When Kel von Rosenfeld walked out of the estate at dawn, not a single servant saw him leave.
But the absence he left behind filled every corridor like a hush no one dared acknowledge.
The Rosenfeld estate, fortress of the northern winds, continued its routines with impeccable discipline—bells rang at the correct hours, guards rotated on precise intervals, training yards echoed with steel and breath.
Yet something subtle shifted in its atmosphere.
Like every stone remembered a heartbeat that wasn't there anymore.
Like winter noticed its smallest flame had gone.
In the first days, nothing changed on the surface.
The young heirs trained. The knights practiced formations. The servants swept the halls and polished floors wide enough for dignitaries to walk over without seeing them.
The assumption echoed from the highest noble wing down to the kitchen corridors:
"Young Master Kel is undergoing secluded training."
"By direct order of His Grace."
"No one is permitted to meet him."
No one questioned it.
The cursed heir was rarely seen anyway.
He was a quiet shadow in life—
It was natural for him to become invisible in training.
Marine
She was the only one who knew the truth.
Kel's personal maid.
Marine.
Nineteen winters old. Soft-featured, dark hair neatly braided and always tucked beneath her maid's linen cap. Her posture was straight, her voice gentle—never loud, never unnecessarily soft.
For years, she had watched him grow while the curse drained him day by day. She had been there when he could not stand after training. When he coughed into cloth until it stained crimson. When he forced himself to read under moonlight rather than waste hours to pain.
She had sworn loyalty not because the House demanded it.
But because Kel did not.
When Kel left, he left her a letter.
Folded once.
Placed beside the window, precisely where sunlight would reach it first.
She had found it before dawn.
Her fingers traced the seal before breaking it. She read slowly, once. Her lips parted.
Then she read again.
Silently.
The letter was brief.
Marine,
I will not be in the estate for some time.
I am leaving by choice.
I ask you to pretend you do not know this. Do not speak of it to anyone—including the Duke.
Care for the room until I return.
I intend to.
Kel
No elaborate farewell.
No excuses.
But that last line—
"I intend to."
Her hands trembled.
He intends to return.
She folded the letter with care.
Held it to her chest.
Then—as he requested—she composed her expression, steadied her breath, and pretended she had never read it.
She returned to work with the same calm, the same schedule.
When servants asked if the Young Master needed anything, she answered as always:
"Everything is handled. Please focus on your duties."
Her voice did not break.
But her eyes, when looking out the frost-covered window the next morning, lingered a little too long on the distant forests beyond the estate walls.
The Knights
The training yard felt subtly… rigid.
The younger knights had often watched Kel's struggle from afar—not mocking, not sympathetic, but curious.
He was the cursed heir.
The one too weak to fight.
The one who, during the contest to choose his companions, defeated multiple trained knights using breath and vision alone.
It had left an imprint.
They expected whispers.
There were none.
Only silence, and more rigorous drills.
Sir Havel, a senior instructor, adjusted the routines. Increased stamina training. More archery practice added. More tests on reaction speed.
He never said why.
But sometimes, when watching the younger knights repeat stances, his gaze flickered to the empty observation deck where Kel once stood silently—even when too dizzy to train.
As if expecting him to be there.
The Scholars & Court Figures
Talk surfaced in quiet tea rooms.
"Duke Arcturus has finally begun his son's intense private training."
"He is preparing him for succession rites."
"I heard they locked him in a meditation chamber for elemental purification."
"Or perhaps… he's undergoing experimental mana stimulation."
No one suspected Kel had left.
Why would they?
He was too ill.
Too fragile.
Too doomed.
He could not possibly abandon imperial territory.
Not without Arcturus sending three battalions.
So they talked.
Politely.
And waited for results.
Duke Arcturus von Rosenfeld
He was neither seen more nor less than usual.
His schedule was precise.
Council meetings. Strategy reviews. Military briefings.
He did not attend meals outside his private dining chamber.
He did not mention Kel.
Only those who served him closely noticed the smallest changes.
He worked later than usual.
His evenings were quieter.
More winterwine remained untouched.
He walked to the northern balcony more frequently, though only briefly, and each time his gaze drifted toward the mountains before turning away.
To avoid looking like a father seeking his son.
The Room Kel Left Behind
Marine maintained it as he asked.
Curtains drawn halfway. Books aligned exactly in the order he preferred.
Blankets folded at the foot of the bed, even though it remained untouched.
One night, when she closed the shutters against a heavy snowstorm, a cold wind pushed through.
She paused.
Looked at the desk.
Empty.
Then at the chair beside it.
Also empty.
She placed her candle down and looked at the window.
She whispered, though no one heard:
"…Young Master."
Her hand lingered on the glass.
"I kept your secret."
A soft breath.
"So please… keep your promise."
She closed the window.
Returned to her duties.
As if she had said nothing at all.
Rumors That Did Not Reach the Estate
Beyond the estate walls, beyond the Empire's northern patrol routes, beyond the barbarian camp—
something shifted.
A guard on watch reported colder winds than usual.
An owl that perched on the western tree line stared too long at the estate before taking flight.
An old gardener working at dawn looked at the empty spot beneath the frost-bitten willow where Kel once spent mornings reading and thought—
The snow waits for someone.
Then returned to trimming dead leaves.
And so the days passed.
Kel's absence remained unnoticed.
Rather—
His existence simply faded into the background noise he had lived in for years.
No one thought to wonder why they no longer heard quiet footsteps in the library.
Why the training yard lacked a single silent observer.
Why the window of his room never steamed from breath when morning frost came.
The estate did not mourn him.
It did not celebrate him.
It simply waited.
Without realizing it was waiting.
The only two who knew—
Marine, and Duke Arcturus, each carrying the truth like a blade tucked beneath formal robes—
kept their silence.
Both pretending not to notice that the winter this year felt…
impatient.
As if something had shifted in the lands beyond.
As if the snow was no longer simply falling—
But listening.