“In the name of Saint Michaelta, I bestow the power to purify all wicked creatures brought down upon this land…”
Sylvia stood alone, the familiar words of blessing drifting past her like a half-heard prayer.
Owen had not yet arrived.
The other knights stared at the platform ahead, their bodies rigid with discipline, but she could not shake the feeling that their eyes were darting toward her.
“What will become of Lady Appleton now?”
“Who can say?
Perhaps she will be assigned a new partner.”
“Impossible.
Severing a bond like that would take a serious toll on her body, would it not?”
“The princess will not tolerate Sylvia’s presence for long.
A childhood friend who is also his partner… even I would find it unsettling.”
Such whispers flew about, while Sylvia, entirely oblivious, kept glancing toward the rear of the formation, wondering when Owen would deign to appear.
Would he truly make his entrance by trudging through the sand in the midst of this solemn assembly?
Knowing Owen, it seemed entirely possible.
He would see her standing in his place, his brow would furrow in annoyance, and he would demand in a voice loud enough for all to hear, ‘What is all this, then?’
The thought of being discovered in this state by Owen, of all people, sent a hot flush of shame creeping up her neck.
As Heston’s friend, he had been a witness to her foolish affections for longer than anyone… and he had also…
Just then, a memory flared in her mind.
Her own figure, sobbing beneath the night sky, crumpled in a thicket of bushes, and a large hand pulling her free.
“Summers.”
“What is it?”
“Could you… hide me?”
He had been as expressionless as ever, but that day—perhaps because of the wine—he had seemed impossibly gentle.
The way he had shielded her with his arm as he drew her from the thorns, heedless of his own skin being scratched, just so she would not be hurt.
‘Gods, to think I uttered something so childish, it makes me blush to recall it.’
Of all the overtures Owen must have heard in his life, was that not the most archaic and clumsy?
But instead of laughing, he had merely tilted his head and looked down at her, his gaze quiet.
“Do you wish to come with me?”
The scent of scotch and rolled tobacco mingled with the faint smell of sweat—an aroma so distinctly masculine it made her senses tingle.
The solid wall of his body was pressed subtly against her back.
His face was so handsome that it was almost sweet to look upon.
The sensations churned within her, a dizzying wave of nausea and desire.
Reaching out, intending only a small touch, she had instead pulled him down and pressed her lips to his.
As if that were her only answer.
A pained sound escaped her lips.
Unable to bear the throbbing in her skull, Sylvia hung her head.
The outcome was, of course, what she had expected.
Owen was not the sort to make a move on her, a woman to whom he normally paid no mind, especially not on the day of Heston’s engagement.
If matters had… progressed as they did, she knew she must have been the cause.
She had suspected as much, but…
“To remember it so clearly is another matter entirely,” she murmured.
Just then, she heard the soft tread of footsteps approaching from behind.
Without turning, Sylvia knew it was Owen.
His gait was unhurried, betraying no sense of urgency despite the gravity of the occasion.
He slowly uncurled his large frame, which he often held hunched like a youth still unaccustomed to his own size.
As he came to a stop beside her, she was struck anew by how large he was, so much so that she felt he could devour her whole.
He leaned slightly toward her and asked abruptly, “Why are you here?”
Seeing a splash of pink standing in his usual spot, Owen could not help but ask like a petulant child, the circumstances be damned.
Sylvia felt a flicker of relief that he was behaving exactly as she had anticipated.
Perhaps because she had braced herself for it, the reality of the moment was not as dreadful as she had feared.
When Sylvia offered no reply, her gaze fixed motionlessly on the platform, Owen seemed to read her intent.
He raised a single eyebrow and straightened.
A moment later, his eyes found the princess receiving the priest’s blessing, and then Heston, standing a short distance away, watching her.
Understanding dawned on his face.
‘Gods, must she always be so pitiful?’
For days, his chest had been lurching and aching, a maddening sensation that had filled him with resentment.
‘If this turns out to be nothing,’ he had vowed, ‘I will truly make her life miserable.’ But seeing her now, watching the platform with such a small and lonely air, he had to admit her distress was likely justified.
‘She truly loses all sense when it comes to Heston.’
With that thought, Owen quietly clasped his hands behind his back and left her in peace until the ceremony concluded.
It was only afterward, as the knights began to stir and prepare for their departure, that Sylvia said something that made his expression twist into a deep frown.
“What are you doing?”
“I require your hand to prepare my support spells.
Our compatibility is sufficient.
We must perform a simple mana exchange and cast a few preliminary enchantments if we are to work effectively later.”
“No, I mean, why are you my Supporter?”
“And why do you suppose I was standing beside you during the benediction?”
“I assumed the spot was merely empty.”
Owen crossed his arms.
“It is your head that seems empty, not the spot beside me,” he retorted, making it clear he had no intention of offering his hand.
Sylvia’s shoulders slumped, as if she were dealing with a disobedient child.
“It is an order from the Commander.”
“Then provide only the simple support the Commander expects.
Nothing that requires a mana exchange or prior preparation.”
He was clearly wary of something.
It made sense.
There was likely no man in the order with more secrets than Owen Summers.
His sudden relation to Count Bronovitz, his casual entry into the cursed temple—all of it was shrouded in mystery.
“That is not how I work,” she stated firmly.
Whatever his secrets, she had a duty to perform.
“I do not simply stand by and fill a space.
Supporters work alongside their partners.
We are not here to offer a little help when we have the leisure; we are professionals who perform our duties to the utmost of our abilities.”
At that, Owen raked a hand through his hair, his expression troubled.
He could see from her face that she would not yield.
Having served on numerous dispatches with Sylvia, he knew that look well.
She wore that same expression when she stood guard behind Heston on the front lines, when she carried a wounded comrade on her small frame with unyielding strength, and when she gazed upon a village ravaged by a monster attack.
Finally, he relented, holding out his hand with visible reluctance.
He presented it not palm up, but with the back of his hand facing the sky, like a noble lady awaiting a kiss.
Sylvia could not help but roll her eyes.
She snatched his hand, turned it over, and gasped.
“Ah!”
The moment she saw his palm, she dropped his hand as if burned, her face a mask of disbelief as she looked up at him.
“What is this?”
His palm was a ruin of scabs and dried blood.
She could not imagine what he could have possibly done to inflict such damage.
Owen, as if he had expected this, turned his head away with an air of annoyance, but he did not stop her from taking his hand again to examine it more closely.
“Are these not nail marks?
Did you do this to yourself?
Is this some sort of… hobby?”
“Sometimes,” Owen replied to her sharp query, his tone deliberately vexed.
“When I am bored.”
Sylvia thought he ought to visit the infirmary before they departed, but he seemed to read her mind and pulled his hand free.
She sighed and took a step back.
“Very well.
I do not care if your palm is a mess.
Let us finish this.”
Cupping his hand in hers, Sylvia closed her eyes and began to chant.
From her fingertips, glowing pink characters crawled from the back of his hand and up his arm.
Owen was surprised to find the influx of her mana was not unpleasant.
It felt like being enveloped by a current of heavy, warm water.
For Sylvia, however, the experience was starkly different.
The deeper her mana flowed into him, the more she could sense the wretched state of his body.
It was as if she could read with her fingertips the extensive damage hidden beneath a messy patchwork of crude magic.
She did her best to mend the worst of it before casting her support spells—enchantments that would serve as a foundation for her magic to take effect quickly, including one that would allow Owen to perceive the weak points of monsters.
But casting such a spell was akin to sharing his vision, and through it, Sylvia could see all the injuries he had concealed.
A split lip, a bruised jaw… it looked as if there was scarcely an unscathed inch on his torso.
Her brow furrowed in concern, but Owen mistook the reason for her frown.
“What is it?
Why that expression?
Does it hurt?” he asked, quickly pulling his hand away and grabbing her elbow to steady her.
“You see?
This is why I said not to—”
‘There is no point in my enduring it if you feel it anyway.’ Owen swallowed the rest of the thought, his gaze sharp with displeasure.
Sylvia looked at him, her own expression grave.
“Who did this to you?”
“I told you.
It is my hobby…”
“Was it Count Bronovitz?”
At that, Owen’s mouth snapped shut.
He realized then that she had discovered far more than just the wounds on his palm.