Clytia sat quietly on the bench, tongue out like a cat grooming its fur, licking until the wound turned pale.
I shared the sour, tingling pain with her. I could sense the rough shape of her mood, but not the details of her thoughts—
I was a little puzzled. Why would Clytia do something so close to self-torment? She’d been afraid of pain since childhood, always squeezing her eyes shut when her palms were rapped.
Dong! Dong! Dong! The deafening gong outside cut my thoughts short. Clytia stopped licking, set her palm on her knee, tipped her head back, and silently stared up at the chapel rafters.
What happened? The question rose unbidden.
Nolan’s bandaging was done. Berli had packed the herb poultice onto him. Nolan, who’d been slumping and about to drift off, suddenly opened his eyes wide.
“That’s the emergency muster signal for the village—”
Berli had just washed his hands in the basin. He pressed Nolan back.
“You’re wounded. You need rest—”
Just then came a pounding at the door. Berli dried his hands, muttering as he went to open it.
“What on earth is going on tonight…”
Clytia’s attention shifted. I lifted our eyes. An old man stood there, hair gone white, a bronze gong in his hand.
“Headman… what is it? Why the gong?”
“Ah, Berli, I came to say—little Miss Cyril came to me in the middle of the night saying her brother’s been set on by jackals—so I struck the gong to warn every household. In a bit I’ll call a few men to look for her brother—may need your help…”
“You mean that Cyril boy…” Berli hadn’t finished when a girl in a linen dress popped out from behind the headman.
“Brother!”
“Ah, Diya!”
Nolan turned, trying to get up, but Diya rushed into the chapel first. One look at the gauze swaddling his arm and her brow knit tight.
“This… this is…” Nolan scratched the back of his head, at a loss for words. Diya’s voice wavered with tears.
“I… woke up and found I was alone in the house…”
“Then I went out to look for you and found lots of tracks in the yard, so I followed them. There were jackal corpses all through the woods, but I couldn’t find you.”
“I… got scared and went back to get the headman…”
Diya couldn’t hold back her sobs. Nolan raised his good hand; it hovered near her cheek as if to wipe her tears, then fell, and he only patted her back.
“It’s alright—I’m fine. Just a flesh wound.”
Clytia watched them without a word, and my heart jolted at the name “Diya.”
Yes— I remembered clearly. In the original novel, the protagonist Nolan had a younger sister named Diya.
Why “mentioned” and not “appears”? Because Diya was part of the backdrop—a character already dead at the very start.
The first chapter opened with Nolan working as a low-ranking adventurer when he suddenly got word that his sister, enrolled at the Preparatory Knights Academy and soon to be knighted at graduation, had died of illness.
Brother and sister, inseparable since childhood, parted only when Diya entered school at twelve—then came news of a separation that would last forever. The protagonist sank into grief and let himself go, until one day a keepsake arrived, sent in Diya’s name—
Yes, all signs pointed to something amiss. Bearing his loss, the protagonist followed clues in the keepsake to the Royal Capital, seeking the truth behind his sister’s death, and from there a chain of events—
I traced the cause and effect. One might call it a coincidence of names, but with both Nolan and Diya, there was little room for doubt—these two were likely the very siblings from the original.
I’d overheard them before: Diya was studying letters daily—surely preparing for the Preparatory Knights Academy’s entrance.
“Young miss, forgive the delay. Let me see to your wound,”
A mild voice brought me back. Berli stepped over to bandage Clytia.
It was only a cut across the palm, a simple wash and wrap. Clytia lifted her hand and stared at the bow-knot tied in the bandage.
“Cyril boy!” The headman, who’d been standing in the doorway since knocking, strode inside and bellowed:
“So you’re alright, then?”
“Yes, Headman.” Nolan seated his sister and looked up at the bald, white-bearded elder.
“Diya says jackals attacked the village, so I sounded the gong to put folks on guard—is that a jackal bite?”
“It is…” Nolan gave a wry smile. “Thanks to Clytia for saving me…”
“Clytia? Who’s that?” The headman blinked. I felt every gaze—headman, Berli, Nolan, Diya—turn this way.
Clytia raised her head and met their eyes in silence, only giving a slow shake.
“Oh—oh! I see. She saved Nolan, did she?” Berli broke the hush first, hooking an arm around the headman with a genial grin. “Didn’t you say you had business with me? Come, let’s talk outside—let the children rest.”
I felt a soft hand kneading my cheek—or rather, Clytia’s cheek.
So Clytia opened her eyes; she hadn’t fully slept, only leaned against the bedhead with eyes closed, gathering herself.
“Ah! You’re awake.”
Caught in mischief, Diya chuckled and drew back her fidgety hand. She pushed herself up from lying and looked into Clytia’s eyes.
Clytia blinked, puzzled. Diya stretched, then tucked pale-gold hair behind her ear.
“Mm—still sleepy…”
Watching the girl, I recalled last night’s chaos— the headman roused every able body in the village and formed patrols that ran till dawn. Diya brought Clytia back to the wooden cottage to rest.
As for Nolan—because his wound was worse, Berli kept him at the chapel for observation.
Diya looked Clytia over and smiled.
“Anyway— I don’t really get what happened yet, but my brother says we owe you for last night, right?”
“No. That’s not it.”
Clytia thought seriously for a moment and answered.
“Ah, you finally talked to me,” Diya laughed. “You’re Clytia, right? You spoke to my brother but not to me. I thought you didn’t like me!”
“Is that so?”
Clytia’s face stiffened a touch, but Diya hopped up and changed the subject as if nothing had happened.
“Feels a little cold in here—”
Before I could react, she climbed down, went to the wall, and, using an iron tong, fed split logs from the stacked firewood into the hearth.
Flames roared up. Standing before the fireplace, Diya stared a moment, then said,
“Mm… what time is it now?”
“About noon,” said Clytia. She’d been awake and could feel the passage of time clearly. Diya’s face changed at once.
“It’s that late? Oh no, I should take a meal over!”
A meal—she meant taking food to Nolan at the chapel, I guessed. Diya hurried into the kitchen. Cupboards clattered. She came out with a basket holding a table knife, black bread, and a length of smoked sausage.
Ah—here’s hoping she didn’t notice my little theft.
“No time to cook—this will have to do today.” She set the basket on the table and started pulling on outdoor clothes, then glanced at Clytia and paused.
“Um—Clytia, want to come?”
Clytia hesitated. Diya hurried to explain:
“They won’t make lunch today, so I thought you could come eat too. Otherwise you’ll have to wait for supper.”
Clytia nodded slowly in agreement and stepped down from the bed, but Diya stopped her.
“Wait.”
She went to the corner cupboard and took out an outer pinafore, then turned.
“It’s still cold outside. Wear this over your clothes.”
Clytia slipped on the linen pinafore. The hem fell and covered legs that had frozen through the night. Only then did I realize these siblings likely had only one or two sets of clothes each.
My thoughts strayed to Clytia’s wardrobe. For a duke’s daughter it was frugal, yes, but the garments for daily life and etiquette had to fit every occasion. Counting only what she wore regularly, there must have been fifty or sixty pieces.
Diya looked at the gray-haired girl now dressed and smiled.
“Mm—still a bit big, but it’s big on me too. They say when you’re growing, you leave extra when you cut the cloth.”
“Alright, let’s go.”
Clytia glanced at Diya. The girl hooked the basket over her left arm and, with her right, took Clytia by the wrist. Before Clytia could react, Diya had tugged her through the door—
One girl leading, one following, they descended the hill. The Empire’s northern hamlet called Lotte Village spread before them. It was my first time in days to take a good look.
Most houses were single-story, of mud brick and clay tile or stone, circled at the hill’s foot. A narrow belt of river ran along the village edge, slipped through the woods, and wound away.
Clytia and Diya crossed the little stone bridge at the village edge. Because it was winter, a slick skin of ice filmed the bridge.
“Careful,” Diya said with a grin. I felt her grip tighten, as if holding fast to a handrail.
“Next is… the chapel, I guess,” I thought. The chapel was low, only a two-story stone house, but here it stood out enough.
Then we saw the red-ochre tiles of the spire.
And smelled burning fat.