Upon hearing Ophelia's reply, Celt froze for a moment, then fell silent. He saw the resolve and clarity in her eyes—just as he had always known it to be. Once she made up her mind, nothing in the world could change it. Just like that day long ago.
"I'm sorry, Brother Celt. We won't be able to meet again after this."
"I care for you deeply, and I respect you more than words can say. But I have to protect Mother. I have to fight for more power and status—status that no one can ever question or threaten. To ensure Mother can live out her days in peace and happiness, free from all strife, I've made this decision. We were once such good friends… I've always looked up to you as an older brother. But now… for the sake of my goals, I have no choice but to do this. I'm sorry. Please forgive my selfishness. I don't fear the gossip and slander of the court, but I cannot ignore the opinions of my people, my father, and my younger brother—the kingdom's heir apparent. I don't live for myself alone. That's why I can't make choices based on my own desires…"
It was in that moment that Celt first realized the young girl he thought he knew possessed wisdom and resolve far beyond her years—far beyond anyone else in the palace.
But what about now?
He stared at Ophelia, sighing silently to himself. It was clear from her words that she had no intention of ever reclaiming her identity as a member of the royal family. Why? Had time changed her so completely? Or was there another reason? What goal was she striving for now, that she would make such a choice?
Celt understood perfectly well how unimaginable Ophelia's reappearance was. After all, she had been dead for thirty years. For her to suddenly return, looking exactly as she had when she died—unchanged by time—would arouse suspicion in any rational person. Celt had certainly noticed this anomaly. But he had also noticed that this young woman's demeanor, her mannerisms, her very essence, were identical to the princess he had once served.
Between his own observations and the undeniable truth before his eyes, Celt chose to believe what he saw. Though he had no idea how it was possible, a deep sense of unease gnawed at his heart.
"I understand your wishes."
Celt said no more. He let out a long sigh, nodded at Ophelia, then turned and walked out of the courtyard. Ophelia watched his retreating figure with a cold, impassive expression before turning back to her subordinates, who stared at her in bewilderment, still reeling from the unexpected turn of events.
"You may proceed with your training as scheduled. As I said earlier, there will be no changes for the time being."
With that, Ophelia turned and entered her quarters. The others exchanged confused glances, shrugged their shoulders, then went about their assigned tasks, none the wiser.
"Milord… are you…?"
The adjutant stared at his commander's stern, expressionless face, at a loss for words. But Celt paid him no heed, his eyes fixed on the ground as he walked slowly back toward the fortress. It was not until he reached the gates of the main keep that he finally stopped.
"Send word to the patrol unit. The moment they return, bring Lord Black to see me at once. *Only* Lord Black. I trust you understand the importance of discretion."
"Yes, milord! I'll see to it immediately!"
The adjutant dared not ask any more questions. He nodded hastily and hurried off to carry out his orders. He could not help but be stunned by Celt's earlier display of emotion—especially when the legendary general had dropped to one knee before that young woman. The adjutant racked his brain, but he could not fathom who she was, to command such respect from the leader of one of the kingdom's three elite legions. What followed only deepened his confusion: it was clear the general had recognized her as someone he knew, yet the young woman had firmly insisted he was mistaken. And the general—who had always been so unyielding in his convictions—had not argued, but simply turned and left. What in the world was going on?
Still, the adjutant knew better than to dwell on such matters. Obedience was the first duty of a soldier, and curiosity was a dangerous trait. He locked his questions away in the deepest recesses of his mind, saluted Celt crisply, then turned and hurried off to deliver the general's command.
Back in his chambers at the fortress, Celt's stern facade crumbled, replaced by a complex mix of emotions. His face suddenly looked years older, etched with worry and uncertainty. The old general reached out trembling hands for the wine bottle on his desk, pouring himself a full glass. But as he lifted it, he noticed his fingers were shaking uncontrollably.
He was nervous.
Why was he nervous?
Celt frowned. As one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, a veteran of decades of war and political intrigue, there were few things left that could shake him to his core. Yet here he was, trembling with anxiety. Why? He did not believe it was simply the shock of seeing Ophelia again. Though he had shared a deep, brotherly bond with the princess, it had never been anything more than that—no tragic, all-consuming love affair, no life-altering separation. On the contrary, the moment he had laid eyes on her, he had sensed something was terribly wrong.
And it was that unspoken intuition that filled him with such dread.
When Black arrived at the general's chambers, he found only a quiet, composed old man sitting behind a large oak desk. Before him stood two crystal goblets filled with wine, and a rare, expensive-looking bottle. Though Black did not recognize the label, he could tell from its craftsmanship that the wine was worth a fortune.
At the sight of Black, the old general merely nodded, gesturing for him to take a seat.
"Please, have a chair."
"You seem to be in low spirits, General."
Black's tone was as elegant and respectful as ever, but his casual stride, the way he pulled out a chair and sank into it without ceremony, lent his words an entirely different meaning. He looked up at the old man, then reached out and picked up one of the goblets.
"Not as low as you might think, Lord Black."
Celt raised an eyebrow. To be honest, he understood less and less of this young man with each passing day. That young woman was undoubtedly Princess Ophelia—but how had she returned from the dead after thirty years? And why would she call herself Black's adjutant and fiancée? The title of fiancée was understandable, but adjutant? That Celt could not wrap his head around. He knew full well that an adjutant's role was far more than a mere honorific. It meant handling all the tedious, time-consuming tasks that a commander had no energy for—the logistics, the paperwork, the day-to-day management of the troops. But none of that mattered. If that was all it entailed, Ophelia did not need to be an adjutant; she could simply be an advisor. Celt knew firsthand the princess's genius for statecraft—such trivial matters would be child's play for her.
But the true, critical duty of an adjutant was to *lead* in the commander's absence. To issue orders. To command the army. After all, anything could happen on the battlefield. If the highest-ranking officer fell in combat, the consequences could be catastrophic. A commander's life did not belong to him alone—it belonged to the entire army. If he died, leaving his troops leaderless, the result would be chaos and defeat. That was why a good adjutant was indispensable. He or she had to be absolutely loyal, utterly competent, and trusted implicitly by the commander—not to mention respected by the troops. Such people were few and far between.
And while the princess had been unrivaled in politics, Celt knew from long experience that her knowledge of military strategy was practically nonexistent. She was a novice, still fumbling in the dark. She would never be able to fulfill the duties of an adjutant. So why had Black appointed her to such a vital position? What was he thinking?
For now, though, Celt remained silent, sitting in his chair and watching Black intently. It was not until Black set down his goblet, his gaze returning from its casual survey of the room, that Celt finally spoke.
"Actually, I paid a visit to your quarters earlier."
"Oh?"
Black raised an eyebrow, his expression remaining calm and unreadable.
"Then I assume you have a rather… vivid impression of our accommodations. Though I suspect that is not the primary reason you summoned me here today?"
"Of course not, Lord Black. There is something I wish to ask you, and I hope you will answer me truthfully. I swear on my honor that our conversation here today will remain between the two of us."
Black did not respond. He simply waved a hand in a gesture of invitation, urging Celt to continue. Now that they had reached the heart of the matter, Celt saw no point in beating around the bush. He took a deep breath, then fixed his gaze on the young man's dark, penetrating eyes.
"That young lady—Miss Ophelia. Is she truly the princess we once knew?"
…
At Celt's question, Black did not betray the slightest hint of surprise. He remained perfectly calm, his smile never wavering, his posture unchanged. But his answer sent a chill down Celt's spine.
"What answer would you prefer to hear, General Celt? The one you hope for? Or the one you fear?"
"I don't understand what you mean, Lord Black. I'll admit I'm still struggling to make sense of all this. But I think you know exactly what I'm asking. So I beg you—give me a straight answer. It could mean the difference between life and death for our kingdom."
"Are you certain?"
Black's lips curved into a faint smile.
"Very well. Then I'm afraid I have some disappointing news for you. I'm sorry, General Celt—but she is *not* the princess of our kingdom. She is merely a woman who bears an uncanny resemblance to her. She is no royal heir—only my adjutant and my fiancée. Does that clarify things for you?"
"This…!"
Celt was left speechless, unable to refute Black's words. In truth, Black was not lying—not exactly. It was merely a clever twist of logic. But before Celt could gather his thoughts and press further, Black spoke again, his tone cutting through the tension like a knife.
"And I must warn you, General Celt—my primary reason for doing this is to protect Ophelia's safety. Frankly, I don't see how your baseless fantasies about her identity could possibly benefit my fiancée. On the contrary, they would only put her in grave danger."
At that, Celt's face finally changed color.
"What is that supposed to mean?!"
He slammed his hands down on the desk, rising to his feet and glaring at Black. But in the face of the old general's anger, Black merely shrugged, as if he found the outburst amusing. Then he leaned back in his chair, his voice shifting to a tone of business-like casualness that caught Celt completely off guard.
"Now then, General. I believe it's time we got down to business."