"He is not our son, my dear."

The sentence hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

The Baroness immediately brushed her husband's hand off her shoulder. Her eyes widened—a mixture of anger and fear she was struggling to suppress.

"Do not speak such nonsense," she hissed, her voice trembling. "He is likely just tired. You know he just survived a life-or-death duel. It is trauma. Trauma changes people."

The Baron did not answer immediately. He merely let out a long sigh—the sigh of a man who had just lifted the weight of the world from his shoulders, only to find a new, far more terrifying burden weighing on his heart.

His thoughts drifted for a moment.

The last week had been hell for him. He had been consumed by grave matters that were strangling the territory. Yet, the situation had turned around drastically. Trade routes were to be reopened with Rosevelt's assistance. Even the territorial taxes had been granted relief by the capital, thanks to Rosevelt's lobbying as well.

The Baron, previously buried in work, now had a few hours of respite. And it was precisely because of this momentary calm that he could finally scrutinize the details he had missed in his busyness.

"No one suddenly becomes an expert in gardening," the Baron said quietly, his gaze fixed blankly on the gate where Lucas had disappeared. "Fatigue from gardening does not grant someone the ability to fight with reflexes like that. He is too different, my dear."

The Baroness shook her head violently, her face pale. She remained adamant, trying to construct a fortress of denial.

"He is our son," she rasped, as if trying to convince herself. "Perhaps he learned in secret... He is our son, my love! I am his mother!"

The Baron turned fully, regarding his wife with a gaze full of sorrow, yet firm and unwavering. He would not let his wife drown in an illusion.

"No," the Baron cut in, sharp yet gentle.

He cupped his wife's face, forcing the Baroness to meet his eyes.

"Do not lie to yourself," he whispered, his voice hoarse but extinguishing every last remnant of false hope. "Even if he had studied and trained, the results could not be this immediate. He is not Lucian."

"Is the proof of him taking that meaningless dagger still not enough?" Aleric asked, his tone urgent yet kept low.

He let go of his wife's face and pointed toward the empty path.

"It is just an old dagger."

The Baroness fell silent. Her lips were pressed tight, but her eyes no longer met her husband's. Her gaze fell to the tips of her own shoes.

Aleric's words were like a hammer, smashing the bricks of denial she had stacked one by one.

"But he accepted it," Aleric continued bitterly. "He accepted it with cold eyes, as if it were just another shovel or hoe for his field. He did not care for its value."

The Baroness closed her eyes. Her memory spun backward, tracing the days gone by.

Pocket money.

A simple fact suddenly protruded, painful in its clarity.

Usually, no matter how sick or busy Lucian was, the boy never forgot to ask for his weekly allowance. The old Lucian would whine, beg, or even throw a tantrum if his coin pouch ran low. Money was everything to him—to squander, to buy useless things, to show off.

But this week...

One day passed. Two days. Three days.

The boy had not mentioned money even once.

Even earlier, when she had intended to give him money as a covert "tactical expense," the boy had actually looked annoyed.

The Baroness crumpled the fabric of her dress. She could no longer avoid it. She could no longer close her eyes. Her logic as a mother who observed her child every day finally defeated her blind hope.

The change was too drastic. Too perfect.

"You are right..." the Baroness whispered, her voice barely audible, broken by a suppressed sob. Her shoulders slumped, the weight of reality finally hitting her squarely.

"He... he never forgets to ask for his allowance. Never."

The Baroness looked up, tears now flowing freely down her pale cheeks.

"Aleric... if he is not Lucian..." Her voice trembled violently, filled with pure terror. "Where is our son?"

A little distance away from the mother who finally sobered up... remembering the pocket money that was absurdly high—enough to feed a commoner's family for a year, yet usually squandered by Lucian in a single night..

The wind blew gently.

Liona sat in front, holding the reins with a wide smile that refused to fade. She hummed cheerfully, her head bobbing left and right to the rhythm of the song she was muttering to herself, truly relishing her new role as an impromptu coachman.

In the back of the open carriage, Lucas sat with his legs crossed, idly twirling the silver dagger in his hand.

Silvara, sitting across from him, had been watching him for a while with a furrowed brow. Finally, her curiosity could no longer be contained.

"Why did they give you that?" she asked, her eyes narrowing at the weapon. "Is it an expensive dagger?"

Lucas stopped twirling the blade. He looked at Silvara with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, you don't know?" he asked casually. "This is the dagger 'Lucian' has always wanted. According to the Baroness, it's an heirloom from his grandfather."

Silvara blinked. Her face went blank instantly.

"Huh?"

Lucas paused. He looked back at her. "Huh?"

Silence. Only the sound of Liona's cheerful humming could be heard in the background, a stark contrast to the awkwardness in the back.

Silvara tilted her head, genuinely confused.

"Lucian... Lucian never liked daggers. He always said they were cheap weapons for thieves," Silvara said honestly. "And as far as I know... The Baroness's late grandfather never left behind a dagger. The family armory has no record of such an object."

Lucas felt his blood run cold.

His fingers gripped the cold metal handle tight.

The Baron had said: "This is the magic weapon you have always wanted."

The Baroness had said: "It is an inheritance from your grandfather."

But Silvara—the sworn knight who knew every trivial detail of Lucian's life—knew absolutely nothing about it.

If the real Lucian hated daggers... and if the story about the heirloom never existed...

Cold sweat instantly drenched the back of Lucas's neck.

It wasn't a gift. It was a trap.

They had fabricated the story to see if he would play along. And he had just nodded like a fool because he wanted to play it safe.

Lucas looked down at the dagger again. It no longer looked like a weapon. It looked like a verdict.

Shit, Lucas thought, his heart pounding against his ribs. They know.

Silvara stared at him. Lucas stared back.

For a moment, the air in the back of the carriage felt thinner, sucked dry by a mutual, horrifying realization.

Lucas's panic was clear—I've been caught.

Silvara's shock was different—He fell for it. He actually fell for it.

Up front, the humming stopped.

Liona stiffened. Her hands gripped the leather reins tighter, her knuckles turning white. She didn't turn around, but she heard the silence. It was a loud, heavy silence that screamed that something had gone terribly wrong.

Oh no, Liona thought, biting her lip. If the Baron knows... the Baroness... oh, her poor heart.

The carriage rolled on, the rhythmic clack-clack of hooves on cobblestone now the only sound in the world.

Outside, the scenery changed from the noble estate to the outskirts of the town. The sounds of construction filled the air—hammers striking wood, saws cutting through timber. Laborers and townsfolk were busy repairing the roofs and fences damaged during the chaos of the duel.

But as the carriage passed, the hammers stopped. The saws went silent.

Heads turned.

Eyes filled with raw, unwashed hatred locked onto the carriage. They whispered among themselves, spitting on the ground as the crest of the Voss family passed by. To them, the passenger was Lucian Voss—the tyrant, the waste of space.

Lucas felt their gazes like needles on his skin through the window. He shifted uncomfortably, gripping the cursed dagger tighter.

"You absolute fool," Silvara hissed, her voice barely a whisper, but sharp enough to cut glass. She leaned in, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You walked right into it."

"I didn't know!" Lucas hissed back, his voice cracking with desperation. "How the hell was I supposed to know?!"

Silvara slumped back against the seat, rubbing her temples. "We are in so much trouble."

The carriage finally pulled up to the edge of the farming district, leaving the hateful stares of the town behind.

Here, the atmosphere was completely different.

Geralt was waiting there. But he wasn't alone. Beside the burly farmer stood a woman with kind eyes wiping her hands on an apron—Elin—and the little ball of energy, Anya.

As soon as the carriage stopped, Geralt and Elin bowed deeply—not out of fear like the villagers, but out of genuine, overflowing reverence. To them, the man stepping out wasn't a tyrant. He was their savior.

"Young Master!" Geralt called out, his face beaming with a smile that could outshine the sun.

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