“Are you talking about the marriage that once took place between Calix and Grimaldi?”
As far as Lucian knew, that had been the only time royal blood had mixed with the Calix family. However, Norvek snorted mockingly at his words.
“With something like that, I wouldn’t claim legitimacy. What I’m talking about is a much more fundamental right.”
“What are you talking about?”
Norvek lifted his chin and looked down at Lucian as if he were beneath him, clearly intent on dragging the moment out just to provoke him.
Faced with such a cheap provocation, Lucian let out a brief laugh.
“I’ll give you ten seconds.”
“What?”
“If you have something to say, say it now. If not, I’m leaving.”
Norvek stared at him in disbelief. They were talking about nothing less than the origins of a noble house.
Any normal aristocrat would have demanded an immediate explanation—if only to dispel any doubts about their legitimacy.
“Are you really a noble? You don’t even know where your own family comes from, and you haven’t bothered to find out?”
“If you’ve got nothing to say, forget it. Your execution’s coming up soon anyway—better make sure your neck is clean.”
Lucian finished speaking and turned to leave. Seeing this, Norvek lunged desperately against the bars.
From the firmness of his steps, it was clear Lucian would really walk away without asking anything else.
“I’m talking about what happened before the Grimaldis became the royal family!”
“Hm.”
As if his curiosity had been piqued, Lucian stopped. He returned to the cell and tilted his chin, signaling him to continue.
Trembling with humiliation, Norvek slowly began to recount a secret from the past.
“Before our ancestors settled in Asagrim—when they still lived as barbarians—there were thirty-five tribes living in a snowy wasteland far to the north of these lands. Grimaldi and Calix were just two of them.”
According to Norvek, life in that tundra had been hellish.
Food was always scarce, stealing from others was routine, and still, some died of hunger. The cold grew harsher each year; the furs that worked as coats one winter became useless the next.
“All the tribes knew it. If they stayed, they’d die of cold and hunger. But even knowing that, no one dared migrate.”
“Was there some powerful enemy stopping them?”
“No. The problem was that the cold had become so extreme that traveling long distances was impossible.”
The worsening climate was unnatural. Regions that had once been easily passable had become certain death by freezing.
If even strong adult men couldn’t survive, then certainly neither could women or children.
While everyone hesitated, the chief of one tribe gathered the other thirty-four and said.
— If we stay here, we’ll all die. I’ll lead my tribe and clear the path. Anyone who wants to migrate with us, bring your food and follow me.
It wasn’t pure goodwill—it was a deal. Take on the risk in exchange for shared provisions.
Most tribes scoffed at the offer, but eight decided to follow him.
Thus began the great migration of nine tribes who bet their lives.
“As feared, the cold was brutal. In the first month, half the people from the nine tribes died. In the second, half of the remaining died. Among the dead was the chief who had proposed the migration.”
Before dying, that chief entrusted leadership of the nine tribes to a friend. Grieving, the new leader took his place and continued to guide them.
When their food ran out and the survivors began collapsing from exhaustion, they noticed something—the cold was no longer so extreme.
“The nine tribes had successfully migrated. They settled in a land where plants grew and food could be gathered. But that land was already inhabited, and the local people saw those from the north as outsiders.”
Though more habitable than the tundra, it was still a poor region. With few resources, the newcomers were quickly rejected.
The nine tribes realized they needed to unite and decided to choose a king to rule them all.
“There were two candidates the son of the chief who had started the migration, and the friend who had inherited leadership. Fortunately, the friend gave up the throne to the son, and there was no major conflict.”
The problem started after that.
The tribes didn’t obey the new king. They followed orders half-heartedly or ignored them entirely.
However, when the friend who had given up the throne appeared, everyone moved diligently as if nothing were wrong.
“That’s when the king understood. The throne had not been given in goodwill, but out of formality. The real power had already been decided, and they had forced him to accept the crown just to humiliate him.”
Trapped in that reality, the king had no way out. To continue like that would mean becoming a puppet king—or worse, risk assassination.
In the end, the first king of the nine tribes handed the crown over with his own hands to his father’s friend.
“Then comes the typical founding story. The leader of the nine tribes conquered and unified the native peoples, founded a kingdom, and became its king. Thus began the bloodline of the old northern royalty.”
“An interesting story.”
Lucian murmured.
If Norvek’s tale was true, then the Grimaldi royal family wasn’t, as history claimed, native to the north.
They were outsiders—and descendants of barbarian tribes that had lived beyond the snowfields. The history had simply been polished to sound better.
For some, that might sound like an insult to the royal family, but to Lucian, it was just the tale of an old man.
“Well, I’ve heard your story. But I still don’t see how any of that proves your claim of having royal blood.”
“Because I descend from that first king.”
“What?”
“The one who led the nine tribes and began the great migration across the snows is the ancestor of Calix.”
“…Ha.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped Lucian’s lips.
So, if you traced things back to the tribal era, the cowardly friend of the tribal chief—the one who ended up with the throne—was the ancestor of the Grimaldis. In other words, Lucian’s.
And Norvek descended from the man who had been chosen as the first king but lost the throne through schemes.
Lucian stood silently for a moment, trying to find something to say, and in the end, he spoke with complete bluntness.
“Are you out of your mind? Are you seriously trying to claim legitimacy to the throne based on something that happened before the Northern Kingdom even existed, when you were all still barbarian tribes? Has your brain really rotted with age?”
It was a crude, almost vulgar insult, but nothing else came to mind.
Lucian had never imagined Norvek’s ambition went so far as to aspire to the throne.
He had thought Norvek’s goal was to become the most powerful family in the north—the representative of the feudal lords. But king?
As Lucian stared at him in disbelief, Norvek’s voice ground out through clenched teeth.
“And what about you? The Northern Kingdom fell a thousand years ago. And yet you still stir people’s minds talking about the glory of the north and who knows what other nonsense. If a specter from a thousand years ago still causes such a stir, why can’t I make a claim like this?”
“…”
Lucian was at a loss for words.
Not because the argument was valid, but because he finally understood Norvek’s mindset.
An old man who had always harbored, somewhere deep in his heart, the fantasy that maybe he was the one who should’ve been king.
If the world had been either fully at peace or completely in chaos, that fantasy would’ve died with him.
In peaceful times, causing conflict is a crime; in times of war, surviving is hard enough.
But, as if by some cruel twist of fate, Lucian had appeared and ushered in an ambiguous era.
Peaceful enough that survival wasn’t the only concern, yet chaotic enough that no one could demand accountability.
To the old man standing before him, that ambiguity must’ve felt like his final chance.
“…”
Lucian stared silently at Norvek.
Had the world fallen into true chaos, perhaps Norvek would’ve accepted his failure and simply protected his family until the end.
But now, there was nothing left but a pathetic old man still clinging to the belief that his delusion could become reality.
Lucian let out a deep sigh and turned away.
“What a miserable man.”
“…!”
At those sincere words of pity, Norvek’s eyes trembled violently.
Moments later, the sound of rattling bars and a desperate scream echoed through the prison.
“You bastard! You—someone like you—how dare you…?!”
Lucian ignored the shouting and left the prison.
Telling an old man who had lost everything that his dream was just a fantasy was, in its own way, a form of cruelty.
***
Days later, just as scheduled, Norvek’s public execution took place.
Norvek faced death without a trace of fear. Everything was over—what point was there in clinging to life now?
And yet, even in that moment, one thing still haunted him.
‘How will the others react to my death?’
Would they cheer and celebrate? Or mourn and regret his end?
He was especially curious about the genuine reaction of the common people, free from political interests. After all, the opinion of the people was the true measure of a ruler.
‘Whatever happens, I won’t show a pathetic image at the end.’
With that resolve, Norvek stepped proudly toward the scaffold when the time came. But no one was impressed by his composure.
The crowd simply watched with indifference, waiting for it all to be over.
“After squeezing us dry down to the last copper, this is how it ends.”
“Better for us. I heard taxes are going down. Maybe now we can actually live.”
“I always said he got too ambitious in his old age.”
“Don’t know if I should pity him or just see it as the inevitable result.”
Most of those murmuring had lived in Calix territory.
To them, Norvek hadn’t been a particularly cruel lord—but he hadn’t been a good one either.
He did his duty, yes, but at the cost of heavy taxes and constant conscription.
They weren’t celebrating his death, but they didn’t mourn it either.
“Ha…”
A hollow sigh escaped Norvek’s lips. His back, which had remained straight until now, slumped, and the light faded from his eyes.
He looked like a man who had lost his final hope—or someone who had finally woken up from a long dream.
“What a miserable man…”
He muttered the words Lucian had said the day before.
A soldier gave him a light push on the back.
“What are you doing? Don’t stop—keep walking.”
As if under a spell, Norvek looked around one more time as he climbed the scaffold.
There was no joy or sympathy in the eyes watching him. Only people calmly accepting that their lord had changed.
‘Hah… I wish I had stayed in my dream until the end.’
Norvek knelt before the executioner and exposed his neck. The raised axe caught the light in a chaotic glint. As he saw that gleam descend, Norvek muttered softly.
“Reality… is cruel…”
Slash.
With a single clean stroke, Norvek’s head fell to the ground.
And still, there were no dramatic reactions.
Receiving neither cheers nor mourning, the old dreamer left the world.
____
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