Arthur thought back to the pain of loss—his own mother’s passing. The funeral. Standing alone by her grave on a rainy day. The disdain he endured in the royal palace once he was left on his own.
Though he believed he’d overco it, the scars still lingered. Recalling those wounds, Arthur pushed away the lancholy and spoke.
“First, we need to establish one thing: if we interfere recklessly, we’ll only make things worse.”
The pain of losing a parent isn’t sothing outsiders should ddle with lightly. Especially when, even after nearly a decade, the echo of that grief still lingers.
“Half-hearted pity will only deepen the wound.”
Arthur left unsaid that he was speaking from his own experience. Tapping the table lightly, he continued.
“The one fortunate thing is that there is soone in this household who can share Lucy’s grief.”
“Benedict Allen, the Marquess.”
“Exactly. I believe that Benedict is the best person to console Lucy.”
“I agree, but…”
Joy trailed off, recalling Benedict’s expression the previous day.
Shortly after they returned from the archipelago, Benedict, upon hearing that Lucy and the others had arrived, imdiately abandoned his work to greet her.
This behavior was typical for the doting father. But when he finally reunited with Lucy, his reaction was strangely subdued.
Faced with Lucy’s radiant smile and her cheerful call of “Papa!” Benedict froze. Then, claiming he’d just rembered sothing urgent, he turned and fled.
Since then, he’d been noticeably avoiding Lucy—a stark contrast to his usual attempts to stay close to her at all tis.
“Is it because Lucy’s expressions have beco more varied?”
“Probably. Benedict used to be utterly captivated by even her arrogant scowls—how could he possibly handle her radiant smile now?”
Both Arthur and Joy sighed at the thought of how foolishly Benedict, the kingdom’s hero, could act around his daughter.
“Our course of action is clear,” Arthur declared. “We need to inform Benedict of Lucy’s state. That should prompt him to act.”
“True, but we’ll also need to advise him carefully. Benedict might overreact to Lucy’s sorrow in unpredictable ways.”
Arthur and Joy began discussing what they would say to Benedict to ensure he responded appropriately.
anwhile, Frey, who had been quietly listening to their conversation from the side, tilted her head in thought.
Could soone who always paid so much attention to Lucy really not notice her sorrow? Or was there a reason he was holding back?
Frey, however, kept her thoughts to herself. She assud the two people before her, far more intelligent than she was, would handle it just fine.
Benedict did not like snowy winters.
The reason was simple: the woman he had loved had passed away on such a day.
“Mira… Even after all this ti, the heavens still seem to mourn your passing,” he murmured.
Unable to focus on work, Benedict idly gazed out the window. Sensing soone approaching outside, he called out before they could knock.
“Co in. I was just resting.”
The door opened slowly to reveal Lady Joy of the Partan family. Knowing she was a close friend of Lucy, Benedict’s expression softened.
“What brings you here? I believe it’s ti for training.”
“There’s sothing I’d like to ask you, Marquess.”
“Ask away. As my daughter’s dear friend, I’ll answer to the best of my ability.”
“Are you aware that Lady Lucy is feeling down?”
The directness of her question made Benedict pause. After a mont of contemplation, he sighed and nodded.
“Yes, I’m aware. How could I not, when I make it my business to know everything that happens in this estate?”
Benedict had always kept a close eye on everything within the estate. Initially, it was out of concern—worried that a resentful servant might harm Lucy, or that she might go astray.
It had beco a habit over the years, one he couldn’t shake even now, when it no longer served its original purpose.
Thanks to this, Benedict had noticed Lucy’s sorrow as the anniversary of Mira’s passing drew near.
“Then why are you avoiding Lucy?”
“Because I don’t have the right to comfort her.”
Hearing that Lucy was grieving had pained Benedict deeply. But he couldn’t bring himself to console her.
He believed he had no right.
Joy wanted to question him further, but Benedict’s expression was so filled with anguish that she hesitated. The hero, once thought unshakable, seed as if he might crumble with the slightest push.
Sensing her concern, Benedict forced a faint smile.
“It’s not a grand story, but as Lucy’s friend, I believe you deserve to hear it.”
He raised his head and called toward the door.
“You two can co in as well.”
“…You knew?”
“My apologies.”
Arthur and Frey entered, taking seats on either side of Joy. After instructing a servant to prepare refreshnts, Benedict sat opposite them.
“What do you an you don’t have the right?” Arthur asked.
“Exactly what I said, Prince. A father who wasn’t there for his daughter during her darkest hour has no right to console her sorrow now.”
If soone asked Benedict when he would go back to if given the chance, he would answer without hesitation: the mont Lucy needed him most.
Not the days of his youthful vigor, or the ti when he was hailed as a hero, or even the happiest days spent with Mira—but the mont he failed to be there for his daughter.
“When I lost my wife, I was so consud by grief that I neglected everything else.”
Waking up in the morning, the person who should have been there wasn’t. The warmth, the laughter, the gentle voice—all gone.
alti was no different. The woman who used to describe each dish with excitent and beam at his complints was gone.
Work, walks around the estate, outings in the carriage—every aspect of life was hollowed out by her absence.
The loss of the person who had filled his life with joy was the greatest pain Benedict had ever endured.
And it led him to turn away from Lucy. Her face reminded him of Mira. It brought tears to his eyes and made him want to follow his wife to the grave.
He simply couldn’t bear to keep Lucy close.
“By the ti I realized how foolish I’d been, it was already too late. Lucy had long since closed off her heart.”
Benedict understood the weight of his sins. That’s why he carried the burden of guilt every day of his life.
He believed the only thing he could do now was love his daughter and pray for her forgiveness.
“People are cunning creatures, you see. No matter how determined we are not to forget our guilt, it dulls over ti.”
When Lucy, once trapped in her grief, began to heal and take steps forward, Benedict felt nothing but joy.
He dared to imagine a future where he could share happiness with her again, returning to the life they once had.
How shaless of him.
“When my dream ca true, the mories of my sins ca flooding back alongside it.”
Seeing Lucy smile so genuinely—like Mira once had—filled Benedict with overwhelming guilt.
Her newfound ability to express her emotions reminded him of the monts he had failed her and the excuses he had made for himself.
“That’s why I’ve been avoiding her. If I see her now, I might feel genuine joy. And I don’t deserve to be happy.”
Benedict’s voice was heavy with conviction as he added:
“I am soone who should never find happiness. I am a man who must carry his guilt and suffering for the rest of his life.”
The room fell silent at his words. Both Arthur and Joy found themselves at a loss, the carefully prepared argunts they’d brought crumbling under the weight of Benedict’s self-reproach.
“That’s why I must ask all of you…”
“Lucy’s dad.”
A single voice broke through the somber atmosphere. Frey, ignoring the frantic signals Arthur and Joy were sending her, spoke up without hesitation.
“Isn’t that sothing Lucy should decide for herself?”
“...Pardon?”
“Bad people don’t get to decide their own punishnts. If they could, then Lucy and Prince Arthur would’ve let off the hook a long ti ago.”
“Frey! What are you—”
Ignoring Arthur’s outburst, Frey tilted her head thoughtfully.
“Hmm. Hmm. Hmm…”
Without warning, Frey shot up from her seat.
“This isn’t going to work. I’m too dumb to say anything aningful!”
“What in the world are you—”
Before anyone could stop her, Frey bolted out of the room, causing a commotion as she ran down the hallway.
The remaining three were left stunned, unable to process what had just happened. Monts later, Frey returned, clutching a crystal orb, which she promptly placed in front of Benedict.
“Lady Kent, what is this?”
“A communication orb.”
“And who is it connected to?”
“The most mature person I know.”
With that, Frey poured magic into the orb. It glowed faintly, flickering a few tis before stabilizing, and an image began to take shape above it.
“Lady Kent? What—Oh my, Marquess Allen.”
“Saintess?”
“Yes, this is Fayvie. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
The figure within the orb was none other than the saintess of the Church herself, currently engaged in important duties at the holy sanctuary.
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