Vol 1 Chapter 13: Trembling Steps at the Door of Reality

The footsteps of the horses carrying Clara and the elite knights along the cobblestone streets of Rose Valley were unheard by the world. Only the evening wind passed softly, sweeping the petals of wildflowers along the way. Behind the low-hanging mist, Clara sat upright in her saddle, but her heart... was shaking.

Rose Valley.

The name was commonplace for the nobles in the capital. Just a small village far away on the edge of civilization. But not for Clara. Because every step closer to the village, it felt like she was leading her to the gate she had kept tightly closed for the past seven years.

Under the orange shadows of the evening sky, the small village appeared like an old painting forced back to life—quiet, unpretentious, and pungent with a nostalgic scent.

Clara looked down at the ground.

“Seven years... after everything that happened, why am I still trembling?”

—

Meeting the Shadow of the Past...

They arrived at the home of a local farmer, asking for information about the movements of the two fugitives they were pursuing: Bragg and Garel. However, none of the villagers mentioned that name. Instead, they mentioned the name of a kind mother with a sweet little child.

Marry.
A young mother who lived at the edge of the village. Gentle, generous, and loved by all the villagers.

Clara suddenly felt like the world was toying with her.

“Don’t tell me… it’s impossible…”

She remembered that voice. That tone. That name.

—

In Front of the Rose House...

The afternoon was almost over when Clara stood in front of a simple house surrounded by a wooden fence and a small, neatly maintained rose garden. The air was fragrant, calm, and too peaceful for a bloody executioner like the Blood Rose Princess.

But Clara knew better than anyone: it was in the most peaceful places, that the deepest wounds were usually hidden.

Clara raised her hand—trembling. She didn’t know if it was because of nervousness, fear, or perhaps a secret hope that she had yet to fully submerge.

She knocked softly.

And from behind the door, a soft voice greeted her:

"I'll open the door, Caelan... maybe a guest."

Clara almost stopped breathing.

The door opened.

And there... stood a figure that hadn't changed a bit in seven years. Long silver hair, a calm but tired face, and sharp blue eyes that now held... tenderness.

Marry el Rose.

Clara was stunned. Unable to speak.

Meanwhile, Marry, who initially thought it was just an ordinary guest, also suddenly froze. Their gazes met for a moment—and time stopped.

In an instant, all the memories that Marry had locked away exploded. The old church night. The detective girl with the eyes of judgment. A confused gaze full of wounds.

And now, the girl stood before her—already an adult, but Clara was still Clara. Firm, gentle, and so honest... that it hurt.

—

Silent Tension...

For a few seconds, no one spoke. Only gazes that exposed each other's past.

Finally, Marry broke the silence, her voice soft, almost trembling.

“Did you come as Clara… or as a Detective?”

The question was like a knife.

Clara swallowed. Then answered, slowly, honestly:

“I… don’t know.”

“I just want to know… if I really saw the truth back then.”

—

Caelan and the New Light...

At that moment, small footsteps were heard from inside the house. A little girl with eyes like the sky and silver hair appeared, hugging Marry’s waist as she asked innocently:

“Mom, who is she?”

Marry stroked the child’s head gently.

“Mom’s old friend.”

Clara looked at the child… and for the first time, tears welled up in her eyes. She didn’t just see a little child. She saw the answer to all her questions.

The world had not been completely destroyed.

Because from the hands of the executioner who had once shed blood for the sake of the law… now a life so pure was born.

And there… Detective Clara understood one thing:

“True justice is not punishing the world… but saving one child from it.”

—

That day, Clara's steps were indeed shaky.

But those steps brought her right in front of the door of reality that she had refused to open.

A door that led not to a criminal...
... but to a mother.