Back in the room, I calmed down and realized how utterly foolish my reckless dash outside had been.
Come to think of it—wasn’t it strange? Why had I suddenly been able to control Clytia’s body?
I stood before the bed’s full-length mirror, gazing at the reflection of the small, gray-haired girl staring back.
Though I had inhabited this body for more than ten years, in that moment I still felt something uncanny.
So short—she had to stand on tiptoe just to reach the windowsill.
So thin—a mere gust of wind might snap her in two. How did she endure horseback riding and sword drills?
And this gray-black hair—the braid bound tight at the back of her head felt as if it were tearing the scalp away. It was unbearable. I reached up, tugged loose the clasp, pressed the latch, and with a soft snap, her long hair tumbled free, cascading over her neck and shoulders.
“Loose, it looks better…” I muttered, twisting my head before the mirror, then forced myself to think of the real issue.
“Carefully considered, the only difference today—the only thing that set it apart—was that Clytia was implanted with the Seed of the Evil God…”
“Could that be the reason?”
“No—wait. Could it be that Clytia… died, and that’s why I—”
Panic prickled through me. In the usual transmigration tales, the transmigrator and the host shared a relay-like relationship. Once the original’s consciousness perished, the transmigrator could naturally step in and live their second life in freedom.
But I wasn’t the same. I had watched this child grow with my own eyes. When I first realized my situation, just remembering her hysterical villainy in the novel filled me with revulsion. But as she grew before me, as I lived through her bleak childhood in her place, even knowing what she would one day become, I couldn’t summon any hatred.
If it were none of my business, I could self-righteously declare: “A tragic past is no excuse to harm others.” Then I could go on despising her in peace.
But now? What right had I to stand aloof and say such lofty words? To live something firsthand and to hear of it secondhand were worlds apart.
“If Clytia dies because of the Seed of the Evil God… then what am I supposed to do…”
I sighed and collapsed onto the bed.
****
At some point, I drifted into sleep.
When I awoke, the body’s control had returned to Clytia.
The inability to move at my own will gnawed at me—especially after tasting freedom, however briefly.
But seeing that Clytia still lived—that her consciousness hadn’t dissolved, that her spirit hadn’t shattered—brought me a measure of relief.
Now, she wore a woolen coat and a fur-lined cap, gripping reins as she struggled against the northern winter’s bitter winds.
Morning equestrian lessons—of course. I noticed her two older brothers, Trek Erandel and Dils Erandel, urging their chestnut ponies up the mountain path, racing each other.
“Young Miss, you must feel the rhythm of the horse’s muscles, sense its intent—only then can you control it.”
The nanny had mounted as well, no maid’s apron today but trousers fit for riding. She steadied Clytia as the girl sat astride her own horse.
The direction of the horse was in the nanny’s hands. The duke wasn’t so witless as to let a ten-year-old, her feet barely reaching the stirrups, control a beast. Still, I knew: this was no genteel exercise, no noble ladies in the capital perched side-saddle in skirts, prancing along fields in elegant patterns. This was something harsher.
Under the nanny’s urging, the piebald horse surged forward, the wind slicing our faces like blades.
Her brothers had already vanished ahead with their own instructors, leaving me and Clytia to the nanny’s guidance.
Suddenly, the nanny drew the reins, slowing the horse.
“Look—there, in the grass. A snow hare.”
Clytia squinted. A white rabbit, ears twitching, nibbled at the grass—so soft and harmless.
The nanny drew a short crossbow from her leather pouch and pressed it into Clytia’s hands.
“Would you like to try?”
“I…”
Her lips parted, but the loaded weapon was already in her grasp. Wordlessly, she lifted it as she had been taught, aiming.
I felt her deliberately shift the sight aside before pulling the trigger.
The bolt struck the ground a foot from the hare’s nose. With a burst of snow, it bolted.
But the nanny, still on horseback, had already drawn and loosed an arrow. It struck the hare clean through the throat.
“You may fetch it back,” she said calmly.
“…Yes.” Clytia hesitated, then dismounted, trudged through the brittle grass, and lifted the limp body by its ears, her face blank.
The nanny hung the kill on the saddle hook, lifted Clytia back into the saddle, and urged the horse forward once more.
“We Veylins—we are a people of farmers. But to withstand the wolves of the frontier, we learned the art of riding and shooting.”
She recited history in her measured tone. I listened idly. In the novel, the Veylin people had never even been mentioned. After all, the spotlight of fantasy was always on elves, dwarves, demons.
But in reality, even the most minor of human tribes clung to their stories, their sense of distinction.
And what about Clytia? What did she feel, hearing this? I tried to sense her, but her thoughts were far away, weighed down.
Because of the rabbit? Perhaps. Children rarely resist the pull of soft, harmless creatures—even if such rabbits appeared roasted golden on the duke’s dining table every day.
We rode the mountain path behind the castle, a route usually an hour’s round trip.
But today was not ordinary. A sudden gale rose, flinging dust and stones, startling the horses into panic.
The nanny pulled me down, shielding Clytia as the wind grew fiercer.
Clytia tugged her cap tight, eyes darting nervously over the barren slopes, rocks and dead grass whipping in the gale.
“Young Miss,” the nanny said sharply, “stay behind me.”
“What is it?” Clytia asked.
“A mage at work.” Her answer was clipped. She drew a curved saber from the saddle.
At the end of the mountain path, a figure appeared—cloaked head to toe in black.
“How foolish.” The nanny’s eyes hardened. “A mage, showing himself.”
Magic—Clytia’s heart thudded in terror. Though this was a fantasy world, we had rarely seen true sorcery firsthand.
The black-robed figure clapped his hands lightly. The ground heaved. From the earth rose two hulking golems, each nearly ten feet tall.
“A prepared trap,” the nanny muttered.
The golems thundered forward.
And then the stern, rigid nanny moved like a dancer. With a twist and a leap, she soared high, saber flashing in a swift arc across a golem’s back.
It crumbled instantly, collapsing into rubble before it could even swing its fists.
Landing lightly, she pressed forward at once, charging the mage. Her blade traced silver, and the black cloak burst apart like a pierced waterskin, spraying blood.
“Young Miss, should you ever face a mage, never get caught in their spells. Attack the body directly.”
She stood untouched, blade unstained, speaking as if in a lesson.
“I—I understand…” Clytia stammered, pale at the bloodshed. I wanted to cry out, but my voice would not form.
Because I could see it—the corpse on the ground was moving. Slowly, grotesquely, it stretched its limbs at impossible angles.
The nanny had already noticed. With a swift stroke, she severed both arms.
“I knew you were feigning death.” She sneered.
But—
With a wet shkkt, a black, writhing tendril shot from the mage’s chest wound, lancing through the nanny’s torso.
“Ugh—!”
Blood welled from her lips, but she did not fall. Saber raised, she struck again, desperate to drag her foe to the grave.
Then the tendril’s lurid patterns flared red. In an instant, her body shriveled like dried husk, collapsing into ruin.
Clang—her saber fell.
The tendril whipped, flinging the corpse aside. It snapped in two like rotted wood, bloodless.