With every breath misting before him, all Ian could see beneath his feet was an endless expanse of white snow.
His skin had gone so numb that it burned, and eventually he simply closed his eyes. Even the fluttering of the veil hanging down to his chin had become unbearably irritating. He felt as though he could die peacefully if he fell asleep right then. The cold was so vicious that being buried beneath the snow almost seemed preferable, yet whenever he tried to let his consciousness slip away, the reins would jerk sharply, as though tugged by a ghost. After the horse’s startled cries dragged him awake more than three times, Ian realized it was deliberate.
How long had they been riding like this?
At last, the seemingly endless black forest began to thin, and another towering wall came into view. The two knights riding at the head of the group raised their horns and sounded them. In the distance, a gate slowly opened, as though those inside had been waiting for the signal. After riding without a single pause, their pace finally began to slow.
“We’re here.”
As the thunder of hooves quieted, Claude, who had been riding behind him, sprang lightly from his horse. Since they had ridden ahead of the rest, Ian struggled to gather his scattered senses and looked forward. The knights who had accompanied them halted behind him and waited in silence.
Jangle.
The faint sound of chains echoed through the cold air.
Beyond the open gate, a large crowd stood waiting.
Every face was twisted with murderous hostility.
“It’s the prince of Rox.”
And with those words, a volley of stones came flying.
One rough-edged stone scraped across his frozen skin. Most fell short, unable to reach him from that distance, but the expressions of the people glaring in his direction were frighteningly rigid.
Hatred steeped in blood ran deep.
And in the North, which shared a border with Rox, that hatred burned more fiercely than anywhere else. Everyone had been eagerly awaiting the procession scheduled for today.
A procession was a punishment in which a criminal was paraded through the streets on horseback, while citizens of the empire were permitted to throw stones at them. He might be royalty, but he was royalty from an enemy nation. Few would ever again have the chance to hurl a stone at a prince without consequence. Apparently, everyone had thought the same, for dozens of people had gathered near the castle gate since early morning.
The blare of the horns had been their signal.
The gates opened, and a lone figure appeared atop a white horse, his face hidden beneath a pure white veil. A long chain trailed from him, scraping against the ground.
At the knight’s declaration—“the prince of Rox”—the waiting crowd hurled the stones clutched in their hands with all their strength.
Despite the sudden shower of violence, the man did not flinch.
Even when a stone grazed his cheek and drew blood, he did not so much as raise a hand to wipe it away.
Instead, it was the white horse that panicked beneath the barrage, letting out a shrill cry as it reared. Ian nearly slipped from the saddle, but managed to seize the reins and hold on.
The procession stalled before they had even entered the gate.
Unable to watch any longer, Claude stepped forward.
“Clear a path first. At this rate, we won’t even finish one circuit before sunset.”
At his command, the crowd reluctantly drew back.
Claude snatched up the chain dragging across the ground and began walking. The white horse, barely calmed, followed him nervously.
Only then did Ian understand why the chain had been made absurdly long.
He suppressed a hollow laugh as he stared ahead.
There was enough slack in the chain attached to his collar for someone to walk several steps away while leading him.
So he intends to watch from a distance.
Easy enough to drag me around.
As if to prove the point, a stone thrown from close range struck him squarely in the shoulder and dropped to the ground.
He had finally passed through the gate, yet the number of hostile eyes fixed upon him only multiplied.
Should he at least be grateful that they hadn’t stripped him naked?
Another stone flew and struck his thigh.
Voices trembling with rage erupted from every direction.
“Damned Rox bastard!”
“Do you have any idea how many people died because of you!”
“My god, look at the back of his hand. So white. So clean.”
“Look at this!”
A young man nearby shouted as he thrust out the back of his hand.
A snake-like brand marked his skin.
The middle-aged woman beside him bore the same mark.
So did the young child standing next to her.
Ian looked to the other side.
It was the same there.
Everyone had the same mark on the backs of their hands, and every one of them was shouting at him with a face contorted by rage.
“While we’re trapped here, branded like livestock!”
That was why the North’s fury burned more fiercely than elsewhere.
There was, of course, the fear that came with living on the front line, never knowing when war might erupt again. But more than that, the people here had been robbed of much of their freedom by an ancient practice: every child born in the region was branded on the backs of both hands so they could not freely leave.
Even if someone managed to flee the town, imperial patrols constantly inspected people’s hands, and most escapees were eventually caught and brought back.
In the end, the only certain way to escape was to cut off both hands.
But no ordinary commoner could hope to live a normal life without them.
That was why everyone in the Shertian Empire called this place “the swamp.”
If war with Rox broke out again, these people would be the first sacrificed.
They belonged to the same empire, yet the empire showed no hesitation in sacrificing the few for the sake of the many.
Especially when those “many” included the nobility.
As time passed and a wall was eventually raised along the border, that particular fear faded.
But something even more terrifying had awaited them afterward.
“You burned this place to the ground, and now you have the nerve to make a request like that!”
Again, Ian had no idea what they were talking about.
Rather than waste his strength trying to understand, he tightened his grip on the reins and remained silent.
His silence only made the accusations swell.
“Murderer!”
At the shout of an elderly man, Ian abruptly raised his head.
Their eyes met through the translucent veil.
The old man trembled violently as he shouted again.
“Murderer. Murderer. Murderer! Give me back Olia…!”
He must have lost a lover.
Or perhaps a sibling.
The freezing wind sliced through the thin fabric covering Ian like a blade.
It was so cold that, paradoxically, he could no longer feel it.
So cold that even resentment seemed absurd.
“…”
Everything happening around him felt like a story that had nothing to do with him.
Ian could not sympathize with Rox, with this war, or with any of the circumstances surrounding either.
He had merely failed to kill himself and awakened inside the body of a stranger.
He had been imprisoned without knowing why.
He had become a hostage of an enemy nation.
And now, in the dead of winter, he was being paraded through the streets beneath a veil while people threw stones at him.
If anyone had the right to feel wronged, surely he did.
Yet strangely, Ian felt nothing.
Perhaps it was because the accusations raining down on him somehow sounded true.
The faces were different, but every gaze was steeped in the same resentment.
Those bloodshot eyes.
As Ian searched his memory, wondering where he had seen eyes like those before, countless faces flashed through his mind.
They were the faces of everyone he had killed.
Thwack!
Another stone struck him in the head.
More stones hit his cheeks and the backs of his hands, adding fresh cuts to the ones already there, but Ian offered no defense.
There was nothing to defend.
His was not a life that could be defended.
Realizing that he had not made his usual daily apology, he furrowed his brow, wondering whom he was even supposed to apologize to anymore.
As though someone like him had any right to repent now.
“Hic…!”
Then came a small, startled gasp.
Ian had been staring down at the horse’s mane as it whipped in the wind. It took him a moment to realize that the stones had stopped flying.
He turned his head.
A cloud of white breath briefly drifted between them before scattering into the air.
The moment Ian met those eyes—eyes that gleamed brightly despite reflecting no light—something stirred inside him.
Claude, who had been walking several steps away only moments ago, was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, this man now stood right beside Ian, holding his chain in one hand.
“G-Grand Duke!”
Even those following the procession had failed to notice when he had appeared.
One by one, the people who recognized Logan’s face went pale and stumbled backward, opening a wide gap in the densely packed crowd.
“No way…”
“W-We greet Your Grace, the Grand Duke!”
It was the Grand Duke of Higher, a man who almost never descended into the town.
The local lord, who had been expecting only the captain of the knights, came running from afar with a deathly pale face. Once everyone finally grasped what was happening, they began dropping flat to the ground in obeisance.
No one had imagined this was possible.
The Grand Duke had not been among the knights when they arrived.
And no one knew why he had personally come all the way down here.
The backs of the prostrated townspeople trembled like aspen leaves.
Their reaction was far closer to terror than respect.
“Sir Knight.”
Logan, however, paid no attention to any of them.
He addressed Ian with an expression that made it clear he cared neither for the commotion nor for the people trembling at his feet.
Naturally, Ian gave no answer.
Logan’s gaze slowly swept over him.
Ian looked nothing like he had when he left the mansion.
The veil, stained red in several places, immediately caught Logan’s eye. It was still securely fastened and had not slipped away, but the fabric covering skin that had turned from blue to purple was already nearly in tatters.
The countless cuts scattered across Ian’s frozen body looked painful enough merely to behold.
Ian himself, however, showed no sign of feeling them.
“How could I do this to someone so precious?”
Though Logan had personally removed Ian’s shoes before sending him here, regret flickered across his face for just a moment.
His attention lingered on Ian’s unnaturally quiet reaction, so stark against the clamor surrounding them.
Then Logan took a step forward.
The crisp clop of hooves echoed through the silence.