Days at House Tiraso Laverde

The room they were allowing him to use was on the first floor, furnished with a modest bed, a small desk, and a chair. A noble’s manor was expected to have many such guest rooms; the nobles who visited from far-off lands would always bring servants who needed somewhere of their own to sleep.

Bastian was still declaring himself the third son of a count. He was also an uninvited guest, so he knew to be grateful that they had even afforded him a room for servants.

Elize was at his bedside. She had been crying until just a moment ago, so her eyes were still puffy and red. Bastian couldn’t see himself owing to the lack of any mirrors in the room, but he knew this was the case for him as well.

A maid in glasses by the name of Shia was standing by the open window. She was a young woman with pretty red hair, around the same age as Bastian and Elize. Outside was the yard, where the house’s servants exchanged grim looks over the latest extra.

“It’s war! A war has begun!”

“It’s been a long time coming! We’ve declared war on Belgaria!”

“War...”

Shia was pale. A maid had barged in just moments ago and screamed, “It’s war! The men are raising a ruckus about it!” then left without even closing the door. She was surely off to spread the word to the house’s other occupants as well.

With both the door and window now open, a breeze rushed in and billowed the curtain.

Bastian sighed. “A war the day she got enthroned... They must’ve been planning this for a while.”

“I was naive,” Elize replied with a nod. “They’ve been establishing themselves all this time, and I never even saw it coming.”

“Nothing you could’ve done about it.”

Elize had been in Applewood, out in the countryside without any prominent backers—it was simply inevitable that she couldn’t beat someone who lived in the palace with legions of supporters and had at her disposal such a proficient retainer.

Even so, the fact that they couldn’t stop the war weighed heavily on both Elize’s and Bastian’s hearts.

Shia closed the window, and the wind ceased. “U-Um... I’m sorry...” she stammered. “I opened it without permission.”

“No need to apologize,” Bastian replied. “If you hadn’t opened it, I would’ve asked you to.”

The maid seemed relieved to hear those words. While the Tiraso Laverde family had saved Bastian and graciously lent him a bed, from her perspective, he was still the master’s guest. Young servants had a weak standing in the current day and age; it wasn’t rare for them to be fired on the spot should they displease the lord of the house.

“Ah, I’ll close the door too,” she added, making her way over. But a shadow loomed in from the corridor before she could.

It was a woman with her hair in a tight bun, wearing an elegant dress that covered every inch of her body. She looked to be around twenty-five—relatively young—but the sharp glare with which she was regarding the maid made that hard to believe.

“What are you doing, Shia?”

“M-Madame...?!”

“It is unbecoming to leave a door open like this. I could hear you from the hallway.”

“My apologies!” Shia conceded, quickly lowering her head. Her colleague was actually the one to blame, but she dared not make such an excuse.

Bastian raised his hand. “Can I interject?”

“Oh my, if it isn’t our guest. What is it?” the woman asked. She spoke politely, but her gaze was notably harsh.

Even so, Bastian didn’t falter in the slightest. Had he been the sort of person to shrink back in the face of a stern-looking individual, he would have listened to his grandfather and the grand chamberlain slightly more often back when he lived at the palace in Belgaria.

“Real sorry about this, but I’m the one who asked her,” he explained. “I thought we could do with airing the place out.”

“Are you trying to cover for this young woman?”

“Just being honest. You saved my life, so I personally wouldn’t call myself a guest, but if the master told Shia to look after me, then it’s only natural that she would consider me one. Of course she’d open the door and window at my request. So in this case, it’s me you should be scolding.”

Not just Shia, but now even Elize was looking at him with a startled expression. There was a moment of silence before the woman’s eyes finally softened.

“On your way, Shia.”

“O-Of course, madame! If you’ll excuse me.”

With another bow, she hurried out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her. Bastian and Elize were now alone with the woman Shia had called “madame.” She pinched her skirt and bent her knees, giving a curtsey befitting a noble.

“It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Marlborough, the wife of the master. You may call me Marl. My husband is unfortunately away on business, so with all due respect, you will have to make do with me.”

“Yes, well, I’m Hein— I mean, Bastian de Madelaine.”

His real name was of course Heinrich Trois Bastian de Belgaria, but how could he possibly reveal that now? High Britannia and Belgaria were now at war, so proclaiming himself the prince of an enemy nation would see him handed over to the military at once. Simply saying that he was a noble already put him in quite a precarious predicament.

Elize stood and gave a slight bow.

From the look of things, she had already met this woman before. Naturally, she introduced herself not as Elizabeth Victoria but as Elize Archibald, just as she had at school.

The new queen Margaret was out for her head. For all intents and purposes, Elize had already lost her chance at the throne, but Margaret wasn’t the sort to act on logic. They couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

A faint smile crossed Lady Marl’s lips. “No need to be so wary; I don’t intend to treat you any worse. We do business with any and all sorts. If we were to take a political side, we would lose a great deal of profit and earn ourselves unneeded enemies.”

“Looks like you’ve seen right through us...” Bastian murmured.

“I won’t ask what I don’t need to know. Just rest assured that you needn’t worry.”

“I’ve already placed my trust in the people of this house. Speaking of which, I never got to ask... Are you the one who saved me?”

“Yes, the cabman spotted you as I was returning from a trade deal. A kind doctor happened to be on board with us, so I had you treated.”

Bastian nodded, then reverently lowered his head as best he could from the bed. “You saved me. Thank you.”

He was surprised by his own sincerity. Once upon a time, he had been just a little haughty and egotistical, a part of him convinced that it was only natural for him to be served. Worst of all, this had been an unconscious belief, and his position as a prince had made it so that nobody dared address it.

Since then, Bastian had realized that he was powerless alone. His very being oozed gratitude at this display of compassion, and above all else, he was sincerely grateful that they had offered Elize a safe haven.

Marl’s eyes narrowed. “I only did what was natural. Rather, I should be apologizing that this room is all I can offer you.”

“What’re you talking about? That ain’t a problem. You’re even giving us food,” Bastian said. Steam still rose from the chicken stew that Shia had brought in moments ago.

“Oh, you were in the middle of a meal? Please, eat, before it gets cold. The doctor said you’d heal faster on a full stomach.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Bastian scooped up a spoonful of stew and brought it to his mouth. The first flavor to strike him was the salt. Compared to Belgarian cuisine, it was a tad simplistic, but it was just what his fatigued body needed.

With some encouragement from Marl, Elize took a sip as well. “Delicious,” she commented.

“I’m glad it’s to your liking.”

Bastian put down his spoon. From his mountaineering experience, he knew it was best to eat little by little when on the brink of starvation; eating too quickly would send his digestive system into a state of shock.

“Did anyone drop by, looking for us?” he asked.

“Our home, Smiles Hill, is rather far from Greybridge. Even if someone were searching for you, it would be some time before they came this far.”

“Right.”

Marl then turned to Elize. “Now, about the ring you’re looking for. I’ve tasked someone with finding it, but it hasn’t been spotted around where we found you. I presume it’s somewhere in the river.”

Elize cast her eyes down. “I... I see. Thank you. Please don’t trouble yourself too much; it’s my fault for losing it in the first place.”

“Our folks on the case said that they’d keep looking. They’re a bit strange, but surprisingly reliable. I wouldn’t give up hope just yet.”

“All right...”

As optimistic as Elize wanted to be, they all knew that jewelry dropped into rivers wasn’t often found. Bastian could feel a throbbing pain, as though his chest wound were acting up.

In what was most likely an attempt to pep up the dispirited young woman, Marl turned the conversation to the rare tea she had procured for that evening and the apple pie that was currently baking away in the oven. That was when something suddenly occurred to Bastian.

“Hey... since I’m Belgarian and all, is it really okay for me to be here?”

“Whatever could you mean?”

“I mean, our two nations are at war now, right? Won’t housing a Belgarian get you in trouble?”

While certain physical features were more common in one country than the other, it wouldn’t be easy to make out one’s nationality at a glance. His accent, however, was considerably easier to place.

Marl smiled. “Tiraso Laverde’s main branch is now a ducal house in Belgaria. The master’s mother is Belgarian, and our business prospers on both shores.”

“I remember now...”

According to Shia, House Tiraso Laverde had originally begun in a small country to the south. Fifty years ago, fearing that their assets might be seized during times of war, they had expanded into High Britannia. Now that Bastian thought about it, he was less concerned about himself and more concerned about what might happen to this house.

“I don’t wish to be overconfident, but we have been doing business here for quite some time. Few would consider us foreign nobles at this point.”

“I hope you’re right...”

“Though if there’s one thing that might worry me, it’s the eldest son of our main branch. We’re looking after him right now, but the boy is... how should I put it...?”

“If he’s from your main branch, does that mean he’s Belgarian too?”

“Yes. His name’s Roland. He came here to study politics—a clever boy whose heart is in the right place, but his sensibilities are somewhat... peculiar. He can be rather stubborn, which isn’t good for someone his age.”

Is she tryna say that he’s bigoted? Bastian wondered. Perhaps Elize was thinking something similar, as she suddenly looked anxious.

“He won’t object to Bastian being here, will he?”

“I doubt it. He didn’t seem to care when I told him three days ago. But now that war has broken out, I don’t know what he’ll say... I’ll tell him that our house has no qualms about you staying here, but... I apologize if he causes you any trouble.”

“I don’t care what he says about me. Have you met him yet, Elize?”

Bastian had been asleep for at least three days, so he had seen very few people since his arrival. His question caused Elize to tilt her head.

“So far, I’ve only traveled between here and the room they’ve lent me.”

“Really?”

“How about I introduce you over supper?” Marl proposed. “This is as good an opportunity as any.”

Elize nodded. “Please do. We really must say hello, at the very least.”

“Then it is decided. Until then, please just rest.”

With a slight bow, Marl made for the door. Her demeanor was considerably softer than the harsh impression she had initially given off.

“Before you go,” Bastian called out, “can you answer me something?”

“That depends on whether or not I know the answer.”

“When you scolded Shia for leaving the door open... I’m getting the feeling you were testing us.”

“Disciplining the maids is simply my job,” she replied with a profound smile. And with that, she exited the room.

“I don’t know what her deal is,” Bastian shrugged.

“She seems like a good person.”

“Probably trustworthy. If she were on Margaret’s side, we’d have been handed over to the military ages ago.”

“Right.”

But even then, Bastian knew to stay wary. Depending on how the war developed, they might eventually become bargaining chips. He would need to stay on his toes in order to protect Elize.

“Is something the matter, Bastian...?” Elize asked, his determined stare having sent a rush of color to her cheeks.

“Oh, no, err... I wonder what sort of person this Roland guy is. He sounds like trouble.”

“I agree. At the very least, I hope he allows us to stay until your wound heals...”

“What wound? Oh, this little thing? It’s already— Oww!”

He tried swinging his arms about, only for sharp pangs to reverberate through his stomach and back. Elize looked at him tiredly.

“You really are a fool, you know. Even a wild beast has enough self-awareness to recognize when it’s on the verge of death. Now get some sleep. We wouldn’t want to prolong your recovery and bother them any longer than we have to.”

“Erk...”

Bastian had nothing to say in response.

“I... really do hope you get better soon,” Elize muttered, gripping the corner of the bedsheet.

✧ ✧ ✧

“This world is rotten to the core!”

The eyes of the class gathered as there was an abrupt slam on the desk. Oh, just the usual, they realized, all too quickly returning to their banter.

Jean Roland de Tiraso Laverde continued to rant, paying them absolutely no mind. His curly blond hair was cut short, and he wore rounded glasses.

“Why must we allow a handful of those in power to monopolize all the wealth?!” Roland continued.

His debate opponent was a boy in his class whose hair had been set in place with oil and whose uniform could not have been worn any more perfectly.

“Nay!” the boy exclaimed, shaking his head. “You say that, but surely you realize: the king and nobles obtain riches proportional to the massive contributions they make to the country. Are you saying the unlearned and irresponsible masses deserve the same reward?”

“I’m saying they deserve to be judged by the same standards! There are far too many who obtain their wealth unjustly, simply because they are nobles.”

“Sure, that sounds pleasant enough on paper, but if nobles and commoners are put on equal ground, who would make these judgments? I can see no viable solution, unless you suddenly have in your possession the scales of God.”

“We don’t need such a thing to establish a better system in the world.”

“Oh, really?”

“Just take away the nobles’ special privileges. Remove their universal right to tax and replace it with a mutually agreed upon lease contract. Get rid of their tax exemption, too. Make it so that even a commoner can trade freely. If nobles do indeed possess the inherent worth that you speak of, surely they will earn enough to live in the same luxury without any of these unfair advantages. Not that I understand who needs such extravagances in the first place!”

“That’s absurd! Why on earth would we do such a thing?!”

“Because this is what it will take to create an equal country.”

“Then who will defend our land? Our values? When an enemy attacks, it is the nobility who display their courage. They are special, and that is why they receive special treatment. I hear you’re from a house of merchants—perhaps that’s why you don’t understand. But my parents were knights, and their parents before them. I know the value of courage.”

“Then the army should be more centralized. If there’s so much worth in protecting one’s country, why are the commoners conscripted for chump change and placed closer to the enemy than the nobles?”

“Because the nobles serve as the commanders! No matter how many troops a unit has, they stand no chance of winning without a leader!”

“Many nobles become commanders purely because of their inherited status. They lack any proper expertise, and what does that lead to? Three hundred years of unchanging wars. That’s why commanders should instead be selected from among our most outstanding individuals—commoners included.”

“Hah. I don’t imagine that someone who can’t even read could take up a position of command.”

“A very good point. That’s why, instead of giving nobles all those pointless luxuries, the country should invest in improving its literacy rate!”

Just as their debate grew heated, both boys received a harsh smack on the shoulder. They turned around to see their old professor fixing them with a stern glare, his beating stick in hand.

“If you don’t plan to listen to my lesson, get out.”

The other students were all properly seated. Roland hurried to his desk in a panic while the professor made for the lectern; he hadn’t realized it was already time for class.

The professor cracked open a textbook. “Today, we will be reading from Piercy’s Art of Discourse. Ahem. When presenting an argument, it is of the utmost importance that you state your points clearly. Take, for instance...”

The students remained in their seats, listening to the professor read from the book. He would occasionally deviate to explain where the text was inadequate, and in turn, the students would freely raise their own questions.

This lecturing format was common, often referred to as a “reading.” There were also more free-form lessons known as “discussions,” during which students would openly exchange opinions on a given subject. Each class had a large selection of mandatory reading material, and with books being expensive even for the children of nobles, not every student could afford them.

Paper and stationery had only just become widespread, and this shift had yet to leave its mark on the format of the classroom. Students would simply have to memorize any important points they came across in their studies, saving what little paper they had available for the thesis they were tasked with writing. This manuscript was often carried around in a student’s bag along with their other necessary materials.

Roland focused hard on the lecture. He was quite a bit more zealous in his studies than most of his classmates.

Once morning classes were over, he headed to the cafeteria, as he did every day. Despite Roland being both a Belgarian and a stubborn individual, his studious nature and reputation as a forward-thinking liberalist had earned him a fair bit of acceptance from his peers. Even as he ate, he thought over that morning’s class—how the given interpretation was actually quite novel, how he didn’t quite understand a particular explanation, or how the teacher must have interpreted something wrongly.

After his meal, he headed to the library to continue working on his thesis, then headed back to the classroom for his afternoon lessons.

This time, however, something felt... off. All eyes fell on him the moment he entered, then his classmates quickly averted their gazes without another word.

“What...?”

He walked between the lines of students to his seat, where he found that the latest newspaper extra had been so courteously placed atop his desk.

War on Belgaria!

Stillart Year 42, April 23rd

In the name of our new queen Margaret Stillart, a declaration of war has been issued against the Belgarian Empire. Admiral Oxford mobilized the Queen’s Navy the very same day.

A preemptive strike with one of our 74-gun steam-powered Princess-classes allowed for the speedy capture of Ciennbourg. We have further reports that our Royal Army’s First Division has made landfall.

The Empire’s Second Army is currently stationed in the city, and we predict that an intense exchange will follow.

Roland glared at the newspaper, frozen solid. “It’s finally happened...”

“Don’t worry about it.”

A close friend placed a hand on his shoulder, at which point the others he normally shared lunch with began speaking up as well.

“The country does what it does. It has nothing to do with us.”

“This is precisely the kind of situation where we must act calmly and rationally.”

“Is your house all right?”

Another student, however, made his disgust more than clear. “Belgaria’s our enemy now!” he exclaimed. “Letting this guy continue to study here is tantamount to treason!”

An intense clash of opinions unfolded in the blink of an eye.

Roland grabbed his bag. “Thank you. I respect High Britannia and its people. I certainly don’t see you as enemies, but I recognize that some of your friends and acquaintances will most likely be marching to war. It is only natural that you would grow so emotional. I myself am worried about the relatives I’m staying with, so I’ll be excusing myself for the rest of the day.”

But as Roland tried to leave the classroom, the student he had been arguing with that morning—the boy with oil-covered hair—moved to block his path. He would always challenge every little thing that Roland said, and each time their conversation would devolve into a fiery debate.

“You...” the boy muttered, fixing him with a glare.

“Is something the matter?”

“I swear on the honor of the High Britannian nobility, I will protect your right to study. You’d better be back tomorrow.”

Roland was so taken aback that, for a moment, he was at a complete loss for words. “I was sure that you hated me...” he eventually mustered.

“I’m always cringing at your shallow, insolent opinions, yes. But the only way to learn is by remaining open to values that differ from your own, correct?”

“Looks like we do agree on something...”

“That much is just common sense.”

“Yeah. I can’t promise that I’ll return tomorrow, but I’ll be back as soon as I know my house is safe. Make no mistake about that.”

The boy responded with a nod and stepped out of the doorway.

After one last glance around the classroom, Roland was gone.

While the school was only a little rowdier than usual, the town was in a complete uproar. Some paled at the mere mention of the invasion, while others drank in broad daylight and sang merry songs of war.

There were people on the corner of every street, scowling to one another as they exchanged hushed whispers. Were they the pacifists, perhaps? Or maybe the Belgarians. There were many Belgarians residing in High Britannia, both for work and study.

Fights started breaking out as well, and while the police arrived soon enough to break them up, public order was certainly on a rapid decline. It wasn’t until he had walked a short distance through town that Roland realized he had been strangling the newspaper in his fist.

“That’s... unfortunate.”

He was certain he had maintained his cool, but it seemed he was still considerably shaken. When he spread out the crumpled pages, the ink had bled from his own sweat. It was then that he noticed there were other entries apart from the article on the war. Among them, a notice.

Be on the lookout for Belgarian spies plotting national chaos.

The culprits were apparently a boy with brown hair and red eyes claiming to be the third son of a Belgarian count, and a short girl with blonde hair purporting to be a High Britannian student. The notice was very thorough, describing their facial features in excruciating detail.

“Given how vivid those descriptions are, they’ll be found in no time.”

War had apparently been declared yesterday on the 23rd, and the extra was printed today at noon, meaning the warrants were new.

“Around sixteen? Why, they’re the same age as me... Is Belgaria using children as spies these days?”

Belgaria considered fifteen the age of adulthood, but that was very much an ancient custom. Most neighboring nations had since raised this to eighteen, while High Britannia had decided on seventeen. Having devoted himself to the local customs for such a long time now, Roland saw sixteen-year-olds as still students, still children.

“Hmph. The more I hear about it, the worse it gets...”

A sense of gloom hanging over him, he made the journey back to the manor where he was staying. It belonged to a branch of the Tiraso Laverde House, who mainly dealt with the import and sale of Belgaria-made textiles. Their goods ranged from bedding to clothes to accessories, and their catalog was rather expansive.

Since the Empire’s products were of a higher quality than goods produced locally in High Britannia, they were treated as luxury items. Now that the two nations were at war, however, there was no telling what would become of their business. They wouldn’t be able to import goods—at least not in the immediate future—and with their main branch having become nobles in the Empire, surely they would face their share of criticism.

There’s going to be a lot of trouble ahead, he thought.

✧ ✧ ✧

That evening—

Bastian was awoken from his slumber by a knock on the door. It slowly swung open, heralding the entrance of a lone girl, Elize.

“Mn? Is it suppertime already?” Bastian groaned.

“So you’re awake, I see. How are you feeling?”

“Bit of a fever, but hey, I was shot, stabbed, and dropped in a river. As far as I’m concerned, this is a sign that I’ve regained some of my stamina.”

“Does anything hurt?”

“Nah. There’s a banging in my head, and it feels like the ground’s shaking beneath me, but that’s about it.”

“I should probably pay respects on my own, then...”

“How come?”

“I mean, when you’re feeling like that...”

“The fever means I’m getting better, trust me. It’s not like I’m riding a horse on a campaign. I’ll be fine.”

“Normal people don’t call what you just described ‘fine.’”

“Ahaha. When did you come under the delusion that I was a normal person?” he shot back, trying to act cool. But Elize simply stared at him, somewhat fed up with his antics.

“That again? There is no power of darkness, nor are there light-wielding holy knights.”

“Oh, Elize! Get with the times! I’ve come up with something entirely new! For you see, ‘As I wandered the abyss of death, I came upon the memories of a life gone by. I see... So I’m the hero who fought the Lord of Hell! Those memories shall give me superhuman strength!’ ...How does that sound?”

“What made that hero so strong...?”

“Er, who knows? That happened in a past life.”

“So all the hard work was done in a past life, and the main character is simply reaping all the benefits? I do not have a very high impression of someone who can do that without feeling deeply ashamed.”

“Y-You think so...?”

“I personally want to support someone who works hard themselves, even if they come from nothing.”

“Hm. I get it. Training scenes can really get the blood pumping...” Bastian muttered to himself as he clambered out of bed. The sudden weight on his legs caused him to lurch forward a little. Perhaps it was his three days spent lying down, or the fever.

“Oh, here. Wear these,” Elize said, holding something out to him.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

His previous clothes had been torn up by bullets and sliced apart, not to mention smeared with blood. The ones being provided to him now were the sort often worn by High Britannian nobility.

As Bastian started removing his sleepwear, Elize hurriedly turned away. “P-Please don’t just strip out of nowhere!”

“Huh? Why not?”

“Do you not find that embarrassing?”

“It’s my body. What’s there to be embarrassed about? Latrielle and Eddie are pretty much the same.”

“I’m the one who’s embarrassed here!”

“Hahah... You’re pretty strange.”

“M-Me?!”

“High Britannian clothes are... How should I put this? They’re pretty simple. Though that makes them easy to slip on.”

“Belgarian clothes simply have far too much ornamentation. I don’t understand the point of adding so much embroidery.”

“What matters most is that they’re sturdy. Now, let’s go grab some supper.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Bastian and Elize arrived at the dining room together.

High Britannia’s manors were quite rudimentary compared to the ones found in Belgaria, though they weren’t as extreme as those in Germania, where they fixated on simple practicality above all else.

There were paintings on the white walls, flowers in vases on the shelves, and velvet curtains draped in front of the windows. The table accessories were kept to a minimum, and their cutlery wasn’t made of gold or silver.

The room was lit using bright gas lamps. These were used a lot more sparingly in Belgaria, only appearing in a portion of the imperial palace, though perhaps House Tiraso Laverde was merely a special exception here in High Britannia.

Food had already been set down on the table, at the head of which sat Marl.

“Good day,” she greeted Bastian. “How is your body holding up?”

“A lot better than when I fell into the river.”

“Is that so...?”

Elize took her seat first, as directed by a maid, then Bastian sat beside her. The tradition of seating the woman first was apparently founded in religious practices; even Bastian, who had absolutely no interest in his studies, had picked up that scrap of etiquette.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“No, we’re still waiting on one more,” Marl said. “Roland should be here soon.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a young man entered the dining room. He was dressed in the same sort of High Britannian garb that Bastian was borrowing, but he wore it perfectly. His blond hair was cut short, and he wore rounded glasses.

The moment his eyes landed on Bastian, he stopped in place.

“Eh?”

Roland observed him closely.

“C-Can I help you?” Bastian stammered.

All of a sudden, Roland turned on his heel and sprinted out of the room. Not just Bastian and Elize, but even Marl was dumbfounded by his reaction. Just as they were wondering what could have happened, he returned, gasping for breath. He had the latest extra in his hands.

“Th-This!” he panted.

Bastian shrugged. “If you’re talking about the war declaration, we already know.”

“Calm down, Roland,” Marl said in a quiet but firm voice. “You’re in front of guests.”

Roland slammed the extra down on the table with a bang and spread it open to reveal a particular entry. “These two are wanted criminals!”

“What about it?” Marl shot back.

This time, Bastian was taken by surprise. Elize was likewise shocked: she rose halfway out of her seat and then froze, her eyes opened wide.

Roland smacked a fist against the table, “This is dangerous, don’t you think?! If they find out we’re harboring spies, every person in this house will be hanged!”

“I’m sure these two have their reasons. I would never sell out a guest.”

“Even if you keep silent, Marlborough, one of the servants could anonymously inform the authorities!”

“Roland... are you saying there are servants in this mansion who wish to see me taken to the gallows?”

“Erk... No... I spoke out of turn.”

“If your aim here is simply to bring that article to my attention, then I can assure you I’ve already read it. But looking at our guests, can you truly say they are Belgarian spies?”

Roland turned his gaze to Bastian. What face was he supposed to make at a time like this? Elize returned a serious glare, though she herself was clearly very tense.

Bastian forced his lips into a composed smile and stood. “Hah... I don’t think any further discussion is needed. You can get hanged for sheltering us? If so, there’s no two ways about it. I’m leaving right away.”

“What are you saying, Bastian?!”

He could understand Elize’s frustration; she was probably worried about his injuries.

“They dragged us out of a river and nursed me back to health when I was on death’s door. Can’t really ask for more than that. We should be extremensely thankful already.”

“Bastian...”

“Hm?”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘extremely’... Or maybe ‘immensely.’”

“I-I coined a new word, okay?! It means ‘a whole lot’! Can’t you see how awesome it is?!”

Elize sighed. “I don’t know what I was expecting... but you’re right—we certainly can’t trouble our benefactors.”

Marl shook her head, then looked at Bastian. “According to the doctor, it will be a month before your wound fully closes. Where do you intend on going when you can barely walk? Do you have anyone else to rely on?”

“...No.”

She straightened her back, undaunted. “As you are now, you will either collapse or get caught. In both cases, the fact that we allowed you to leave in the first place would make us the disgrace of our house. After all we have done for you, do you truly intend to besmirch my reputation?”

“Th-That wasn’t what I was trying to—”

“If you really must leave, I will not stop you. However, from an outsider’s perspective, it will appear as though I drove you out, will it not?”

“I see what you mean...” Bastian muttered. He hadn’t expected her to be so adamant about them staying.

Roland groaned, his expression deeply conflicted. “While it’s much too dangerous to harbor wanted fugitives, as Marlborough said, we have a certain prestige to uphold. Our reputation isn’t something we can just throw away, not as merchants. But in the million-to-one chance that this does come to light...”

“If you aren’t sure what to do, there’s no rush to make a decision,” Marl added. “The fact that you’ve even been mentioned in the newspaper is proof enough that the authorities have no leads. You mustn’t panic. First, why don’t we finish our supper?”

“Right... We should eat while we still have the chance,” Elize said.

Bastian took his seat once more, as did Roland—albeit after a little prompting. Marl recited from memory her gratitude to God, and then everyone offered a prayer of their own.

And so began the meal. For supper they were having boiled green beans, fried fish and potatoes, stewed mushrooms, and roast beef. As nearly everyone at the table was considered a minor, their glasses were filled with orange juice.

In High Britannia, each person would be given a large plate onto which all of the dishes had already been served. There was no self-serving necessary, nor was the meal divided into appetizer, side, and main entrée. The food itself was a tad on the salty side, though it was quite nicely complemented by a rich sauce made with eggs and butter.

The preparations seemed far simpler when compared to Belgarian cuisine, but this simplicity seemed to place further emphasis on the flavor of each ingredient. The roast beef in particular was a masterpiece—a sticky sheet of red sat below the perfectly crisp exterior, the taste of roasted meat blending perfectly with the scent of fresh blood.

The texture was firm, and yet each bite melted in the mouth. There was a dull pain in Bastian’s head whenever he chewed, but the flavor was exquisite enough that he forgot all about it. He was almost in a trance, such that his plate was empty before he knew it. The chef quickly prepared another one for him.

“Ah, this is seriously incredible!” Bastian exclaimed.

“You’ll get a stomachache if you eat too much,” Elize warned him.

“I know, I know...”

Marl gave a delighted smile. “With an appetite like that, it seems as though you’ll be better in no time.”

“You bet! And having food this good sure helps!”

“Oh, right.” Marl signaled to a butler waiting by the wall, who brought over a parcel wrapped in white cloth. Whatever it was, it was presented to Bastian.

“What’s this...?” he asked.

“Please, take it.”

“Hm?”

He curiously removed the cloth to reveal a book with an indigo-blue cover. There was no title on the front, and when he flipped through it, he found that the cream-colored pages were all blank.

“Ooh! This is...!”

“I heard from Shia that you are writing a story.”

“Yeah, that’s right! I’m the man who’ll one day write history’s greatest masterpiece!”

During the spring two years ago, Bastian had met a soldier who opened his eyes to the wonders of stories. The man had told him, “If you ever do write a novel... perhaps I’ll be reading your masterpiece one day.”

Ever since then, for some peculiar reason, Bastian had been confident that he could write. He would spend every moment of spare time he had sewing together his story.

“Err... I don’t mean to intrude,” Elize anxiously interjected, “but books aren’t cheap. I wouldn’t feel right about accepting this, especially considering how much you’ve already done for us.”

“It’s nothing to be concerned about. That book is simply a sample that the master received from one of our business partners; our house does not have much use for it.”

Bastian nodded. “If that’s true, then it must be fate that it found its way into my hands. This book was brought into this world, birthed to contain my future magnum opus...”

“It astounds me just how confident you are in your writing abilities...” Marl said, seemingly impressed.

“Oh, enough with the compliments. You’ll make me blush,” Bastian chuckled, while Elize sighed for the umpteenth time that day.

Roland cocked his head. “A magnum opus, you say? Are you going to write a thesis in that book? I think you’ll find manuscript paper more to your liking.”

The manuscript paper he referred to was regular paper with horizontal lines printed across it, but that alone made it quite a bit more expensive.

“Nay, what I shall write is a story!” Bastian dramatically proclaimed.

“Yes, well... you’re supposed to write that on manuscript paper too,” Elize murmured under her breath, but her words didn’t reach Bastian’s ears.

Given the young man’s stiff air and studious nature, Bastian was sure Roland would mock him, but he instead began to look rather pensive. He was an individual who put quite a bit of thought into most everything he did.

“So, tell me... What sort of story are you writing?” Roland asked.

“A thrilling, blood-chilling, monster-killing adventure!”

“R-Right... That’s, err... What was it again...? There was another one that went like that, right? What was it called...?”

“Pardon?”

“Have you heard about it? A prince wanders the barren earth until his little sister appears before him as a knight, and the two of them battle for the throne.”

“Oh, of course I know that one! Ah, but... How do I put this...? I don’t think I can write a protagonist who’s that smart.”

“What about the sister? Did you think nothing of the sister?!”

“Well, I don’t hate that sort of character, I guess. I’ve got a sister like that myself, but she’s a bit... different, shall we say? Yeah, a heroine who can lift cows above her head is right out.”

“I can’t say I understand what you mean, but what a heroine truly needs is love.”

“Love, eh?”

Elize and Marl both looked puzzled as they watched Bastian and Roland’s conversation suddenly grow heated. But the two boys knew that discussions about hobbies were a bizarre sight to those who didn’t share the interest.

“Ahem!” Roland cleared his throat. “Err... Bastian, was it? Come around to my study later. I have something important to discuss with you.”

“Hm? Sure, whatever. I’m sick of sleeping all day.”

✧ ✧ ✧

After the meal, Bastian accompanied Roland to his study. As it turned out, the boy was not just a hardworking student but also a huge fan of adventure novels.

“In all honesty,” Roland began with a completely serious expression, “my biggest worry before I came here was not being able to read the new releases of the series I was following. I was sure that I wouldn’t be able to buy Belgarian fiction here in High Britannia... Do I seem like a crackpot to you?”

“Like hell you do. I felt exactly the same way. When I arrived though, I realized it wasn’t anywhere near as big of an issue as I’d thought.”

“Indeed, entertainment can span the seas. To think they would actually sell them here!”

“I know, right?! The releases are a month behind, sure, but they’ll stock them for you if you put in an order.”

“They’re three times as expensive, but I bought a copy of the High Britannian version as well. The illustrations are bigger in that version. Did you know?”

“Eh? You serious?!”

“These books... These stories... They’re what shaped my sense of justice, you know.”

“I get you. A protag really needs to be a hero who champions what’s right.”

“I’m assuming you’ve read Professor Andrew’s Green Knight.”

“Huh, maybe you really are a crackpot. Of course I have! Do you seriously think I’d give that one a miss?!”

“Do you remember that scene?”

“Hmph... ‘Curse you, Count! I’ll never let you have Antoine!’ Shiiing! He pulls out his blade. And then bang! The count’s a villain cruel enough to kidnap a woman, and his swordsmanship is unrivaled, but the hero challenges him nonetheless. That’s true courage right there.”

“Yes! Justice that will never bend to violence!” Roland agreed with a deep nod before thrusting out his right hand. Bastian enthusiastically gripped it, and the two exchanged a firm handshake.

The two boys went on to talk about a number of other books, and as their discussion went on, it became increasingly apparent exactly what sort of stories Roland had a penchant for.

“Hey, let me guess. You like stories that star commoners—ones where the weak overthrow the strong.”

“You’re right. But a majority of the people who purchase entertainment books are nobles, so the commoners rarely ever win in the end.”

Also among the nonfiction books that Roland read were a few that would never be allowed in Belgaria.

“Are you a liberalist, Roland...?”

“I won’t deny it.”

The philosophy wasn’t outright banned in Belgaria, but it was one that might cost a person their seat in government if they proclaimed that they supported it.

“Really? Even though you’re a noble?”

“You seem to misunderstand—the main objective is not for the commoners to overthrow the nobility.”

“But you want to make the emperor the same as the commoners, right?”

“That’s not it either. At its core, liberalism is the belief that everyone should have the right to pursue happiness.”

“Eh? Well, I mean, of course they should.”

“It seems obvious, right? But look at how things actually are. This is just one side of the philosophy, but it’s the one I focus on most. From the moment a commoner is born, they are fated to be exploited for the rest of their life. This can never be overturned, no matter how much effort they put in—at least, not under Belgaria’s current system.”

“Those who prove themselves in battle can always become a chevalier.”

“Yes, but what about the people who instead wish to thrive through trade? Are farmers not allowed to be happy?”

“So... we shouldn’t tax the people?”

“We’re talking about giving them the freedom to choose how they live.”

“You’re certainly making some bold claims here.”

“My points may appear somewhat heretical from the perspective of a noble. I’m also aware that I am somewhat of a hypocrite. The expensive meals, these clothes, this manor... They were all gained by exploiting the people.”

Bastian scratched his head. If nobles made a living through exploitation, then his own livelihood was founded on exploitation on top of exploitation: the royal family gathered taxes not only from the people in their immediate territory but from the nobles as well.

“Once upon a time, when people feared the night, when they needed to band together to hunt, a king was necessary. Back then, it only made sense for the strong to get the lion’s share of the food.”

“Yeah, makes sense.”

“But now, we can sleep peacefully. We do not need to hunt, for we can work the fields; the people have found ways to live without relying on physical might. In this day and age, for what reason must the emperor and nobles live in greater luxury than your common man? Because their ancestors hunted a great many deer in an era where that was important?”

“Hmm...”

Bastian was hiding his royal heritage, so he couldn’t just come out and say, “My ancestor founded the Belgarian Empire.” But Roland made a good point—why did that connection even matter?

Elize’s words crossed his mind. “So all the hard work was done in a past life, and the main character is simply reaping all the benefits? I do not have a very high impression of someone who can do that without feeling deeply ashamed.”

Is that also the case here? Bastian wondered.

“I guess it’s not as if the royals or nobles put any effort in themselves,” he mused aloud. “In most cases, the person in question is irrelevant; it wasn’t them, but one of their ancestors who worked hard and succeeded. And yet, they are able to live in luxury simply because they were born into it.”

“And the common folk are forced into harsh lives for the same reason.”

“That’s definitely kinda strange...”

“The country had already taken shape by the time we were born—by then, it was common sense for nobles to live in luxury, and for commoners to foot the bill. We quickly grew accustomed to it, but that was our mistake. Everyone should have an equal right to seek happiness.”

“Mn... But without an emperor or nobles, will there even be a country? What about representatives and the military—those sorts of roles?”

“The people can select their own representatives. And the nobles aren’t the ones who protect the people, but the soldiers. This is how a country should be managed in the modern era.”

“The modern era...”

“If you’re interested, give this book a read. It’s in High Britannian, but that shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

“N-No, probably not.”

Bastian was studying abroad, so he had picked up enough to comfortably get through his daily routine. Books about politics, however, were another story.

Seeing the look on Bastian’s face, Roland suddenly started to chuckle to himself. “This is a piece of High Britannian fiction—a mystery novel,” he explained. “The author’s a trueborn liberalist, and he did a good job weaving those ideals into the story. I’m still studying it, so I lack the knowledge or the confidence to try and teach you myself. This book should do a better job than I can.”

“I don’t see myself ever becoming a liberalist...”

Bastian was royalty. It was true that he had fled his home country fearing a power struggle, but he did not intend to abandon it, nor did he intend to overthrow the emperor. Based on what Roland had said, he definitely agreed that there was something wrong with how the Empire was currently structured, but the very thought of commoners taking command and choosing a representative seemed much too unrealistic.

Say a foreign diplomat visited—how could they expect to foster favorable relations when their representative didn’t even know the proper etiquette? And if some random soldier were given the right to command, how could they ever win wars?

Bastian knew there were skilled commoners out there, but surely they could just distinguish themselves and rise to the rank of chevalier. If the farmers weren’t being properly rewarded, they could simply reduce the amount they were taxed or institute a bonus for those who brought in excellent yields. As far as he was concerned, they didn’t need to completely upend the Empire’s customs; a simple reform would be enough to improve the people’s lives.

“It sounds to me like those liberalists are burning their houses down just because they don’t like the mess inside,” Bastian mused.

“You’re smarter than you look.”

“Ahaha! You flatter me!”

Their conversation continued long into the night, coming to an end only when Elize arrived to drag Bastian away.

“You’re injured, Bastian! Just how late were you intending to stay up?!”

✧ ✧ ✧

High Britannia was overwhelming Belgaria. They had already fought off the Second Army in their first land battle when they engaged in their first major counteroffensive on May 19th—the Battle of La Frenge. Here, their First Division had achieved an overwhelming victory over the Seventh Army despite being up against more than double their numbers.

There was no denying that High Britannia had managed to flaunt the superiority of their latest guns and cannons, and they had done so in an engagement already under the close observation of so many nations. This was a major incident that would shake the very foundations of the continent.

Up to that point, the political landscape had been shaped almost entirely by the strength of the Empire’s cavalry and foot soldiers. But if a small number of High Britannian soldiers—men who weren’t even their elites—could devastate the imperial army, then the power balance between nations was open to being completely rewritten.

Most countries could see that the era of guns had begun.

Diplomats from all over stopped by the royal palace of Queenstower, as did foreign merchants and engineers vying to snatch these revolutionary innovations.

High Britannia’s technological prowess had always been highly evaluated, but demand was now higher than ever: it wasn’t rare for goods going for a pound one month to then be sold for two pounds the next. The wages of skilled engineers doubled and then tripled, with a few eventually deciding to take up these foreign offers.

Before the war, the backstreets had been flooded with the unemployed, but now they were abound with job advertisements. There was lively banter here and there as if someone had won the lottery, and despite the fact that the country was still embroiled in war, towns were celebrating as though they had already won.

“Three cheers for the queen!” the men cried. “Hip hip, hoorah! Hip hip, hoorah!”

Applause filled the streets as they raised their ale glasses high into the air. The war was looking up, and public order was recovering. It was still dangerous to admit to being a Belgarian in town, but they could at least go out and shop without having to fear for their safety.

Even so, Roland did not return to school. Bastian found this development rather strange, and so he decided to address it over dinner one day.

“Sounds like the town’s safe to me. Is going into school still too much of a risk? You want to study, don’t you?”

“I do, yes. And I wouldn’t have come abroad had it been something I could do alone. But do you really think Belgaria will accept defeat so easily? We need to consider what might happen when the bad news comes in.”

“That’s true.”

The head of House Tiraso Laverde was often away on what he called “a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” He rarely ever returned to the mansion, so only Elize and Marl joined Bastian and Roland at the table.

Elize eyed the two boys curiously. “I’ve heard that High Britannia’s guns are overwhelmingly powerful. Are you sure there’s even going to be bad news?”

Roland looked conflicted. “I could always be overthinking it...”

“Nah, Belgaria ain’t that soft,” Bastian interjected. “How many hundreds of years do you think that country’s been at war? They might not have powerful new weapons, but they have skilled soldiers. They’re the ones who fight, not the guns.”

“You make a good point, but many say we have now entered the era of the gun.”

“Guns don’t kill people; people kill people. That’s war for you. Just look at any era, and you’ll find someone bragging about their weapons. Those people aren’t the ones who know how to win wars.”

“Do you know how to win wars?”

“’Course I do. I’m a man of the Empire.”

While they did not share the same mother, Bastian’s brother Latrielle was the commander of the First Army. He held the right to lead all of the Empire’s armed forces.

Bastian was already an adult, though he had never actually experienced war before. In contrast, his close friend Eddie of House Balzac had been on the battlefield just a month prior, though he had apparently returned to the capital since then. This was simply the sort of country that Belgaria was.

“They won’t go down without a fight...”

It wasn’t long before Bastian’s prediction was proven right.

✧ ✧ ✧

June 6th, morning—

Elize entered Bastian’s room. While she was wearing her usual dress befitting a High Britannian noblewoman, her hair was more casually bundled up. She had recently started helping Marl out around the house, saying that she couldn’t stand to be one-sidedly looked after anymore, and with the way she looked now, one might have mistaken them for mother and daughter.

“Good morning, Bastian. How are you feeling today?”

“A lot better.”

He rotated his arm a few times, trying to stretch his shoulder muscles. He was far from his usual strength, but he had mostly recovered from his injury.

“Were you reading again?”

“It’s just something I borrowed from Roland. If you want to write a masterpiece, it’s only natural that you read a few first.”

“Perhaps. Oh, but books are expensive, so you must be careful with them,” Elize said, reaching for the small stack beside the bed.

“Ah!” Bastian suddenly panicked. “W-Wait! I can tidy these away myself!”

“Ahaha... That’s quite all right. You’re injured, so it’s the least I could— Mn?”

Elize was mindlessly flipping through the book at the top of the pile when her eyes narrowed into a squint. Her smile, usually as elegant as a blooming flower, grew increasingly muddled by the second. Her cheeks flushed, and her voice began to quaver.

“B-Bastian...?”

“D-Don’t get the wrong idea. This is a story about hotblooded men on an adventure, so the inserts are just a little... extreme.”

“What is this nude image supposed to be?!”

“That’s, err... a scene showing him being intimate with a girl he saved...”

“That’s indecent!”

“It’s love! Love, I say!”

“That’s not love; it’s lust! I’m checking the other books too!”

“Wait, no! I stand against this censorship!”

Bastian hurriedly snatched the books from the bedside table and hid them behind his back, so Elize had to climb onto him to reach them. His back and chest wounds had already closed, so it would have been easy enough for him to push her off; in fact, for someone with Bastian’s strength, she could have been moved aside with barely a pinky.

But the more he thought about it, the less sure he became of where it was okay to touch her. Her chest and hips were obviously out of the question, and he couldn’t grab her by the shoulder in case he left a suspicious-looking mark. Her arms were so slender that he feared he might break them.

“Show them to me!” Elize demanded.

“Th-Think about what you’re doing here!”

“If you truly have nothing to hide, you shouldn’t have a problem showing me!”

“No, no, no! How about we calm down?!”

“Why are you looking at things like that when you refuse to do anything with me?!”

“E-Eh?!”

Suddenly realizing what she had said, Elize froze, still straddling Bastian on the bed. She was so close that he could hear her every breath. She clapped her hands over her mouth, having gone red up to her ears, and embarrassed tears added an enchanting glimmer to her bleary eyes.

Bastian’s heart beat so violently in his chest that even he was concerned.

“Y-You know, Eli—”

There was a sudden knock on the door and then a loud click as it swung open a beat later. Whoever it was, they had shown at least some semblance of courtesy, but they had barged in so abruptly that it was somewhat of an empty gesture.

Bastian and Elize frantically turned.

It was Roland.

“Hello, my good man! About that book I lent—”

Realizing what he had just walked in on, Roland stopped in his tracks, staring at the two on the bed for what felt like an eternity.

“I, uh... allowed you to borrow it because I thought you might appreciate the heroine’s beauty...” he stammered. “But alas, I’d forgotten that you do not need to settle for mere illustrations. My deepest apologies.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Bastian cried. “It’s not what it looks like!”

“I’m sorry for intruding on you two lovebirds. However, don’t you think such matters are best kept for the nighttime?!”

“What matters?!”

A large bang echoed through the room as Roland smacked the wall behind him. “Oh, woe is me! The Lord above gifted the earth with beauty, and yet I am fated to never lay my hands upon it. Curse ye, God! I shake my fist at thee!”

“Oi, Roland?!”

Raising a cry that would have earned him half a day’s worth of admonishments from a priest, Roland ran down the corridor in dramatic tears. The encounter had made Elize an even brighter red than before, and she appeared to be on the verge of tears herself.

“This is your fault, Bastian!” she yelled.

“My fault?!”

But it wasn’t long before Roland returned, sprinting back into the room. This was not the same man who had comically sprinted away moments before, though; his expression was deadly serious, and he tightly grasped a newspaper in his hand.

“High Britannia lost!”

✧ ✧ ✧

The paper had a new front-page story—

It happened four days ago on June 2nd. The Queen’s Navy, which we had once thought held an even greater advantage than our land army, was dealt a devastating blow.

Based on Belgarian reports, they faced off against the naval division of the Empire’s Fourth Army. Our 74-gun steam-powered Princess-classes were all either capsized or captured, and Admiral Oxford—along with a few other captains and a majority of our naval infantry—have been taken as prisoners of war.

Our hold of Port Ciennbourg has been overturned. The loss of the port and our command of the sea has left the High Britannian Army stranded in Belgarian territory without supplies. We have also received reports of the newly crowned Queen Margaret accompanying the army to the front lines, and we are working as fast as we can to verify the validity of these statements.

Parliament will most likely move forward with peace negotiations, but in the million-to-one chance that Her Majesty has been taken prisoner, it may take several years for us to pay the ransom required for her return.

There are concerns that the war may draw out as well; there are many past precedents of the Empire fending off an invasion only to invade their former aggressors in retaliation. The Grand Duchy of Varden, who invaded Beilschmidt territory last year, lost Fort Volks to a counterattack just this February.

The commander of the Beilschmidt border regiment at the time was one Fourth Princess Marie Quatre Argentina de Belgaria—a mere fifteen-year-old girl, though one with the famed Black Knight Jerome in her service. This young princess has recently taken her position as commander of the Empire’s Fourth Army, and there is a great likelihood that she was the one who took command during the naval battle.

Will our front lines crumble under this young Amazon of the Empire?

Let us look forward to a glorious resurgence of our great nation’s valiant officers...

The latter half of the article was chocked full of emotional appeals, no doubt intended to raise the readers’ fighting spirits after such a string of disheartening news.

Bastian held his head. “Is this for real...? She seriously flipped the war upside-down...”

“Is that your little sister?”

“Yeah, something like— Ahem. Nope. Never heard of her. Nuh-uh.”

“I see.”

Elize had climbed off the bed and was now standing beside it. Bastian had gotten up as well.

Roland leaned his back against the wall, folding his arms with a serious look on his face. “I do so happen to know an individual with some influence in military matters, so I asked them—”

“Are you seriously the same age as us?” Bastian interrupted.

“How rude. I am clearly sixteen.”

“Well, the way you talk is a bit...”

“U-Urk... Th-There is no shame in an intellectual speaking in such a manner. More pertinently, it seems the fourth princess has a skilled tactician by her side.”

“Oh, really?”

Both High Britannia and Belgaria were fervently at work gathering information; each knew about the internal makeup of their enemy to a certain degree.

“He is Third-Grade Admin Officer Regis d’Aurick, apparently... Do you know him, by chance?”

“I only ever fought with the First Army.”

“Understandable. I don’t know how the rumors hold up to reality, but those in the know... They call him ‘the Wizard.’”

“Hah?! ‘The Wizard’?!” Bastian did a spit take at the ridiculous name straight out of a fiction book.

“He conquered Fort Volks at a numerical disadvantage, and now he has bested the Queen’s Navy, who were thought to hold an insurmountable dominance at sea. It is understandable that they would refer to him as such.”

“Hm...”

“I personally hail from the south, so I don’t know him, but you were raised around the capital, were you not? Perhaps you’ve heard the name, at least?”

“Regis d’Aurick? I’ve never...”

All of a sudden, the realization struck him—two years ago, during the spring. That young soldier he had met at the library may or may not have been called Aurick, and perhaps his first name might have been Regis...

Bastian vehemently shook his head. “No, couldn’t have been. He was wearing a commoner’s uniform. And more importantly, a guy who gets scolded for reading pulp fiction instead of working couldn’t possibly be some amazing tactician.”

“Considering he was unknown up until recently, perhaps he’s fresh out of the academy. In any case, the town’s probably in an uproar.”

“Have you gone to check it out?”

“No, I only saw the news a moment ago. But it’s blatantly obvious if you give it some thought: just when they thought their guns and cannons gave them an overwhelming advantage, the High Britannian Army lost—not even to Latrielle, the rumored future emperor, but to his fifteen-year-old sister.”

“Well, I’m sure it put a damper on their victory celebrations.”

“If victory is uncertain, all that remains is their fear of Belgaria. It is only now that they have begun to realize they declared war on the strongest nation on the continent.”

“Bit late for that...”

Elize’s expression darkened. She and Bastian had endeavored to stop this very war, and not only had they failed, but now her nation was headed toward defeat.

“It’s not your fault, Elize...”

“I know, Bastian... I’m okay, really.”

Roland shrugged. “We should be more worried about ourselves. Violence toward and even the murder of Belgarians has been on the rise as of late, and while these are officially considered crimes, there aren’t enough officers on the street. Even when culprits are found, they’re being released for lack of evidence, among other things.”

“The hell’s that all about?!”

“They call themselves the Royal Soldiers, but really they’re just criminals—a gaggle of robbers and murderers. They’re largely composed of youths who couldn’t go to war. They claim to have a just cause, retaliating against the Belgarians who killed their fellow countrymen.”

“It’s not like the Belgarians living here had any part in that! Not to mention, High Britannia’s the one who picked the fight!”

“The nation will struggle to control them when they’re trying to rally everyone’s fighting spirits. And for the criminals running amok... that reasoning hardly matters.”

Not just Bastian, but Elize tilted her head as well. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“It’s one of the ugly sides of humanity, I’m afraid... We find amusement in abusing and criticizing others.”

“Th-That’s not true.”

“Of course, their conscience would prevent them from abusing those who don’t deserve it—everyone wants to be the Good Samaritan, after all. But once some reason is spotted—no matter how minuscule it may be—the script is flipped entirely. When they are convinced their target is deserving of criticism, they can attack them as much as they wish, without any pangs of remorse. Such is the case for those wielding violence against Belgarians right now. I’m sure they have their own excuses, but it ultimately boils down to their lives not having turned out how they wanted, so they recklessly alleviate their frustrations in the name of justice.”

Elize was at a complete loss for words.

Bastian cast his eyes down. “Then they’re just weak, ain’t they?”

“Indeed. With neither the courage nor the backbone to face their own problems, they are left at a standstill, unable to scale the walls life has thrust before them. They look up to and envy success, all while looking down upon and sneering at those beneath them. Their time is spent searching for those they can lower the hammer of righteousness down upon, like starved stray dogs on the prowl. And while I hold them in contempt, I could not say it to their faces, for it would make me no better than them.”

“Perhaps...”

“This news of our defeat will surely radicalize the Royal Soldiers even more. The gloom they endeavor to rid themselves of will only embolden their fears of these ‘invading’ Belgarians. There is no doubt in my mind that they will exhibit more misplaced patriotism than ever before.”

“What can we do?”

“I’ll need to discuss this with Marlborough, but... I am considering returning to Belgaria.”

“What?”

“I cannot study here anymore; not only is my life in danger, but there is no point in me staying in a country where even the library is out of my reach. I have friends and comrades here, but I also have my own ambitions.”

“Your own ambitions...?”

“Oh, right. You see, I... No, well... It can wait. For now, we must act. We are fortunate in that our house in Belgaria is located in the south of the Empire, and our limited contributions to the war mean that High Britannia’s nobles and civilians are apathetic toward us.”

“Do you have a ship?”

“We’re at war; passenger and private vessels are prohibited. But there is a ship I can use.”

“You’re stowing away, then?!”

“Not too loud, Bastian.”

Bastian clapped a hand over his mouth, then muffled out a quiet, “Sorry...” They were in a room in a corner of the manor, though, so it was unlikely anyone had overheard.

“In any case, I’m returning to my home,” Roland said. “How about it? Would you like to come with me, at least until the war dies down?”

“Us? Are you sure about that?”

“Leaving you here might bring trouble to Marlborough somewhere down the line.”

“G-Good point...”

“I want some time to think about it,” Elize muttered, looking rather conflicted.

Roland nodded. “It’s an easy choice for Bastian and me, but High Britannia is your motherland, so I understand why you would waver on this decision. Please keep in mind that there is a search warrant out for you, though, so I personally do not want to keep you at Marlborough’s manor. It will take some time to arrange for the ship, so you have a while to think it over.”

“...Very well.”

✧ ✧ ✧

As Roland predicted, the group calling themselves the Royal Soldiers grew even more extreme. As a sense of defeat swept over the town, public order deteriorated to the point that Belgarians weren’t the only targets of violence and abuse—other High Britannians who were arbitrarily selected as enemy sympathizers soon found themselves being sacrificed for the cause as well.

✧ ✧ ✧

One week later—

The ship was set to leave port that night, but Elize still could not bring herself to make a decision. Bastian had grown equally unsure; with a search warrant out for them both, he didn’t intend to leave her behind, but neither did he want to drag her along against her will.

The sun had begun its descent when they were both summoned to Marl’s private room. It easily could have been mistaken for the master’s study, as there was an entire wall lined with rows upon rows of books like one would expect to see in a library.

In the center of the room was a large desk and a leather chair in which Marl was seated. She looked as though she had somewhat wasted away. Perhaps there was a lot weighing on her mind.

“Bastian, how is your body holding up?” she asked.

“It feels a bit dull, but the wounds don’t hurt anymore. Thanks a bunch for all your help.”

“That’s good.” She placed a small wooden box on the desk, then turned her eyes to Elize. “Have you made your resolve to cross over to the Empire?”

“I’m still hesitant... I had a goal in this country; many expectations were placed upon me, and many people have thrown down their lives to support me... I’ve failed... I’ve lost everything... But even so, I can’t help searching for something—anything—I could do for High Britannia.”

“So I take it you believe you won’t be able to do anything once you’ve left for Belgaria.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind.”

“Were you... against this war?”

“I still am. I believe a country prospers in peace. Why do you ask?”

“My apologies. I know that was rude of me, but I needed to know.”

“I understand.”

“I believe this is what you were looking for...” Marl said, pushing the wooden box she had put on the desk over to Elize.

When Elize opened it, her breath caught in her throat. Contained within was a lone golden ring engraved with the royal seal, signifying her as the ruler of High Britannia. It took on the shape of a rose.

“Th-This... How did...?”

“The people I reached out to can be quite odd, but they’re reliable. They sift gold from Greybridge river, dredging the sediment for any valuables they can find. Not even the smallest grain of gold dust gets by them, so I was sure they could find a ring if put up to it.”

“That may be the case, but... surely they would have kept it for themselves...”

“The gold panners have a guild, and I purchased it through their chairman.”

Elize’s eyes wavered as Bastian patted her on the head. “Isn’t that great, Elize?” he said. “Oh, and, err... Thank you so much, Mrs. Marl!”

“Thank you!” Elize repeated, putting her hands together and dropping to her knees as though praying to God.

Marl rose from her chair and walked around the large desk until she was standing right before Elize, likewise lowering herself onto her knees. “Am I right to assume you are Elizabeth Victoria, the true queen of High Britannia? I should be begging your forgiveness for my countless discourtesies...”

“Not at all... While I received the ring from Queen Charlotte, I could never make it to the castle, and so I was never enthroned... Mrs. Marl, please forgive me. I owe you so much, and yet I did not tell you...”

“What are you saying? Your decision to remain silent was completely understandable, given your situation.”

Elize stood, taking Marl’s hands in hers. “You have my gratitude.”

“I was certain from the moment I saw that ring. You are more worthy than Queen Margaret, who started this senseless war.”

“I haven’t the words... but I’m already...”

“House Tiraso Laverde lacks any significant power, but we are on the board of the Trade Federation.”

“Ah, I didn’t know that.”

“We publicly only deal in textiles, but importing iron ore to produce high-quality steel is an important enterprise of ours. Regardless of the war’s outcome, now that High Britannia has made an enemy of the Empire, this steel will be necessary.”

“Y-Yes.”

“I have my finances and the influence that has come from them. I’m sure they will prove of some use to you, Your Majesty.”

“...I am not a queen. Right now, I am simply Elize Archibald.”

“Understood. Then Elize... please, feeble as we may be, permit us to assist you in leading our country down the correct path.”

“I would be glad to. But what do you want me to do?”

Their conversation seemed to be progressing smoothly enough, but Bastian still thought it necessary to step in. “Depends on your goal,” he said. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done, Mrs. Marl, but if you’re going to start a civil war, I’d rather take Elize and run.”

“...I don’t want to be used for war either,” Elize murmured anxiously.

“We merchants seek peace,” Marl smiled. “We desire an end to all wars, whether big or small. And to that end, Elize, I want you to flee to Belgaria.”

“Eh?!”

“I appreciate that this might come as a surprise, but there are already great tremors passing through High Britannia. If a new candidate for the throne appears in addition to them, opposing the new queen, it will most likely lead to civil war.”

“That would be rather troublesome...”

“A development like this while we are at war with Belgaria will cause this country to fall into ruin. Right now, the best action you can take is staying out of the public eye.”

“I understand...”

“I know you may have suspicions about leaving everything to me, but... could you trust me on this one?”

Elize nodded; it seemed that she had already come to her decision. “I am but a powerless student right now,” she began. “If your proposal is to the benefit of this nation, as I believe it is, then I’ll go to any lengths necessary to achieve it. I can understand why you wouldn’t want me—or rather, the Rose Ring—to come out at a time like this.”

At those words, a touch of relief seeped into Marl’s smile.

“Are you really all right with going to the Empire, Elize?” Bastian asked, wanting to be sure.

“It certainly was not an easy decision to make. This is the land of my parents, my friends...”

“Well, this is you we’re talking about here... I’m sure you’ve put enough thought into it.”

“To be honest... I’m still not completely confident.”

“Really?”

Elize bit her lip, her eyes wandering across the room. “I’m always anxious that my personal feelings might be... clouding my judgment.”

“Hmm?” Bastian wore a quizzical expression, evidently having failed to decipher her vaguely worded explanation.

Elize merely sighed.

Their conversation having come to a close, Bastian and Elize thanked Marl for all her help, their host responding that she would gladly receive them if they ever met again. They also gave their thanks to Shia, the maid who had looked after them. She seemed especially melancholy as she said, “Please drop by again, when we’re at peace.”

The sun had set by the time Bastian and Elize departed the manor. The moon shone brightly, and the stars twinkled in the night sky. To ensure they couldn’t be traced back to and subsequently cause trouble for House Tiraso Laverde, they departed for the port in a standard cab rather than a marked carriage.

✧ ✧ ✧

The moon floated in the night sky, its contours blurred by a faint veil of clouds.

“I can’t stand it...” Roland murmured.

“What’s wrong?” Bastian asked.

“I can’t stand when things aren’t spelled out clearly.”

“Are you... talking about the moon?”

“Indeed. But it has a strange charm to it, don’t you think?”

“I’m getting a bad feeling myself... The ship’s leaving from here, right?”

“That’s right. It’s too late to turn back now.”

It was a quiet night at the harbor. The wind was weak, and the waves softly lapped the docks. The scent of salt hung faintly in the air, as one would expect from a coastal hamlet.

This was a wharf used primarily for imports and exports, with a number of warehouses lining the shore beside the docks. With only the moonlight to illuminate their surroundings, one careless step might send them plummeting into the sea below. And of course, there were no handrails.

“I don’t see any ships...” Bastian murmured.

“It can’t drop anchor here or else it would stand out too much. It should arrive at two,” Roland explained. “It was a trial and a half trying to find a captain skilled enough to dock in such little light.”

Bastian and Elize followed behind Roland as he threw open the doors to one of the warehouses. All eyes were suddenly on them. There was a large gathering inside of around a hundred people, all carrying heavy parcels and stifling their breaths in the darkness.

“Eep!” Elize let out a faint shriek, taken aback by the ominous sight.

“Fret not, my good people. It is I,” Roland announced, raising a hand. A wave of relief spread across the hundred or so gathered.

“Hey, who are they...?” Bastian asked quietly.

“Others who want safe passage to Belgaria. We’ll load the one hundred and seven people here, as well as the goods in the warehouse one over, then leave before daybreak. The ship should be here soon...”

“You didn’t bring much with you.”

“I kept my luggage to a minimum. Just some food, and this here,” Roland said, gesturing toward the single book in his hand. There wasn’t anything on the cover.

“What’s that book?”

“You’re not going to laugh, are you?” Roland asked. He looked unusually bashful.

“Well, depends how funny it is.”

Elize gave him a light slap on the arm. “Don’t be rude, Bastian.”

“Well, I would like to get your opinion on it eventually...” Roland conceded. “This is a book I wrote.”

“You serious?!” Bastian exclaimed. “You were writing an adventure novel too?!”

“It’s just a collection of my thoughts, so nothing quite so pleasant. One would normally write it down on manuscript paper, then take it to a printer. If you’re lucky, bookmaking specialists might even buy the manuscript off of you.”

“But you wrote it by hand.”

“When I saw that you were writing a story, I decided that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to put my musings in order like this.”

“That’s so cool, don’t you think?! Much better than a plain bundle of paper!”

“...I can’t deny that,” Roland said, shying away a little.

Bastian had a broad grin on his face. Even Elize seemed to be caught up in their excitement, a smile playing on her lips.

But their high spirits didn’t last very long. Bastian was the first to notice it—a boisterous group of carriages were approaching. “What now?!” he exclaimed, bolting back to the doorway.

Roland came up beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“Carriages. Three—no, four.”

“What?! Is it the police?! The army?!”

“Too noisy for that... These aren’t unified forces. They’re almost like a bunch of... kids.”

“It really can’t get any worse than this...” Roland gulped, his voice quavering. “Bastian... It’s the Royal Soldiers.”

An uproar spread through the warehouse. The Royal Soldiers were a group who wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone they identified as Belgarian, and many of those gathered here were fleeing the country for precisely that reason. While a few of the one hundred and seven had guns and swords, the vast majority were unarmed civilians; it was questionable whether they would be able to mount a decent enough resistance.

Bastian checked to make sure his dagger was still at his chest. It was a weapon he had borrowed from the Belgarian treasury.

“So they’re here. I should have seen this coming...” Roland muttered to himself.

“They’re coming straight toward us,” Bastian warned. “Someone must have leaked our plans.”

“Khh...”

“Well, with over a hundred people involved, the information was bound to get out somewhere.”

“It seems I’m not fit to be a tactician after all... My scheme was full of holes.”

“Oi, what are you going to do?”

“There isn’t much I can do. I’m the one who set up this stowaway plan, so it’s only natural that I take responsibility for it. I’m going to buy you as much time as I can. Everyone else, flee through the back door.”

Roland rushed out of the warehouse. Bastian told Elize to stay behind, then quickly gave chase.

✧ ✧ ✧

Thirty men in total stepped out of the carriages that had come to a stop in front of the warehouse, the hunger in their eyes making them look like starved wolves. They carried swords and guns, and the stench of alcohol was thick in the air. The men were not wearing armor, simply donning thin blue overcoats atop their normal streetwear. It was presumably their uniform.

Standing at the front of the group was a short bald man who looked to be around twenty. He seemed to be the most important one among them.

“Well, well, well! What d’you think you’re doin’, gathering out ’ere in the dead of the night like this?” he sneered.

Roland moved to block the doors. “You are the Royal Soldiers, correct? We are returning to Belgaria, leaving before we can cause High Britannia any trouble. Is that not in your best interests?”

“Hah! You insane, mate? We’re at war ’ere. Killin’ the enemy’s the name of the game!”

“Hold on. Everyone here is a civilian. They haven’t violated any of High Britannia’s laws.”

“So what? Belgarians kill civilians like it’s nothin’!”

“Kuh... That... That may be so... In that case, I will abide by whatever you say, as a representative. Please, do not lay a hand on the others.”

“Gwa ha ha! Now that’s somethin’ I can get on board with. Hear that, boys? This guy wants to be our slave! Hya ha ha ha!”

The men all burst into laughter, some even starting to jeer Roland.

“Naaah! Don’t need ’im!”

“Come back when you’ve got a pair of honkers on you!”

“How ’bout you take a swim, four-eyes!”

The bald man at the lead drew his sword. “So you’ll do whatever I say, yeah? Well, I want to carve you up real good. You can be our first for the night.”

“...Do you have no conscience?” Roland asked.

“My friends all went to war and died to your buddies. That’s more than enough reason to take revenge.”

“That’s pure sophistry! It does not justify you breaking the law. You’re just using your friends as an excuse to sate your own sadistic desires! Don’t you think you’re doing them a disservice?!”

A sound argument only served to rile them up further. Roland spoke sense, and that was precisely what enraged them. The bald man in particular was already seeing red; he brandished his sword in a frenzy.

“Enjoy the sight of your own innards, ’Garian!”

Roland grit his teeth as the blade came down on him.

“Urgh—!”

“Hey now, you charged out on your own, so I thought you were gonna take them on. Either dodge, parry, or beat them down before they can reach you. It would’ve been pretty painful if that connected.”

His hand reaching over Roland’s shoulder from behind, Bastian had pinched the tip of the man’s sword, stopping it mid-swing.

The bald man’s eyes widened in shock. Naturally, he had never had this happen before.

“Th-The hell...? Who’re you?”

“My name’s not cheap enough for the likes of you.”

“Gah! Wh-Why? My sword... won’t move?!”

Push or pull as he might, the blade wouldn’t budge so much as an inch.

“You’ve never honed your sword skills or trained your body, but you’ve certainly had enough beer. And that’s barely even skimming the surface. Someone like you isn’t going to stand a chance beating me with brute force.”

“Grr...!”

“You’re killing Belgarians because your friends were killed, right? Then you can’t resent what I’m doing here, can you? ’Cos here you are, trying to murder my friends!”

Bastian pushed the sword back, easily knocking the bald man off balance. It took only a step to close the distance between them, then he hammered a kick into the man’s knee. A twang like a snapped rubber band resounded through the harbor, immediately followed by piercing screams.

“D-Did you kill him...?” Roland asked, clearly flustered.

“C’mon, did nobody teach you? People don’t die from a crushed kneecap. He won’t be walking anytime soon, though.”

The man’s leg had been bent in the opposite direction; he would likely never wield a sword again.

“Bastian... You’re... You’re going to die...” Roland choked, his lip trembling. “I told you to run... Why did you come save me...?”

“You’re smart, but you made two mistakes. First, his pals took the long way around. They’re waiting at the back door.”

“What?!”

“They’re complete amateurs, so it wasn’t hard to sense them. I’ve already told Elize, so that door’s staying shut tight. As for your second mistake—I’ll never be killed by nobodies like these!”

The others flew into a rage at the fall of their leader, screaming like wild beasts.

Bastian drew his dagger, the Vite Espace Trois. The blade, which had been tucked into a splendidly ornamented sheath, drew a slender triangle from its wide base to its tip. It was double-edged, thin, and light as paper, with rumors saying it could be swung fast enough to sever sound itself. At around 4 palms (30 cm) long, it was said to have been made to the same dimensions as one of the feet of L’Empereur Flamme, Belgaria’s founding emperor.

“It’s surprisingly annoying trying not to kill anyone!”

Bastian swiped horizontally at the first man to charge him, severing his cheap sword with a shrill scraping noise. As his opponent faltered, doubting his own eyes, Bastian landed a hard kick to his knee.

Before the man could even cry out in pain, the prince had already disarmed another in the literal sense.

Farther back was a man poised with a firearm. It was too dark for Bastian to make out his finger movements, leaving him no choice but to lurch more to the side than he normally would have to avoid the bullet’s potential path as he approached.

The man screamed as he squeezed the trigger, his poor stance and shaky aim making it even harder for Bastian to predict where the shot would go. It thankfully tore through the air some distance away, but that didn’t stop the thug from crying out, “He dodged a bullet?!”

No, you’re just a bad shot! Bastian wanted to reply, but it quickly occurred to him that this misconception worked quite nicely in his favor. He swung and severed the tendons in the man’s two wrists; had his opponent not been holding a gun, he only would have targeted his dominant hand.

Roland was trembling. “Y-Your movements aren’t human...”

“Quit being ridiculous! It’s all down to training!”

Bastian had trained as much as he could at the mansion, but suddenly going all out made his body feel heavy. By his estimate, he was only about half as agile as he would have been in perfect condition, but even that was enough to toy with drunkard amateurs. This was practically a warm-up compared to when he had plowed through the soldiers at Fort Greybridge.

Still, he was admittedly winded by the time he had dealt with the last man.

✧ ✧ ✧

Bastian wiped the sweat from his brow. “Phew... My skills really have started to dull...”

The defeated Royal Soldiers littered the ground, letting out pained groans as they writhed in agony. The entire spectacle had made Roland turn ghostly pale.

“Are you really human?!” he exclaimed.

“Sorry for surprising you, but uh... this much ain’t too rare among my siblings and acquaintances.”

“You’re saying there are even more people who can do things like that in the Empire?!”

“Not too many. Latrielle and Eddie, to name a few. In fact, anyone they call a hero probably could have done that with ease.”

“I’m starting to understand what you meant when you said war is about the people involved...”

“Well, I didn’t mean having one person take on numerous opponents. Plus, these guys aren’t even soldiers to begin with... That’s why I didn’t kill them.”

“So it seems.”

“A few are bleeding quite a bit, sure, but as long as their friends around the back aren’t too heartless, they should get treated before they kick the bucket.”

“I should hope so. I wouldn’t want anyone to die, no matter who they are.”

As the two started heading back to the others, Elize scampered out from the warehouse. “Bastian! Are you okay?!”

“Of course I am.”

“The ship is here!”

“Good timing.”

A reserved number of torches ran along the dock, serving as a guide for the mid-sized sailing ship that could just barely be seen through the darkness. Anyone who could manage to dock in these conditions without crashing was sure to be considerably skilled.

The people cowering within the warehouse hurried out. Most scrambled to be the first on board, but some stopped to thank Bastian, gratefully lowering their heads.

Elize exhaled a relieved breath. “Thank the heavens. I was worried about what might happen...”

“Can’t believe even you were concerned. You should know by now that there’s no way I’d lose to a bunch of amateurs.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad my fears were unfounded.”

“Ha ha ha...”

All of a sudden, Roland screamed something. Bastian couldn’t quite make out what it was, but he only had to turn around to realize his own failure.

The bald man with the broken knee was pointing his comrade’s gun at none other than Elize. He knew that Bastian would have most likely been able to avoid the shot, which was precisely why he had directed the muzzle at the girl.

Bastian stepped forward to protect Elize, crying out, “Stop!” as the man pulled the trigger.

“Die!”

The gun discharged.

“...!”

As Bastian braced himself, Roland leaped out to shield him. His body twitched at the impact of the bullet before crumpling to the ground, where he lay motionless like a stringless puppet.

Bastian threw his knife at full force, and within moments it was embedded in the bald man’s torso. Was the wound lethal? He neither knew nor cared. Not right now. He ran over to Roland and took him in his arms.

“Roland!”

“Bastian...”

He had taken the bullet to the chest. The fact that he wasn’t already dead meant it couldn’t have reached his heart, but the bleeding was too severe. It must have torn through an organ or a thick blood vessel.

“G-Get a grip! I’ll get you a doctor!”

“It’s fine... I’m... beyond saving... right? I can tell...”

“Ngh...”

Bastian knew from his battle experience that this was a fatal wound. His eyes grew hot, and tears started to blur his vision. “I-It’s because I... let my guard down...” he stammered.

“You’re wrong... This was my... strategic failure... Thank you... for protecting my comrades...”

“But this all would’ve been for nothing if you die here!”

“I was unlucky... That’s all there is to it...”

“Is there really nothing we can do...?”

“Bastian... I entrust this to you.”

Roland tried to move his hands, but he could barely muster the strength. Elize squatted down beside him, tears streaming in rivulets down her face. It was up to her to retrieve what he so desperately groped around for—his book.

“Is this it?” she asked.

“Is this it, Roland?!” Bastian demanded.

“Yeah... That’s right... I leave it... to you... A world where every person... has the right to be happy...”

Bastian tightly gripped his friend’s now feeble hand. “I promise! You can leave everything to me!”

Roland’s eyes crinkled into a weak smile. “Aah... It was fun... while it lasted...”

Such were the final words of Jean Roland de Tiraso Laverde.

✧ ✧ ✧

The sailing ship left during the night. Deep inside its hold, Bastian wiped the blood from his dagger, then opened the book Roland had given him. These were the only two things he was bringing with him.

Elize was there by his side. If she hadn’t urged him away, Bastian wondered whether he would have remained there, frozen, holding the husk of what had once been Roland. He knew that wasn’t what his dear friend, who had thrown down his life to protect him, would have wanted.

He needed to get a grip. He knew he couldn’t worry Elize any further, but he had shed so many tears that it felt as though he had gone completely numb. He was struggling to even process his own thoughts.

Could he really keep his promise like this...?

Bastian flipped to the next handwritten page. His words.

His eyes heated up again.

“Elize...”

“Bastian... Please, no more crying...”

“He’s here. Right in here. This is where Roland lies. His words are with me...”

A quiet sob escaped him. Elize reached out her hands and placed them around his head. In her warm grasp, he shed another tear.

The ship sailed the dark seas toward Belgaria.