The sun sagged toward the horizon like a lazy god too tired to hold court. Its last rays painted the rooftops of the castle town in molten gold, turning chipped shingles into crowns and weathered cobblestone into veins of amber. The kind of light that makes even dirt look holy.
My arm throbbed faintly where the dagger had nicked me earlier. Not fatal, not even deep—but it kept pulsing in time with my heartbeat, a stubborn reminder of my failure. Worse than the wound was the echo of the fight itself: the hollow sensation of being moved like a marionette, strings pulled tight by Regina's invisible hands. My body had obeyed, my mind had not, and the split between them left me rattling around in my own skull like a loose coin in a jar.
Regina hadn't spoken once on the walk back. She glided through the town in silence, soft steps measured, unhurried, her night-dark hair catching the evening glow like a crown of cinders. No humming. No sighing. Not even a careless quip. Just silence, so heavy it pressed down like an extra layer of clothing.
Not even gratitude.
I had taken a blade for her—bled for her—and she gave me nothing. Not a nod. Not a glance. Maybe she wasn't used to thanks. Maybe she didn't know the shape of it.
The thought clung to me like cobwebs. By the time the gates of the mansion swallowed us and the stone stairwell spiraled up around us, the question burned a hole in my throat. I blurted it out before I could swallow it back.
"Why doesn't the Count live with you, Miss Regina?"
She flinched. Not much. Barely the twitch of a shoulder. But I caught it, sharp as a hunter catching the rustle of prey in tall grass.
She didn't answer. Not with words.
We crossed the marble hall in silence. Climbed the carpeted stairs in silence. Passed oil portraits of ancestors glaring down with the judgment of saints in silence. The world was only breath and echo and the far-off cadence of drills outside.
When I finally placed her tea before her—warm, fresh, half-sugar, no milk—she accepted it without comment. Lifted the porcelain cup with hands as steady as a surgeon.
And then—
---
[Scholar's Mate System Notification]
Pawn Activated.
You may now summon a Pawn unit or integrate its base stats temporarily into your own.
Summon: The Ambitious Footman
HP: 60
ATK: 12
DEF: 8
SPD: 14
MRES: 6
Mana Cost: 1 Unit (Low)
Weaponry:
Iron Short Sword
Round Buckler
Passive Abilities:
Interlock Formation – Gains +10% DEF, +5% MRES per adjacent Pawn (up to 3).
Echo of Ambition – Upon death, buffs nearby allies with +5% ATK for 10 seconds.
Appearance:
A young man in deep velvet blue, silver trim gleaming. A crescent moon on his shoulder. Helmet polished, posture rigid, blade steady. His expression was not his own—too loyal, too pure, too unwavering.
It was me.
---
I almost dropped the tray.
"You okay?" Regina asked without looking up, steam curling past her lips.
I nodded too quickly, hiding the glowing text as though I could shove it behind my eyelids. My pulse pounded. That… thing looked like me if I had grown up inside a painting instead of reality. Me, smoothed down, burnished, perfected. Devotion carved into my face like it was born there.
Was that what I looked like if I actually belonged somewhere?
The thought scared me more than the dagger had.
Regina finally spoke, her words dragging through her throat like they'd been caught on thorns.
"Father hasn't come home… not since Mom died."
The room seemed to pause around us. Even the steam from her cup slowed.
"He was away in the capital when it happened. Official duties. Always official duties. He's a Count—he can't afford to be present when it matters, apparently."
Her tone didn't rise. It didn't fall. Just flat, like she was reading a weather report about a storm that had already drowned her.
"There were attacks before. They always failed. But the last time…"
Her gaze drifted toward the tall window, where the castle loomed in the distance, its towers gilded by the last sunlight. A fairytale silhouette. A liar's mask.
"She died saving me."
The words clung to the air like smoke, refusing to fade.
"She wasn't just clever. She was visionary. Said mana wasn't divine—it was just energy. Like wind. Like heat. Something anyone could study. The Church hated her for it."
She sipped. The curl of steam rose between us like a curtain.
"They couldn't strike her openly. Not while she had Father's support. Not while she had influence. So they found another way. Cowards always do."
My throat tightened. The System didn't need to say anything—I already understood. The Countess hadn't just been bold. She'd been a heretic in the eyes of the Church. And her heresy had cost her life.
"She had long black hair, like Aunt Rose," Regina murmured, softer now. "And amethyst eyes. One of mine comes from her."
She set her cup down without a clink, gaze distant. Her silence after that wasn't the silence of indifference. It was the silence of someone staring into a fire no one else could see.
---
I left her room in a fog, my arm faintly aching, my chest heavier than before.
The Pawn data still pulsed behind my eyes, reshaping the edge of my stats. But it wasn't the numbers that unnerved me. It was the familiarity. The terminology. The synergy bonuses. The phrasing of "formation." None of it felt born of this world's soil.
This wasn't native.
Someone had built this. Someone who knew Earth.
The drills at dawn, the chants, the left-turn-by-numbers. The Pawn system with its military jargon.
Fingerprints.
I wasn't alone here.
And that should've comforted me.
But instead, it terrified me.