Marcus waited until Albert placed a chipped mug of dubious tea before him. He didn’t even touch it, continuing to stare at his companion with the kind of icy composure that made ordinary men sweat with nervousness.

“You see, Mr. von Berge,” Marcus began, lazily rubbing the cuffs of his doublet. “I have a problem. My lineage, the Rosenthals, is an ancient tree that, to my deepest regret, has ceased to bear fruit. My spouse...” he paused for a fraction of a second, a carefully rehearsed dryness cutting into his voice, “she is a wonderful woman, but in all our years of marriage, she has failed to grant me an heir. The physicians unanimously declare her incapable of continuing my line.”

Albert nodded understandingly, his gaze instinctively darting toward the door behind which Marie had disappeared with the child.

“I am a practical man,” Marcus continued, leaning forward. “When my people found your wife, I saw it not merely as a coincidence, but as an opportunity. Azalea is young. In her veins flows blood that is, shall we say, noble enough for my purposes, but at the same time, she found herself in a situation where her life wasn’t worth a penny.”

He paused, carefully studying Albert’s reaction. The officer listened, holding his breath.

“My plan is simple. I want to take her into my family. Officially. She will be entered into our registry as a Rosenthal. A niece, perhaps, or a distant relative whom we have chosen to patronize. But in the future...” Marcus allowed himself a meaningful, almost predatory smirk that made him inwardly shudder with disgust, “in the future, I expect her to bear me a son. An heir to carry on the Rosenthal name. Or even several sons. No daughters.”

Albert’s eyes widened.

“You want to... make her your...” he hesitated, searching for the right word.

“I want to get results, Albert. My wife is ready to accept this as a necessity for the sake of preserving the lineage. Azalea is currently in a state where she will agree to anything, just so she doesn’t have to return to this...” Marcus swept his hand around the sparsely furnished room, “to this ‘luxury.’”

He drew a heavy leather pouch from his coat and, with a dull, rich clink, dropped it onto the wooden table right in front of Albert.

“But there is a legal technicality. As long as she is your wife, her children are your children. And that does not suit me. I need you, as her husband and current guardian, to sign a petition for her entry into my lineage and... simultaneously initiate a divorce. Say she failed to live up to expectations, say she ran away, say she is mad. I care not what reason you choose.”

Marcus tapped his finger against the pouch of gold.

“What is your salary right now? As far as I know, an officer of your standing earns about one hundred and eighty gold pieces a year?” Marcus delivered this with a flawless capital accent, drawing out his vowels as if the very topic of money was slightly tedious to him.

Albert choked on his tea and slammed the mug back onto the table. His face reflected a mixture of resentment and burning interest.

“About that... if you don’t count deductions for forage and...”

“I will give you two hundred and fifty,” Marcus interrupted, carelessly pulling a second leather pouch from his inner pocket. He dropped it onto the edge of the table with a dull, heavy thud. “Consider it compensation for your trouble and... for the inconveniences your spouse has caused you by her disappearance.”

Albert stared at the purse. Two hundred and fifty gold pieces was a year and a half of his service in this godforsaken hole. It meant new boots, it meant good wine, it meant Marie’s peace of mind. His hand instinctively twitched, but Marcus covered the pouch with his palm, keeping him from touching it.

“However,” Marcus narrowed his eyes, “I am an honest man, and I know you spent money on her father. Azalea is a girl from a good family, but let’s be frank, von Berge... she is not ‘new’ goods. You’ve owned her for a year. She is worn out from labor, and after two weeks in the forest, her health and sanity are highly questionable. To me, she is a risk. To you, she is a burden that is about to become an official disgrace once the headquarters finds out about her vagrancy.”

Albert hesitated, his gaze darting from the gold to the bedroom door.

“Two hundred and fifty... that barely covers what I gave to Berthold. I expected that a union with her would bring me the Crown's patronage...”

Marcus sighed, feigning the utmost condescension, and produced a third pouch, slightly bigger than the first two. He placed it on top, and the chime of the coins made Albert flinch.

“Five hundred. The total sum is five hundred gold pieces. That is nearly three years of your salary. Or, if you prefer, the price of your complete and final peace of mind. You sign the petition to transfer her guardianship to the Rosenthal family and initiate a divorce on the grounds of her ‘incurable mental illness.’”

Marcus withdrew his hand, leaving the gold resting on the table. Two plump pouches that weighed more than all of Albert’s pride.

“You will become a free man,” Marcus added in a low, persuasive purr. “Free from your father-in-law's debts, free from the whims of a noble wife, free from the fear of an inspection from the capital. You will have Marie, your son, and a capital with which you can buy yourself a transfer to a place far cozier than this glacier. What do you say? Or shall I take my money and leave you to wait for Azalea to return here on her own... in rags, accompanied by a military patrol?”

Albert looked at the gold, and in that moment, the last remnants of his officer's honor died in his eyes. He snatched the pouches with both hands, pressing them to his chest as if terrified they might evaporate.

“Five hundred gold...” he rasped. “Bring the papers. I’ll sign everything. She was never a real wife to me anyway.”

The inn smelled of sealing wax, old wood, and anxiety. Elena kept pacing to the window, peering into the twilight, while Azalea sat motionless by the hearth, clutching an empty mug in her hands. Every minute of waiting felt like an hour.

When the door finally swung open, Marcus, stepping in from the cold, did not look weary. On the contrary, his eyes gleamed with excitement, and a triumphant smirk played on his lips.

“Well, ladies,” he exhaled, shaking the snow from his shoulders. “The deed is done.”

He walked over to the table and, with a heavy, satisfying thud, laid down a thick envelope of heavy crested paper.

“I stopped by the outpost's administrative center and personally saw to it that the judge applied all the seals. Right from there, I dispatched copies via courier to the central bureau in the capital. It is official now.”

Azalea reached out a timid hand toward the envelope, as if afraid the papers might vanish at her touch.

“Read it, my dear,” Marcus gently pushed the envelope closer to her. “Albert turned out to be even more compliant than I thought. Gold works wonders on memory and conscience. He signed a full waiver. From this moment on, he returns to his former surname and no longer has any relation to your lineage.”

Marcus sat opposite her, rubbing his cold hands contentedly.

“Now you are officially Azalea Rosenthal. But that isn’t even the best part. According to these documents, you are not merely ‘under our guardianship.’ You are the sole legal representative of the von Berge lineage. The right to manage your family name, your inheritance, and whatever remains of it now belongs to you alone. Albert is struck from your life as cleanly as if he had never been there.”

Elena came up from behind and placed her hands on Azalea’s shoulders.

Azalea opened the envelope. On the crested paper blazed Albert’s sprawling signature and the heavy wax seal of the judge who had registered the documents. The column for “marital status” read: “Union dissolved due to the spouse being recognized as incapacitated to fulfill obligations.”

Azalea traced her finger over the letters of her surname: “Rosenthal-von Berge.” For the first time in long years, the name did not feel like a brand or a burden.

P.S. When the official speeches were over and Azalea, pressing the precious envelope to her chest, stepped away to the window, Marcus finally allowed his pompous mask to crack and crumble to dust. He turned to Elena, and all the arrogance of a “capital aristocrat” instantly vanished, replaced by an almost boyish contrition. Gently taking her hands in his, he pressed them to his lips, closing his eyes.

“My soul, forgive me for the words I had to utter in that house,” Marcus whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “Every deceitful word I told Albert about you and another woman burned my tongue like red-hot iron. To view you as an ‘obstacle’ or a ‘barren wife,’ even in a charade, is the heaviest trial I have ever endured. You are my only treasure, my home, and my heart, and not all the gold in the world, nor any title, is worth a single hair from your head. I love you more than life itself, Elena, and I swear that no lie shall ever touch our union again.”

Elena didn’t let him finish. She threw her arms around him and laughed. The entire world with its laws, borders, and divorces ceased to exist for them in that instant; there remained only this quiet tenderness, hard-won through years of ruin and exile, keeping what was most precious.

Azalea, standing in the shadows by the window, watched them with a quiet, bright smile. Looking at how tenderly Marcus stroked his wife’s shoulders, and how trustingly Elena pressed against him, she realized for the first time that love was not the grandiose poetry from library books, nor was it a profitable transaction. It was a shield, a safe harbor, and absolute trust. Now, having become a part of this family, she felt her own broken heart beginning to thaw, warmed by the embers of their great, real fire.

Suddenly, Elena froze in place. Noticing this, Marcus stopped too. He followed his wife’s gaze and went rigid.

“My dear...” Elena’s voice trembled. “Your hands... they are glowing.”