"After that, the king ordered him to be knighted and bestowed him the name of Lord Vincent," Arthur said, his voice steady with recollection.
Vanheilm stood silent beside him, arms crossed behind his back as his gaze lingered on the boy—no, the young man—sitting on a stone outcrop, his bruised forehead being gently tended to by Marianne. Her every movement was tender, as if afraid he might disappear if she blinked.
"We were surprised as well," Arthur continued, "but we understand the king's judgment. The boy... he truly resembles Lord Vincent, down to the very way he carries himself."
"It makes sense," Vanheilm replied, almost absently. Yet behind his eyes, a storm gathered.
It made sense.
Too much sense.
The resemblance was too perfect—the voice, the face, even the hint of stubborn fire behind those red eyes. It stirred something long buried in Vanheilm's heart. And yet...
What if... that boy is not our son at all?
What if he's just a lost soul—an echo—who took over my son's body?
The thought came unbidden, chilling and sharp. His fists clenched slightly behind his back. The pain of hope was crueler than the pain of loss. Was he a father again—or a man being deceived by fate itself?
He watched as the boy smiled faintly at something Marianne said.
And if he isn't my son... why does he feel like he is?
But in all the sternness of his gaze, in all the calculation and suspicion that clouded Duke Vanheilm's eyes, he saw something entirely unexpected.
Deep within the boy's blood-red eyes—eyes so hauntingly familiar—lay a flicker. A memory. A spark not born of war or battle, but of something far older. Something buried.
It was winter.
The snow outside had blanketed the world in white, and he remembered that cold morning vividly. The day he had long awaited.
He had galloped through the frozen path leading back to the estate, his cloak soaked in frost, urgency weighing heavy on each heartbeat. When he finally reached the manor, he threw open the grand oak doors with a force that echoed through the halls.
Then he heard it—her voice. Marianne's cries slicing through the quiet of the estate.
He sprinted, his boots thudding against marble, and burst into the chamber where his wife lay bathed in sweat and pain, surrounded by midwives and maids.
"One more push, Your Grace!" the senior maid called out.
Vanheilm rushed to her side and grasped her trembling hand. Her eyes met his, wild and wet with pain and fear, but she nodded once. Together, they endured the moment that followed.
Then—suddenly—light gasps filled the air, then cries. The shrill cry of new life.
"Oh my... this is unexpected!" the midwife exclaimed.
The duke's heart pounded in his ears.
"My lord..." she said, awestruck, lifting her gaze to him with tear-filled eyes.
"You have twins."
Vanheilm's face had once been alight with joy, the kind that could warm a man from the inside out. He had clutched Marianne's hand and wept tears of sheer happiness as he gazed upon the two small lives swaddled in white. Twin sons—an unexpected gift, a double blessing.
He remembered how he had touched their tiny hands, felt the fragile strength of new life. He had imagined the years to come: laughter echoing in the halls, wooden swords clashing in play, footsteps racing down the corridor. He had envisioned two boys growing beside one another—inseparable, unstoppable.
But joy, as fate often reminds men, is a fragile thing.
That memory was a ghost now.
For no matter how tightly he clung to it, he could not fight the cruel hand that destiny had dealt.
"I am... in deep condolences, my lord," came the voice of his courtier—quiet, broken, heavy with the weight of shared grief.
And now here he stood, beneath the cold light of the chapel, alone before the altar.
Before the tiny casket that held what should have been a lifetime.
There were no echoes of laughter. No cries that had once promised growth and chaotic love.
Just silence.
He had not heard his lost son's voice, nor his laughter, nor his pleas.
And so he mourned—not only what was lost, but what never had the chance to be.
With one trembling hand, Vanheilm reached out and brushed his fingers gently through the soft, barely-thickened hair of his child—hair as white as fresh-fallen snow, too fine to have known the weight of time. It was a color that mirrored his wife's. A reminder that even in this stillness, the boy carried them both.
He leaned closer, breath held tight in his chest, his eyes lingering on the peaceful, unmoving face of the infant. The boy's eyelids remained closed, pale and delicate, hiding the truth Vanheilm ached to see.
Just once... let them open, he pleaded silently. Let me see the red—the blood-tinted light of my lineage. Let me see that fire, if only for a heartbeat.
But the stillness did not waver. The silence held.
And so, Vanheilm remained there for a moment longer, his hand resting lightly on his son's brow, cradling grief as tenderly as he would have held life.
In the swift, unforgiving current of time, Vanheilm stood alone—his breath ragged, his armor scorched, his hands trembling under the celestial weight he bore. He had fought through horrors unfathomable, crushed demons beneath his blade, and carved his path through a thousand screams in the name of duty, of faith, of fate.
But now, beneath the weeping sky, none of it mattered.
The rain lashed his crimson-plated form, washing away the black blood of Thau'ron's minions, yet it could not cleanse the anguish carved deep into his soul.
"Why!!!" he cried out, his voice raw, breaking through the thunder. "Why would you take him from me!!"
The words tore from him, not as a prayer, but as a curse flung to the heavens. "I have done your bidding! I have served with righteousness! I have bled for your justice!" His knees struck the muddied ground, his arms wide in plea, unmindful of the blasphemy his pain gave rise to.
But the sky gave no answer.
Only silence, heavy and divine.
"Azeraphelle!!" he bellowed into the storm. "Show yourself!!"
His voice echoed like a broken trumpet across the ruined vale, filled not with command but with grief. Above, the clouds began to twist—slowly at first, then rapidly, until the heavens spun like a great wheel of wrath. Crimson hues swallowed the sky. Lightning arced and danced in blood-red streaks, striking the earth with divine fury.
And then, it came—soundless and immense.
{"Crimson Knight... Vanheilm..."}
The voice did not thunder—it resonated. It did not speak—it etched itself into his bones. The sound of it was ancient, sorrowful, a thousand choirs weeping in harmony.
He raised his head slowly, breath caught, gaze lifted to the heavens.
Azeraphelle had heard him.
{"...Your question... I should not answer."}
{"For I won't let a mortal know what my plan is."}
{"Even if you are... a component of my lineage."}
The words struck Vanheilm not with thunder—but with silence, deeper than any void he had faced. No scream, no curse, no blade could ever wound him as deeply as the calm certainty of Azeraphelle's voice. The celestial did not waver. It did not grieve. It only was, immutable, unknowable.
And Vanheilm, in his anguish, could no longer bear it.
"You took..." his voice cracked like broken glass, "...the one I adore~~..." His words trailed, trembling with the weight of love and rage. He stepped forward, sword trembling in hand, then roared as he struck it into the mound of demon corpses piled before him—an altar of rot and ruin.
The blade sank deep, not in hatred, but in grief.
"—And here you tell me this?! This, instead of a straight answer?!"
The storm echoed his cry, thunder splitting the sky. The Bloodrose, his sword—his companion through every battlefield, forged from the embers of old wrath—bled. A thick, crimson ichor dripped from its runes, as though the sword itself mourned with him.
It wept.
Not just for the slain.
But for a father's heart, shattered beyond repair.
And above him, the divine eye watched... silent again.
{"..."}
The skies had quieted, but not in peace. The silence held weight—dense, divine. From beyond the swirling crimson clouds, the deity at last turned his gaze fully upon Vanheilm. It was not wrath that spoke now, but an ancient solemnity, calm as a river of blood beneath moonlight.
{"Your son... the Winter Touch... is sent to the other world."}
The words hung like a blade suspended by a single thread. The Crimson Knight froze—his body motionless, but his soul tossed into a maelstrom.
{"For I have bestowed him a destiny... that would have been taken from him, had I not intervened."}
It was not a justification—it was a decree. One that shook the very core of Vanheilm's heart. His mouth parted, but nothing escaped it. Not defiance, not acceptance. Only silence.
{"That is all I can say... for I cannot afford to commit theophany."}
With that, the sky no longer burned crimson.
Only ash-grey clouds remained, and the taste of blood in the air.
Vanheilm, the Crimson Knight, slowly fell to his knees atop the dead. His hand rested on the hilt of Bloodrose, and for a moment, he was not a warrior, not a noble, not a chosen vessel.
He was only a father. A man who had loved.
And who had lost.
"My lord?"
The words cut through the fog of memory like sunlight breaching stormclouds. Vanheilm blinked once—twice—returning to the present with a jolt, his breath catching in his throat. He hadn't realized how far he had drifted.
"...Ah—what is it?" he asked, voice low, almost hoarse. The weight of the past still clung to him like armor soaked in blood.
Arthur looked at him, concern etched into the lines of his brow. "You went blank for a second... Your eyes were distant, like you weren't here with us."
Vanheilm exhaled slowly, the air trembling as it left him. He steadied himself with a glance toward the boy—toward Vincent—who was now laughing softly as Marianne gently dabbed at the wound on his forehead.
"No," the duke said finally. "I was... remembering something."
Arthur tilted his head, uncertain, but said nothing more. He knew better than to pry when the past came knocking on Vanheilm's soul.
The duke clenched his jaw. Was it truly a memory? Or was it something more? Something divine, something sealed behind veils he wasn't meant to tear through.
But the question still echoed in his mind, louder than ever.
Was that boy... truly his son?
Marianne's hands glowed with a soft emerald light, pulsing gently as she ran her palm over the scrape on Vincent's cheek.
"Tell mother where it hurts more..." she whispered, voice trembling on the edge of emotion.
But Vincent could not meet her gaze.
His crimson eyes, though fierce in battle, now floated listlessly, staring at some nowhere place—lost between truth and memory. The warmth of her magic, the tenderness in her tone—it stirred something buried too deep to name.
Then, the sound of approaching footsteps—measured, heavy with intent—drew his attention.
He lifted his eyes to meet a pair of brown leather shoes, polished to a subtle sheen.
"...Your commander told me you do not know your name," Vanheilm's voice broke the moment, calm but edged. He stood before them, tall and composed, though his gaze wavered when it rested on the boy.
Vincent nodded slowly, his throat dry.
"My brother bestowed upon you a fallen knight's name," the duke said. "My son's name."
The weight of it settled like iron on the boy's shoulders. He bowed his head low. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't know, my lord..."
The duke turned to Marianne, beginning to speak—"Marianne... he—"
"I know who he is," she interrupted, not sharply, but with a quiet fire. She did not even look at her husband. Her eyes remained on the boy. "A mother always knows... even if it's been years since I lost him."
Vincent blinked.
Years?
A flash of confusion passed through his mind. He tried to steady his thoughts.
I thought... their son died in battle just weeks ago?
That's what they said...
The puzzle twisted tighter in his head.
But he said nothing. Because somewhere in his chest, despite all logic—despite all reason—her words didn't feel wrong.
Marianne's hand moved with a featherlight touch, tracing the curve of his cheek as though afraid he might disappear if she pressed too hard.
Her voice, laced with warmth and grief both, trembled like candlelight in the wind.
"And from what I am seeing... you seem to have faced a battle alone in that world as well... isn't that right, sweetie?"
Vincent's breath caught.
The name—sweetie—landed softer than any spell. Not a title. Not an order. Just... a mother's word.
His throat tightened. He tried to speak, but nothing came.
Instead, he simply closed his eyes, letting her touch ground him—like sunlight bleeding through a storm.
And though he said nothing, his silence told her everything.
In a flash of the moment, memories flared deep in the boy's mind.
From the very start,
he wasn't really from that world.
That magicless, bland, colorless world.
"How sad... the boy doesn't even have at least one family member."
"They said he was left in front of the orphanage door... oh, poor boy, abandoned by his own blood."
I heard it all. The whispers. The pity-laced sighs. The stares that followed like shadows I never asked for.
Once more, I tried to be patient.
Tried to smile.
Tried to live.
I didn't get into any of the good universities. My grades weren't terrible, but who cared? The system was built like a glass ceiling above a pit. Even if I passed the entrance exam to one of those high-rated schools, the tuition was a different beast—one I couldn't slay.
So I ended up in a school no one bragged about. A place where dreams went to rust.
I'm nineteen now. Too old to return to the orphanage, even if I wanted to.
Not that I ever truly wanted to. That place was a shelter, not a home.
I was stuck in a loop of problems.
Trapped in a cycle no one bothered to break for me.
Imprisoned behind the cold, iron bars of pain.
Drowning in the deep, silent sea of loneliness.
but now.
"You have been fighting alone... am I right, my boy?" Marianne's voice trembled, soft and full of sorrow. She gently brushed her gloved hand over his head, fingers combing through his white hair with a mother's tender grace.
And in that moment, something shifted within him.
A warmth unfurled in his chest—a warmth he had never known. Not truly. It spread gently, like morning light creeping through a window long shut, illuminating a piece of his soul that had always remained in shadow.
Something had clicked.
A missing piece—no, the missing piece—finally slid into place within the puzzle of his life.
Tears welled in his blood-red eyes, quiet at first, then streaming down his cheeks as if a dam had broken. Each drop carried the weight of years—of pain, solitude, longing.
And then, through a cracked voice, raw and trembling, he whispered the word he never thought he would speak with meaning.
"I did...Mother~"
Marianne drew him into her arms, holding him tightly as if she could shield him from every sorrow the world had ever cast his way. Her embrace was warm, trembling, fierce—a mother reclaiming her lost child from the jaws of fate.
"My poor child... mother is here already..." she whispered, her voice breaking as she felt the tremor in his body, the frantic sobs muffled against her shoulder.
She closed her eyes, clutching him closer as if afraid he might vanish again.
"My dear Matthias... welcome back~~.".