, his expression troubled. "The ice coffin… it's still intact, isn't it?"
"It won't melt anytime soon," Herigal assured him. "We'll keep her safe until it does."
The soldier nodded, saluting before turning to carry out his orders. Without another word, Herigal signaled for the preparations to begin.
Outside, the Broissco estate's courtyard was bustling with activity. Soldiers moved with practiced precision, carefully securing the ice coffin onto a reinforced carriage. The crystal-like surface shimmered faintly under the late afternoon light, untouched by the warmth of the sun.
Through the translucent ice, Cassandra's face remained visible—serene, almost lifelike.
Herigal's gaze lingered on the coffin, his throat tightening. A strange mix of emotions swirled in his chest—grief, guilt, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility.
She had died protecting someone. But was it truly worth it?
His fists clenched at his sides. No matter how many times he asked himself that question, the answer remained out of reach.
"Lord, may I sit here?" Cleo's voice cut through his thoughts.
He turned to see her standing nearby, her face pale and streaked with fresh tears. She clutched the edge of her shawl tightly.
"Come in," he said after a moment, gesturing toward the carriage.
"Thank you, Lord."
Herigal noticed the faint shiver in her hands as she climbed inside. He reached into the seat compartment and pulled out a thick blanket, handing it to her. "Use this. It's cold."
Cleo accepted it with a quiet nod, wrapping it around herself. But as the carriage began to move, her composure faltered.
Her gaze fell on the ice coffin, visible through the open space between the carriages. Her tears began to fall again, silently at first, then with soft sobs.
"I didn't even know she had a little sister until today," Cleo whispered, her voice trembling. "She never talked about her. Not once. Does that mean… they weren't close? So, why...?"
Herigal didn't answer immediately, letting her words hang in the air.
Cleo clenched her fists, her tears falling harder. "Why did she do it, Lord? Why would she leave her children behind? Why would she leave you behind? Was her sister really worth more than the children?"
Herigal's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "She didn't choose between them," he said, echoing the words he had spoken earlier. "Cassandra choosed to save someone who couldn't save herself. She didn't weigh the value of one life over another. It wasn't about worth—it was about what she believed was right."
Cleo shook her head, her sobs growing louder. "I just… I don't understand. I don't understand her…"
Herigal leaned back, closing his eyes briefly as the carriage rolled forward. "Neither do I," he admitted quietly.
The convoy pressed forward, the rhythmic clatter of hooves and creaking wheels filling the silence. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, painting the sky in muted shades of orange and violet. Shadows stretched long over the road, their forms flickering like ghosts against the earth.
Inside the carriage, Cleo's sobs had faded into quiet sniffles, then into silence. The air remained heavy, suffocating, as if even sound had no place in their grief.
Herigal sat still, his gaze unfocused as he stared out the window. His mind drifted back to Cassandra's final moments—not that he had witnessed them, but the weight of her sacrifice pressed on him all the same.
"Anywhere would be better than here." The bitter thought settled in his chest like a stone.
The carriage jolted over a rough patch in the road. The ice coffin shifted slightly, catching the sunlight at just the right angle. For the briefest moment, Herigal swore he saw Cassandra smile.
His jaw clenched.
What would he tell their children when they were old enough to understand?
That their mother had died saving her sister? That she had left them behind?
He exhaled sharply and looked away.
The road to Dragul should have taken three hours, but the slow-moving convoy stretched the journey to four. By the time they reached the city, the afternoon sun had begun its descent.
A sea of people waited at the entrance.
Dragul was filled with grief. The citizens had gathered in silence, their heads bowed in mourning as they welcomed Cassandra Broissco home—one final time.
Dragul was still within Broissco territory, a land where the Duke's second daughter was well known. Some had even hoped that Cassandra would one day inherit her father's mantle—whether as the Duke's heir or as a general. Traditionally, noble families rarely considered daughters for inheritance, but there was always a first. And when compared to the male descendants of the Broissco family's branches, Cassandra was undeniably the best among them.
Her name had been famous since her school days, whispered in both admiration and envy. But it wasn't just the nobility who knew of her. By the time she followed her father into the barracks, her reputation had spread even to the common folk.
It was an unusual path for a noble. Training in the barracks was a practice more commonly pursued by students from non-noble families—those who sought rank through military achievements rather than birthright. After all, titles were difficult to earn, but a soldier's rank could be gained through strength, bravery, and relentless effort. Even if one lacked magical talent, raw physical power had its own value on the battlefield.
And Cassandra had both.
"What will we do about the funeral, my lord?" Cleo's voice was sharp with displeasure. Her resentment toward Sierra deepened.
Cassandra's body remained sealed in the ice coffin. Without the ability to wash or dress her, she would be buried as she was—in her armor. Yet, she hadn't even died on the battlefield.
The soldiers stood guard at the manor's entrance, preventing anyone from entering. The official announcement was made: the funeral would be held the day after tomorrow.
When they brought the ice coffin home, the maids and servants wept. Just days ago, Cassandra had been among them, alive and well. Now, she had returned without life.
Herigal placed a hand on the cold surface of the coffin, his voice barely above a whisper. "We're home, my love."
He turned to Jeremy. "Make the arrangements."
A dummy was placed in the ceremonial coffin for the public to see, while the true ice coffin was hidden in a secret chamber. The official cause of death was declared as illness—her health, they claimed, had deteriorated after childbirth. Only a select few knew the truth.
As for the Scarlet Team, Herigal ensured their silence. With Cassandra gone, the team was officially dismissed from duty.
Six and Seven had wished to stay, offering to become guards for Cloud and Sunny.
Three and Four chose retirement, returning to their hometowns.
Five accepted Herigal's offer to join the Drasil troops.
One—known as Jeremy—decided to continue his career as a butler, this time officially serving the Drasil family.
The only one who returned to the Broissco estate was Two, the former second-in-command of the Scarlet Team. Unlike the others, his circumstances were different. He had once been a slave of the Broissco family, bound to their service long before Sandra brought him with her upon marrying into the Drasil household.