“In any case, what brings you here?”
Owen blinked, surprised by the sudden attention, then spoke slowly as if just recalling his purpose.
“The Commander was asking for you.”
“An errand, the moment you return from leave?
But you have no reason to be at the Knights’ Order at this hour.
Your leave is not over until morning.”
“My heart was aching,” he said simply.
“I came to see what was wrong.”
Michelle, startled by his casual mention of an aching heart, began to fuss that he ought to see an imperial physician.
But Sylvia, who suspected the true reason, merely averted her eyes and pretended not to have heard.
Owen glanced down at Sylvia, then gave a slight nod.
“It is likely nothing.
Go and see the Commander.
I believe he is looking for you about the dispatch.”
With that, Michelle shot one last withering look at the male knights, Walden included, before giving Sylvia a comforting gesture.
She quickly tidied the training grounds, then brandished a fist at the men before departing with her group.
All the while, Sylvia’s chin grew a deeper shade of red.
Walden, who had requested her help with the training, flushed to the tips of his ears, embarrassed by how the situation had devolved.
No matter how much the Knights’ Order emphasized equality among its members, Sylvia was still the sole daughter of the Appleton ducal house.
“Are you all right?”
Sylvia had no desire to offer a reply to Walden’s perfunctory question and simply shrugged.
Despite her dismissiveness, he stepped closer, his face a mask of profound sympathy.
“The men have been on edge.
Michelle has been grating on their nerves for some time, and it seems they have grown quite resentful of us.”
Whether true or not, his excuse, offered the moment Michelle was gone, sounded utterly pathetic.
Unwilling to indulge his nonsense, Sylvia stepped back to distance herself.
“My apologies, but I must be going.
My chin is rather sore.
And since my support was evidently lacking, it would be best if you asked someone else next time.
Though I am not certain you will find anyone who can satisfy you.”
“Is she bragging about being the best?” Gefael scoffed, still flush with aggression and failing to grasp the situation.
Sylvia fixed him with an icy glare.
Walden shifted slightly, placing himself between them.
At the sight of Walden’s pleading expression, begging her to let it go, Sylvia finally sighed and relented—not out of pity for him, but from the weary knowledge that she had nothing to gain from this conflict.
As she silently withdrew, Walden’s body relaxed in relief.
He gestured frantically at Gefael, trying to convey that if word of Sylvia’s injury reached his father, they would be finished.
But Gefael, still clinging to his defiance, delivered the final, cutting blow.
“So what?
It is not as if Duke Appleton would care.”
Sylvia strode away as if she had not heard him.
Owen, who had witnessed the entire exchange from her side, followed without a word.
Her sharp footsteps and Owen’s unhurried gait echoed in the darkening street.
Finding his long stride—one of his steps for every two or three of hers—intensely irritating, Sylvia quickened her pace.
But Owen, who seemed to have no particular business with her, shadowed her to the very end.
‘What is it?
What do you want?’ she wondered, but a stubborn pride kept her from turning to face him.
She did not wish to act so familiar with him, though she could not say why.
After walking for some time, however, the reason became clear.
She was disappointed.
Disappointed in Owen, who had stood back with such indifference, a silent observer to her humiliation.
‘Heston would have intervened,’ she thought, the comparison rising unbidden.
Had their relationship remained that of ambiguous acquaintances, she would never have entertained such a thought.
But they had shared a bed, if only for a night.
That night, Owen had been surprisingly tender, and he had felt closer than anyone in the world.
The way their eyes met, the mingling of their breath, the large hand that had gently cupped the nape of her neck.
They had exchanged few words, none of them meaningful, yet Sylvia felt as if they had shared a thousand silent conversations.
But to Owen, it seemed she was no different than before.
He remained a bystander in her life, a tourist who merely stopped to look before moving on.
A strange and hollow sense of loss settled over her, deepening her melancholy.
They reached her carriage, and still Owen said nothing.
Sylvia reached for the bell to summon her coachman, but Owen’s hand closed around her arm.
He spun her around.
The bell above her head clanged with a dull thud.
Owen, who seemed lost in thought, finally lifted his eyes.
“Come to think of it,” he said, his voice quiet, “I felt nothing from you back then.”
The remark was utterly unexpected.
Seeing her confusion, Owen gestured back toward the training hall.
“When you were on the ground because of them.
I felt nothing.
It must have pained you, and your pride must have been wounded.”
“You are the one who told me not to let you feel anything,” Sylvia muttered under her breath, recalling his threat.
But that was not what he meant, for he was still lost in thought.
“In a situation like that,” he murmured, “to feel nothing… that is more difficult than the pain itself…”
He spoke so softly that Sylvia did not quite catch the words, her attention drawn to the coachman who was hurrying toward them.
“What did you say?” she asked belatedly.
But Owen, his thoughts apparently collected, merely shook his head as if it were nothing.
He released her arm and, without another word, strode away on his long legs.
“What was he trying to say?”
She watched his retreating back, a great and frustrating enigma, shook her head, and climbed into the carriage, telling herself she had no desire to know.
At that moment, Sylvia had greatly underestimated Owen’s capacity for madness.
Owen Summers was already unhinged, a man who could reveal his insanity at any moment.
The next day, Sylvia headed to the Knights’ Order for an early training session.
When she awoke, her chin looked even worse.
She had used the last of her expensive, holy-power-infused ointment to erase the traces of her night with Owen, leaving her no choice but to apply a large, conspicuous bandage.
“This is dreadful.”
The white bandage, placed just below her lip, pulled uncomfortably with every movement of her jaw.
She knew everyone would immediately ask with whom she had fought.
She might have applied it more neatly with a bit more time, but she could not be late.
Hurrying, she climbed into her carriage.
When she arrived, however, the training grounds were empty.
Wondering if the location had been changed, she stepped outside and saw a crowd gathered in the distance.
It did not take long to realize this had nothing to do with training.
“What the hell did I do!
Is this about yesterday?
Damn it, who the hell are you!
Damn you!”
A man’s voice screamed vitriol.
Had a fight broken out?
Such things were rare, as the command valued teamwork above all else, and the punishments were severe.
‘It is no concern of mine.’ Believing none of her acquaintances would start such a brawl, Sylvia nonchalantly craned her neck to peer through the crowd.
She froze.
On top of another man, a hand casually gripping his collar, was a figure with blond hair.
‘Is that… Owen?’
His hair fell across his eyes, but his characteristically impassive face was unmistakable.
The man pinned beneath him struggled with all his might, clearly humiliated to be subdued before a crowd, yet Owen held him with one hand, seemingly without effort.
The man was in a chokehold.
He threw his head back, letting out a strangled gasp.
‘Don’t tell me that’s…’ The movement revealed his face.
Though she had been unsure from a distance, she now recognized him as Gefael, the knight who had relentlessly provoked her the day before.
“Agh!
Let go!”
“Apologize,” Owen said calmly.
Sylvia was bewildered.
Could he be doing this because of her?
Was this his idea of revenge?
But she had never wanted anything so extreme.
Her disappointment had stemmed from his detached indifference, the way he had stood apart from it all.
She had never wished for such a brutal reprisal.
“Apologize for what, you bastard!” Gefael spat, his eyes blazing with contempt.
He must have been born without fear, for he seemed utterly unintimidated by the immense difference in their strength.
Owen tapped Gefael’s head with a careless rhythm.
“Apologize,” he repeated, “for stealing my underwear.”
His ‘what’?
Sylvia, the crowd, and even Gefael himself went still.
He stole ‘what’?