And what was a madman not capable of?
Possessing a uniquely twisted mind, he was perfectly capable of enacting such a bizarre revenge.
Sylvia even felt a flicker of pity for Walden’s group for having crossed him.
But the true problem lay elsewhere.
As the others had said, Owen’s lineage was not powerful enough to shield him from the consequences of his actions.
‘If the Walden family demands his punishment…’ No matter how much the command valued Owen’s talent, they would not protect him to the end.
There was nothing Sylvia could do.
What good was being a duke’s daughter?
Her only access to the family’s power was through her father, and if she were to plead with him to save Owen, he would leap to all sorts of strange conclusions and likely make Owen’s situation even worse.
In the end, Sylvia could only watch as the days passed.
‘If only Heston were not away…’ There was no one who could help Owen.
As expected, the families of Walden, Buckley, and Gefael began pressuring the Knights’ Order for his punishment.
Rumor had it they were demanding nothing less than the revocation of his knighthood.
People whispered the news with shocked expressions, astonished by the severity of the demands.
Even those who had initially laughed now soberly declared that Owen had gone too far, appointing themselves judges of morality.
Sylvia could not stand by any longer.
She resolved to find out what could have possibly possessed him to pull such a stunt.
Owen was confined in the detention building reserved for knights who had committed offenses.
Her heart sank at the news, but as his crime was not considered grave, the facility was apparently decent and unguarded.
After picking the heavy lock, she stepped inside to find him fast asleep, his body sunk deep into a plush red sofa bathed in the afternoon sun.
His soft, golden hair was fanned out against the crimson fabric, and his closed eyes gave him an air of perfect peace.
She let out a sigh.
How foolish she felt, having brought a ham-filled roll, worried he was going hungry.
Had coming here been a mistake?
She hesitated at the door, her hand on the knob, when Owen spoke, his eyes still closed.
“The patrol will be by soon.”
Startled, Sylvia hurried inside, the sound of the magical lock clicking shut behind her.
“So thorough,” he observed, his voice dry as he opened his eyes.
The sight of his amber irises, like pools of rich honey, was strangely breathtaking.
Sylvia feigned interest in her surroundings, her gaze darting about the room.
She had rehearsed everything she wanted to say, but now, standing before him, her heart fluttered erratically.
“You look well,” she said, the words feeling hollow.
As she drew nearer, he extended a hand.
Unsure what he meant, Sylvia blinked.
Was he asking for her hand?
After three days of confinement, perhaps he longed for human warmth.
Cautiously, as if accepting an invitation to dance, she placed her hand in his.
A handsome smile graced his lips.
“Not that.
The food.”
“What?”
“Give me what you brought.”
“…Did you think I owed it to you?” Sylvia snatched her hand back, her face flushing as she belatedly offered him the bread.
Owen inspected it and, apparently satisfied with the contents, took a bite.
“How did you know they were not feeding me?”
“They are not feeding you?”
“Only some strange soup.
I have been starving.”
He had been sleeping so peacefully that she had assumed he was comfortable.
She never imagined he was not being fed properly.
Then again, he was not eating with any particular haste.
“You are not lying, are you?
You are quite good at it.”
When she asked, a flicker of suspicion in her eyes, Owen merely glanced at her.
Then, as if to mock her question, he returned his attention to his meal without a word.
“A-are you truly starving?”
“They would hardly prepare a new meal just for me.”
So, while they had given him a fine room on the fourth floor, they had served him the same fare as the common prisoners to save themselves the trouble.
Was it possible he had been sleeping not from contentment, but from hunger?
Now that she knew, it seemed plausible.
His cheeks looked more sunken… Guilt pricked at Sylvia’s conscience, and she sank to the floor before him.
“Are you all right?”
“Not particularly.
I have no energy from hunger, and with nothing to do, I am bored.
I do nothing but sleep,” Owen rattled off, as if he had been waiting for someone to ask.
Sylvia was taken aback.
He and Heston were so utterly different.
Heston would hide any trouble he was in, worried she might fret, repeating that he was fine like a parrot.
Four years ago, when he was gravely injured on a mission, he had concealed it so well that she only learned of it a month later from Rosalyn.
After dealing with Heston, who met every inquiry with “I am fine, do not concern yourself,” it was bewildering to hear Owen speak of starvation and boredom.
‘No, perhaps it is not bewilderment.’ It was… refreshing.
And in a way, she liked that he seemed willing to ask for her help.
“Should I go and get more?” she heard herself offer, seeing how much he was enjoying the food.
Owen glanced down at her.
Sylvia found herself marveling at how a man could look so handsome even while eating a simple bread roll.
“Did you come just to bring me this?” he asked after swallowing.
At his dry tone, Sylvia felt a pang of guilt.
She rose to her feet, her eyes averted.
“No.
I came to tell you that you are in grave trouble.”
“Grave trouble?”
“Yes.
The Walden family is raising a storm, demanding you be expelled from the Knights’ Order.
Why did you do such a thing?
You seemed so uninterested.”
“I was very interested,” he said, his voice a low murmur.
Sylvia’s body went rigid.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she clenched her fists, terrified the sensation would be transmitted directly to him.
“…How can a man not be interested in his own underwear?” Owen continued, oblivious.
“When there is no one to look after you, you must take good care of your own things.”
He finished the last of the bread and dusted off his hands.
To think she had been momentarily swayed by a man still prattling on about undergarments.
Even if the flow of conversation had been misleading, the feeling was utterly humiliating.
“That was not your underwear.
Why do you persist in such a ridiculous claim?” she demanded, exasperated.
Owen adopted a slightly troubled expression.
“My apologies, but sleeping together once does not mean you have seen my entire collection of undergarments.”
“Owen!” she cried out, frustrated by his incessant joking, but he did not even flinch.
He shrugged, as if to say ‘believe what you will’, and she knew he would maintain this absurd claim even with a knife to his throat.
If she were any more naive, she might have believed him.
Who else would cling to such a story when the situation was so dire?
‘Who else, indeed,’ she thought.
‘The man right here.’
Sylvia heaved a great sigh and sank onto the bed.
“You did not tell the Commander that, did you?”
Silence.
Though she had no children, Sylvia felt as if she were dealing with a disobedient one.
“The Commander is a traditionalist.
He detests troublemakers, but he despises those who treat their transgressions as a joke even more.
If you continue this way, he may well expel you in a fit of anger.”
“You do not believe me.
I told you, this was not because of you.”
“How could I believe that?
I am not a fool,” she mumbled.
He rose from the sofa.
As he approached, his footsteps were muffled by the carpet.
It was nothing, yet the simple act of him walking toward her made her stomach clench with an inexplicable tension.
It was likely because this room was even smaller than his dormitory chamber, which she had once thought impossibly small.
‘Why?
Why is he coming closer?’
As the thought crossed her mind, his fingers brushed through her hair, retrieving a small, rustling leaf.
“Did you crawl here?”
A blush crept up her neck.
The path here had not been easy; she had indeed crawled and squeezed through narrow spaces.
It had not bothered her then, but to be caught by the man standing before her was mortifying.
“No,” she muttered, brushing at her hair.
He caught her hand, stilling its pointless motion, and gently tilted her face up to his.
Her eyes met his deep amber gaze.
Sylvia hastily looked away, feigning indifference.
As if meeting her eyes had never been his intention, he lowered his hand and carefully peeled the bandage from her chin.
The slow separation of the fabric from her skin felt strange, perhaps it was his touch, but goosebumps prickled along her neck and jaw.
“Still red.
Does it hurt to move your jaw?”
“It does not.
It is nothing.”
“Perhaps I should have stripped off his underwear as well.”
He said it so casually, despite having just claimed his actions had nothing to do with her.
Sylvia clenched her fists tighter.