The Knight Commander had summoned Sylvia at the request of the Ministry of Magic, who wished to borrow her abilities.
It was a frequent occurrence, and Sylvia rode in their carriage to the Ministry with a sense of weary familiarity.
The mages always treated her with a particular awkwardness.
She was a woman born a ‘Posmata’, able to read magic circles effortlessly, yet she had become a mere Supporter.
The sole member of the great Ducal House of Appleton to have become a mere Supporter.
Those descriptors followed her everywhere, leaving the mages conflicted—should they treat her with their usual disdain for her profession, or with the reverence all mages held for her family name?
In the end, they always settled on a strained compromise: meticulous politeness layered over a core of profound disregard.
Whenever she was in the capital, she was summoned once a month.
The same mages always came for her, yet they never addressed her directly, always conveying their requests through the Knights’ Order.
But it was too late to be wounded by such treatment.
She was weary of fighting their palpable condescension.
The mages escorted her to the northern tower, an astronomical observatory from which they could view and maintain the countless magic circles protecting the Imperial Palace.
The tower was so tall its peak was lost to the clouds.
It had once stood at the very heart of the palace grounds, a guardian watching over the capital.
But after generations of neglect, the seventh emperor had it moved to the rugged northern hunting grounds.
She knew the stories of the many mages sacrificed in the monumental effort of transplanting the tower whole.
Still, every time she came, Sylvia felt a sense of awe.
The tower was as white as if carved from the bones of a mermaid, its joints etched with golden prayers.
A mage named Emily released the control ward on her wrist.
With a tingle in her palm, the transparent sky began to fill with golden magic circles, weaving together like a vast, shimmering ribbon wrapping a celestial gift.
“Ah.”
Though she saw it every month, the sight never failed to steal her breath.
Perhaps she stared too long, for a male mage named Cabal cleared his throat, urging her upward.
They could not climb the cloud-piercing spire by stair, so they ascended to the top through a series of short teleports.
The mages cast spells upon themselves, rendering the magic circles visible to their own eyes.
“The section we repaired is over there,” Cabal said.
“Would you please confirm that there are no anomalies?”
Most mages and Supporters could make magic circles visible through spellcraft.
But there was a vast difference between seeing through a spell and being a ‘Posmata’, who could see them from birth.
A ‘Posmata’ saw with the clarity of an eagle, instinctively sensing invisible flows and pinpointing fissures.
That was why, after every monthly revision, they called upon Sylvia to look through their telescope.
But their instructions were always devoid of detail.
Entrusting the care of the Celestial Palace to a Supporter was a great injury to their pride.
Thus, anything she reported was treated with the vague dismissal one might give a child claiming to have seen a ghost.
“That section has a reddish hue,” she said.
“It seems isolated, not properly connected to the others.”
They would always furrow their brows in shared frustration, uncertain how to interpret her words and apply a correction.
“Is there anything else of note?”
Sylvia scanned the heavens through the telescope, pointing out several other areas that seemed amiss before her work was done.
They would question her relentlessly, attempting to translate her intuitive observations into their own technical language, only to fall silent again, their pride stung.
In the beginning, she had been eager to help, to do her part for the Empire and the sacred Celestial Palace.
She had actively offered her opinions, showing off her knowledge.
‘The formula in that circle is written in the Toka style, which is incorrect.
The adjacent circle is a Kuala design; its flow must be prioritized.’ But the more knowledge she displayed, the more intensely they showed their displeasure.
One mage had even rebuked her openly, declaring, “This is no place for the likes of a Supporter to interfere!”
Sylvia should have been furious, but she had been struck dumb.
That same mage had later insisted to his superiors that she be removed from all work on the Celestial Palace.
She had trembled with shame and hatred then, but looking back, she understood.
They had seen her desperation—her desperate need to prove herself by accomplishing what they could not.
‘In the end, I am still just a Supporter.’
It was then she had first realized that the old, deep-seated frustration remained.
The despair she thought she had conquered was merely hidden beneath a thin, fragile layer of self-esteem, like a vast, frozen lake.
Not even Heston’s comfort could thaw it.
All she could do was shake it off each night, like flicking water from her hands.
“Understood.
Thank you for your efforts.”
The mages bowed politely, but their expressions were grim as they departed.
The long list of tasks she had given them weighed heavily on their shoulders.
Once they had solved her riddles, they would have to summon her again, listen to her cryptic pronouncements, and return to the tower to wander through the fog of their own limitations.
The carriage dropped Sylvia at the Knights’ Order headquarters.
Dusk had fallen, and the training grounds were empty, bathed in the crimson glow of sunset.
‘I wonder if Heston has returned safely.’
She thought of him under the harsh sun, his gaze fixed on his opponent as he adjusted his grip on the wooden sword.
Twirling the sword was a habit he had when he was in good form, but the deep furrow of his brow suggested he was more focused on some inner turmoil than on his duty to train others.
Something was troubling him.
Given the scratch on his neck, it was most likely related to Princess Katrin, but Sylvia still felt a longing to speak with him, to ease his burden as he had so often eased hers.
“Appleton.”
A hand touched her shoulder.
Sylvia turned, feeling a flash of irritation at being seen while her guard was down.
It was a male knight—coincidentally, one of the men she had seen outside Owen’s quarters.
The one who had crudely snickered that she was ‘worth a try’.
Suppressing a wave of revulsion, Sylvia forced a neutral tone.
“What is it?”
“Ah, nothing important.
I was just wondering if you could help with some training?
I have a dispatch next week, and I am finding it difficult to time my swings with the Palto.
I cannot seem to get the feel for it.”
“Where is your partner?”
“On leave.
Besides, we are low-ranked; it will not matter.
Do not trouble yourself over it.” He delivered the last line with a faint, sarcastic edge that clashed with his servile expression.
The discrepancy made his intentions seem all the darker.
She was reluctant, but she had no good reason to refuse.
And a dispatch next week… if she said no and the man died, the guilt would be a heavy burden.
“Very well.
I can help for a short while.”
“Truly?
I knew you would!
Thank you.” He grinned and patted her shoulder familiarly.
They had barely spoken, and his casual touch grated on her nerves.
But telling herself she was being overly sensitive, Sylvia followed him.
Inside the training hall, five knights and another Supporter were waiting.
The knight who had brought her, Walden, was there, along with the two who had been gossiping about her.
A knot of unease tightened in her stomach, but just then, a knight from across the room called out to her.
“Oh, Sylvia!
You agreed to help?”
It was Michelle, a knight with whom she had shared several meals and was on friendly terms.
Sylvia returned her bright smile.
“Michelle, I did not know you had a dispatch next week.”
“The pressure is on, especially after Heston recovered a Holy Relic on the last mission.”
“Surely no one expects you to do the same.
That would be shameless,” Sylvia muttered.
Michelle raised a fist to her face.
“We must keep morale high!”
“The commander said so.
Then he punched me in the nose with that very fist.”
“Is that why your nose is so swollen?
You should be able to dodge a blow like that.”
The reply came from an unexpected source.
Both Sylvia and Michelle turned.
It was Walden, who had been standing awkwardly, trying to insert himself into their conversation.
His humorless, almost insulting, response to a clear joke cast a sudden chill over the room.
Michelle raised an eyebrow.
“You think you could dodge it so easily?
Shall we wager on it?
Who is better at dodging.”
“That hardly seems a fair contest,” another knight, Buckley, pointed out, subtly referencing the difference in their ranks.
Michelle scoffed.
“With Sylvia as a Supporter, you cannot manage?
Fine.
If you believe it so unfair, I will spot you ten points.”
Walden crossed his arms, stroking his chin with a displeased look.
He had brought Sylvia here hoping for a chance to flirt, but this would mean nothing but grueling training.
Still, faced with Michelle’s arrogant offer, he knew that refusing would make them look like cowards.
In the end, Walden and his companions accepted the bet.