Prologue: The Flames, the Despair, and the Nightmare

The flames that burst forth from the trees danced like red petals as they colored the night sky a deep crimson. Normally, this usually quiet forest would have been home to many animals who slept peacefully through the night—now, however, the trees had turned into pillars of fire, staining everything red as far as the eye could see.

Witnessing this sight was a woman who kneeled on the ground surrounded by her comrades, overcome with despair.

“Why?!”

Her question was not directed at her comrades, but at her commanding officer, her motherland, and herself. Her deep crimson hair fluttered in the hot wind as her eyes, dark as the night sky, reflected the roaring flames.

What did I do wrong...? She repeated the question to herself again and again in her mind.

The woman had not suffered a single defeat ever since she graduated from the military academy. Even in a society as patriarchal as her home country, she had distinguished herself in one battle after another, devoting herself to advancing her country.

She had not done all this just out of patriotism, though. At first, she’d intended to clear the name of her own disgraced house and restore it to its former glory. When she was still a young girl not even ten years of age, her country had suffered a crushing defeat. Her father, who had served as chief tactician during the battle, had volunteered to take command of the retreating army’s rear guard, and he fell in battle alongside his trusted men. Her mother, who had already been ill for some time, grew even weaker both mentally and physically upon the news of her husband’s death; soon, she succumbed to her illness, as if following after her husband.

By the time the young girl even knew what was happening, all the blame for this catastrophic loss had been placed on the chief tactician. Her proud house, once famous for its long line of tacticians, had fallen to ruin. Relatives who had previously done everything they could to suck up to her family instead distanced themselves, and her house’s assets were confiscated by the state. She had lost her beloved family, her childhood home, her status as the daughter of a proud noble house—everything.

Any other noble girl would have lamented her misfortune and perhaps even ended her own life. She, however, did not allow herself to wallow in despair. It may seem as though the war, her country, and even her relatives had stolen everything she had—but she still possessed her intellect and talents, as well as the knowledge and understanding of tactics instilled in her by her father.

Eventually, she graduated from the military academy with nothing but the clothes on her back. She was one of only a handful of women who had graduated from the academy over the course of its long history, and she had done so while skipping multiple grades, finally graduating at the top of her class at the young age of fourteen.

After graduating, she served her country as a tactician while she worked to restore her house. With time, though, her goal changed. She found something even more important to her than her house—namely, the comrades she came to know on the battlefield. She wanted to use her talents on behalf of her comrades who were just as—if not more—unfortunate as her.

With her comrades at her side, she emerged victorious from any battle, no matter how hopeless it seemed. They endured ridicule and scorn together, performing better than any other unit in one battle after the next. Now, if only they could distinguish themselves during this battle, all their hard work would be rewarded, as she and her comrades would finally be recognized by the country.

“How could this happen?!”

She slammed her fist into the ground as she screamed. Her comrades jumped at this action, so unlike her usual self—the sight of her so shaken filled them with a sense of danger. Even now as the flames approached them, she did not move—she could not move.

Drops of water fell onto the back of her hand—drops that fell from her own eyes. Even she could not tell whether her tears were born of anger, frustration, or sadness.

“Is this...” She muttered to herself, her tears continuing to flow as she looked up at the sky turned red by the flames. “...this—? Is this—? ...answer you’re giving...?!”

The crash of a tree falling to the ground as the flames burned through it drowned out her words so they were impossible to make out. She slammed both fists into the ground again, wailing. Then, her vision turned black.

She opened her eyes to the sensation of someone rocking her body. Her dark eyes met a pair of azure ones looking down on her. She blinked a few times as she tried to process the situation before she finally remembered what had happened. She then gave a warm, gentle smile as she sat up.

“It’s late. Is something the matter?” the woman said in a quiet voice, gently criticizing the man who had woken her for not sleeping himself.

The two of them were in the forest next to a road that led to the capital of Gracis. The woman glanced around to find a campfire a short distance away; next to it, the person who had saved them had dozed off in a sitting position. She turned her gaze back to find the man in the process of sitting down next to her, his dark blue hair swaying as he did.

“Are you okay?” the man said with a worried glance, ignoring the woman’s question as he pulled her closer to him.

The woman entrusted herself to the man and sat between his legs. She rested her head on his shoulder and leaned into his chest breathing a sigh of relief at the warmth of his body. It was only the beginning of fall, but the chill air had robbed them of more body heat than she’d realized.

The blanket on the ground and the outer garments they were wearing were all thin and did little to protect them from the cold. But her frozen body and the man’s warmth brought her back to reality.

He stroked the woman’s deep crimson hair, which reached down to her waist, as he leaned down to speak close to her ear.

“Did you have another one?” he asked in a quiet, calm voice—not sweet enough to give the impression of lovers’ talk, but simply expressing genuine concern.

The woman’s smile froze over for just a brief moment, but having been close to her for many years, that was still enough of an answer for him.

“Forget it,” he said in an admonishing voice.

The man knew that she was haunted by that scene every night in her sleep, and that even as she gave her usual smile, those flames still raged on within her. Each night, he would admonish her in the same way, but her answer was always the same.

“I refuse,” she responded curtly, while still maintaining her smile.

The man let out a deep sigh at the usual answer. The woman gave him a concerned look as he shrugged his shoulders. Her gaze was fixed at the man’s back—or rather, the unnatural hump on his back, clearly not an ordinary human feature, but something that was worth more to the man than his life.

“Does it hurt? Does it... move?”

The man fell silent. That was his only response.

“I’m sorry.”

As she apologized with a sorrowful expression, the woman buried her face in the man’s sturdy chest, her mind once again turning to her nightmare.

A carriage traveled down a road that led to the capital of the oldest and largest country on the continent of Grandinal—Gracis Kingdom. The coachman could already make out the city on the horizon, as could the passengers of the carriage.

“Master, our destination approaches,” a man said, looking out of the carriage’s small window.

The man seemed to be in his mid-thirties, with a fierce-looking face, long black hair which he had tied back, and black eyes. He wore a kimono, an unusual sight for this continent, and close at hand a sword with a black sheath. Unlike the swords common in this country, his sword was narrow, thin, and long.

The man turned his gaze back from the window and toward his master who was lying down, occupying two seats in an ill-mannered way.

“Oh, finally!”

The master was too young to call a “man,” yet too old for “child” to seem right—at fifteen years of age, he possessed chestnut-colored eyes and a gentle, graceful face. He yawned as he ruffled his slightly reddish blonde hair, not quite long enough to reach his shoulders, after which he stretched his arms upward to relieve his stiff shoulders. He then casually gathered his hair at the back of his head with his hands, tied it back with a string offered to him by his follower, and stared out the window to observe his old home town as he rubbed his shoulders.

“Upon thy arrival, what is thy intention?”

“Good question...”

His retainer spoke in a very unusual way. Most people of status would have either ridiculed him or reprimanded him, had they heard him speak, but his master simply ignored it as he scratched his cheeks thoughtfully. He had a lot of things to report, and even more he wanted to ask. He had to catch up on everything that had happened while he was away.

His eyes happened to land on the pile of boxes, large and small, that were stacked in one corner of the carriage. They contained souvenirs from his trips.

“First, I want to see my family again,” he said with a soft smile.

This boy was actually a member of the royal family. He was none other than the Sixth Prince of Gracis, Tessily Gracis. Those who knew him referred to him as the Prodigal Prince.