A rustling shadow flickered at the edge of the firelight, and she sensed someone sit down beside her.
‘Ah, who is this kind soul now,’ she thought, not lifting her head.
She frowned, feeling like a wounded animal whose solitude had been disturbed.
It was the same person who had once looked down at her coolly and remarked, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, “You have a rather sour disposition, do you not?”
What had she retorted?
She had grumbled, “None of your business,” and he had surely replied with shameless confidence, “Me?
But you said I was kind.
With your own mouth,” as he handed her a brimming cup of wine…
“Here.”
He offered her a cool drink, just as he had then.
He had claimed he did not want to disappoint her expectations, and now that she had called him kind, he seemed determined to live up to the title.
But Sylvia found his presence unsettling.
Was it because she now knew that, contrary to his abrasive exterior, he was a genuinely good man?
The memory of their night together, of how she had used him and then cast him aside, was now a source of belated, sharp-edged discomfort.
“It is exceedingly distressing for me every time you see Heston.
Last time, I nearly vomited.”
That is what Owen had said, his face etched with nausea, on the day she had first sought him out about the Mana Sharing.
At the time, his threat had been so outrageous that she had fumed to herself, ‘Is he mad?
Honestly, everyone feels such things.
If he is so aggrieved, he can weep and fall in love with someone himself.
Is it my fault he is as emotionless as a doll?’ But now, she considered how deeply unpleasant it must be to have one’s heart lurch and ache at the whims of another, just as one’s body might.
‘And Owen never acted on his threats.’
Not only that, but he had swallowed a handful of potent Paractin to spare her his pain.
When she had pressed him about the dosage, he had made a fist like a simpleton and said, “About this much,” and Sylvia had nearly fainted from shock.
So now, she truly did not wish for her turmoil over Heston to be transmitted to him.
Not out of her own embarrassment, but out of a genuine fear of causing Owen distress.
She took the cup he offered, careful not to let their fingers touch, and then shuffled away from him, making the distance between them obvious.
Owen merely glanced at her but said nothing.
Feeling the need to fill the silence, Sylvia offered a lame excuse.
“It is just… so the sharing does not grow worse.”
Owen gave a short, quiet laugh.
While Sylvia gulped down her drink, the banquet hall and terrace behind them filled the night with music and the sound of dancing.
“If you are going to wallow in misery, would it not be better to go up and see for yourself what is happening?”
“Ugh.’ Why is this so strong?” Coughing, Sylvia slammed the cup down, her face already flushing with heat.
Owen’s eyes widened with an air of innocence.
“You seemed to drink whatever I offered.”
“Huh…?”
“I thought you could hold your liquor.”
“I can,” she insisted.
“Just not anything this potent.”
“I see.”
At her flimsy bravado, Owen turned and sipped his own drink.
Sylvia watched the firelight catch in his long, tousled hair and felt an unbidden urge to touch it.
She flinched and wrenched her gaze away.
‘I cannot do this.
Not to him.
He is a good person.’ It was all Owen’s fault.
He grumbled and complained, but in the end, he always gave in to her wishes.
A fresh bandage was now wrapped around his hand, and a sticky ointment was smeared on his face.
Since only Sylvia could see his injuries, the others now treated him like a complete lunatic for applying salves to his perfectly unmarred skin.
And Owen was enduring their judgment, all for her.
Sylvia pressed a hand to her throbbing head and grimaced.
“I am out here precisely because I already saw something.”
Belatedly answering his advice, she heard him ask coolly, “Saw what?”
“His hair… She was fixing his hair,” Sylvia said, her voice heavy.
The memory still made her stomach clench.
Before they had entered the dining room, Princess Katrin had taken Heston’s arm, beckoning him with a finger to lower his head.
And Heston had bowed before her like a loyal hound.
The princess’s elegant hand had then gently smoothed his hair.
Sylvia had only seen Heston’s back, but she had seen the princess’s face clearly—it was alight with joy and happiness.
“What was there to fix?
His hair is not even long.”
“I know.
Heston’s hair normally flows with the slightest movement.”
“Flows?
Then what of mine?”
“Yours is a bit… tousled.”
He shook his head lightly, then lowered it toward her.
Before she could stop herself, Sylvia reached out and touched his hair, then snatched her hand back in surprise.
“I suppose it is.” Owen, for his part, was merely tugging at the ends of his hair, assessing its texture.
“You, though.” He shifted his gaze from his own hair to Sylvia’s pink head, which was already starting to droop.
“To get so worked up over something so trivial.”
“That is the nature of unrequited love.”
“A pitiful fate.”
“I will get over him.
I will.”
“I am sure you will.”
“How long can I continue to love him?
He belongs to another woman now.
With enough pain, the feeling will eventually fade.”
“Perhaps it will only take twenty years this time.”
“Hey!” Sylvia raised her hand as if to strike him, but her arm soon fell limply to her side.
She buried her face in her thighs again.
“I feel sick.”
“I feel fine.”
“So what?
Good for you.”
“No, I mean… has the connection been severed?
I am not feeling much of anything.
I suppose intercourse is required for a direct link, then.”
“Ah, the sharing?
Perhaps the medicine is finally working,” Sylvia agreed innocently, not having heard the end of his muttered sentence.
Her speech was slow and slurred.
She was clearly drunk.
Owen watched as she pressed her forehead to her knees and began to hum a little tune.
He gently lifted a lock of her fallen hair to check her state.
“Do you take medicine as well?”
“Medicine?” she asked, repeating the word as if it were foreign.
“Yes, medicine.
For my heart rate, for bodily tension, for emotional regulation, and so on.” Babbling on about things he had not asked was another sign of her inebriation.
“You are quite the apothecary.
Does taking all that truly help?”
“No, I take it because of you.
You said you felt sick when you saw Heston.
I imagined if I became flustered seeing Michelle, I too would feel… strange.”
“Because of me?”
“Yes.”
“Then give them to me.”
Without a hint of resistance, she rummaged through her pockets and handed him the small packets of pills.
Owen took them, emptied them all into his palm, and mixed them together.
A startled Sylvia flailed her hands, trying to snatch them back, but to no effect.
“Uh… you are not supposed to take so many.
Uh… huh?”
But the man who had swallowed a handful of Paractin did not toss the collection into his own mouth.
He threw them into the fire.
Sylvia stared blankly as the pills disappeared into the flames.
“What are you doing?”
“Do not take them,” he said, his voice firm.
“I will pray devoutly day and night to prevent my morning erections if I must, but do not take that sort of thing.”
“But you…!” It was absurd for him to lecture her when he had taken something far more potent himself.
It was not truly funny, even if she knew it came from a place of concern.
Owen watched until even the paper packets had burned to ash, then stood and walked back toward the castle without a word.
“What a ridiculous man,” she muttered.
As she pouted, her arm was suddenly seized, and she was hauled to her feet.
“That hurts!” she whined as a sharp pain shot through her shoulder.
Owen sighed and unceremoniously slung her over his shoulder.
His hard shoulder dug into her stomach, and her head was flipped upside down, bumping against his back.
“Are you mad?”
“How do you manage to crawl into places like this?” Owen kicked sand over the embers of her fire, then secured her thighs with his arm.
“I counted at least four couples dallying nearby.”
“You are… ‘ugh’… making that up.” Every time he moved, her face was jostled against his back and her stomach ached.
He paid her no mind, striding on as he carried her like a sack of grain.
As they climbed the stairs, Sylvia whispered threats.
“I am going to be sick, you know.
Right here.”
Owen’s reply came back, low and rough.
“Stop breathing on my back like that.
I will get hard.”
That silenced her.
He deposited her in front of her room on the east side of the third floor.
“Go inside.” He roughly swept back her disheveled hair and jerked his head toward the door.
Feeling the shame of a debauched delinquent being dragged home, Sylvia narrowed her eyes and glared at him before stalking inside and slamming the door.
Owen leaned against the doorframe for a moment, arms crossed.
He wondered if, kind as he was, he truly needed to clean up this troublesome woman’s messes in Heston’s stead.
After a moment, he let out a short sigh and returned to his own room.
Meanwhile, Heston, who had been on his way to Sylvia’s room with medicine after hearing she had been unwell for days, had witnessed the entire exchange.
He swallowed a short gasp, drawing on his mana to conceal his presence from Owen.
Then he paused, wondering why he was bothering, and let the power dissipate.
Owen had simply been taking care of Sylvia in his stead.
‘In my stead?’
The thought struck the back of his head with a foul, visceral impact.
But Heston, a man of upright character, could not forgive himself for harboring such a feeling, even for an instant, toward a friend who had shown only kindness.
He frowned, turned on his heel, and walked away.