The knights of Marquis Émile de Beaufort escorted the bound Vogel onto the snow-covered street and placed him into a covered transport wagon without ceremony.

“His Grace, Marquis de Beaufort, will appoint an interim commander and send his men first thing tomorrow morning,” the troop commander declared, addressing those present with a curt bow toward Adrian. “For now, you may return to your homes. The outpost is under our control.”

Isaac Grant stood off to the side, lingering in the shadow of a massive oak pillar. He could not tear his heavy, frozen gaze away from Adelissa, yet he did not dare take a single step toward her, as if terrified of dispelling the illusion hanging in the air.

The girl stood quietly beside her father, shivering as she wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. The few administrative workers, still shaken by the sudden turn of events, gathered their things in silence and hurried home. Vogel’s accomplices were likewise carted away under armed guard.

“If we tell Mother everything right away... she will be in deep shock,” Adelissa whispered softly, watching the wagon roll out of sight.

“And she’ll scold us both for getting involved in the first place,” Adrian agreed with a heavy sigh.

“Should we tell her the truth tomorrow? Today, we could just say... we were let off early because of the blizzard.”

“No, sweetheart,” Adrian shook his head. “Mother will be deeply hurt if we try to hide something so dangerous from her.”

Father and daughter exhaled slowly in unison, both fully aware that angering Helen Fornweir was a far more perilous prospect than dealing with a corrupt garrison commander.

Adrian turned around.

“Wait for me a moment,” he told his daughter softly, walking toward the former knight standing motionless in the shadows.

He stopped two paces short of Grant and extended an open palm, holding the damaged silver medallion.

“It broke when it fell...” Adrian said with complete outward indifference, looking the mercenary dead in the eye. “I ought to thank you for saving my life.”

The moment Grant silently reclaimed his medallion, Fornweir spun sharply on his heel to leave.

“It isn’t... her, is it?” the raspy question tore from Isaac’s chest.

Adrian froze dead in his tracks. His back turned to stone, his fingers curling into tight fists until his nails bit painfully into his palms.

“No,” he cut him off in an icy, impenetrable tone without turning around. “This is my daughter.”

“Adelissa...”

“It would be best for everyone,” Fornweir interrupted, the steel of authority ringing in his voice, “if you never go near her again.”

He took a step away, but Grant’s quiet, broken voice forced him to hesitate for a fraction of a second. The mercenary lowered his gaze to the dried daisy preserved beneath the cracked glass in his palm.

“Never...” Isaac whispered after the retreating Adrian. “Never show her to the King.”

Adelissa looked at the sullen man standing in the shadows with unhidden curiosity and gentle gratitude.

“Father... shouldn’t we invite him over for dinner?” she offered softly when Adrian returned to her side. “After all, he just saved you from a blade.”

Adrian forced a semblance of a calm smile onto his face, striving with all his might not to betray the storm of emotions raging within him.

“He declined, my dear.”

At that moment, the garrison guards approached Isaac Grant. The former royal knight did not even attempt to resist—with a completely burnt-out, empty gaze, he silently offered his wrists, allowing the heavy iron cuffs to be fastened around them before being led away under guard.

Adelissa watched the scene unfold with genuine surprise and confusion, wrapping her cloak around her shoulders.

“Wait... Why are they taking him away? Is he a criminal?”

Adrian hesitated for a second, then gave a slow, heavy nod as his eyes followed the retreating mercenary.

“Yes. He is a killer, Adel. And I ask you... never, do you hear me, never go near him.”

At the dinner table, Adelissa held nothing back, enthusiastically recounting the events at the outpost to her mother - and how their father had been valiantly saved by a sullen mercenary.

“...But right after that, they bound him in heavy irons and dragged him away!” the girl concluded, genuinely saddened as she lowered her eyes.

Helen listened intently before turning a long, inquiring look toward her husband.

Adrian was sitting beside little Mira, calmly helping her trace her first clumsy letters onto paper.

“That mercenary attacked an outpost guard last night,” he explained in a even tone, avoiding his wife’s eyes. “He was likely drunk again and looking for a fight.”

“What a shame...” Helen shook her head, laying out the cutlery. “And here I was about to scold you for not inviting your savior to dinner.”

“But... doesn't he fight far too well for an ordinary drunkard?” Adelissa rested her chin on her hand, sitting directly across from her father. “He moved as though...”

“He did,” Adrian interrupted softly, setting his quill aside. “He once served in the Royal Knights’ Order. Fifteen years ago.”

Helen froze on the spot. The ladle in her hand jerked, and her face went instantly pale—in a single second, she understood why her usually calm and sensible husband had been beside himself all evening.

Hearing about a royal knight, Bernard’s eyes lit up with awe. He was just about to burst with excitement, but Helen cut her son off sharply before he could utter a word.

“Bernard. Take Mira and help Adelissa put her to bed. Right now.”

Sensing their mother’s sudden, uncompromising tone, the children obeyed in silence. As soon as the bedroom door closed behind them, a heavy, ringing silence fell over the room.

Helen walked up behind her husband without a sound, gently placing her warm, comforting hands on his tense shoulders.

Adrian let out a heavy sigh, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against her.

“What a cruel irony...” he whispered with a bitter smile. “Isaac Grant. The murderer of my father. The man who, fifteen years ago, didn't shed a single tear at my sister’s funeral... even though she saved his life.”

Adrian clenched his fists until his joints cracked.

“And now he carries a dried flower in his medallion. Her favorite daisy. As if... as if he is still mourning her to this day.”