TRFS 4

Chapter : 4

“What did you just say?”

Had he not slept properly after rushing back from outside work at dawn?

Eanok wondered if he’d misheard and asked again.

Just as he expected, that reaction came.

Reginald carefully opened his mouth again.

“A child has arrived—the one with golden hair and red eyes we issued the wanted notice for previously.”

“Not that.”

“There was a disturbance at the castle gate.”

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

Eanok grabbed Reginald’s attempt to dodge the question and frowned. With no way out, Reginald wetted his lips and spoke slowly.

“They said they wanted to see you, Your Grace, immediately. And, um…”

Reginald’s voice shrank to a tiny whisper as his eyes darted away.

“…to ask how you ruined your family so thoroughly…”

“I can hear you just fine even if you whisper.”

“Ahem.”

“Good grief.”

Eanok let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair.

The deep exhale—rare for someone who hardly ever revealed emotion—dug uncomfortably into Reginald’s ears.

Everyone has their one raw nerve.

For Eanok, being the head of a crumbling house was his weakness—and failing to revive that house was his reverse scale.

Meaning, if anyone pointed out his inadequacy, he got furious.

And he had every right to. Eisenbold’s ruin wasn’t the fault of the descendants.

There was no money. No remaining assets. And what little they had possessed had been stolen away by a collateral branch.

The only reason Eisenbold was alive at all was because Eanok held it together.

But regardless of his efforts, the fall of the family was inevitable.

Whether next year or a decade later—only the timing differed.

“Your Grace, I think we should send the child back.”

Eanok stared silently at Reginald with dry eyes.

“Unlike all the others claiming direct descent, this one has no decorum. No manners.”

“…”

“Even if they grew up unaware of being Eisenbold blood, lineage doesn’t vanish. A direct heir of the noble, honorable, disciplined House Eisenbold would never utter something so delinquent. Therefore—”

“Which means we should meet them.”

“…Excuse me?”

Eanok rose from his chair, pushing it back, meeting Reginald’s blank stare.

As Reginald narrowed his eyes, Eanok grabbed the coat hanging over his chair.

“All the so-called heirs up to now arrived behaving like nobles. As if someone had trained them.”

“Well, that is…”

“Even fallen, our name is not erased. You know exactly how valuable it is.”

No explanation needed. Eisenbold was a pillar and tradition of the Empire.

Even in decline, the name still carried weight.

Many had tried to buy the Eisenbold name at astronomical prices.

Most were nouveau riche war profiteers or petty nobles heavy with money but light in pedigree.

So that’s why he sent all of them away.
Realizing Eanok’s intent, Reginald bowed his head. Eanok lifted his chin.

“Is the kid waiting in the receiving room?”

“Well… We tried to escort them there but they refused and wandered off. I assigned servants and guards, so they shouldn’t cause trouble. I’ll summon them at once.”

“Rude speech and arrogant behavior.”

Stomping around the castle like they owned it. Eanok knit his brows, collected his thoughts, and began walking.

“I’ll go myself.”

“But—”

“They must have some backing to act like that. Even if we’ve fallen, to behave that way inside the Eisenbold stronghold means something is behind them. However—if they’re doing it with no leverage at all…”

Eanok’s voice cooled.

“…they will learn the price.”

These are supposed to be Eisenbold’s wolves?

The knights sprawling before Cleora’s eyes could hardly be called knights.

Once, people compared Eisenbold knights to wolves.

Those who cut through enemy lines with swords—Black Wolves.
Those who wore white cloaks and never let foes breach their borders—White Wolves.

The two knight orders were Eisenbold’s symbol, the pinnacle of martial tradition.

But what was this pathetic sight?

Sluggish swordwork, lifeless movements. Their dull, vacant eyes made them indistinguishable from vagrants.

The training grounds were cracked dry beneath their feet.

Cleora had never imagined Eisenbold would fall to such ruin.

Is this what you wanted me to see, Keleagos?

For five days on the road, she had wondered why she was alive again.

She believed her resurrection must come with a mission. But the Eisenbold she faced ripped that thought out by the roots.

“…Hey, kid.”

The voice that cautiously called to her—while she clenched her lips watching the knights—belonged to Adrian.

When Cleora’s red eyes rolled toward him, Adrian gave an awkward smile.

“I ended up following you without thinking, but let’s be clear on one thing. The mercenary band bears no responsibility for anything you say or do. Understood?”

“…”

“You get me?”

With a mercenary company built over twenty-five years on the line, destroyed in a day, Adrian was doing his utmost.

Cleora stared silently at him, then turned her head.

Adrian followed her gaze.

A silent corridor — empty. What was she looking at? Squinting, he focused and saw—almost as if waiting—a man with deep green eyes.

Eanok had arrived.

“Uh…”

Cleora quietly observed him. Her gaze swept up and down—sharp and appraising.

…At least he’s not completely hopeless.

Broad but balanced shoulders. A steady upper body while walking—meaning strong supporting legs.

Even beneath the coat, the toned muscles were visible. His exposed wrist was thick, the mark of someone who’d swung a sword for many years.

And most telling of all—two embroidered wolves on the coat.

The head of the house?

He was rumored to be in his forties, but looked closer to his early thirties.

As the distance shrank, Cleora tilted her chin up.

Their eyes met. Cleora took a step back.

Eanok stopped at a respectful distance and silently faced her.

In the brief quiet, they studied each other—raw, measuring gazes.

Eanok stared into her eyes, then cocked his head.

“You’re the one who asked to see me?”

“Are you the head of the house?”

The moment Cleora spoke, everyone except Eanok wore a horrified expression.

Answering a question with another question—

And worse, referring to a duke as you.

Even fallen, this was still a ducal house. He was not someone one should call you.

“W-wait, no—! What are—”

Adrian, jaw hanging open, tried to protest, but the tense air froze his lips shut.

Everyone else wisely stayed quiet, aware interference could spill blood.

“So?”

“Oh.”

Acknowledging his answer, Cleora let out a short sound, curled her lips in a faint smile, and turned her body slightly.

Eanok’s gaze followed her motion—and landed on the training grounds directly ahead.

“What do you think?”