Inside the bedroom.
The formal attire everyone had taken off hung quietly on the clothes rack.
"Then we'll take our leave, madam."
"Alright."
Hilda already looked very tired. Lately, her health hadn't allowed her to keep her energy up for long.
Still, she forced a faint smile.
"Apologies. These past two weeks I've had you all come to my bedroom for lessons… and today I even accidentally fell asleep, almost delaying the class. Was it… Arifa who called you over?"
As soon as she asked, Sylphy, Ghislane, Rudy, and Eris all turned to look at Allen. It had been Allen's idea today to visit Hilda, but if the leader of their group didn't speak, no one else would.
After all, everyone except Eris was well aware of Allen and Hilda's… special connection.
And while Eris didn't know that the sword instructor she admired was actually her older brother, her time with Allen had made it obvious to her that he cared deeply for Hilda.
But she didn't understand the reason.
It was simple.
Allen cared about Sylphy. Allen cared about Rudy. Allen cared about her too.
Allen cared about everyone — and Sylphy and Rudy happened to also be teachers.
Hilda was also a teacher.
With those overlapping identities, her young mind couldn't untangle the deeper undercurrents.
She only had a vague feeling — without knowing why — and couldn't bring herself to ask.
Beside her, Allen removed his formal clothes and returned to the sharp-edged young swordsman he normally was.
Hearing Hilda's question, he turned his sharp gaze toward Arifa.
Under that look, the bunny-eared maid froze for a moment, hesitated, misunderstood, and began to stammer.
"Y-Yes, I brought Mr. Allen and the others—"
"I brought them."
Allen cut her off.
Hilda's smiling lips faltered. She raised an eyebrow, surprised, and looked at Allen.
He turned his head to meet her eyes.
Deep gray pupils reflected in each other's gaze.
"Lier came to sword practice this afternoon. She said you had fallen asleep. If possible, she suggested canceling today's etiquette lesson."
Allen's mind flashed back to what he had seen earlier in Hilda's sewing room — rows of garments clearly made for him.
"But I thought perhaps an etiquette lesson might lift your spirits, so I brought everyone."
As those words fell, Sylphy's lips curved slightly. She remembered Allen thanking her during the earlier dance practice — a result of her impulsive, heartfelt effort to help.
It seemed to have worked.
It succeeded.
Her smile bloomed wider, her expression bright with emotion, eyes fixed on Hilda's face.
Hilda blinked, her expression momentarily blank.
Then, in Allen's gaze, her lips twitched into a small, troubled smile — as if trying to memorize Allen's words and appearance in that moment.
"Thank you… Mr. Allen."
Allen lowered his gaze to the carpet at his feet.
This was the Boreas estate.
He blinked.
And finally followed her words with:
"It's nothing, madam."
Beside them, Sylphy's smile vanished. Her face went pale.
Outside, it was pitch dark.
Night had fallen.
Winter winds howled, flinging snowflakes against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
She glanced uneasily toward the window, then turned to the dressing table beside it.
There sat a diary.
The Boreas windows were sealed tight.
No wind could slip in.
The diary would not be blown open.
No one could read its contents.
—
An hour after leaving Hilda's room.
Allen's bedroom.
The candlelight flickered across his face.
Allen propped his chin on his hand, staring at the table.
The sheet of paper before him, meant to hold his response to Hilda's hopes, was still blank.
He narrowed his eyes, then wrote three characters: Sylphy.
But then he fell silent.
Responding to Sylphy's hopes had been possible thanks to Roxy's approval.
But responding to Hilda's hopes — so far — had always been because of Sylphy's efforts.
Even earlier today, when they returned to the dormitory, Sylphy's face had been pale. Allen's heart had ached.
He had intended to comfort her after washing up, but Sylphy had fled into her own room without even a "see you tomorrow."
Allen ruffled his hair with both hands and sighed.
This was just like Sylphy — yet it pained him.
Because everything Sylphy was doing right now was for his sake.
How many lifetimes of fortune had it taken for him to cross into this world and meet her?
He covered his face with both hands, peeking through his fingers at the paper.
The situation was clear enough now.
Hilda must know he was her child — but why keep suppressing that feeling?
It was probably the same as Sauros and Philip: bound by the family's hostage tradition, unable to openly acknowledge it.
If she admitted it, everything would be out in the open — and he would be shipped back to the capital by Sauros. That outcome would be unbearable for her.
And judging from her behavior, she likely didn't even know that "Allen knows the truth."
Philip must not have told her — for a simple reason.
Because Philip believed Allen's resentment toward the Boreas family was due to the hostage fact and James's attempt on his life, not because of his otherworldly origin.
He feared that telling Hilda more would only hurt her more.
Which was worse?
A son who didn't know his mother… or one who knew her but refused to acknowledge her?
The answer was obvious.
Philip might be a cold politician, but his genuine care for Hilda since her illness was undeniable.
People were complicated.
Labels didn't capture them fully.
After a pause, Allen rubbed his face hard, looked at the paper again, and crossed out "Sylphy."
The pen scratched across the page.
Three new characters appeared.
Responding to Hilda's hopes — Sauros.
He narrowed his eyes at the name.
This was the root of why they could not acknowledge each other.
Just then—
Knock, knock, knock.
Someone rapped on Allen's door.
(End of Chapter)
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