Damn. What the hell is even happening. Fuck.
Amanda's thoughts raced through her mind like mad things. She sat at a table laden with delicacies whose cost exceeded her entire annual scholarship from her previous life. Her fingers, encased in golden gloves, gripped the handle of her knife so tightly that the metal creaked.
Just yesterday. Just yesterday I was Yamada Light. A bookworm student dreaming of a career as a prosecutor. Worrying about state exams, dorm debts, trying not to fall asleep during criminal law lectures. And now...
Her gaze slid to Randel sitting beside her. To his profile, his confident posture, the way he held his goblet.
And now I'm sitting at a table with a character from a book—one the author fucking killed off BEFORE the main plot even started! Ahahahaha!
Hysterical laughter mixed with horror rose in her throat. She barely held back from bursting into full-throated laughter or sobbing at the absurdity of it all. Involuntarily, she raised a hand and began massaging her temples, feeling as if her head were about to explode from the surrealism.
The gesture did not escape Randel's notice. He immediately leaned toward her, and his next words were spoken so quietly, so close to her ear, that only she could hear them. His breath brushed her skin above the edge of her mask, making her shudder.
"Are you unwell?" His whisper was filled with genuine concern. Then, after a pause, he added, his voice taking on a new, low, and admiring tone: "You are incredibly beautiful without the helmet. Is that perhaps why you were reluctant to remove it? Please, do not wear it again."
Amanda froze. Her already overloaded brain shut down completely for a second.
Beautiful? Has he gone blind? Or do the aristocrats in this world have such twisted notions of beauty?
She slowly turned her head toward him, her red eyes wide with astonishment behind the mask. Randel looked at her with such unwavering conviction in his words that her breath caught.
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He seemed to understand her silent question and gave a quiet smile, his gaze sweeping the hall.
"Have you noticed? Everyone is looking at you, my lady."
Amanda forced herself to tear her eyes from his face and glance briefly around the table. And he was right. Everyone who could afford a furtive glance was staring precisely at her. Tywin—with cold appraisal. Eleanor—with gentle curiosity. The nobles—with a mix of fear, admiration, and gossipy interest. And Roxana... Roxana was looking at her as if she were the most complex yet utterly fascinating mathematical theorem.
Awkwardness swelled like fog, binding her movements.
Randel, watching her reaction, leaned in once more, his whisper reaching her ear again—this time with a hint of light, almost mischievous amusement in his voice:
"Do not be embarrassed. Your beauty... it stands on the same level as my sister Roxana's. And believe me, that is the highest compliment one can give within these walls."
At the other end of the table, Roxana—whose impossibly sharp hearing seemed to have caught her name—raised one perfect eyebrow. Her crimson lips curved into a barely perceptible, intrigued smile.
"Brother," her voice—sweet and clear as a bell—cut through the air, making several nobles flinch. "I believe I heard my name. Are you perhaps discussing my shortcomings with our guest?"
Randel showed no embarrassment. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze meeting his sister's.
"On the contrary, sister. I took the liberty of comparing our guest's radiance to yours. And I must admit, the comparison proved far more challenging than I anticipated."
Silence in the hall became absolute. Randel Eichenwald, known for his restraint, had just publicly—albeit elegantly—declared that the mysterious Guardian stood on equal footing with the acknowledged queen of beauty and intellect of the Eichenwald house.
Roxana laughed—a light sound like the chime of crystal, yet laced with evident pleasure in the game.
"Oh, what a bold compliment, dear brother. Lady Guardian, you must possess truly otherworldly charm to have so thoroughly turned the head of our stern soldier. I simply must get to know you better."
Amanda felt her face burning beneath the mask. Her gaze met Randel's once more. In his eyes, there was not a trace of mockery or flattery. Only unwavering, quiet certainty—and that same "something more" that was driving her mad.
Yesterday—criminal code. Today—court intrigues and compliments from a prince. I've either gone insane, or this is the longest and strangest dream in history.
And the worst part was that she was finding herself less and less willing to wake up.