That same night. At Leonard Eisenwald's main residence.
The man sat alone on the balcony of his room. A cigarette glowed between his fingers, its thin smoke drifting upward before vanishing into the night air. He stared straight ahead, his gaze sometimes falling on the sleeping garden, sometimes lifting toward the dark, starless sky.
“So she grew up after all,” he murmured.
Leonard took another drag from his cigarette. “Mireya... So that's her name?” A faint smile appeared at the corner of his lips, mysterious and not entirely warm.
Thirteen years ago, he had seen that girl once. A little girl kneeling beside her mother, both of them on their knees beneath the pouring rain, right in the courtyard of the Eisenwald family's main residence.
The tiny girl was trembling, her head bowed. Every so often, she glanced ahead while rain mixed with tears streamed down both their faces.
“Grandmama, who are they?”
Leonard stood on the second floor of the lavish residence, looking down at the courtyard. “I've seen them kneeling there since this morning.”
His grandmother, Madam Elizabeth, approached and stood beside him. Her gaze was cold, honed by age and power.
“Look at them carefully, Leonard,” she said softly. “They are the family of the man who killed your father.”
The answer made Leonard's hands clench. His jaw tightened, and his breath caught.
“That little girl...” Leonard stared at the small figure kneeling in the rain. “Does she still have a father?” he asked.
“She does,” his grandmother replied, followed by a cynical smile. “But not for much longer. The murderer will be executed soon.”
Leonard did not smile broadly. Only the slightest tug touched the corner of his lips. “It's only fair,” he said quietly. “She should know what it feels like to live without a father, too.”
The words slipped out just like that, born from grief that had not yet learned how to become compassion.
Madam Elizabeth spoke again, her voice gentle but firm. “Never pity the guilty, darling. People like that deserve nothing but punishment and humiliation.”
Leonard nodded slowly. His eyes remained fixed on the courtyard drenched by rain.
“So... that's why Grandmama let them kneel there since morning?” he asked.
“That is correct.”
Madam Elizabeth stroked her grandson's hair possessively. “They must suffer, too. Just as your mother and you have suffered the loss of the people you loved most.”
Leonard fell silent. At thirteen, he was not yet aware that words spoken in a loving tone could grow into a cruel conviction. Nor that compassion stolen away in childhood would turn to iron inside his chest.
Meanwhile, the rain continued to pour below.
Two days later.
Rowan Arclight's execution—Mireya's father—was carried out.
Leonard witnessed it himself. He stood tall among the nobles and guards, watching as the man said to have murdered his father received the ultimate punishment.
Rowan's face was calm, almost empty, as though he had surrendered everything to a fate he could no longer change.
When the sword rose, Leonard did not look away. He wanted to be certain. That this was right. That justice had been served. Yet when the subdued cheers died down and the body fell, Leonard lowered his head instead. His gaze was dragged downward, toward a woman who was crying hysterically, her voice breaking beneath grief she could no longer contain.
Amilie Arclight, Rowan Arclight's wife. She struggled as the people around her embraced and restrained her. Her sobs called out a name that would never answer.
The little girl was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the child who had knelt beside her in the rain two days earlier.
A brief question crossed Leonard's mind: Where was that child? But it sank beneath the faint applause and whispers repeating that it was only fair, that the man had deserved to die. Leonard, still too young then to recognize doubt, chose to bury it with his other wounds.
Two years passed. Spring had just begun, and Leonard had just returned from his education. That day, he returned to Arkenvale—the territory ruled by his family.
His luxury car sped along the private road leading to the Eisenwald family's main residence. Tall trees rose on either side, their pale green leaves swaying gently in the spring breeze.
Leonard sat calmly in his seat and turned to look out the window. Before long, his eyes caught sight of a small figure by the roadside. A little girl stood with her head bowed deeply, clutching a bundle of firewood tightly against her chest. That girl. The daughter of the man who had killed his father. Even though two years had passed, Leonard remembered her face perfectly.
Now they were even. They had both grown up without a father in their lives, Leonard thought.
The girl's clothes were dirty, worn, and far too large for her tiny body. She stood in stark contrast to him, sitting amid luxury, protected, guarded, and respected.
Suddenly, a question crossed Leonard's mind. How had the little girl survived after her father died?
“Stop,” he said curtly.
The car immediately slowed, then came to a smooth stop.