As expected, the moment Count Bronovitz appeared, Count Walden retracted his claws, acting as though he had never demanded Owen’s expulsion.
He offered a polite apology and promised to compensate for any damages, but no fool would actually demand a fortune.
It was far more advantageous to leverage the incident into a lasting connection.
Owen, it was said, was released from his cell only after the matter was settled—all because the Count had declared, “I must take my uncle with me.”
“But they looked nothing alike,” remarked a knight who had witnessed the meeting.
Owen had appeared startled upon entering the room, while an undeniable displeasure had been etched on the Count’s face.
Judging by the suffocating atmosphere, their relationship was as dreadful as everyone had suspected.
‘Well, one could hardly expect him to be pleased with an uncle his own son’s age, the product of his grandmother’s affair.’ The truly strange part was the Count’s public appearance.
He could have handled the matter quietly, discreetly.
Instead, he had arrived at the Knights’ Order as if he wanted the entire world to know of Owen’s origins.
After years of neglect, why now?
Did he suddenly have a use for Owen?
For a man of Bronovitz’s standing, the only use for a young man like Owen was a strategic marriage.
It was well known that the Count’s own son had married a woman of humble station for love.
“I am not good at defying the expectations of others.
A consequence of growing up unloved, I suppose.”
Sylvia recalled Owen in that small, squalid room, laying his vulnerabilities bare without a second thought.
His golden hair had glittered in the sunlight pouring through the window.
The air had been thick with the smell of dust, but from his simple clothes had come the faint, clean scent of soap.
If he was not good at defying expectations, did that mean he would be unable to refuse if the Count demanded he marry another woman?
The thought troubled her, but she shook her head, trying to clear it.
What happened to Owen was no concern of hers.
She had more than enough to contend with when it comes to Heston.
“My goodness, my lady!
Your face is an absolute fright!”
The next morning, Alicia made a fuss the moment she saw Sylvia’s face, which was drawn and pale from a restless night.
“To say my face is a fright the moment I wake…” Sylvia murmured, rubbing her heavy eyelids.
“Well, what am I to do when it is true?” She washed Sylvia’s face with a cloth dipped in warm water.
“Surely you did not lose sleep over that business at the Knights’ Order?”
“Last time, your jaw was bruised blue.
Someone is tormenting you, are they not?”
A warm, soft scent rose from the freshly pressed uniform.
Sylvia submitted to Alicia’s ministrations, marveling at her endless stream of words.
Even the fussing felt good.
When she went on dispatch, she had to wash while shivering in the biting cold.
‘No.
In my case, it was better than most, Heston would fetch water and even mix in a little heated water for me.’ Seeing his hands, red from the chill, she had always wished she could offer him the warmth of her own instead of fussing over him.
But all of that was meaningless now.
“Have you not been taking that medicine for a rather long time?
What is it, precisely?”
“I told you.
It is from when…”
“From the spell your brother cast that made you feel unwell?
But I heard one usually recovers in three or four days.”
“Is that so?” Where had she heard such a thing?
Flustered, Sylvia could only echo the question stupidly.
“Yes.
And you have been taking that medicine for over a week.
Is it not a rather strange remedy?”
“I told you, it is not.”
“You are being dreadfully suspicious.
I might just steal it one day and take it to a physician.”
“Why do you speak so brazenly of theft?”
“If it were an ordinary medicine, you would have no reason to hide it, would you?”
Without another word, Sylvia gathered the vials and tucked them into her pocket.
Alicia stared at the pocket for a long moment before snorting as if granting a temporary reprieve.
She fastened the earrings in place.
The jewels, like pomegranate seeds imbued with a crimson magic, flashed briefly before settling into a dull glow.
An order had come to report directly to the commander’s office, so Sylvia went there at once.
After smoothing her uniform, she knocked.
The door opened as if she had been expected.
The first thing she saw was Heston’s back as he stood before the commander’s desk, his hands clasped behind him.
He was in his armor, and from his rigid posture alone, Sylvia knew he was in a foul mood.
What had happened?
He had seemed well enough when they parted yesterday.
“Ah, Appleton, come in.”
The commander beckoned her forward.
Sylvia offered a brief, respectful bow and moved to stand beside Heston.
He did not acknowledge her, his gaze fixed on the floor in a stubborn, half-bowed stance.
The commander cleared his throat, a short, awkward sound, before explaining why he had summoned her.
“I need you to go on the upcoming dispatch.
As you know, that… undergarments incident… that is, Owen’s harassment of the knights, has left us with some vacancies.
Owen will be going, of course, and Lockwood as well…” He glanced at Heston again.
More peculiar than the commander calling it the ‘undergarments incident’ was the way he seemed to be treading carefully around Heston.
‘Has he not yet finished his discussion with Heston?
But it is unthinkable that Heston would refuse an order for a dispatch.’
“Ahem, Lockwood will be going, of course.
Is that not so?”
An uncomfortable silence followed the commander’s pompous question.
Sylvia glanced at Heston’s frighteningly rigid expression, then stepped forward to rescue her superior.
“Are you referring to the dispatch to Argen, sir?”
“Yes.
There are plenty of knights stationed there, so it should be a simple enough assignment.”
Argen was a territory on the southeastern border, adjacent to the kingdom of Ekevich, the homeland of the crown prince’s betrothed.
She knew it was heavily fortified by Duke Araspe—the Emperor’s father-in-law and the prince’s maternal grandfather—to protect their trade routes.
This dispatch was merely a reconnaissance mission, prompted by a few civilian sightings of monsters and reports suggesting a possible lair.
Even if monsters were present, their base would be in its infancy and pose little danger.
Sylvia wanted to ask why she, Heston, and Owen were all needed for such a trivial task, but to do so would be to question the commander’s judgment.
“Yes, sir.
I will make the necessary preparations.”
“We depart tomorrow, so I apologize for the short notice.
There is one other thing…”
A sharp, grating sound came from Heston, the sound of teeth grinding.
Startled, she looked at him and saw the taut muscle in his jaw, the white-knuckled grip of his hands behind his back.
The commander deliberately ignored him and continued in a brazen tone.
“I do not believe you will be needed as Heston’s Supporter for this mission.
I would like you to attend to Owen instead.”
He said it so casually that she nearly nodded in assent.
He spoke as if their partnership, a sacred bond, could be severed and re-formed at a moment’s notice.
“Why is that, sir?” Sylvia asked, making no effort to hide her displeasure.
This, then, was the reason for Heston’s foul mood.
Had the commander lost his mind?
He could not possibly be ignorant of the vital role a knight and his sworn Supporter played.
“What is that look?
Are you refusing my command?”
“If you do not provide a valid reason…”
“Damn it all, have a few medals gone to your head?
You will not follow an order you cannot accept?
I am still your superior officer!
If I command it, you will march to your death without a word.
There is a limit to the considerations I can make for your station.
Do you take me for a fool?”
He intended to crush her with his authority, the last resort of an incompetent leader.
He slammed a file onto his desk, the sound echoing through the office.
She was long past the age of being cowed by such theatrics.
Sylvia took a step forward, ready to protest, but Heston’s arm shot out, blocking her path.
“I understand.
That is enough.”
For a man as disciplined as Heston, the words were raw with emotion.
But what shocked Sylvia more was his acquiescence.
She turned to him, her face a mask of indignant disbelief, but he remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the commander.
The commander glared at Heston, his face flushed with anger, then turned away and muttered loudly, “Why the hell is he taking his temper out on me for something he started?
He is engaged now; he should handle his own affairs.”
Confusion washed over Sylvia.
‘Engaged?’ Did this mean the order had come directly from Princess Katrin?