Just as the Valkyrie had warned, I bit my tongue and swallowed my pride. Years passed in silence, until I turned eight. By then, the famine had scorched its path and faded into memory. The people of Stella, including nobles, had fallen in love with potatoes. The recipes I carried across worlds became so beloved that they bore the name "Wolfhard" in each of them: Wolfhard Fries, Wolfhard mash, even Wolfhard fritters. Ensuring the Empire knew precisely which family the recipes hailed from.
And my reward for feeding a starving nation during the great famine? I earned the backing of the royal family.
With that came a priceless benefit, meaning my enemies would think twice before acting against someone under royal protection. To strike at me now could be seen as treason against the Empire itself. Even Valkyrie or the Heroine, no matter how much they despised me, they would hesitate before choosing to end me.
And then came the return.
The war at the Northern Wall had ended. Our enemies shattered. Our borders held.
They came home not as men, but as legends, immortalized in the annals of Stella's history.
Even in the land of House Wolfhard, celebrations erupted, as our knights who had fought bravely to defend the Northern Wall had finally returned home, their armor scarred but their spirits unbroken.
But they were not just knights.
They were knights of House Wolfhard and House Wolfhard knights did not ride in on mere horses. No. They rode the skies.
Wyverns, the great beasts that mirrored the dragons emblazoned on our banners. As they descended from the skies, their screeches filled the air and the beating of their wings sent cool gusts of wind across the cheering crowds. Flowers rained like blessings, music thundered through the streets, drums, trumpets, children pointed in awe. Elders wept with pride. Mothers clutched their hearts.
At the head of the formation, riding the largest wyvern of them all, was the captain of the knights:
Dante van Wolfhard.
My uncle.
The Patriarch's older brother.
As a child, Dante had gone swimming in a lake with one of his younger siblings. As the eldest, he had sworn to their father that he would protect them all. But that day, only Dante returned, carrying her lifeless body in his arms. She had drowned.
Whether it was an accident, an outburst of rage, or something darker…no one could agree.
Dante insisted it was an accident, that he looked away for just a second, and when he turned back, she was gone. Only her body remained in the lake, and she…was lost forever.
But my grandfather, the previous Patriarch didn't believe him.
His name was stripped from the records. Officially, no Dante van Wolfhard had ever existed. His birthright passed to Grey van Wolfhard.
And as punishment, at only the age of thirteen, Dante was sent to the front lines, not as a soldier, but as House Wolfhard's weapon. The previous Patriarch deemed death in battle a more fitting fate for a disgraced Wolfhard. Blood could be erased from paper, but not from the body.
Some say the Patriarch couldn't bear the thought of losing another child. And since Dante was a Wolfhard, clearly skilled, as all Wolfhards are trained in swordsmanship from the moment they can walk, this was his way of keeping Dante alive.
Others believe he sent him to suffer, to die in even greater agony, to scream in the same pain his sister felt when she drowned, a payment for his sin.
Whatever the truth, Dante survived.
And in doing so, he became something else.
His body was corded with muscle, his face carved by battle, and his eyes, those golden eyes, were drained of all emotion.
He was a knight bound by duty, one who would die if ordered to. A servant to the very brother who had inherited what could have been his. A fallen Wolfhard.
We gathered outside, Wolfhards and servants alike, our eyes fixed on the sky as the shadow of the descending wyverns swept over the courtyard.
As the wyverns drew closer to the palace, a figure stood atop its highest rooftop, sword in hand, long black hair dancing in the wind.
Grey van Wolfhard.
The moment Dante's wyvern crested the skyline, silhouetted against the golden blaze of the sun, Grey struck.
In a breathless instant, his blade blazed free of its sheath, his sword glowed with a blue light, then became a streak of blue against the sky.
Steel kissed scale.
The streak cleaved straight through the center of its skull, a perfect line drawn between its eyes. For a moment, time held its breath. Then the beast let out a scream. The air trembled, raw, piercing, apocalyptic, that shattered the silence like glass. Its wings flailed once, twice, desperate for balance that would never come before it split cleanly in two halves spiraling away in opposite directions. Its blood rained down like crimson petals.
And then, something most would deem impossible happened.
Behind the falling beast, the sun itself seemed to rupture. One half of the sky shimmered with golden dawn, the other drowned in a curtain of starless night.
The sun hung like a moon in its first quarter.
No longer whole, Grey van Wolfhard had cleaved the sun in two.
Day and night now stood still, divided by his blade. The creature's blood rained down on both sides, painting a celestial canvas of light and dark. A perfect scene. A masterpiece.
It took several long minutes before the sun fully reclaimed its place in the sky, shining once more in brilliant, unbroken light.
Everyone who looked up was stunned.
The knights on their wyverns were so shaken by the sight that they crash-landed in desperation, fleeing the death that loomed in the skies.
Even I, the author, was stunned by the scene.
Something about this didn't feel like what I had written, as if the story had changed without my permission. Maybe because, unlike in the web novel, Sushila was still alive at this point. Maybe the butterfly effect of her survival had changed everything.
And as for Dante, he had leapt from his mount just in time, landing in a crouch.
"I know you missed your older brother dearly," Dante said with a smirk, brushing dust from his shoulder. "But I must say, you've gotten rusty. Prime you would've at least taken off an arm."
Grey stood still, sword lowered but eyes sharp.
"Why did one of your knights try to kill my wife and son?"
Dante raised both hands.
"Woah, put that thing away. I don't even know what you're talking about. All I know is a few knights vanished from their post up north."
Grey didn't answer. He turned, stepping off the roof.
Dante followed, landing beside him.
"Wait. Tell me what happened," Dante asked, more serious now.
Grey kept walking, his voice low. "Sushila was attacked. She's paralyzed. Arthur's mana core is shattered."
Dante's face hardened. "That means…no sword for the kid."
Grey nodded once.
Dante grimaced. "And the ones responsible?"
"I killed them. Their families too. Public execution. None of their blood remains."
A heavy silence.
Then Dante chuckled, ruffling Grey's hair. "That's my little brother. Scary as always."
Grey swatted his hand away. "Don't touch me."
"And still grumpy," Dante grinned. "Some things never change."
As they approached, Dante raised a hand, his voice firm yet reverent.
"Kneel. Show respect to your Patriarch."
At once, the knights dropped to one knee, a single, thunderous motion.
"We have returned, my Lord," they said in unison, voices steady with pride.
Grey wasn't a man of many words, but today, silence wouldn't do. The knights needed to hear something. And it had to come from him.
He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across the loyal warriors.
"You've done well in the North. I know the cost was heavy, we lost brothers. But tonight, we honor them. Tonight, we feast not only for victory, but for the blood we shared earning it."
A beat of silence passed, charged with grief and triumph—
Then the knights rose, erupting in a resounding cheer.