When I was eight years old, my little sister was born.
At the time, I already had two younger brothers—one a bit sly, the other wild and mischievous.
But what I wanted most was a sister. From the moment I learned Mother was expecting, I prayed every night beneath the stars for one.
Yet I never got to meet her.
On the morning of her second day, she vanished.
There had been a string of kidnappings targeting noble children, and Father had just warned me to be cautious. Even so, nothing could prepare us for the shock. My parents' grief was crushing.
Mother collapsed and took to her bed for half a year. I still remember staring at her hollow frame, her belly flat once more, and feeling such emptiness it hurt to breathe. Only later did I realize that the phrase a fire extinguished was made for such moments.
The mansion, once filled with hope, grew heavy and dark. Everywhere I went, escorts followed.
Mother's cries sometimes echoed through the halls. To me, the place felt more like a prison than a home.
So I spent my days in the library. At first it was an escape, then a joy for my own curiosity, and finally a desperate search for some clue to bring my sister back.
Of course, that was childish. The adults had already exhausted every lead. Still, I buried myself in study, and before long I was completely absorbed in the study of magic.
It was fascinating—the way holy power could create something from nothing, the way it could refine one's very essence. In time, people began to call me a prodigy.
Nearly half a year passed before Mother appeared again at a banquet. That was when Father announced, quite suddenly, that we would be adopting a daughter.
At last, I understood why Mother's cheeks looked healthier. Soon after, I met Spica.
They placed her in the brightest room of the mansion, where the garden sunlight streamed in. She was the most beautiful infant I had ever seen.
When I leaned over her cradle, she reached out with tiny hands. Without thinking, I extended a finger.
The moment our skin touched, she gripped me tightly and smiled. My heart raced as though pierced by an arrow, and in that instant I vowed to protect her. No one would ever take her from us again.
From that day on, Spica became the center of our lives. Morning to night, my brothers and I were always in her room.
She was adorable—smiling whenever family surrounded her, pouting cutely when she cried for no reason. We cheered for every milestone: her first tooth, her first ribbon, her first crawl, her first steps. Truly, she brought light back into our lives.
When she lisped, "Big Brother, shuki," we threw a party in celebration. When she said she feared the dark, I gave her my favorite stuffed toy to guard her at night.
I spoiled her far too much. I knew it, but I couldn't help it.
She was too precious, and I wanted to be her favorite brother. I wanted her to love me best.
And I wasn't the only one.
Mother dressed her up in gowns and showered her with praise. Father even snuck her into his office and let her sit on his lap while he worked. My first brother after me, gifted in music, played harp and piano to soothe her to sleep.
My second brother, full of energy, spent hours running and playing with her. And me? I read books to her, holding her on my lap as she listened with shining eyes.
Those peaceful days lasted three years.
Then I advanced early to the national academy to study magic. From then on, I could only come home once a week.
Even so, I pushed myself harder than ever, because I never wanted Spica to see me as ignorant. When she looked up at me with sparkling eyes and said, "Elder Brother, you're amazing," it filled me with pride.
She and the rest of the family celebrated my enrollment, though Spica pouted whenever I had to leave. I admit, I enjoyed that—knowing she missed me more than the others did.
But the truth was, I missed her even more.
Only seeing her once a week tore at me. Even now, it still does.
That was why, whenever I returned home, I always brought gifts.
Trendy books, dresses, accessories—Spica's room soon overflowed with them. Not all of them came from me, of course, but I made sure mine stood out.
"Onii-sama, you always bring me souvenirs, but I already have plenty. I'd rather have you come home safely and spend time playing with me!"
What sister in the world could say something so sweet? I must be the happiest brother alive.
Despite being spoiled so much, Spica never grew selfish or threw tantrums. She was thoughtful and considerate, which made me brag about her endlessly at the academy.
By my fourth year, I advanced from student to researcher. And that was when I realized something.
My sister really was special.
In this kingdom, the state religion is the Holy Palace Church. Almost every child receives baptism between one and three months of age, during which priests test for holy power.
In frontier villages, this happens during the harvest festival, but towns and cities all have their own churches. The frontier is more of an exception.
If a noble child is found to lack holy power, they are usually sent away—adopted into another household or given to the church. Without holy power, they cannot remain on the noble registry.
Clergymen, on the other hand, are often third sons or daughters of noble families.
If they cannot inherit or if circumstances prevent marriage, they renounce succession and enter the church. Because it is the state religion, voluntary renunciation grants them quasi-noble status.
Sometimes, though rarely, a commoner child is discovered to have exceptional holy power and is adopted into a noble house.
People call it a Cinderella Story, but it happens maybe once every twenty years. The reason is simple: holy power itself requires balance between parents, and mismatches rarely result in children.
This entire system exists for the sake of national defense.
The First Emperor's daughter, who possessed an extraordinary gift, created a magic known as the Maiden of the Barrier.
It is classified as Lost Magic, and while much about it remains unclear, my own research focuses on uncovering its theory. If we can understand its mechanism, it would prove invaluable.
Though not fully understood, the system still functions today. In essence, the kingdom's seven great cities each anchor the barrier through their Grand Cathedrals.
The royal capital lies at the center, with the First Emperor's daughter serving as the eternal keystone. Around her, six maidens chosen from the great territories lie in ritual slumber, their holy power fueling the barrier.
These maidens remain asleep until their power is nearly spent, at which point they awaken and pass the role to successors. Those with greater power may sleep for over thirty years.
Those with less might last only a few years. Either way, once relieved, they live out the rest of their days honored for their service.
For the nobles who govern each territory, the selection of a maiden is always a dilemma. It is called an honor, but in truth it is also a sacrifice.
What parent would not wish their daughter a happy life? That is why volunteers are scarce.
In recent years, the role has been filled mostly by daughters of lower-ranked noble houses—Barons or near-Barons—whose holy power is limited. They are exchanged every three or four years, an inefficient and sorrowful practice.
Spica was only seven when I told her about all this. I only wanted to boast that I was researching such a great magic.
But she cried.
She said the current maiden was pitiful. Then, upon learning that our own Emmental Territory housed one of the seven great cathedrals, she declared she wanted to visit the present Head Lady herself, just to comfort her.