“Mother… they…”
Alan flopped onto the floor of his room, the crystal lamps extinguished and the space swallowed by shadows. He had been spiraling in the dark ever since the news arrived that his mother would be sentenced to death for her crimes. “If even you are gone, what am I to do?”
He stood up slowly, his grief curdling into a sharp, jagged anger. An image flashed in his mind: long silver hair and eyes that looked innocent but were always scheming, just as his mother had warned. “Francesca LeonCraft… it was her. It’s all because of her!”
His hands curled into fists. He stormed toward his door, the wood splintering as he forced it open. “She’s the one killing my mother!” he yelled. The look in his eyes was so feral that every servant and maid in the hallway scrambled to get out of his way.
He intended to go straight to Francesca’s room on the ground floor to finish the job himself. But before he could take a single step toward her wing, he ran into a wall of cold, crimson energy. Miller stood before her door, his red eyes narrowed in a deadly glare.
“Lord M… Miller?!” Alan recoiled, but he tried to regain his footing to charge.
“It seems you finally have the energy to stand today,” Miller said, his voice flat and imposing. “Good. We are going to meet Aunt Maria.”
The determination drained out of Alan as a chill settled over his skin. He took a shaky step back, his voice small. “Oh… okay.”
Alan had been avoiding a visit to the dungeons; he simply hadn't been able to bring himself to face the reality of it. Now, following behind Miller, he watched as the light from the crystal lamps grew duller and the air turned damp. The descent into the underground was filled with the hollow sounds of criminals groaning in hunger or pain.
They reached the final cell. There, Maria lay on a bed of matted hay, dressed in a coarse prisoner's gown.
“A… Alan? Is that you?!” She scrambled toward the bars, her voice cracking as she began to sob. Alan couldn't hold back his own tears, reaching through the cold iron to hug her.
After several minutes of weeping, Maria looked up at Miller, her eyes red and pleading. “You… Miller. After your parents died, it was me and your uncle who took you in. We raised you! Is this really how you wish to repay me?”
Miller looked at her with a sober, self-mocking smile. “You know… even after everything you did to make my life miserable, I actually believed you still had some shred of affection for me, Aunt Maria.”
He paused, the smile fading into a look of absolute clarity. “It seems I was just naive.”
“O-of course I do!” Maria cried, trying to manipulate his emotions one last time. “I only ever wanted what was best for you, Miller!”
“Is that so?” Miller’s face shifted from pity to pure disgust. “Was what happened with the rabbits also 'what was best' for me?”
“W-what do you—” Maria began to feign ignorance, but Miller cut her off.
“I haven’t forgotten, you know,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I bet you didn’t even realize that I was already aware back then.”
His mind drifted back to the years before the war, before he had left with the mercenary troupe.. as a dark, buried memory began to resurface.
Crunch~ crunch~
A young Miller, barely thirteen years old, knelt before a large wooden cage, gently feeding fresh greens to a group of fluffy white rabbits. They had been a gift from his late mother, the last precious things he had left of her.
Nearby, several members of the Zeta Mercenary troupe watched him while polishing their gear.
“The young master is so different from his father, isn't he?” one mercenary whispered. “The late commander was a bloodthirsty beast on the battlefield. But the boy... he’s so gentle.”
“Just wait,” another added with a nod. “Once he grows up and takes over from his uncle, he’ll lead us with a steady hand. He has the heart for it.”
From the balcony above, Maria stood watching the scene, her eyes cold as she clicked her tongue in audible annoyance.
Later that afternoon, Miller was in the study, chatting happily with his Uncle, the current regent of the Zeta Mercenary Company. His uncle ruffled Miller’s hair with a warm, calloused hand.
“Remember, Miller, this company belonged to your father, and it will belong to you,” his uncle said firmly. “I am merely holding the seat until you are ready. Once I return from this next campaign, I’ll start teaching you the art of command properly.”
In the corner of the room, Maria sat silently, feeding a one-year-old Alan. She didn't look up, but her grip on the silver spoon tightened as she listened to her husband promise the boy's future.
The next morning, Miller ran to the garden, his pockets full of carrots. He couldn't wait to see the rabbits. But as he approached the cage, the colorful flowers of the garden seemed to lose their vibrance.
The cage door was swinging open. Inside, the once-white fur was stained a horrific, matted crimson. Every single rabbit had been brutally slaughtered, their small bodies broken and scattered across the grass.
Miller fell to his knees, his breath catching in a silent, traumatized sob.
“Oh, my. What a terrifying sight,” Maria’s voice drifted from behind him. She stood there, looking down at the carnage with a disgusted sneer. “It seems your father’s blood is finally showing itself in you, Miller. You’re just as violent and bloodthirsty as he was.”
“I... I didn't do this!” Miller cried, but the seed of doubt was planted. By noon, the entire estate was whispering. The servants looked at him with fearful eyes, gossiping about the "Mercenary’s Curse" that had turned a gentle boy into a killer.
That night, unable to sleep, Miller walked toward his uncle’s room, hoping to find comfort. But as he reached the slightly open door, he stopped.
“The boy is a danger to the servants, husband!” Maria’s sharp voice echoed from inside. “Did you see those rabbits? His father's violent tendencies only subsided once he went to the battlefield. You must take Miller to the war with you. Let him bleed it out there before he kills someone in this house.”
“He’s just a child, Maria!” his uncle countered, his voice full of pain. “I won't send him to that hell.”
Miller didn't stay to hear the rest. Over the next few days, the whispers grew louder. Every time he walked into a room, people flinched. He began to believe the lie, that there was a monster inside him that only war could tame.
A week later, when the mercenary troupe prepared to march, Miller stood at the gates with a packed bag.
“Uncle,” Miller said, his eyes hollow and devoid of their former warmth. “I’m coming with you.”
“After 7 Years of War.. Once Uncle died on the battlefield... the mercenaries were about to disband. But do you know what?” Miller let out a short, pitying laugh that echoed against the damp stone walls. “I banded them together to form a new group. I fought and bled because I thought if I didn’t, there would be no one to protect you and Alan back home from the Jin Kingdom’s invasion. How foolish of me.”
He leaned closer to the bars, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I gave you the household authority thinking that maybe, finally, you had started seeing me in a different light after I received a noble title. But it was just another game to you, wasn't it?” Miller’s expression was now as cold as the northern ice.
“M... My Lord, can’t you overturn the sentence?” Alan pleaded, his voice cracking as he flopped back onto the floor. “We will live far away from here! we won't be any trouble... we—”
Miller cut him off with an exhausted sigh. “You think if it were possible, I wouldn’t have done it? She was caught red-handed with the wealth she has been embezzling for over a year. She did that in cooperation with vassals who kidnapped children.” He leveled a final, crushing glare at Alan. “She will pay for her crimes.”
Turning his eyes back to Maria, who sat frozen in the shadows of her cell, Miller added, “And you don't have to worry, Aunt Maria. Unlike you, I don't hold the grudges of the parent against the child.”
He stood tall, straightening his formal coat. “Since you received a scholarship from Emerald Academy, Alan, you will pack your bags and leave the Ironwood Viscounty for the academy in one week. I will allow you to hold a proper funeral for your mother before then.”
Without waiting for a response or a thank you, Miller turned on his heel and strode out of the dungeon, leaving the sobbing remains of his past behind him.
Just as he reached the corridor, Stella arrived and informed him “My Lord, her ladyship has asked you to come to the drawing room” to which he nodded.