I stayed silent for a long time.
Friedrich did too.
I felt like a soldier after a battle—when there's nothing left to say and the living need a few seconds just to remember they're still alive.
The beach was empty.
The green glow had vanished.
The sea lay dark and still, reflecting only the moon's cold gold.
The pillar still stood in the distance.
But the calcified corpse was sinking again—this time, I hoped, for good.
I looked at my hands.
My left arm was broken.
My ribs were cracked.
I was bleeding from too many places to count, and every muscle in my body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder and hastily reassembled.
And in my left hand, Friedrich glowed faintly.
Warm against my torn skin.
"Hey," I said. My voice was in ruins. "Thanks."
A long pause.
"Don't get weird," Friedrich replied. His voice was low. Tired. And for the first time, completely devoid of mockery. "You did good."
I tried to laugh.
What came out was closer to a sob.
I let myself fall backward onto the sand.
The sky above me was full of stars—more than I had ever seen, in this life or the other.
They seemed closer here, as if the battle had thinned some barrier between earth and heaven.
My mother would have loved this sky.
I closed my eyes and let the tears come.
Not from sadness, but relief.
"I'm still me," I whispered. Even after everything.
"Jakob." Zofia's voice came from somewhere nearby.
For once, it lacked its usual edge.
If I didn't know her better, I would've said she sounded almost gentle.
I didn't open my eyes.
She had always been able to defeat everything that nearly killed me.
"The spell," I managed to say. "Thank you."
There's no point being angry with her or holding a grudge. You don't demand reasons or salvation from a natural disaster.
The silence between us was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just necessary.
"Your performance in this trial has been more than outstanding," she said simply. "Your soul assimilated the spell optimally. I have two rewards for you."
I opened my eyes and stared at her in disbelief.
"Outstanding?" My brain was working overtime trying to process this.
"Umu." She nodded.
"Reward?"
"Umu." She nodded again, then touched my forehead with her index finger. "Allow me to heal your physical wounds as a bonus."
An electric shock ran through my body. I watched as flecks of green energy and red dust left me.
I no longer felt like I was at death's door. Truly.
"Thank you."
I got to my feet, stretched my arms, then my legs. I felt my ribs and opened Friedrich's cylinder.
"One bullet." I'd have to get more ammunition from Primrose later.
"Regrettably," Friedrich said, not sounding entirely pleased, "at least I'll be able to converse with that elegant lady, Springfield. A true pity that such a refined dame is the companion of that beast of a woman."
Friedrich's dreamy tone when speaking of Primrose's weapon—and the obvious disdain he harbored for her—amused me.
I didn't even want to understand how two firearms communicated.
"Your revolver sounds like a distinguished gentleman," Zofia said, curious. "Vulgar around the edges, but I suppose that's fitting if he's your companion."
Normally, only I could hear Friedrich's voice, but I supposed nothing normal applied to Zofia.
"Zofia, this is Friedrich," I said, introducing my weapon to the eldritch entity before me. "Friedrich, this is Zofia. I hope you two can get along."
"A pleasure, Miss." It wasn't difficult for me to imagine Friedrich removing a top hat in a formal bow. "Please keep my existence a secret. I would like Jakob to have in me a discreet ally."
"You have nothing to fear, Sir Friedrich. I may be unorthodox in my methods, but I am now Jakob's official master." The implications of that terrified me. "I too am his ally."
Lies, I almost said.
"Hmmm... is that so? Well, then I greet you as well, my esteemed relative."
I nearly asked Friedrich who he was referring to.
"I see I cannot underestimate you." A third voice spoke. It sounded like a kindly old woman. I searched everywhere with my eyes. "Don't strain your eyes, young man. I'm right in front of you, beside Zofia."
I looked at Zofia's face, which wore—for a change—an expression of slight weariness.
"A pleasure," I said to the... monocle, which let out a little chuckle. "I'm Jakob."
"Elsie, dear." Her kind tone threw me off. I had imagined that if something similar to Friedrich existed, it would share his unpleasant personality. "I apologize on Zofia's behalf. She tends to be curt in her methods, but deep down, she's a very sweet girl."
"In your dreams, old woman," Zofia said, irritation clipping her words. "Enough with the meaningless chatter. I must give you your reward."
Please, I almost said. Let's keep chatting.
I needed time to rest.
"One moment," I said, facing the sea.
The waves kept crashing against the shore as if nothing had happened. As if the beach weren't covered in golden blood and blackened sand.
The world is truly indifferent.
And yet, that indifference felt comforting this time.
I'm still here.
This is enough.
"It's just salt water," Friedrich said, weary.
I laughed. I felt... strange.
"Yeah, it's just salt water." I raised Friedrich to my face. My hand had gone numb holding him. "And you're just a revolver."
"Ha!" He laughed. He seemed to find all of this very amusing. "Next time, don't forget I'm attached to you."
His sober tone caught me off guard. I ended up moved and had to look away—
I turned toward Zofia.
She was still standing a few meters away, her eyes fixed on me. The breeze stirred her black hair. The golden monocle reflected the moon.
"Good." Her voice was softer than before. Not tender, exactly, but less sharp than usual. "Are you capable of walking?"
"Do I have to?" I really didn't want to.
Zofia exhaled through her nose with something that, in someone less impossible, might have been called relief.
"Sit," she said.
I didn't protest.
I collapsed onto the sand with the dignity of a poorly tied sack of potatoes.
I ended up sitting cross-legged, staring at the place where the god had vanished, with the damp sand soaking through my trousers.
I didn't care.
Zofia sat down about two meters from me.
Her back was very straight, her hands resting on her knees, as if even sitting in the sand was something she chose to do with complete deliberation and authority.
We remained silent for several minutes.
"What if I had failed?" I asked. "What if I hadn't been able to handle the demigod?"
"Then you would have died," Zofia replied, with the same cadence someone might use to comment that it was cold outside.
"Reassuring."
"The truth rarely is."
I rubbed my face with both hands and let out a long sigh.
"Zofia."
"Yes."
"When you say you're my master now... does that mean you're going to keep throwing me into potentially lethal situations without warning?"
There was a pause.
"Yes," she said.
"Wonderful."
"But now with a slightly more structured purpose."
I glanced at her sideways.
She wore the expression of someone who believed she was being perfectly reasonable.
"Fine," I resigned myself. "What now?"
"Listen carefully," Zofia spoke with authority. "Your training in the Path of Stars required three steps."
She raised three fingers. She lowered two and let her index finger point toward the night sky.
No. Not at the sky.
The Moon.
A shiver ran through me as a disturbing possibility crossed my mind.
"It's watching me." Somehow, that thing was observing me. I was sure of it.
I fixed my gaze on Zofia.
"The first has already occurred. Knowing the source of this power." Her eyes shone intensely. "Your body and mind needed conditioning. The Pale Lady blessed you with the truth."
I felt a chill upon hearing that title.
"The Truth?"
"Sherlock Holmes." Hearing that name leave Zofia's lips froze my blood.
I stood up without realizing it, my body covered in a cold sweat.
"You—" I started. Unsure of what to ask or say, my mind was saturated with this. "How do you know that name?"
"Don't lose your mind," she told me in a calm tone. "Jakob, essence precedes existence. Just as men are born, so too are worlds."
"...No." Impossible. "It can't be."
"In the same way that you arrived seeing us as shadows of the truth, I did the same with you." Zofia closed her eyes and seemed to think deeply. "We were both mistaken."
I bit my lower lip, realizing that Zofia was right on many levels.
My head ached. I clenched my teeth and lowered my gaze.
A possibility entered my mind.
"Is there..." I began with doubt. "Is there a way to go back?"
She opened her eyes. Her gaze held a mixture of sadness and understanding that shook me far more than I expected.
"No." She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to. We both knew it was for the best. "Once outside the cave, no one can return to the darkness. And your actions have had consequences beyond my expectations."
"What?"
She extended her hand to the sky, and her eyes shone.
From the ground, wisps of faint bluish light sprouted, dancing ethereally like disconnected columns.
I reached out my hand toward a small column of light near me. Upon touching it, I felt strangely at peace.
"Your actions have allowed the influence of [He Who Bears All Names] and the rest of the primordials to diminish sufficiently." Amid the ethereal blue glow, other colors began to emerge. "I underestimated your existence and its weight in this world. I certainly should have been more careful with how I treated you."
I'm speechless. I was even more surprised by the tone with which she said that.
"Are you... apologizing?" I asked, perplexed.
Zofia's expression didn't change.
"I'm being precise."
I decided to let it go.
"What's the second step?" It's better... to move forward.
She raised a second finger.
"A companion for the path." Her eyes settled on Friedrich, who rested in my hand. "Your Brother and Shadow. The Path of Stars is tumultuous and difficult. To walk it, a reflection was born from the sea of souls, to be your complement."
I stayed silent, and Friedrich didn't say anything either.
This was quite...
"And the third step?" I decided not to think about that now. I'd rather understand.
"The third step." Zofia extended the third finger. "A test of will."
I looked at the golden remains spattered across the sand around me.
"Fighting a newborn demigod from the corpse of a dead god counts as a test of will?"
"That was not my intention. I planned a battle against a remembrance of a friend of mine." I'm impressed by everything Zofia is revealing. She has friends too. "Evidently, I underestimated how much your bonds matter to you."
Her gaze turned severe, and I had to look away.
"And if I had cataloged it as a test of idiocy?"
"The distinction is irrelevant if the outcome is the same."
I blew air through my nose.
I couldn't argue with that even if I wanted to.
"So," I said, looking straight ahead, "what comes now?"
Zofia remained silent for a few moments.
"Now, I teach you to use what you already carry with you." She extended her hands and brought them close together. From the right, a golden sphere bloomed, and from the left, a blue one. Both began to float. "Friedrich and you must find the truth."
She explained—or tried to—with the same tone an academic might use to explain a mathematical theorem.
"..."
"By the nature of your respective existences, you are made to fill each other's voids."
I looked at the weapon in my hand.
Friedrich remained silent.
Zofia turned her head slightly toward me. The spheres in her hands vanished.
"You have will in abundance. What you demonstrated tonight was that, among other things. But will without direction is merely noise. Friedrich is the form."
"And what I fill in him..." I began.
"Heat," Zofia said simply.
I blinked.
"Heat?"
"You are loud, new, and still capable of crying for people who are no longer here."
The silence that followed had its own weight.
"That almost sounds like a compliment," I said quietly.
"It's an analysis."
"But almost."
"Don't repeat it."
I smiled, despite everything.
"As you grow stronger," Zofia continued, without letting me savor the moment, "the resonance between you will deepen. What he cannot perceive, you will feel. What you cannot sustain, he will anchor. In the moments when you are about to break, he will be the one who shouts."
"He already did," I said.
"I know."
There was something strange in her voice when she said that. Not exactly an emotion. But not her usual indifference either.
Something in between.
Something that almost sounded like satisfaction.
Zofia rose to her feet without making a sound and extended her hand.
"Your first reward." In her palm appeared, as if it had always been there, a cloak.
Long, with a hood. White, but not like snow.
It was absolute white, impossible white—the white seen inside a very cold flame.
Immaculate in a way that almost seemed active, as if it rejected filth.
She offered it to me.
I carefully extended my hand. Halfway there, I stopped...
I...
"Do it," Friedrich said, breaking his silence. "You earned it."
Yes. I took it.
It weighed almost nothing. It felt soft.
"What does it do?" I asked. Zofia's gaze seemed a little warmer.
Now that I thought about it, it looked a bit like Zofia's own cloak.
"When you wear it and lower the hood," she said, "your presence will vanish completely."
I looked at her.
"Invisibility?"
"Not exactly." She raised a finger slightly. "Your body will still be visible to those who look directly at you. But everything else—your magical presence, the trace of your soul, the sound of your footsteps, your body heat, your scent—will cease to exist for any sense, natural or supernatural."
I remembered Primrose tracking me through the forest as if I were a frightened animal.
This would have been very useful back then.
"For how long?"
"Indefinitely, as long as you wear it."
The cloak was soft between my fingers. Too soft. In the same way the water of a deep river is too calm on the surface.
"Thank you," I said.
Zofia made a slight gesture with her hand, as if that wasn't worth mentioning.
"Now." Her eyes held something different. Not softer, exactly. But more... present, perhaps. "Tell me what you want from me."
I furrowed my brow.
"In general?"
"As your second reward."
I stayed silent. This was a very big opportunity... and a more difficult question than it seemed.
Not because I didn't have answers. But because I had too many, and almost none of them were things I could ask of another person.
I wanted to remember my mother's voice.
I wanted to know if, in my world, someone missed me.
I wanted to understand what Friedrich truly was.
I wanted not to feel fear every time the moon peeked through the clouds.
I wanted...
I stopped.
I closed my eyes.
And in the silence behind my eyelids, I saw the hallway of a white two-story house. I smelled the stew. I heard familiar footsteps that I no longer remembered well.
I opened my eyes.
"I don't want to ever forget my mother." I said it quietly. Without adornment. "My real mother. The one from my previous life."
The silence that followed was different from all the others that night.
Zofia didn't respond immediately.
I looked at her.
Something in her expression had changed.
Not dramatically. There was something in the line of her mouth, in the angle of her eyes, that had grown quieter. More careful.
"What was her name?" she asked, her voice different.
"Rebecca."
Zofia remained motionless for several seconds after hearing that.
Then, slowly, she knelt on the sand in front of me.
Not as if she were going to attack me or hurt me.
"Give me your left hand," she said gently, and I obeyed.
Her cold fingers wrapped around mine with a delicacy I hadn't expected from her.
She closed her eyes.
"Goleuganfod," she pronounced with power and authority.
The small pillars of light shone brighter. Tiny sparks rose from the earth—blue, red, and white.
The ground seemed to become a miniature night sky.
A light bloomed from between our hands. A faint glow, blue and still.
I felt something... a shift.
Something fell into my hand, and the light stilled.
Zofia opened her eyes and separated her hands from mine. I held my breath.
My hands trembled as I saw what lay there.
A silver ring.
No excessive ornamentation. A small, delicate setting holding an amethyst. It reminded me of the sky's last color before night falls.
I recognized it.
The same way I recognized the smell of stew, even though I could no longer remember exactly how it tasted.
The same way I recognized her voice, even though I could no longer reproduce it.
The world went blurry.
Not all at once. Little by little. I had gone too long staring without blinking.
I closed my fingers around the ring and brought it to my forehead, closing my eyes.
"Mom." I let out a sob.
It wasn't an elegant or discreet cry. I had been holding this in for so long...
I covered my eyes with the back of my free hand.
I felt my shoulders tremble.
I said nothing.
There was no need.
Zofia didn't move.
She didn't tell me to calm down. She didn't speak of efficiency or lessons or anything.
She just stood there.
And when the weeping subsided a little, I felt something.
Not an embrace, exactly. Zofia wasn't that kind of person. But her hand, cold and still, rested on my head for a second.
Just a second.
With the same gentleness with which someone places their palm over a candle flame without wanting to extinguish it.
That's enough.
"Stand," Friedrich told me in a serious tone. I let out my breath and straightened up fully. Zofia didn't look offended. I looked at the state of my uniform and sighed. "You're a complete mess."
I snorted.
"Thank you," I said to Zofia, who kept her face as professional as possible. "Someday, I'll repay this kindness."
Zofia closed her eyes. Her serene face reminded me of the Mona Lisa.
"Don't trouble yourself over such a thing. The only reason it was possible to bring that ring here was because of the strong feelings its wearer left for you." Zofia opened her eyes. Their gleam was much less terrifying to me now. "That object responded only to you, even in the hands of others. It proves that your mother loved you."
She said it with a certainty that allowed no contradiction.
I clutched the ring in my hand.
We remained silent for a while longer.
I lowered my gaze to see the ring between my fingers. The amethyst caught the silvery reflection of the moon and returned it in violet flashes.
Zofia didn't ask if I was okay.
That was, strangely, the most considerate thing she could have done.
After a while, she said, "There is a second reward."
It took me a moment to return to the present.
"You said the first was the cloak," I observed.
"That's correct."
"And that I could ask for whatever I wanted as the second."
"That's correct."
I rubbed my face one last time. I put the ring away with great care in the inner pocket of my uniform, close to my heart, because that seemed like the most sensible thing I could do.
Then I looked at Zofia.
There was only one thing my body and soul asked for with genuine urgency.
"A drink."
Zofia looked at me.
"Pardon?"
"Something to drink." I shrugged. Honestly, I didn't have the energy to pretend. "It's been a very long night, Zofia. I want to sit somewhere quiet and have a drink."
Silence.
Then more silence.
And then, Zofia Cromwell, the greatest mage of the last millennium, the entity that had executed a false god with a single finger minutes before, let out a laugh.
A real laugh. Brief, yes, but genuine. The kind of laugh a person lets out when something genuinely surprises them.
"You're quite peculiar," she said, once the laughter settled.
"I'm not sure how to feel when you of all people say that." I could laugh, but I really didn't have the spirit for it.
"I didn't mean it as an insult." That—that was new.
The breeze stirred her black coat. The moon was higher now, as if it too had decided to relax a little now that the monster was gone.
"I know the perfect place," she said.
"Where are we going?"
She extended her hand to me.
"To Glorienne."
"...?"
My brain took a moment to process. I opened my mouth. I tried to think that this must be impossible. Then I remembered where I was and who she was.
I closed my mouth.
"There's an establishment I've been frequenting for some time now." There was something in her voice that, if I didn't know her, I would call nostalgia. "They serve the best beer on the continent, and the owner has learned not to ask me questions."
"Good," I said.
I took her hand, and the vertigo came.
….
…
..
.
I landed on my feet in a dark alley. My shoes made a curious sound as they struck the ground.
My gaze darted quickly to the sides. Tall buildings surrounded me, and I lifted my eyes. The sky was overcast.
"Lassiel," Zofia said in a calm tone, appearing right beside me. "A lovely city. Quite clean. Its people tend to be reserved."
I knew this place. There were several interesting missions here, and it could become the player's base of operations...
It just hit me that, depending on your girlfriend-wife in the game, you become the King or the owner of a city or country...
"Interpersonal relationships in this game are terrifying..."
Muttering that, I felt a strange interest in seeing the whole place.
Many in the fandom called Lassiel—and rightly so—'Paris without the French,' because of the descriptions of its inhabitants and the city itself.
Friendly and well-mannered. Completely unlike actual French people.
I took a moment to enjoy the atmosphere.
The air was laden with perfume. Lights from the main street spilled into the alley. People cast shadows as they walked. There was enough bustle to make it clear this was a capital.
A lightning bolt traced a jagged line, and the rumble of thunder made me cover my ears.
"Huh?" My hands were covered. I looked. Elegant red gloves. Lowering my gaze, I saw a black suit with a red waistcoat, no tie. "Did you change my clothes?"
I looked at her. Zofia cast a severe glance at me.
"Of course I did. You are still a student of the Academy, after all. It would be a scandal for you to be seen in the streets entering a bar. I am still faculty, after all." This dutiful mentor side of her was quite peculiar. Her hand emerged from her traveling cloak. In it was a round purse adorned with star motifs. "The establishment is called Le Glamour. Here. Use the Nation's currency. It will draw less attention."
After rummaging for a few minutes in her purse, Zofia pulled out some emerald and sapphire-colored bills and extended them to me.
The wad of bills she handed me was as thick as my fist. Even if I took it, I had nowhere to put it...
"Zofia..." I didn't know how to say this...
"Silly me. I forgot the key thing." She then brought out her other hand, and in it was a small black wallet. "Use this for now."
I watched in disbelief as Zofia forced the bills into the wallet, and they went in without any problem.
I blinked several times. These must be the conveniences of being such a powerful being. You can bypass the laws of physics however you like.
"Done. Think of an amount, and this will give you the money. Don't worry about overspending. It's like alms to me. The bar is on Rue des Étoiles. You'll find it on your own." She pointed to the main street and added, "Take your time, but don't dawdle too much. I'll come for you in an hour."
And she vanished.
I was alone.
With a wallet of infinite space, a white cloak folded under my arm, a ring in my pocket, a revolver, and the most beautiful city I had seen in two lives unfolding before me.
"To hell with it," I said, not wanting to think about anything. "Beer."
I stepped out onto the main street at a slow pace, putting the wallet in my pocket.
The people who saw me emerge from a dark alley with an expression of mild weariness stopped their conversations and their walks.
Their gazes assessed me. Well-dressed maidens seemed slightly offended by my appearance, and gentlemen in suits were visibly on alert.
It couldn't be any other way.
"Good evening," I gave a bow. Had I been wearing a hat, I would have removed it. "If you'll excuse me."
And I continued on.
The cobblestone paths shone under the fine rain that had begun to fall without me having noticed.
I sighed. An old-fashioned car passed near me, and I caught my reflection vaguely in its dark glass.
My eyes seemed to gleam with the light of the streetlamps, giving me a somewhat sinister appearance. My long hair billowed in the breeze like a mantle of snow, and my face looked more serene.
I felt tempted to cover myself with the cloak but restrained myself. I'd probably look like a complete vampire if I did.
That's enough stress for today.
I want to enjoy my life a little.
I kept walking, the light rain kissing my face, drinking in the beauty of this world.
The water caught the reflections of the gas lamps that hung from wrought-iron posts shaped into flowers and serpents and the faces of creatures that existed only in the imagination of some blacksmith enamored with the fantastical world.
The sidewalks were wide. Cars passed by. They were slowly ceasing to be a novelty.
I always wanted to drive a classic in my world of origin. If Cadillacs don't exist, I'll have to invent them.
"Ha!" I laughed. I have no knowledge of cars, and already I want to invent my own. "My arrogance will be my downfall."
I raised my eyes.
The buildings were tall, of beige stone darkened by the centuries, with wrought-iron balconies from which hung flowerpots and fabrics.
Every corner has its story.
I reached a crossroads.
It was crowned by a black marble fountain that shone with the reflection of the lights. The polished bronze statue reflected all the forms around it on its surface.
A woman holding a flat cup above her head, her arms extended and slightly inclined forward, from which water flowed.
I approached. There were several coins at the bottom. I couldn't help a smile. We're all similar in customs, even across worlds.
"Let's go!"
"Yay!"
"Hue!"
"Dododo."
A group of children came running, looking lively as they played tag.
I watched as one jumped from the edge of the fountain and spread his arms.
"I'm a bird!" And he launched himself toward the ground.
I moved fast. I caught him by the arms and cast him a severe look.
"Bad idea." The boy had messy blond hair and what seemed to be overalls over a white shirt. "Unlike real birds, you don't fly."
"Édouard!" A feminine voice rang out. I saw a young woman running up from the street where the children had come. She wore a black wimple and a black dress with long sleeves and a long skirt.
"I take it you're Édouard," I said to the boy, who grinned, showing me his teeth.
"Yes, sir."
"You're in trouble." I lowered him to the ground. The young woman stopped in front of me and bent over, bracing her hands on her knees. "A very good evening, Miss."
"A pleasure, my Lord. May the King of Souls bless you." Barely recovered, she gave me a courteous curtsy. "Thank you for stopping this boy's foolishness."
"No trouble at all." The young woman had pretty brown eyes. Her round face gave her a pure beauty. "It seems to me that young Édouard will need a scolding."
"I only wanted to play at being a bird." There was a certain shame in the boy's voice, but it was clear he wasn't entirely repentant.
"You could have hurt yourself." The young nun's concern was genuine. These children must be very difficult to manage. "Apologize to the gentleman for the trouble."
Hmm... She's a good figure for these children. The boy looked at me with his big eyes and mustered his best puppy-dog expression.
"I'm sorry." Édouard lowered his gaze. I had just opened my mouth to speak.
"Jakob." Friedrich spoke within my mind. At that moment, I felt a slight movement in my pocket. "A small pickpocket."
I caught the person's hand. When I turned, it was one of the children. More specifically, a girl.
I felt strange knowing that a girl had been trying to rob me.
"That was very foolish." I looked at the nun, on whose face there was betrayal and shame. "I take it this isn't a frequent occurrence."
"Oooh God, no, please, don't think that... she normally doesn't, my lord, I swear she's a good girl." I cast her a doubtful look. "Please, sir..."
Clearly, her emotions weren't going to help me get anything of value.
I raised a hand to stop her before she collapsed from panic.
"Please. Breathe." I released the little girl's wrist the moment I was sure she wouldn't bolt. She was all freckles, stubborn chin, and eyes too sharp for someone that small. "I'm not angry."
The nun stared at me as if I had just declared war on arithmetic.
"You're... not?"
"No." I looked at the child. "But if you're going to rob people, at least pick targets with less experience being stolen from."
The little girl blinked at me.
Then her eyes narrowed in a way that made me suspect she would grow into an exceptionally dangerous woman.
"Did you really notice?" she asked, sounding almost offended.
Friedrich gave a smug little hum inside my head.
"Yes," I said. "Your fingers are light, but your timing is terrible."
"Lucie!" the nun gasped, scandalized. "You mustn't sound proud of it!"
"I'm not proud," Lucie muttered. "Just... surprised."
I sighed. The rain kept falling in a fine silver veil around us.
Édouard, meanwhile, had recovered enough to point an accusing finger at the little thief.
"I told you he looked rich," he whispered loudly to the other children.
"Édouard!" The nun sounded one breath away from martyrdom.
I looked at the group properly now.
Five children in total. Damp shoes, patched clothes, thin wrists, lively eyes. One of them held another by the hand. Their faces had the unmistakable look of children who were loved, but not particularly well fed.
I reached into my pocket and took out the black wallet.
The nun's face went pale again.
"My lord, please, there's no need—"
"There is, actually." I opened the wallet. It was still deeply unsettling that Zofia's absurd magic made it feel like reaching into a wardrobe rather than a billfold. "How much does dinner cost for all of you?"
She stared.
"I beg your pardon?"
"How much," I repeated, "for all of you to eat something warm tonight without having to commit crimes or attempt flight?"
Lucie looked deeply insulted by the inclusion of her very recent work in the same category as Édouard's fountain dive.
"That's not..." the nun started, then stopped. "My Lord, I cannot simply take money from a stranger."
"That's fair." I pulled out a few notes anyway. "Then take it from a tired student who would very much like to go drink in peace without worrying that a child will try to pick his pocket or throw himself off public architecture."
The children stared at the banknotes.
The nun stared at me.
I was beginning to understand why politicians in my world of origin preferred giving speeches to actually helping people. It was much less awkward.
"My lord..." Her voice had grown softer. More uncertain. "This is too much."
"That's a relative concept." Pocket change to Zofia, after all. "Use what you need. Return the rest to the church, feed the children, donate it to orphans, buy better shoes, stage a minor coup among the pigeons—whatever seems appropriate."
One of the children gasped.
"He's in love with Sister Agnès."
The world stopped for a second.
I looked at the culprit. A little boy with one shoe untied and the expression of a born instigator.
"What?"
"It's obvious," Lucie said immediately, crossing her arms with the confidence of a tiny criminal philosopher. "That's what men do in stories. They give money and then stare too much."
"I was not staring."
"You were being polite," Édouard corrected, as if that made my case worse. "That's even more suspicious."
The other children began murmuring among themselves with the kind of delighted cruelty only children can summon.
"He rescued Édouard."
"And stopped Lucie from stealing."
"And now he's giving money."
"He definitely wants to marry Sister Agnès."
The nun—Agnès, apparently—turned scarlet so fast I feared for her health.
"Children!" she cried. "That is not appropriate in the slightest!"
"It's alright," I said, mostly because watching her die of embarrassment seemed uncharitable. "I assure you all, this is not love at first sight."
Lucie tilted her head.
"So it's love at second sight?"
I closed my eyes.
"Pfff... hahaha!" Even Friedrich laughed at me.
When I opened them again, all the children were looking up at me with shameless curiosity.
Sister Agnès, for her part, looked like she wanted the earth to open and swallow her whole.
I decided the only honorable path left was to commit fully to dignity.
I placed the notes carefully into her hands and folded her fingers over them.
"For supper," I said gently. "And for the trouble these future bandits undoubtedly cause you on a daily basis."
She looked at the money, then at me.
"This is very generous, my lord."
"No." I offered her my calmest smile. "It is simply practical. Hungry children become inventive. As we have all seen."
Lucie had the decency to look mildly ashamed for half a second.
Only half a second.
Then Édouard tugged at Agnès's sleeve.
"Sister, if he comes back tomorrow, can we call him your mysterious benefactor?"
"No," Agnès said immediately.
"Your secret admirer?" another child suggested.
"No."
"Your tragic white-haired prince?" Lucie tried.
Absolutely not, I thought, but to my horror Agnès looked as though she might actually faint.
I placed one hand over my heart and bowed slightly, because if I had to leave this scene, I would leave it properly.
"My lady, I have no desire to compromise your reputation before an audience this vicious." I glanced at the children. "Though I confess they are remarkably efficient."
To my relief, that pulled a laugh from her.
A small one. Quick, breathy, and immediately hidden behind one hand.
It suited her.
The children noticed too and began grinning at one another like wolves scenting weakness.
I straightened and took a step back.
"Well then." I inclined my head first to Agnès, then to the children. "Good evening to all of you. Try not to steal from gentlemen, leap from fountains, or begin matchmaking careers before you can properly write your names."
"I can write my name!" Édouard protested.
"Badly," Lucie said.
"Like a chicken," another added.
"Children," Agnès said, though there was laughter in her voice now.
I smiled despite myself.
"Take care of them, Sister Agnès."
She held the money close to her chest, still looking overwhelmed.
"I will. And... thank you."
I stepped back into the rain, lifted two fingers in a small farewell, and gave them one last bow.
"Until another evening, then."
As I turned and walked away, I heard Édouard shout behind me:
"Come back when you're ready to propose!"
My shoulders shook with silent laughter.
I did not look back.
A true gentleman, after all, knows when retreat is the better part of dignity.
I kept walking, the light rain falling over me. A night market still active was the next thing in my path—shops with window displays showing their wares. Books, cheeses of impossible colors, candles in organic shapes, and crafts from villages whose names I didn't recognize.
I kept walking until I saw a street musician playing something similar to a cello but with eight strings.
In a corner under a stone arch, three people stopped to listen without anyone having asked them to.
I walked.
Without hurry.
It was the first time in a long while that I could allow myself to walk without hurry.
Without strategy. Without a secondary objective. Without thinking about routes or heroines or the end of the world or the moon or anything that required more effort than putting one foot in front of the other and letting the city enter through my eyes.
And the city had plenty to offer.
A bakery still open at that hour, with the window lit from within and the smell of butter and fermented dough spilling onto the sidewalk like a caress.
I stopped.
I bought something from the beautiful woman who seemed to be the owner. Her husband eyed me warily the moment I entered, but stopped once I asked for something made by him.
It was small and flaky. When I bit into it, the taste was so absurdly good that I devoured it in an instant.
I ordered several, for my friends...
Friends.
I stood still in the middle of the sidewalk for several seconds, unable to keep walking.
I raised my eyes, and smiled.
Life is short in every world.
The rain intensified a little.
Not unpleasantly. Just enough to make the cobblestones shine more, giving the streetlamps that soft, warm halo that only happens when light and water decide to cooperate for a moment.
I passed by a theater.
The doors were closed. The performance had ended hours ago, but in the doorway there were two people still in costume, talking with the intense concentration of someone who hasn't finished living what they've just performed.
I passed by a bookshop. Closed, obviously, but the window was lit and the spines of the books gleamed like a promise.
I mentally set aside twenty minutes of my future plans to return here with money and free time.
I passed by a small fountain where someone had left flowers. I didn't know why, or for whom. It didn't matter. The image was beautiful enough without explanation.
In all that time, no one looked at me strangely. Well, not exactly. Women looked at me with an intensity and expectation that made me slightly uncomfortable.
But...
No one crossed the street when they saw me.
No one lowered their gaze or hardened their expression or calculated my social rank with the cold efficiency that the nobles of Eozän did.
Here, I was simply someone else walking under the fine rain of Lassiel.
A boy with white hair and a folded cloak under his arm, eating something flaky and looking at the city with eyes too wide to pretend he was from here.
And that was perfect.
I reached Rue des Étoiles. A narrow, long street that descended slightly toward the river that crossed the city.
The rain had intensified the darkness and the echo of footsteps.
The stones on the ground had that dark slate color that only water and years can achieve. On both sides, buildings with windows lit in amber and the muffled sound of conversations and music filtering through the glass.
I found Le Glamour without difficulty.
A door of dark, thick wood, with a leaded glass panel in which someone had engraved the name in discreet, elegant letters.
Beneath it was carved the phrase 'Carpe horas.'
On either side, two iron planters with plants I couldn't identify, but which survived with dignity despite the rain and the hour.
Above the door, a dark green cloth awning, already wet, sheltered the two entrance steps from the downpour that was beginning to intensify.
From inside came warm light, the smell of beer and old wood and something that might have been stew, and the soft, steady sound of people living their night quietly and without great pretension.
I pushed the door open.
Le Glamour was exactly what it promised.
The ceiling was low, of dark oak beams, and from it hung brass lamps with candles inside that spilled yellow, uneven light over the tables.
The wood of the floor was old and had that worn shine of places that have been trodden for decades by people who arrive with their troubles and leave feeling slightly better.
The tables were of unpainted wood, with the marks of years. The chairs didn't match each other, but that gave them a kind of coherence of their own.
In one corner there was an iron stove with a low fire that didn't so much heat as soothe. Behind the bar, shelves with bottles of every possible color and a chalkboard with the day's menu written in small, steady handwriting.
There were perhaps twenty people.
Some spoke in low voices over the bar. Others were at tables, alone or in pairs or in small groups, with the relaxed posture of those who have been here long enough to no longer feel the need to pretend anything.
A girl with an apron and her hair tied up in a high bun passed by me with a tray without looking at me and said, with the kind efficiency of someone who has welcomed thousands of strangers: "Sit wherever you like."
I sat on a stool at the end of the bar.
From there I could see the door, the tables, the stove, and the rain falling against the window glass.
The bartender was a man of about fifty, with gray hair tied back in a low ponytail and the placid expression of someone who decided long ago that the world can do whatever it wants as long as it doesn't interrupt good service.
He looked at me.
Not with curiosity, not with suspicion.
Just with the implicit, efficient question of someone waiting for an order.
"Beer," I began. "Whatever you have on tap."
He nodded.
Thirty seconds later, there was a large glass in front of me.
"God." I couldn't help the smile. "It's perfect."
The foam was exactly right. The color was that of ripe wheat in the late afternoon.
I brought it to my lips, thanking my mother's God.
The first sip was cold and clean, slightly bitter in a way that landed in the body like a period at the end of a very long sentence.
I closed my eyes.
"Good." I let out a sigh of satisfaction. I have an hour.
"So?" Friedrich asked in my mind.
"So what?" I replied mentally, while finishing the beer in a single gulp. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve and left the empty glass on the bar.
The owner looked at me with slight disbelief. I made a gesture with two fingers.
"Another one, boss." The man refilled it quickly.
And just as quickly, I emptied it.
Damn, I needed this... it's the best beer I've had in both lives.
"Another," I said with a smile.
"How do you plan to...?" Before the man could finish his question, I left a wad of bills on the table. He looked at it carefully, then shrugged. "Your problem, kid."
The third one I decided to drink more slowly.
"Damn," Friedrich spoke in my head again. "I would never have guessed your talent for drinking outweighs your combat ability."
I didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, I let my gaze wander over the bar.
Outside, the rain had decided to take itself seriously.
The sound against the glass was constant and soft, that particular rhythm the rain has when it's in no hurry, when it's not a storm but a long conversation between the sky and the ground.
I drank slowly.
Without thinking about anything in particular for the first few minutes.
I let the bar exist around me. The muffled voices. The creak of a chair. The brief laugh of someone at a table in the back. The fire in the stove doing its silent work.
And then, little by little, the thoughts came.
Not the urgent thoughts. Not the inventory of threats, routes, skills, characters to meet, factions to avoid, pending apocalypses.
The others.
The ones that normally had no space because survival always occupied everything.
I thought about my mother.
Not the image that was fading. The ring. The small, real weight of silver against my chest from the inner pocket of my uniform.
"You won't forget her," my companion spoke with pure certainty. "I won't let that happen."
With that, I downed the third beer.
"Another," I said to the owner, who passed me the fourth glass.
I need to keep drinking.
"Rebecca." For a good moment, I saw her face clearly. Green eyes. A warm smile.
I touched the ring with my free hand. It was something the world couldn't erase. A small piece of her existence materialized in metal and stone.
"I won't forget you," I thought. "Not completely. Not as long as I have it."
I finished the fourth beer, and the fifth arrived without my having to ask.
"Thank you." And I brought it to my lips.
I thought about Armine.
The way her eyes changed color depending on the sun. Her hair billowing in the wind, and how I always have to lift my head to look at her, and... the beauty of her face.
"You're the most dangerous thing that's happened to me in this life," I thought with a weary tenderness that was completely new to me. "And that's with the corpse of a god having chased me tonight."
The weight in my chest had a name, but I couldn't name it yet. There was only calm, honest recognition of something that had been there for a long time, and that I had been very busy ignoring with too much dedication.
Empty glass.
"Here." The owner passed another, this time a dark beer. I don't really care about the color.
I drank.
I thought about Conlaoch. I have to beat him at least once...
"Elen." The name of my ex left my lips... it's ironic that I still remember her... Do I still feel something for her? "No."
You were a good person when we met. Thanks to you, I discovered [King's Roads] and you were the one who came up with the idea of being a Streamer.
In many ways, I owe you too much.
I hope you're happy wherever you are... and thank you for everything.
"Another," I said to the owner, and he smiled.
I must be his best customer in days, maybe.
Another sip, and my thoughts returned me to my first plans for this world.
I had arrived in this world alone. I had tried to remain alone—for strategy, for comfort, for cowardice, for whichever of the excuses one learns to justify the fear of belonging to something.
And yet.
Without anyone having asked my permission.
Without my having planned it.
Now I'm bound to them...
And here, at the bar of Le Glamour, with the rain falling outside and the warm beer between my fingers...
I smiled.
Not the diplomatic smile.
Not the smile of someone who has just killed something and needs to convince himself he's fine.
A real smile.
I was still here.
And that, I thought, drinking the last long, slow sip of my dark beer in the best bar I had visited in two lives.
This is enough.
For now, this is enough.
"Jakob," Friedrich spoke in my head again. "It's almost the time Zofia said."
So soon?
"Well," I said, getting to my feet. I felt slightly dizzy, but I managed to stay upright without falling. "Thanks for everything, boss."
My voice sounded strange. Pfff... it almost sounds like I'm drunk... but that's impossible, I've had good alcohol tolerance since I studied law.
… Wait... wasn't that in a different body?
Unimportant details.
"Take this, kid." The man gave me a large bottle of wine. "On the house."
"Thank you, good man." I took the bottle, walked to the door, and stepped outside. "It's raining..."
It looked like a tropical storm...
"This is a problem," I said with dismay. "I'll have to go back to the bar."
"The cloak," Friedrich, ever helpful, told me in a weary tone.
"Right!" I put on the cloak and pulled up the hood. I have indeed become the white ghost. "All set."
I activated the ring of the destined.
I moved quickly through the empty streets because of the rain.
I need to get back to the alley fast or I'll make Zofia wait, and I don't want to find out what she can do when she's irritated.
"Help!" A muffled cry rang out.
I stopped dead. I turned my head... The cry came from a dark corner.
With the water falling, it was lucky I heard that.
"Jakob," Friedrich began, his tone urgent.
"It sounded like a woman," I said, taking steps toward the source of the noise.
"It could be a trap," my companion warned me sincerely.
"I'll take the risk." Finally, I entered the darkness, and what I saw disgusted me.
"Stop moving, bitch!" A man in flashy clothes was holding a woman's hands, forcing her to the ground while making her spread her legs. "Do you know who I am?!"
"Please," the woman sobbed as the water plastered her clothes to her body.
The man had his back to me, his breathing labored and his voice disgusting.
Neither of them heard me coming, surely thanks to the cloak. Him because he was focused on... this, and her because...
In a few steps, I closed the distance.
"Jakob..."
Whatever Friedrich was going to say was cut off by the sound of the gunshot.
In less than a second, I pressed the barrel of the revolver against the back of his neck and pulled the trigger.
I held him by the collar of his shirt so he wouldn't fall on the woman. The bastard was quite heavy.
"Aaah." The woman let out a sob and looked confused. "Who?"
She looked ahead and found me holding the pig who had dragged her there.
"Go," I said with all the tact I could muster.
"Aaah." She didn't seem to fully understand, but she got to her feet and ran out of the alley, crying.
I followed her with my eyes until she disappeared from my sight.
I dropped the body and made Friedrich disappear from my hand.
I uncorked the bottle of wine and emptied it all in one go. I threw it to the ground when there was nothing left and activated the ring's effect again.
By the time I reached the alley, Zofia was waiting for me. The rain covered her in such a mundane way that I almost doubted it was her.
"... Did something happen?" She looked at me steadily for a few seconds, and I just shook my head.
"No." The word left my mouth without any hesitation. "Nothing happened."
She sharpened her gaze, but did nothing more than place her hand on my chest.
"Do you want to go to your room in Eozän?" Her question came with a certain delicacy. I smiled at the irony. "Or do you have somewhere you want to be right now?"
"Just... send me wherever you think is ideal for me." I don't even want to think. This day... it's been too long.
"Very well." And with that, I felt a powerful vertigo.
….
…
..
.
The teleportation deposited me in front of Primrose's cabin with the grace of a sack of flour being thrown off a cart.
I hit the dirt on one knee, one hand planted in the grass, the other raised as if I were about to make a very important declaration.
"Objection," I told the ground.
The ground did not respond.
A shame. I would have won the argument.
The world spun in a slow, elegant circle. Trees. Moonlight. Cabin. Trees again. A very judgmental-looking mushroom.
"Zofia," I muttered, pointing at nothing in particular, "your transportation service is terrible. Terrible. No seatbelts. No complimentary peanuts. No emotional support."
My stomach lurched.
I swallowed.
"I am not going to vomit," I told myself solemnly. "I am a noble. Nobles do not vomit. They strategically reject poison."
The cabin door opened.
Warm light spilled over the grass, and a very familiar figure stood in the doorway.
Orange hair.
Green eyes.
A white shirt that was too big for her and a black vest over her shoulders.
I pulled my hood back.
Primrose Tahearth stared at me for a few seconds.
Then her expression softened so much that something in my chest hurt.
"Jakob?"
I raised a hand.
"Present."
She stepped outside, barefoot despite the cold, her thighs also exposed. She looked warm.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
She walked toward me quickly, then stopped just before touching me. Her nose twitched.
"You smell like alcohol."
"I was attacked."
"By alcohol?"
"Repeatedly."
Primrose pressed her lips together.
Her cheeks puffed out slightly.
She was trying not to laugh.
I narrowed my eyes.
"Don't mock a wounded veteran."
"You're not wounded."
"My dignity is."
"That was wounded before the wine."
"Primrose," I said gravely, "that was cruel."
She laughed.
Then, with the tenderness of someone handling a half-dead bird, she took my face between both hands and examined me.
Her palms were warm. Too warm.
Her thumbs brushed beneath my eyes.
I froze completely.
She was close.
Very close.
Her green eyes, usually sharp as a hunter's arrow, were soft tonight. So soft I had to look away.
"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look like something important happened to you."
"No." That didn't even sound believable...
"Are you lying to me?" She narrowed her eyes with suspicion.
"Probably."
"Jakob."
"I'm not physically hurt," I corrected.
Her expression changed.
Not dramatically. Primrose didn't need dramatic expressions to make a man feel as though he had kicked a puppy.
She simply looked at me with quiet sadness.
"That doesn't count as being fine."
"It does in most official documents."
"It doesn't in my house."
My house.
For some reason, those two words made the cold sting far less.
Primrose slipped one arm around my waist and pulled my arm over her shoulders.
"Come inside," she said. "You're cold."
"I'm fine."
"You're trembling."
"That is tactical vibration."
"Inside."
"Yes, ma'am."
She smiled.
Not the predator's smile.
Not the strange, terrifying smile she wore when she was about to explain how many ways she could kill me before breakfast.
This one was warmer.
Quieter.
Almost shy.
Like she was happy I had obeyed.
God.
This girl was dangerous.
The inside of Primrose's cabin felt like another world.
Not grand. Not noble. Not ancient like Eozän.
Just warm.
A fire burned in the hearth, filling the room with amber light. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters. A few hunting tools rested carefully on the walls. There was a wooden table, two chairs, a small bed covered in thick blankets, and a pot hanging near the fire.
The smell was heavenly.
Bread. Meat. Herbs. Smoke. Honey.
Home.
I hated how quickly that word appeared in my mind.
Primrose guided me to the rug in front of the fireplace and gently pushed me down to sit.
"Sit."
I sat.
"I feel like a domesticated dog."
"You're not trained enough for that."
Ouch.
"Again. Cruel."
She knelt in front of me and started pulling off my boots.
I stared at her.
"Primrose."
"Hm?"
"What are you doing?"
"Taking your boots off."
"I can do that."
"You tried to argue with a mushroom outside."
"It looked smug."
"It was a mushroom."
"A smug mushroom."
She laughed again, and the sound was so sweet I lost the thread of my argument.
She removed one boot, then the other, setting them near the door with the kind of care that suggested she had done this many times before.
Not for me.
Probably for her father.
For family.
That thought made my chest tighten.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I'm thinking."
"That's dangerous."
"Everyone keeps telling me that."
"Because we care."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
The fire crackled between us.
Primrose looked at me with open concern, then stood and went to the table. She returned with a bottle and two wooden cups.
"Wine," she said.
I squinted at the bottle.
"Primrose."
"Yes?"
"I am already drunk."
"I know."
"And your solution is more wine?"
She nodded with absolute seriousness.
"My dad says a bad drunk is stopped with water, food, or better wine."
"That man is a philosopher." I nodded at the incredible wisdom of my friend's father.
"He says that too."
She poured wine into both cups and handed one to me.
It was dark red, almost purple. It smelled of berries and wood smoke.
I took a sip.
Sweet.
Strong.
Dangerous.
"Good," I said, and took another sip. "Damn!"
Forgive me, old bar owner, but this is better.
Primrose let out a little laugh, and I looked her in the eyes. She looked pleased.
"My dad made it." The pride in her voice was almost palpable.
"Of course he did." At this point, I should ask: "What doesn't your dad make?"
"He makes wine, bread, pies, smoked meat, traps, bows, furniture, and once he made a boat." My friend listed them on her fingers with a fond expression.
Well, look at that... incredible.
"Did it float?" She laughed.
"For almost ten minutes."
"A genius ahead of his time."
She laughed again, stood up, and ended up sitting beside me on the rug.
Not across from me.
Beside me.
Close enough that our shoulders touched.
I blame the wine for the warmth in my face.
"Are you sad?" she asked suddenly.
"That's a dangerous question."
"Answer anyway."
I looked into my cup.
The firelight trembled on the surface of the wine.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "Tired, maybe. Confused. A little drunk."
"Very drunk."
"A noble amount drunk."
She leaned against me lightly.
My brain shut down for two seconds.
Then restarted very poorly.
"I'm sad," she said. Her voice sounded dangerous.
I looked at her.
Primrose was staring into the fire, both hands wrapped around her cup.
"You?"
She nodded.
"Because we're not in the same classroom."
I blinked.
That was not what I expected.
"You're in Gold Hall," I said. "That's good. That's where the important people are."
"I don't care."
"You should. It means the Academy recognizes your skill."
"I don't care," she repeated, softer this time.
I stared.
Ah.
That expression.
That was unfair.
"Primrose..."
She looked down into her wine.
"Gold Hall is too large," she said. "Everyone watches everyone. They talk like nobles even when they're not nobles. They measure each other. They smile with their teeth but not their hearts."
"That sounds about right." It's life in this Academy, I suppose.
I brought the wine cup to my mouth.
"And you're not there." Primrose took a sip of wine. "And a strange boy kept clinging to me."
I stopped.
"Strange?" The scene from earlier came back to me forcefully, though I know it's impossible for something like that to happen to Primrose... "In what way?"
"Everything about him felt... wrong. As if he were one big lie." She drank her wine. "And his name is very stupid."
I laughed at that.
"Really?" I suppose for Primrose to say that about you, you must truly be a case worthy of concern.
"Kazuto or something like that." There was genuine dislike in Primrose's voice. "What a stupid name."
"Come on, it can't be that bad."
"I kept looking at the empty seats. I thought maybe they had made a mistake." She looked at me intensely. "I thought maybe you would enter late and complain about how annoying the room was. You would sit beside me and whisper something strange."
"Something strange?"
"You always say strange things."
"That's fair."
"But you weren't there." Her voice grew quieter. "So the room felt wrong."
I looked away.
The fire had suddenly become very interesting.
"I'm in Silver Hall B," I said. "It's not bad. There are normal people there. Well, normal by this Academy's standards, which means one of them nearly set the ceiling on fire."
Primrose blinked.
"Is she strong?"
"Academically terrifying."
"Is she pretty?"
I took another sip of wine.
"Objectively?" I should avoid this question. My instinct tells me so.
"Jakob." It seems Primrose can see through my tactics.
"She has red hair." I looked at her with a nervous smile.
Primrose's eyes narrowed.
That sobered me a little, but not too much.
"I don't know her well enough to think of her that way." Certainly, Plumshire is beautiful, but physical attraction is only half of what could draw me to her. "And honestly, she's not my type."
I felt a shift in the atmosphere.
"Good." Primrose sounded pleased.
"Good?"
Primrose looked back at the fire.
"I mean, it's good that your class is interesting." I smiled. What a great friend Primrose is.
"I missed you too." I really did.
Primrose went completely still.
Ah.
Had I said something strange?
I looked at her.
Her cheeks were red.
Not wine-red.
Something else.
"You did?" she asked.
"Of course. You're my friend."
For some reason, her expression flickered.
Happy. Then disappointed.
Then happy again, but softer.
"Friend," she repeated.
I nodded.
"The terrifying kind." I smiled at her confidently.
She smiled into her cup.
"I can be less terrifying."
"Liar." I laughed. "It's part of who you are."
"I can try."
"That's worse."
She laughed and leaned against me again, this time more deliberately.
The top of her head brushed my shoulder.
I did not move.
For a while, we drank in silence.
The fire crackled.
The wind moved outside.
Somewhere in the forest, an owl called.
It was peaceful.
That made me uneasy.
Peace had become suspicious to me.
Primrose must have noticed, because she suddenly said, "My dad says a good home needs three things."
I looked at her.
"Bread, fire, and someone who comes back."
I felt something twist in my chest.
"That's..."
"Simple?" she asked.
"Perfect," I said. "It's ideal for a simple life."
She smiled.
"I think so too." Her gaze drifted around the cabin. "This place is small. It's good for one person. Maybe two if they like each other very much."
"That sounds practical."
"But it's not enough."
"For what?"
She turned her face toward me.
Her eyes were bright.
"For the house I want."
Ah.
A future dream. Now that I think about it, she must have already met Aeono and must be planning romantic things with him.
"What kind of house?" I need to know what she's planning.
Primrose's expression lit up.
In that moment, she looked brighter. Not a predator. Not a hunter. Just a girl with a dream she had clearly carried in her heart for a long, long time.
"A big one," she said.
"How big?"
"Very big." That didn't help, but she seemed to believe it did.
"Castle big?"
"No. Castles are cold."
"Correct."
"And full of people who think they're important."
"Also correct."
"I want a house made of stone and dark wood," she said, gesturing with both hands as if building it in the air. "Strong walls. A red roof. A very big kitchen. Bigger than this whole cabin."
"That's a serious kitchen."
"It has to be. There will be many people to feed." She smiled radiantly.
"Guests?" I could come eat often if that's the case.
She looked at me strangely. Her eyes seemed to convey a lot and little at the same time.
"Family." Oh.
"Ah."
She smiled again and continued.
"There will be a long table. Very long. Long enough for everyone. No one eats alone. That's important." I felt warmth in my heart. Primrose sounds like she'll be a great mother...
"Very important," I agreed.
"The hearth will be big enough that three children can sit in front of it with blankets." Her pure smile is... intoxicating.
"Only three?"
She gave me a look of pity.
"Three at a time, Jakob."
"Ah. Rotational warmth."
"Yes."
"Efficient."
She nodded, pleased.
"There will be a pantry full of dried meat, flour, honey, jam, apples, onions, potatoes, and cheese. A cellar for wine. A smokehouse outside. A garden for herbs. A berry patch. Maybe two." God, she's really planned this in detail...
"Two berry patches. Ambitious."
"I like berries," she said with a smile.
"I noticed." Now that I think about it... Primrose is wearing the jacket I gave her that time...
"And behind the house, there will be targets for archery. Not too close to the windows." She continued cheerfully.
"Wise."
"And a training yard."
"For the children?"
"For everyone."
"Of course."
"And a music room," she added.
I blinked.
"A music room?"
She nodded, looking at me with alarming seriousness.
"With a piano."
My heart stumbled.
"Why?"
"So the house has music."
"That's... a very good reason."
"And because children sleep better when someone plays for them."
I looked into my wine.
"Your future husband better know how to play."
"He will." She said it with such immediate confidence that I turned to look at her.
Primrose was staring directly at me.
Her eyes were soft.
Warm.
Expectant.
I blinked slowly.
Then I nodded.
"I'll teach him."
Primrose stared.
Then she exhaled through her nose, cheeks puffing out.
"Idiot," she whispered.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"I heard that."
"You were meant to."
I considered this.
The wine made reasoning difficult.
"Fair."
Primrose shook her head, but she was smiling.
A very tender smile.
The kind that made me feel like I had missed something important.
"How many children?" I asked.
Primrose immediately straightened.
Too quickly.
As if she had been waiting for that question.
"At least seven."
I nearly spat my wine.
"At least?"
She nodded.
"At least."
"That is a large number of children."
"It's a good number."
"Primrose, that is a squad."
"A family."
"A small militia."
"A happy family."
"With logistics."
"I can hunt."
"You'd need to."
"And my husband will be a noble," she said, as if that solved everything. "He can handle documents, money, land, tutors, and boring people."
I lifted my cup.
"To the poor bastard."
Primrose looked at me for a long moment.
Then smiled so sweetly I felt unsafe.
"Yes," she said. "Poor him."
I nodded. Aeono, or whoever the hell you are, good luck in the future. You're going to need it.
"So. Seven children," I said, accepting my role as consultant. "Names?"
Primrose's eyes shone.
She shifted closer, until her knee touched mine.
"Names are important," she said. "My dad says a name is the first gift you give a child."
"Your dad is very quotable."
"He practices."
"I respect him."
Primrose raised one finger.
"The first boy will be Rowan." A cool name.
"Strong name."
"He'll be serious. The oldest always tries to act like a little adult. He'll want to protect everyone even though he's still small."
"Poor kid. Eldest-child syndrome."
"He'll have white hair," Primrose said softly. "Like yours."
I blinked.
"My hair?"
"White hair is pretty."
"Sure, but genetics—"
"It's my dream."
"Fair enough."
She raised a second finger.
"The second boy will be Gale." Another cool name. Primrose won't make life difficult for her children, at least.
"He sounds like a troublesome kid."
"Very. He'll run everywhere. He'll climb trees before he can write. He'll steal bread from the kitchen and blame his siblings."
"He sounds like a menace."
"He'll get that from his father." Primrose's conspiratorial smile made me feel strange.
"Your future husband sounds troublesome."
"He is."
"Red flag."
Primrose's smile widened.
"The third boy will be Leo."
"Heroic."
"He'll be cheerful. Loud. Always laughing. He'll love animals and try to bring injured things home."
"That one will cause us emotional damage."
"He'll have red eyes," she added.
Again, she looked at me.
I nodded gravely.
"Red eyes are good. Very intimidating. Great for card games."
Primrose laughed.
Then she raised a fourth finger.
"The first girl will be Mirarose."
"Mirarose," I repeated. "Pretty. She'll have your orange hair and be very intelligent."
I joined the game just to distract my mind.
"She'll be gentle, but dangerous when angry. She'll take care of her brothers and sisters."
"Like an older sister?"
"Yes. But she'll also bite."
"Healthy."
"The second girl will be Irisiella."
"Because of flowers?"
Primrose nodded enthusiastically.
"She'll like books. She'll ask too many questions. She'll take apart traps to see how they work."
"She should meet Plumshire. Actually, no. Forget I said that."
"Who is Plumshire?"
"A national hazard."
Primrose tilted her head.
"Is she pretty?"
"Why do you keep asking that?"
"No reason."
"Suspicious."
"No reason," she repeated.
I narrowed my eyes.
She smiled innocently.
I lost.
"The third girl," Primrose continued, "will be Lilyweiss."
"Classic."
"She'll be shy."
"Ah, the quiet one."
"No." Primrose smiled. "She'll only look shy. Then she'll shoot better than everyone."
"That's your daughter, all right."
Primrose hummed happily at the phrase.
"The fourth girl..." She paused.
I watched the fire.
The wine made the room blur softly at the edges.
Then something deep inside me moved.
A name rose from the deepest part of me.
"If you have another daughter," I said quietly, "name her Rebecca."
Primrose went still.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Still.
"Rebecca," she repeated softly.
I stared into the flames.
"My mother's name." The words came out before I could stop them.
The fire cracked.
Primrose did not move.
I swallowed, but my throat felt tight.
"I don't remember her voice well anymore." Her face appeared clearer in my head. I touched the ring in my pocket and sighed.
Primrose's hand found mine.
She didn't squeeze hard. Just enough. Enough to say she was there.
"She was kind," I whispered. "The kindest person I knew. She believed in people. Even when they didn't deserve it. Even when the world was ugly."
But the wine had dismantled half my defenses, and the fire had softened the rest.
"If there's a girl named Rebecca in this world," I said, voice rough, "I'd like to think she'll live happily, loved, and without worries."
Primrose turned fully toward me.
Her green eyes shone.
Not with pity.
With something deeper.
Something fierce and solemn.
"I vow it," she said.
I looked at her.
She placed one hand over her heart.
"I, Primrose Tahearth, vow that one of my daughters will be named Rebecca."
Her voice no longer sounded playful.
It sounded sacred.
"She will be loved," Primrose said. "She will have warm bread every morning. She will have a bed by the window if she wants one. She will know how to hunt, how to read tracks, how to bake, how to defend herself, and how to laugh loudly without shame. She will never wonder if she has a place at the table. She will never go hungry. She will never think kindness makes her weak. And if anyone makes her cry, I will bury them so deep that even worms won't find them."
"That's... oddly comforting."
"She'll have your smile," Primrose whispered.
I blinked.
"My smile?"
"You have a good smile."
"No, I don't."
"You do."
"It's crooked."
"I like it."
"Poor Rebecca," I murmured. "Imagine inheriting my terrible smile."
"Our Rebecca will be beautiful."
Our?
I frowned.
The word passed through my drunk brain, hit several locked doors, found no entry, and fell asleep in a corner.
"Right," I said. "As the cool uncle, I'll teach her piano."
Primrose looked at me and blinked.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
"Cool uncle?"
"Obviously."
"Obviously," she repeated, voice faint.
"I'll arrive twice a year with mysterious gifts, tell the kids inappropriate stories, teach them how to cheat at cards, and then disappear before you can scold me."
Primrose looked at me with an expression somewhere between adoration and the urge to hit me hard.
"You are," she said softly, "the stupidest man alive."
"I've been told."
"By me?"
"Reliable source." Then I nodded gravely.
Primrose's forehead slowly dropped against my shoulder.
She stayed like that for several seconds.
"Idiot," she whispered again.
"I agree. But I think your hypothetical husband sounds like a decent man."
"He is."
"Good. I'll approve him."
"You'll approve him?"
"As cool uncle, I have authority."
Primrose started laughing.
Not loudly.
Not mockingly.
Softly, helplessly, against my shoulder.
I felt the warmth of her breath through my shirt.
My heart did something strange.
"I'm glad you're happy," I said.
She lifted her face.
Her cheeks were red.
Her eyes were wet at the corners.
"I am," she said. "When I'm with you."
I smiled.
"That's good."
Primrose looked at me like I was a beloved, hopeless, irreplaceable idiot.
Which, to be fair, I was.
She kept talking after that. About the house. About the future. About the children. And I, drunk and increasingly warm, kept offering deeply irresponsible suggestions.
"The house needs a tower," I said.
"No."
"A small tower."
"No towers."
"What if Rebecca wants a tower?"
Primrose hesitated.
"A small tower."
"Victory."
"But only if it has railings."
"Responsible."
"And no one climbs it without permission."
"Impossible. Children are criminals."
"Our children will be well behaved."
I gave her a look.
Primrose considered.
"Somewhat well behaved."
"Realistic."
At some point, Primrose took the empty cup from my hand and guided my head down onto her lap.
"You need sleep."
"I need bread."
"Tomorrow."
I looked at her, betrayed.
"Cruel wife energy."
Primrose froze.
I didn't notice.
I was busy trying to remain upright.
Her fingers passed through my hair slowly, carefully, as if each strand mattered.
"Sleep, Jakob."
Her voice was soft. Commanding. Warm. The kind of voice that makes the body obey before the mind finishes arguing.
My eyes drifted shut.
The last thing I felt was Primrose leaning down and pressing her lips to my forehead.