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"I can’t find him anywhere. Nowhere…"
The creak of the door interrupted Yuri’s thoughts. Conrad entered, offering a polite bow. "Your Majesty, what troubles you?"
Yuri’s vacant eyes remained fixed on the empty bed where someone should have lain, now replaced by hollow silence. "Wolfram… is gone."
Conrad spoke carefully, as if weighing each word: "But Your Majesty, I must assure you—no man named Wolfram has ever existed here."
Yuri’s dark eyes, still as stagnant water, never left the bed. "That’s why I said he’s gone… Unreachable, everywhere."
For a month, Conrad had listened to Yuri obsess over this "Wolfram"—a name utterly absent from Shin Makoku’s historical records. The memory of searching archives for days with Günter and ministers still chilled him.
Yuri moved to the window, fingers gripping weathered wood. "He was your brother," he said, voice trembling with suppressed anguish. "How could you forget him? He’d be furious."
Observing Yuri’s gaunt silhouette, Conrad chose his words gently: "Your Majesty… I only recall Günter as my brother."
The window frame groaned under Yuri’s tightening grip before he finally released it. "Never mind. My apologies for troubling you."
"Duty binds me to ease your burdens." Conrad bowed and departed, the door clicking shut behind him.
At the soft sound, Yuri collapsed onto the bed. The air lacked Wolfram’s scent, leaving his chest cavernously empty. Tears flowed as freely as they had the previous night.
"What nightmare is this?" he choked. "Punch me. Kill me. Anything—just wake me." But heaven remained deaf, abandoning him to this desolate reality.
Months passed until desperation drove him to assemble Wolfram’s image from Lady Cheri’s photographs. Stumbling backward, he stared at the collage. "I… I…" No words came. Only silent fixation.
When acceptance finally neared, new upheaval arrived.
At dinner, Lady Cheri entered with golden hair shimmering, her laughter painting the air with light. "Everyone! I’m pregnant!"
Günter’s brow furrowed then smoothed into resignation. Conrad, recovering from surprise, offered congratulations: "How wonderful, Mother! Though I never noticed—my oversight."
"Flatterer!" Cheri’s blossom-bright smile bloomed as she playfully scolded him.
Yuri silently sipped soup, eyes fixed on Cheri’s slight bump. A fragile hope kindled within.
Günter interjected gravely: "We must arrange the child’s territory and—"
"Names first!" Cheri interrupted. "A girl would be Little Cheri. For a boy—"
"Wolfram." Yuri’s sudden declaration silenced the room.
After heavy silence, Cheri forced cheer: "Lovely! If it’s a boy, Wolfram he’ll be! Our little Wolf will adore it." Others watched Yuri with pitying eyes reserved for madmen.
The meal concluded in suffocating quiet.
Alone later, Yuri traced the collage’s smiling face. "Wolfram’s birthday was spring… Spring child. Fitting." Memories cascaded—honey-gold hair dancing in wind, emerald eyes lowered, their first meeting when Wolfram had glared down at him.
"Willful prince," Yuri murmured, smiling faintly.
Winter arrived with carefree steps. By the hearth, Yuri sipped cocoa beside Cheri. Firelight flickered in his eyes as he said softly: "May this child know health and happiness."
Cheri’s voice warmed like spring thaw: "He will, Your Majesty."
Through icy months, Yuri clung to fragile hope. When spring’s shadow appeared, he whispered: "Will this be my imagined future?"
On the delivery day, tension gripped the waiting crowd. The red-haired witch grumbled about exclusion from birthing duties. Finally, physicians permitted entry.
Yuri rushed in first. Pale but smiling, Cheri lay cradling a golden-haired infant whose wails shook the room. At "Wolfram," Yuri’s stagnant heart jolted alive.
The child’s green eyes sparkled as tiny fingers gripped Yuri’s offered digit. "Wolfram…" Yuri breathed. "Long time no see."
In following years, Yuri invented endless excuses to visit the nursery—bringing toys, usurping maids’ duties. When scolded, he’d grin: "I’ll explain to Günter." Servants marveled at his tenderness.
Cheri often teased: "Our Wolfram’s already charmed a king!" as Yuri flushed speechless.
When Wolfram’s first word emerged—"Yuri"—the king wept, craving eternal playback. "So precious!" He nuzzled the milk-scented cheeks.
Time accelerated. At Wolfram’s coming-of-age ceremony, the 16-year-old (still child-sized in Yuri’s arms) demanded imperiously: "Yuri! I want a sword."
Conrad objected, but Yuri overruled: "A safe dagger, then." Later, when Wolfram insisted on riding a stallion, Yuri yielded despite misgivings.
Wind whipped their faces as they galloped. Wolfram’s laughter filled Yuri’s hollow spaces. "Faster!" The king obliged, feeling whole again.
But destiny’s cruel joke shattered this illusion.
On a sunlit day mirroring their first ride, Wolfram rode alone. Discovering the absence, Yuri frantically searched until finding him astride the white stallion.
"Yuri! Watch!" Wolfram called. Then—hooves faltered. Time dilated as horse and rider fell. Yuri saw everything: the neck’s wrong angle, skull meeting stone, blood soaking grass.
Clutching the cooling body, Yuri poured futile magic into unresponsive flesh. "Please… Open your eyes. Please." He begged the uncaring sky.
Conrad and Günter arrived to silence—Wolfram’s blood, Yuri’s hollow stare. "Your Majesty…" Conrad began. Yuri’s black-hole gaze offered nothing.
The funeral rain fell gray and colorless. "My fault," Yuri told weeping Cheri. "I shouldn’t have let him ride."
She shook her head. Clenching self-loathing, Yuri stared at the grave. A gust stirred. "Wolfram…" he whispered to the wind. "Where are you going now?"