Nobles are those who command.
They reign above the common folk, leading and governing them.
It is the responsibility of those who hold power. And in proportion to that responsibility, dignity is permitted.
Ofilienne had learned this from a very young age.
No — perhaps "learned" was not quite the right word. "Instilled" might be more accurate. Like learning to breathe, without question.
*'Do you understand, Fili? The blood within you is noble. You are different from those beneath you. But to rule, you must understand them. Only understand. Do not empathize.'*
The moment Ofilienne enrolled at the academy, she built her own enterprise from scratch.
She could have taken over one of the many businesses her family already operated. Those around her said it would have been more efficient, and they weren't wrong.
But Ofilienne shook her head.
She had no desire to carve her name into a road someone else had paved.
That was the only way to prove it.
That she had taken this small venture and made it flourish.
That it was possible because of her. That no one else could have done it. And therefore, that she was worthy of this family. She wanted to be able to say that with her head held high.
Outside the academy, in an office situated at the heart of the city, she sat processing documents.
Ofilienne divided her days between the academy dormitory and this external office, managing her studies and her work in tandem.
*Scratch, scratch…*
The sound of the fountain pen against paper was steady.
The density of the ink, the pressure of her hand — neither wavered.
The numbers aligned without error, and the documents were being sorted in precise order.
Her days were always like this.
Without deviation. Like a textbook.
It was the same when she checked the clock.
The Thorn Forest expedition. A schedule she had already known about. She was merely confirming it.
*'Come to think of it.'*
It was around the time Mati would be exploring the Thorn Forest.
She attended the same lecture. But Ofilienne had already completed her survey.
*'The Sword Saint's disciple was in the same group, wasn't she.'*
Yuri Ayende.
The fresh, unguarded quality particular to girls her age. A face that made you glance back if she passed you by.
It wasn't the same kind of beauty as her own — but it was more than enough to bewitch a naive boy like Matyos.
What if he fell for the Sword Saint's disciple? With the tender sensibilities of a seventeen-year-old, it was entirely possible.
For just a moment, the ink bled slightly darker than usual.
*'Nuna is the prettiest!'*
The voice that surfaced was clearer than she expected.
Not a memory that merely grazed her — it felt as though it had been whispered directly into her ear.
The ink steadied itself again.
*'That could never happen.'*
He had always come to her.
To her, as the most beautiful being in the world.
Even after quarrels that left things broken between them, it was always Matyos who bowed his head first.
*'…Nuna.'*
*'What.'*
*'…'*
*'What. Say it.'*
*'…I'm sorry.'*
*'What did you say?'*
*'I'm sorryyy…'*
*'Sorry? You're admitting you were wrong?'*
*'Mm… so can't we sleep together again?'*
*'Well, if that's what you want.'*
Ofilienne waited.
Just as she had then — for Matyos to come to her first, with a sincere apology. To whine like a child and bury himself in her arms.
She waited like that for a week.
*'Unbelievable.'*
Was it really something worth being that angry over?
She recalled Matyos from that day.
The moment that harmless, deer-like face had gone cold and rigid.
The way he had looked at her with eyes that mixed disappointment, anger, and hollow disbelief.
That kind of gaze — she had only ever received it from one other person. Her mother.
*'How dare you look at me like that?'*
It meant he was that furious, she supposed.
But still.
*'What's so important about that common girl, of all people.'*
She didn't understand.
It hadn't even been that harsh a thing to say.
She had simply stated a fact.
Who in the world disliked power and money?
The little shepherdess, Tiana — she would be no different.
*'Just wait. It'll turn out exactly as this nuna said.'*
Pure, so she's different?
Not at all.
Power and money were not so soft as that.
If anything, the purer the soul, the more thoroughly it was corrupted — dragged all the way down to the very bottom.
Like a white canvas that soils so easily.
It was then that she heard the knock.
Ofilienne raised her voice.
"Come in."
Quistian stepped into the office with a courteous bearing.
Ofilienne did not pause her pen. She kept her eyes fixed on the documents and asked.
Trivial eye contact during work was inefficient.
"What is it."
"It concerns the Young Lord."
Ofilienne gave a faint, dry smile.
Of course it does.
"Why would he — is he here right now?"
Ofilienne looked past Quistian with a satisfied expression, expecting to see him.
Quistian corrected himself.
"No, that is not it. The Young Lord has been attacked."
*Thud.*
The moment those words ended, the fountain pen that had been moving so fluidly came to a stop.
It was her hand that stopped — but it was her breath that stopped first.
For just an instant, air caught in her chest. The nib resting against the paper dropped a single bead of ink. A stain bloomed.
Grey eyes turned to Quistian.
Something about meeting that gaze sent an inexplicable chill through him.
Quistian continued.
"…He is currently admitted to a hospital near the Thorn Forest."
"Admitted."
She murmured it as though in a trance.
Quistian watched her carefully and chose his next words with deliberate care.
"Yes. Admitted…"
"How badly is he hurt."
"He suffered blood loss and poisoning. He is still unconscious and in critical condition, I'm told…"
The moment Quistian finished speaking, Ofilienne rose from her seat. She swept the coat hanging just beside her around her shoulders.
The fingers fastening the buttons as she pulled it on were precise. Each one caught on the first try.
And yet, at the very tips of those fingers, there was a tremor — so faint that even she herself could not perceive it.
"…Miss?"
"To the hospital."
"Pardon?"
"Do I need to say it twice? I'm going to the hospital where he is."
"I will make preparations."
"Just ready the horse."
A short while later, Quistian brought around a fine thoroughbred — a horse of exceptional stamina. It was the one Ofilienne called for whenever she needed to move quickly.
Ofilienne mounted the tall horse with practiced ease and drove her heel into its flank.
She checked her watch. It was the map to the hospital that Quistian had sent her.
The warhorse thundered down the road. Her long, ash-grey hair streamed behind her in the wind.
Ofilienne urged the horse on.
The horse seemed to already know its rider's urgency, and quickened its pace.
To her, it felt like an eternity. In reality, it took less than thirty minutes.
She had covered that long distance at a full gallop.
When she arrived before the hospital, the horse slowed of its own accord, sides heaving.
Ofilienne dismounted from the saddle before it had even fully stopped. Her feet landed and planted firmly against the ground.
Her breath was slightly short, but nothing showed on her face.
She handed the horse off without a second glance and stepped inside the building.
The hand that pushed open the door moved quickly. Her stride down the corridor did not falter.
Only her pace was slightly longer than usual.
Her steps halted before the door of the ward.
She stood at the threshold and, for just a moment, steadied her breath. As though confirming the sensation of air reaching her chest.
She opened the door.
*Click…*
A spare, single-occupancy room.
Matyos lay in the bed as though dead.
Ofilienne swallowed and went to his side.
His face was utterly peaceful. It seemed impossible that this was the face of someone who had just been attacked.
"Oh — you've arrived."
A doctor in a white coat entered the ward. He had clearly rushed over upon hearing of her arrival; his breathing was rough.
"My brother's condition?"
"…Well, you see."
The doctor met Ofilienne's cool gaze and pressed on.
"He was critical."
"And now."
"…I cannot say for certain. We contacted the Church in haste, and a monk came to administer a blessing — that alone is what kept him from death."
"His current state."
"He has entered the recovery phase, but it remains serious. Most of his muscles have ruptured. His arm muscles in particular were almost entirely dissolved—"
Ofilienne raised a hand.
The doctor fell silent.
"That's enough."
The doctor lingered for a moment, reading the room, then produced a small medicine bottle and set it carefully on the table.
"…When he wakes, have him take this. That will be all."
He bowed at a full ninety degrees, then left the ward at a brisk pace.
*Creak. Click.*
The door closed. Quiet settled at last. The two siblings were alone.
Ofilienne pulled a chair over and sat beside the bed.
Without a word, she looked down at Matyos.
His face was truly at peace.
To a degree that made it hard to believe he had been standing at death's door only moments ago.
Ofilienne slowly brought her hands up and pressed them over her face.
She rubbed her face dry.
*
Long ago.
I once fell out of a tree in the family courtyard.
I had been so taken with the image of some novel's protagonist sitting up in a tree reading a book.
It looked so effortlessly cool that I tried to copy it — and apparently I wasn't very good at it. I fell out of the tree in spectacular fashion.
The moment my body twisted through the air, the breath left me first.
Before I could even register the pain, my vision went dark.
And I was not alone.
Someone was sniffling steadily at my bedside.
*'…I hate it when you get hurt. Open your eyes already.'*
It was a voice I couldn't tell was dream or reality.
Faint, but unmistakably familiar.
When I turned my eyes, Sister was sitting beside me.
She was crying.
Fat, graceless tears were falling without any pretense of dignity.
I saw it for the first time that day.
That face — always cold, always held at a careful distance — crumbling like that.
The expression that was always so composed. That day, it was nowhere to be found.
…The reason that scene came back to me now
was because what lay before me overlapped with it perfectly.
"…Idiot."
A languid voice drifted from beside my head.
Low, and slightly hoarse.
"If it's dangerous, just leave it and run. Why do you insist on fighting."
Sister was looking down at me.
With a face that looked as though it might break into tears again at any moment.