The afternoon sun cast a brilliant golden trail through the air.
Sylvia watched the motes of dust dance in the light, trying to ignore the sensation of Owen’s touch.
But as he produced a small pot of ointment and began to rub it onto her chin, she could not stop the sharp words from escaping.
“You brought that in here with you?”
“I meant to give it to you then, but I was apprehended before I could.”
“You meant to give it to me?”
Her eyes widened.
Owen did not repeat himself, his lips pressed into a firm line.
His touch was so meticulous as he smoothed the ointment over her skin that she felt no pain at all.
Her chest fluttered as if she were at sea, and the most agonizing part was knowing he could feel it.
After applying the salve with painstaking care, he placed a fresh bandage over the wound and finally stepped back.
Sylvia was torn, half of her wanting to flee, the other half wanting to demand if he had truly done such a thing to those men for her sake.
He looked down at her and spoke, as if he had read her mind.
“You said you were disappointed.”
“When did I…”
‘Could he have felt her emotions then, too?’
At her faltering denial, Owen gave a short, soft laugh.
“I am not good at defying the expectations of others.
A consequence of growing up unloved, I suppose.”
“Are you trying to say you acted out of some personal failing, and not because of me?” she retorted, vexed that he continued to deny it.
Owen gently traced the corner of her upturned eye.
“Even so,” he asked, his tone light, “was it not satisfying?”
It was impossible to argue with a face like that.
She sighed, surrendering to his logic.
“Not particularly.
It was a pathetic spectacle.”
“I confess, I did not anticipate he would be wearing such undergarments,” he admitted, a note of genuine dismay in his voice.
Sylvia could no longer contain her laughter.
A conversation with him was always an unpredictable journey, but if one simply let go and followed his lead, it always ended in a place of pleasant amusement.
Looking back, it had been the same even before that night, when they had occupied the ambiguous space of friends-of-a-friend.
Had she not learned what sort of man he was from their very first meeting, when he had brazenly asked her to steal a bottle of liquor?
Owen glanced at the clock.
It was time for her to leave.
But she did not want to go without having accomplished something.
She wanted to ask how she could help.
“Owen.”
“Do not worry.” He cut her off, seeming to anticipate her words.
“I will not be expelled from the Knights’ Order.
I told you.
I am not good at defying expectations.”
She could not press him further.
Since she knew nothing of his circumstances, when he insisted he had a plan, she could only accept it.
“You should not have done such a thing in the first place,” she grumbled.
He merely raised an eyebrow.
His habit of feigning ignorance when it suited him was infuriating.
Soon after, Owen sent her away, citing the impending patrol, and Sylvia left with no real answers.
What gave him the confidence to remain so serene when a count’s family was raising such hell?
From what she had heard, the Commander himself was in a difficult position.
Within the Knights’ Order, they might preach equality, but in the outside world, insulting a nobleman was a grievous offense.
His claim of being starved now plagued her at every meal.
The image of him, listless in the sun, reaching for the sandwich she offered.
Should she go again?
He was a gifted liar; his confidence was surely nothing but empty bravado.
A man with a plan would not resort to pulling down another’s trousers.
The very idea was more frightening than having no plan at all.
Her head felt like it would explode as she spent the next few days mired in these thoughts.
Two days later, Sylvia saw with her own eyes the source of Owen’s confidence.
Count Bronovitz, the Emperor’s right hand, paid a personal visit to the Knights’ Order.
“See!
I told you they were connected!” a Supporter exclaimed, the same one who had once delved into the Bronovitz family tree to prove a link to the name Summers.
She jumped for joy, vindicated.
With an expression of profound shame, Count Bronovitz referred to Owen as his uncle.
‘I heard my uncle made a regrettable error concerning Count Walden’s son.’ People whispered that it was beyond bizarre to see him use the term ‘uncle’ while wearing the expression of a father at his wit’s end over a troublesome son.
‘For his uncle to be so young, his grandmother must be remarkable.’ Those who did the calculations concluded that the count’s grandmother must have given birth to a Summers in her late fifties.
Sylvia was in the washroom, examining the chin Owen had treated, when she heard the news.
The bandage slipped from her fingers.
Connected to the Bronovitz family?
With the current count’s grandfather having died young, Owen was likely the product of a late-in-life dalliance by the count’s grandmother, Countess Maishinka Bronovitz.
But even with a flaw in his lineage, the connection was a powerful one.
It was said that Count Bronovitz was involved in nearly every political matter, from the Emperor’s meals to his wardrobe.
‘To think he hid that all this time.
Owen is truly something else.’
He had once justified his relentless pestering by claiming it was the only way an ordinary knight could contact her.
Now, it turned out he was the uncle of Count Bronovitz, a man others were desperate to court favor with.
Sylvia frowned, a faint sense of betrayal stirring within her.
‘If the Count has intervened, securing Owen’s release will be a trivial matter.’
The Waldens would tuck their tails and flee at the mere mention of the Bronovitz name.
Unwilling to hear another word on the matter, Sylvia retreated to the training room alone.
‘He should have simply told me then,’ she fumed.
‘Or not held out for days on end.
Is starving himself some manner of pastime?’
As thoughts of Owen clamored in her mind, Sylvia ducked, narrowly avoiding a wooden branch that shot toward her.
Her recent training had revealed the stark weakness of her reflexes, and she had resolved to sharpen them.
When she had stood behind Heston, the thought of dodging an obstacle herself had never once crossed her mind; he had always taken care of everything, ensuring no harm came to her.
On missions with him, Sylvia could simply gaze at his back as he fought monsters in silence, her focus entirely on him.
She had not understood the significance of that trust then, but looking back, she wondered if she had been nothing more than a burden.
“Monster adaptation training will be held in the main building.
Please refrain from personal training…”
As this was an exercise for the knights, the man who entered must have mistaken her for one.
He chided her, ordering her to assemble with the others.
This had happened several times before, so she had kept the lights to a minimum, striving to be as inconspicuous as possible, but it seemed she had been discovered once more.
Sylvia paused her regimen and lifted her head, wiping the sweat from her brow with a towel.
The knight stood silhouetted in the doorway, framed by the light spilling in from the hall.
Just as a flicker of recognition sparked within her, the man called her name.
“Sylvia?”
“Heston?”
At the sound of her own thin voice, every light in the room flared to life.
The sudden, unified surge of mana from the glowing magic stones was blinding, but worse, it made her stomach lurch.
‘Why is my head throbbing again?
Was I struck without realizing it?’
The thought had scarcely crossed her mind when she swayed, and Heston was suddenly there, his hands catching her with an unshakable steadiness.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone perplexed as he scanned the room, as if to confirm what his eyes were seeing.
But there was no mistake; this was a training exercise for knights.
Sylvia felt an inexplicable wave of mortification.
She was drenched in sweat and certain she smelled foul; she had no desire to be so near him.
“I simply felt my reflexes were growing dull.”
“Supporters have their own fitness training.
You have no need for this.”
“I was merely bored.
There have been no missions of late.”
She tried to step away, but Heston’s eyes caught on something, and he pulled her arm, drawing her close once more.
Her hand, which she could not check in time, landed on his firm shoulder.
Sylvia clutched the towel around her neck, craning her head back as far as it would go.
But Heston’s arm was secure around her waist, and he cupped the back of her neck as if he meant to kiss her.
“He-Heston…” she stammered, unable to steady her trembling voice.
A unique scent drifted from him, a cool blend of sea salt and lime.
As he lowered his head, his dark hair fell across his brow.
He narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed on her jaw.
“What is this?” he inquired, his voice low.
A shiver traced its way down her spine.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, untamable thing.
She pushed against him, trying to break free, but for once, Heston held her fast, refusing to let her go.
“Tell me.
Who did this to you?”