"Then, Your Highness, I shall take my leave. Please do take care of yourself."
The green-haired woman bowed her head respectfully and departed the room.
She passed through the door held open by her attendant, and upon stepping into the corridor, turned to watch it close slowly. Even though she knew the other side couldn't hear once the door shut with a sound, she still let slip a sigh she had consciously kept silent.
"Please see to it that Her Highness wants for nothing."
She conveyed this to the attendant stationed by the door, then turned away as if casting off a wave of helplessness. Her steps carried her across the red-carpeted corridor, down the staircase, and toward the hall.
"—Lady Crusch."
The slightly breathless voice calling to her belonged to the companion who had been waiting in the hall.
With cat-like ears that twitched at every sound, bearing the features of a demi-human—so finely featured that he appeared more like a girl at first glance—the young man greeted her with wide yellow eyes.
His name was Felix Argyle. His nickname was
"Welcome back. How was His Highness Fuewalt's condition?"
"Not well at all. He was so lively before, and now there's barely a trace of him. Today in particular, he kept lamenting how he wished to go outside and walk in the sun. It's heartbreaking."
"You have no need to feel dejected. We've enlisted every healing mage in the kingdom, and still there's been no progress. There's no reason for you alone to look so glum."
"But, but—it's Ferris's own shortcoming that my power is insufficient to meet Lady Crusch's expectations. That's what frustrates me so... I'm sorry, Lady Crusch."
More than the inability to save a sick patient, it was Crusch's own distress on the patient's behalf that weighed on Felix's heart. His manner of being was always aligned with Crusch's, and Crusch could only respond by accepting his devotion in silence.
"His Highness's... the royal family's condition—has it remained unchanged?"
"His diagnosis hasn't changed either. Honestly, as a healer, there's no conclusion I'd less want to utter, nya..."
Felix lowered his voice and cast his eyes down. Yet he did not hesitate to continue, speaking clearly.
"—Malicious Tongue of the
"If that's the case, then where did he contract it from? ...No. There's no point in debating that now. What happens from here on?"
"In the worst case... the royal family will perish."
"—"
It was a conclusion they had already reached many times over, yet one could never grow accustomed to hearing it.
Crusch exhaled through her nose and did her utmost to steady her heart. The situation was of such unprecedented magnitude. If she lost her composure and gave in to emotion, there would be no turning back. Amid the great upheaval already roiling among the feudal lords, the kingdom's functions were barely being maintained—thanks entirely to the efforts of high nobles like Crusch and the Council of Wise Men at the helm.
—the bloodline of the Lugunica royal family faced the threat of extinction at this very moment.
The first to fall ill had been the First Prince, Zardinel Lugunica. At first, the diagnosis had nearly been mere overwork from daily state duties. But within days, Zardinel's condition deteriorated rapidly, and when other members of the royal family began collapsing in the same manner, the crisis was laid bare.
One after another, important figures bearing the king's blood were struck down by illness, and the royal castle nearly descended into utter chaos. What arrested the slide was the intervention of several members of the Council of Wise Men who happened to be present in the castle, along with the swift actions of Crusch and Felix, who had come to visit.
Felix in particular held the title of "Blue"—the pinnacle of healing mages in the Lugunica kingdom, a water-magic practitioner without peer. He was the foremost healer the realm had to offer.
The stricken royals were immediately moved to a wing of the castle, and emergency diagnosis and treatment commenced.
But what was newly discovered there was a devastating truth: even in Felix's hands, there was no means of combating the illness.
In the span of just a few days, the ancient Lugunica royal family teetered on the brink of ruin.
Now they gathered every powerful healer in the kingdom and sustained the royals' lives through continuous healing magic for as long as time allowed—but this was nothing more than a palliative, with no real solution in sight.
A gag order had been imposed regarding the royals' condition and the turmoil within the castle, but even that could only hold for so long—a fact that was becoming increasingly obvious.
"—"
Pondering the bleakness of the situation, Crusch thought of the very person she had just visited—the Fourth Prince of the Lugunica Kingdom, Fuewalt Lugunica.
Fuewalt and Crusch were the same age. As the daughter of a duchy, Crusch had interacted with Fuewalt frequently during her childhood. For Fuewalt, who as a member of the royal family could scarcely hope for friends near his age, Crusch may well have been one of the few people he could call a friend.
Crusch, for her part, did not harbor ill feelings toward Fuewalt as a person.
Fuewalt had often visited the Karsten estate, bringing with him impossible demands and nonsensical problems that left Crusch at her wit's end. His true motive had been to catch the attention of the girl he fancied, though Crusch never noticed this.
But to Crusch, Fuewalt was a kind and good-hearted individual—a person impossible to hate.
His talent for governance was far from blessed for one bearing the Lugunica bloodline. Yet he possessed genuine enthusiasm and personal charisma. His claim to the throne was remote, and the position granted to him upon reaching adulthood would not have been a particularly weighty one. Still, he burned with passion to give his all in whatever role he was assigned.
That such a man now lay on his deathbed tormented Crusch deeply.
"Lady Crusch..."
Felix, too, felt a pang in his chest as he watched Crusch—her expression unchanged, yet her eyes clouded with grief.
In terms of how long he had known Crusch, Fuewalt had been in her life longer than Felix. Of course, in terms of daily closeness, Felix as her attendant was far more intimately involved. But he had watched the two of them closely enough to sense the feelings Fuewalt harbored for Crusch.
For that reason, Felix held deeply complicated feelings toward Fuewalt.
Naturally, he had never let those complicated feelings influence his treatment or diagnosis. That was a matter of his pride as a healer, and above all, it would have been a betrayal of the trust Crusch had placed in him.
But the fact that he had been unable to repay that trust, and that he might not be able to save Fuewalt, remained as a heavy lump in Felix's heart.
Master and retainer walked through the castle with heavy steps.
Crusch brooded over what lay ahead, while Felix grieved over his own inadequacy and worried for his master.
At the very least, there was nothing more the two of them could do at the castle today. Without exchanging a word of agreement, they left together, heading for the gate to return to their villa in the capital.
"—Lord Bordeaux! Then this isn't what we agreed upon at all!"
They heard that voice while Crusch and Felix were making their way toward the castle gate.
Having passed through the entrance of the royal castle, there remained only a short stretch before the main gate. In a garden flanked by neatly trimmed lawns and trees, the commotion erupted, cutting through the tranquil scenery like a blade.
When Crusch involuntarily stopped and turned, she saw in a corner of the garden—around the bend where the castle's outer wall curved—two figures locked in heated argument.
Both were tall. One stood with his back to Crusch. The one whose face she could see was an acquaintance she recognized.
He was a large, bald, powerfully built old man. His name was Bordeaux Zellgef, a member of the Council of Wise Men—a body that held key positions in the Lugunica Kingdom.
The Council of Wise Men was a faction of high-ranking nobles who bore most of the burden of national governance in the Lugunica Kingdom.
Members were selected based on comprehensive evaluation of their knowledge, lineage, contributions to the kingdom, and their deeds from birth to the present. Led by Miccrotoff at the top, they served as the backbone propping up the kingdom in its current crisis.
Bordeaux was a battle-hardened veteran who had once made a name for himself in martial prowess, and within the Council of Wise Men, he was one of the central figures who drove debates with fierce opinions and an iron fist.
Known for his radical statements and confrontational posture, Bordeaux was so combative that even Ferris mocked him as "always being angry." In the period right after she had inherited her family's position, Crusch herself had been on the receiving end of his harsh tongue more times than she could count.
Perhaps it was because he was such a perpetually forceful presence— —it was the unexpected shadow of melancholy on his expression as he exchanged words with someone in the garden that first caught Crusch off guard.
"My, my. Lord Bordeaux is making quite a rare face, nya."
Felix, who had apparently noticed the same thing, murmured beside her. Crusch acknowledged this with a slight tug of her chin, but found herself at a loss over what to do.
If it was merely a quarrel that would blow over, there was no need for Crusch to intervene and escalate matters. But even a petty argument was ill-timed and ill-placed.
The gate guards who had heard the earlier shout were approaching the garden, but they too stopped short upon seeing what Crusch had seen. Then, as if deferring judgment, they turned their gazes toward her.
With a mere look, Crusch held the guards in place. Then, catching sight of the growing commotion, she shot Bordeaux a subtle signal.
Understanding the intent to de-escalate, Bordeaux gave a pained nod. The old man turned back to face the person before him and lightly moistened his lips as he chose his words.
Watching this gesture, Crusch finally turned her attention to the man standing before Bordeaux. The surprise at Bordeaux's uncharacteristic attitude had taken precedence, but her reaction was embarrassingly slow even by her own reckoning.
Even as she admonished herself, she directed her awareness toward the figure. And then she realized why she had unconsciously put off noticing this man until now.
"—"
He was a man in rags.
The rags in question turned out to be a deep-navy coat, crumpled and stained in places. It hung from his broad shoulders, draping down to cover him past the waist. His white hair, combined with the initial shout she'd heard, suggested advanced age. Yet for his years, his hair remained abundant, and his straight spine and broad, powerful shoulders betrayed none of the frailty one might expect.
Despite being such a conspicuous figure, this man in rags had somehow failed to naturally intrude upon Crusch's awareness until this very moment.
Because—his bearing was simply too refined, too perfect.
A natural posture, yet one stripped of every unnecessary element.
The instant she noticed this, Crusch was so captivated that for a fleeting moment she lost herself.
As a warrior who likewise gripped a sword, Crusch had her own ideal of the state one should strive toward.
This man's way of being was infinitely close to that ideal. It was what people called the apex of martial mastery—the proof that an old man had, through tireless effort and training, finally touched upon the ideal.
"Lady Crusch?"
"—"
She had been so captivated by the old man's back that she hadn't even realized it.
Snapped out of her trance by Felix's call, Crusch hastily composed her outward composure, though she was still faintly shaken.
Who on earth was that old man?
"I feel for your plight. But the timing is unfavorable now. I know it's wrong to go back on our promise, but I must ask you to understand."
Disregarding Crusch's unspoken questions, Bordeaux and the man resumed their conversation.
Though it was more a matter of Bordeaux offering words meant to defuse the situation.
"People are gathering. It would be equally inconvenient for you if this became public."
"Wait. How can I accept such words? Why have you suddenly had a change of heart? I laid it all out so plainly, telling you how certain it was..."
"This isn't your fault. It's a matter of timing. I must ask you to hold off this time. That is all I can say from my end right now. I truly am sorry."
"Don't be absurd...!"
Against the man's desperate pleading, Bordeaux's words were hollow and evasive.
Bordeaux's reticence was likely caused by the gag order surrounding the royal family's illness. Some manner of promise had existed between him and this man, and it was on the verge of being crushed under Bordeaux's newfound busyness.
Yet he could not reveal the truth to persuade the other party. Crusch could sense Bordeaux's difficult position, but the man's inability to fabricate a convincing excuse spoke to his blunt nature.
Or was there something about that promise that made Bordeaux hesitate to lie?
Hiding the truth while bowing his head, versus fabricating a lie to secure agreement—which was more honest, and which more dishonest?
At the very least, Bordeaux did not seem inclined to deceive the man by falsifying the truth.
Bordeaux's posture in accepting the blame was admirable, but the man in rags could hardly be expected to accept it.
"I've heard about the deteriorating relations with the Empire as well. If that's what's making you hesitate to leave the country, then at the very least, you could send an envoy..."
"No, that's not it. Please, listen to me. Calm down, and let's arrange another place to talk. I don't know the exact timing yet."
"Then it won't be in time! I told you—results will be available next month. That will provide definitive proof! ...At the very least, look at this and consider it."
Despite Bordeaux's resolute stance, the man in rags persisted desperately. He thrust something he had drawn from his coat toward Bordeaux as the old man tried to pass by.
To Crusch's eyes, it appeared to be a bundle of papers—many sheets gathered together.
The edges were wrinkled, sun-faded to a completely different color, and faintly stained with what looked like dried blood and grime.
How precious this sheaf of papers was to the man in rags—like a lifeline to cling to.
The trembling fingertips gripping the bundle firmly told the whole story at a glance.
However— "—Enough!"
With a sweep of his arm, Bordeaux roughly knocked aside the bundle thrust before his chest.
Perhaps the reaction exceeded what the man in rags had anticipated, or perhaps Bordeaux himself had inadvertently put more force into the gesture than intended.
Most likely both factors combined. But the result was singular.
"—!"
The bundle of papers slipped from the old man's fingers and scattered across the garden.
The wind wasn't particularly strong, but each sheet was as light as a leaf. They were easily blown apart, fluttering across the garden like white flower petals in a flurry.
Crusch reached out instinctively, but a flicker of regret passed through Bordeaux's eyes.
Yet before either of their reactions could play out— "—Bordeaux!"
The man in rags roared, seized Bordeaux by the collar, and slammed him against the wall.
His back struck hard and Bordeaux gasped, a groan escaping as his massive frame was lifted upward. Even pinned against a wall, lifting Bordeaux's bulk required extraordinary strength.
"—"
Witnessing this scene, Crusch should have immediately called for them to stop.
But the overwhelming, spectral pressure emanating from the man in rags—an aura that cracked the very air and made the skin prickle with its aftershock—delayed Crusch's reaction by the slightest fraction.
Then, with a gaze sharp enough to pierce— "—Guards! Don't just stand there! Hurry, over here!"
A high-pitched voice rang out, and time resumed for the frozen onlookers.
Looking back, Felix had raised his hand and was summoning the guards—men who had been watching the situation unfold in bewilderment from behind.
Even they could not simply ignore an incident in which a member of the Council of Wise Men was being assaulted.
Three guards drew their swords and rushed to the scene, surrounding the man in rags and Bordeaux.
A tense, dangerous atmosphere spread, threatening to erupt into violence. But— "—My apologies."
The man in rags spoke his apology and abruptly released Bordeaux. Bordeaux slumped against the wall, clutching his throat and coughing painfully.
Looking down at him, the man slowly shook his head and turned around. The guards tensed visibly at this, but the old man spread both hands wide to show he was unarmed.
"I'm not carrying anything. I'll come quietly."
The guards exchanged puzzled glances, but quickly recalled their duty and flanked the old man on both sides. By standard procedure, the old man should have been escorted to the guards' station for interrogation— "—Wait. It's... not necessary to detain him for long. Release him."
"Lord Bordeaux, I don't mean to overstep, but that would set a poor precedent. Are you ordering the guards protecting this castle to let a suspicious person go?"
"Then hold him in the station overnight. You can release him after that."
At Bordeaux's own suggestion, the guards obediently complied.
As the old man was led away between the burly guards, in the one instant he passed by, he cast a single glance toward Crusch.
"My gratitude."
Those words—spoken so quietly—would not have reached anyone but Crusch.
The clarity of the old man's blue eyes in the moment he spoke—what troubled Crusch was the shadow that had surfaced within them.
But she could not be so rude as to call out and prolong the conversation.
As the old man departed the garden, Crusch turned to Felix.
"Quick thinking. Thank you for that. I froze at the critical moment—my apologies."
"Oh no, it was nothing at all. More importantly, I'm glad nothing came of it. By the way... Lord Bordeaux?"
Felix deflected the praise with a finger to his lips, then redirected the conversation toward Bordeaux.
Ahead, Bordeaux had recovered from the earlier impact and was crouching on the ground, gathering the scattered papers.
Crusch also picked up several sheets that had fallen near her feet and handed them to Bordeaux.
"...My thanks, Lady Karsten. I showed you an unsightly spectacle."
"Not at all. It's rare to see such a humble side of you, Lord Bordeaux. Consider the admission fee well paid. Though, if I may ask—"
"—"
As Bordeaux rearranged the collected papers without a word, Crusch took his silence for assent. She indicated the direction in which the old man had been led with a tilt of her chin.
"That man didn't seem like an ordinary person... Was he an acquaintance of yours, Lord Bordeaux?"
"—A long-time friend. No, perhaps I should say a comrade-in-arms. Or rather, 'a comrade-in-arms I once had' might be what he'd find more fitting."
"It sounded like your discussion fell apart. I don't mean to pry, but if you value the relationship, you'd do well to mend it quickly. Next time, though, you should choose a better location."
The place they had chosen for this confrontation was terrible, and the timing worse.
The one with poor timing had been the man in rags, but the one with poor judgment was likely Bordeaux. It was precisely because she could sense the wind of bitter regret blowing off him that Crusch could not bring herself to dislike the man before her.
"...I have no right to face him. I chose loyalty over gratitude, and I don't believe that was the wrong choice."
"I see."
And so Crusch knew that Bordeaux would not heed her advice. That was why she felt no disappointment. If anything, she found his blunt manner rather admirable.
Though if she said that aloud, she'd only be on the receiving end of his customary shouting.
"You're coming from your visit to His Highness?"
"I've just returned from seeing Prince Fuewalt. The diagnosis from our Ferris isn't promising either."
"As I expected. ...Between you and me, Raip Baririel has been skulking around. You know what that little schemer is like—he's surely plotting something. Watch yourself."
"Lord Baririel, is it. I'll keep that in mind."
Crusch tilted her chin down, heeding Bordeaux's warning.
It was an obvious change of subject, but pressing further would yield nothing more.
With that, their conversation ended. Bordeaux stuffed the recovered bundle of papers into his coat and swiftly departed the garden.
Left behind, Crusch and Felix shared a single, simultaneous sigh.
"Oh my, that was tense. Still, a dejected Lord Bordeaux—now that's something you don't see every day, nya. If he were always like that, he'd be a little cute."
"That would create its own problems. Miccrotoff, the quiet one, and Bordeaux, the loud one—they balance the Council's scales quite well as they are. But..."
What had that whole commotion been about, in the end?
No—the details of the disturbance were one thing, but what truly caught Crusch's attention was nothing other than the old man who had been taken away.
His identity—if she could, she would very much like to find out— "Lady Crusch, Lady Crusch! By the way, Ferris may be biased saying this himself, nya, but he thinks he's the greatest retainer in the world—someone who understands Lady Crusch better than anyone!"
"—? That's rather sudden. Of course, it goes without saying that you are the most precious retainer I could ever have, but what brings this on?"
"Nyohoho. I just thought, nya, that this evaluation might take yet another step forward today—"
Ferris stuck out his red tongue playfully, but the true intent behind his words was difficult to read. The wind blowing from Felix's direction, too, was obscured like a fog, impossible to decipher.
The "Blessing of Wind-Reading" that Crusch Karsten possessed allowed her to perceive the flow of passing winds. This wind could even capture something akin to "the ripples of another's emotions," and scooping up the surface of whatever feelings an interlocutor held was, in principle, utterly effortless.
But rarely, there were those like Ferris who were exceptionally skilled at concealing their emotions.
In Felix's case, he had been with Crusch long enough that he understood precisely how far her wind-reading could reach—which was exactly what enabled his evasions. Even Miccrotoff of the Council of Wise Men, meanwhile, could hide his feelings with ease through years of experience and rhetorical skill.
Crusch had chalked it up as a kind of negotiation technique—one that didn't work on seasoned practitioners.
As always, Felix kept Crusch from reading his emotions. That was why, when he adopted this deliberately coquettish posture, Crusch simply crossed her arms and waited for the answer.
She was certain, however, that whatever he would bring to her was something worthy of her trust.
And the trust born of their bond would prove its power once again this time.
"I figured, nya, that Lady Crusch must be curious about that old man from just now."
"Mm."
"I prepared this, nya."
When Felix said this with a chuckle and Crusch saw what his fingertips held, her eyes widened. Then, letting her lips relax, she looked at her retainer.
"—You truly are the retainer who understands my wishes better than anyone."
In Felix's outstretched hand, a single sheet of paper—the one that had not been returned to Bordeaux—fluttered in the breeze, waiting to be received.