"Sick?"
The fingers Sophia had been running along the edge of the thin blanket stilled for just a moment. A rare flash of genuine surprise crossed those pale golden pupils.
In this world — which could fairly be described as a hodgepodge of many things — a Magical Girl was less a profession and more a category of being: a higher-order life-form, refined and elevated to an extreme degree by Holy Light.
Such a creature did not simply belong to this world. She existed beyond it, her very constitution transcending everything the mortal plane had to offer.
In Sophia's understanding, a being of Daphne's caliber possessed an immune system and regenerative capacity roughly a hundred times that of an ordinary person.
Even if she felt the occasional discomfort, a single simple self-healing Divine Art would restore every cell to vitality in the span of a breath.
Built into a Magical Girl's physiology was a constant, unwavering regenerative ability. Under normal circumstances, as long as even a trace of magic power remained in her body, any conventional virus or inflammation would be purged by the Holy Light the instant it touched her organs.
Unless… her magic pool had been utterly drained to a perfect vacuum.
Or perhaps — that soul-deep Sensory Resonance from the night before had left some tremor in her consciousness, a tremor even the Holy Light could not erase.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Willow lowered her gaze, her voice calm but carrying the faintest trace of something complicated beneath the surface.
"The Medical Officers have already been to see her, but they are at a complete loss when it comes to Lord Saint's constitution. They could only prescribe some simple medicines as a tentative measure."
"I'll go see her myself," Sophia said. "Prepare some of the things she likes to eat."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The Palace at this hour had shed the oppressive chill of royal authority that once clung to its every stone. Bathed in spring light, each precisely fitted flagstone and every weeping willow trimmed as though measured by a ruler radiated a steadiness that put the people at ease.
This was Mason under Sophia's rule.
It possessed not only black muskets and Holy Light, but also a quiet miracle — one that could coax butterflies to rest upon sword-scabbards and make flowers bloom again from the rubble of cannon-fire.
The very scenery was itself a statement: a magnificent, dimensional crushing blow against the old eras of kingdoms like Orr or whatever had come before.
Occasionally, a faint trace of lavender drifted through the air — the newest offering from the Mason · Black Rose flagship store's soap line. It was the scent of the court ladies airing out Her Majesty's velvet cape.
From the distant Drill Ground came the rhythmic shouts of soldiers in training, weaving together with the clear, bright sound of water droplets striking the surface of the fountain pool.
Delilah was there now, drilling the troops — which meant she was not at Sophia's side as her personal guard.
Though the request had come without warning, the kitchens were never without provisions. Willow kept them stocked at all times, against any moment Her Majesty might fancy a bite to eat.
So it was that once they reached the small kitchen, Willow quickly produced a modest dessert: Pudding.
Shortly after, Sophia took the tray from Willow's hands.
Ordinarily, such a menial task would never fall to the Queen herself — but Willow understood perfectly: when Her Majesty decided to personally enter someone's space, any extra attendant became an intrusion upon the sacred.
Arranged neatly on the tray was the caramel Pudding Willow had made with her own hands that morning — beneath that semi-transparent amber glaze lay a silky, fine custard, releasing a tempting sweetness into the air. Beside it, a small pitcher of fresh milk was swathed in thick cotton cloth, still holding exactly the warmth most pleasant on the tongue.
"Your Majesty, I will keep watch at the door."
Willow stopped at the door to Daphne's room, her expression grave and composed. Those eyes of hers — clear as autumn water — held not a shred of jealousy, only absolute focus on Sophia's safety and well-being.
She knew well that Daphne's condition was dangerously unstable right now. As Royal Guard and steward both, she had to become the most unshakeable barrier on this side of the door.
Sophia gave a slight nod and raised her hand to knock twice, lightly, against the heavy oak door.
No words came in reply — only a disjointed, labored sound of breathing. Sophia pushed the door open and walked in.
"Hssss—!"
A visible wave of heat poured out through the gap in the door. The temperature was far beyond anything a common fever could produce; even the air itself seemed to crackle with tiny golden sparks, thrown off by Holy Light running dangerously out of control.
Sophia walked steadily toward the far end of the room.
What greeted her was a scene of disorder. The room, usually tidy, had been half-upended by some storm of erratic magical force. On the enormous velvet bed spread with white silk, Daphne lay in a state that bordered on delirium.
Her long, golden ringlets — usually brilliant as spun thread — were fanned in wild disarray across the pillow and sheets. Several strands had been soaked through with sweat and now clung to her temples, pale and smooth but flushed scarlet from the heat.
Daphne wore only a gossamer silk nightgown so thin it was nearly sheer. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, desperate heaves, and the delicate lines of her collarbone trembled in and out of shadow with every breath.
That strange flush ran from her cheeks all the way down to the tips of her slender fingers, and the patterns of her Holy Light drifted in and out of visibility across the surface of her skin.
This was not the presentation of any ordinary illness.
Sophia did not know exactly what had caused it — she would have to wait until Daphne recovered before she could learn the truth.
"Water…"
Daphne seemed to sense the approach of that familiar presence — cool, clear, and carrying its own quiet weight of authority.
She struggled to prise open her eyelids. Her golden pupils were thick with fog, and in the moment her gaze found Sophia, rather than clearing, they grew only more unfocused — pulled deeper into a haze by some gravity rooted at the very bottom of her soul.
"Mm. Don't move."
Sophia's voice was steady as ever, but it carried an unmistakable penetrating force — and the restless Holy Light roiling through the room seemed to quiet under it.
She set the tray on the bedside table and poured a cup of warm milk. The ivory liquid swirled gently, releasing a soft, sweet warmth that immediately cut through the scorched, magic-laden smell in the air.
Hailey poked her small head out from behind Willow's skirts.
Willow was standing too squarely in the way, so Hailey could only peer through the thin gap of the not-quite-shut door, holding her breath as she tried to take in everything happening inside.
But soon enough, Willow reached out and covered Hailey's eyes, then eased the door a fraction more closed.
Faced with Hailey's aggrieved little look, Willow smiled and said simply: "Not suitable for children."
Hailey didn't understand why she wasn't allowed to watch, but she was obedient enough to leave without protest.
She was off to the Drill Ground now, to take notes on how General Delilah was training the soldiers!
Sophia sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under her weight.
She reached out one hand and gently closed her fingers around Daphne's burning wrist.
In that instant, Daphne's entire body went rigid — and then, like a string pulled to its absolute limit finally allowed to ease, she let out a long, shuddering sigh that was halfway to a sob, and with complete abandon tried to press herself into Sophia's palm.
"The physician said you drank a great deal of water with your medicine, so you shouldn't have too much more for a while. Would you prefer some milk first, or something to eat?"
Sophia lifted the Pudding from the tray. The coolness of her fingertips stood in stark contrast to the heat radiating off Daphne.
She settled herself elegantly, letting her light gown pool around her on the edge of the bed. She picked up the slender silver spoon and gave the amber caramel surface a gentle stir, then scooped up a small, trembling portion of the Pudding.
"Your Majesty, I — this servant…"
Daphne's consciousness was adrift somewhere far above the clouds. Her fog-veiled golden eyes strained to focus, and all they could resolve was the cool, ice-carved outline of Sophia's face.
Feeling that presence draw near — the one that made her very soul tremble — her instinct was to push herself upright and bow in greeting. Sophia's other hand pressed down gently on her shoulder, stopping her.
"Open your mouth."
Three short words. The tone held the effortless authority of someone who had commanded others for a very long time — and beneath it, a thread of indulgence born of extraordinary closeness.
Daphne's mind went completely, utterly blank.
She stared, stupefied, at the silver spoon being held to her lips. At the perfectly smooth, glistening Pudding resting on it. The lips that had been cracked and dry from the fever parted, just slightly.
"Mm—"
The moment that cold, silky taste burst across her tongue — that rich, concentrated caramel sweetness — Daphne went completely still.
The sweetness slid down her throat like a stream of clear water, extinguishing in an instant the scorching sensation the overloaded magic power had left behind.
Daphne's eyes drifted half-closed. Her long, delicate lashes shuddered violently with a feeling that was equal parts acute embarrassment and helpless satisfaction.
Gods above… this has to be a dream.
Her Majesty — the Girl Queen who holds sovereignty over millions, who holds the power of life and death in her hands — is personally feeding me?
What is this spoonful of Pudding, really?
It is Her Majesty's brand upon my flesh. It is the surrender deed for my soul.
The weight of this thing called personal care is enough to bring down every last fortress wall in Mason.
The brush of that silver spoon against my lips makes me tremble more than all the magic that struck me last night.
This tenderness, descended from on high, has far more power to make me fall willingly than any whip or shackle ever could.
If she is willing to feed me just one more time, I would close my eyes and leap into the abyss at the end of the world.
As Sophia continued, one spoonful after the next, the flush on Daphne's face did not fade — if anything, the frenzied surge of her emotions made it burn brighter than ever.
Beneath that gossamer nightgown, her body curled inward from sheer, overwhelming happiness, like a small animal that has rolled over to bare its belly completely to the hunter.
The hand holding the silver spoon was perfectly steady. Sophia was attempting to maintain something — the decorum and composure befitting a monarch, a measured rhythm of dignity.
Daphne, however, lying among those velvet pillows, had clearly and thoroughly abandoned all pretense of saintly bearing.
When that caramel-tinged coolness drew close to her lips again, the pupils that had been drifting and unfocused suddenly contracted sharply.
For Daphne in her current state — being burned alive from the inside by her own magic — what Sophia was holding out to her was not simply Pudding. It was the only kindling in existence that could quench the drought of her soul.
"Mm—"
Daphne could not even wait for the silver spoon to arrive fully. Her scorching body lurched forward with sudden urgency, and in the rush, her thin silk nightgown slipped off one shoulder — she made no move to cover it.
She almost rudely closed her lips directly around the spoon, and her teeth clicked lightly against the metal with a small, delicate sound.
So cool… not enough. Nowhere near enough.
This sweetness is too little. What I want is that breath of hers — the one that could make even my soul go quiet.
Her fingers are right there, less than three inches away from me.
They still carry the echo of last night's rhythm.
I want to grab them. I want to press them against my chest, and force this riotous Holy Light back to wherever it belongs.
So hot… why is my magic spiraling out of control?
Why is she sitting so far away?
Why does her expression remain so impossibly calm?
That restrained, measured rhythm was driving Daphne to the edge of madness.
And so Daphne thought: if she won't come to me, then I'll go to her.
Even if I'm thrown in the dungeon for it afterward. Even if I'm stripped of everything and made the most lowly of servants. Right now, I am going to seize hold of that single cool point of light.
Daphne's breath came in ragged, desperate pulls. In her urgency, her nose nearly grazed the back of Sophia's hand.
Her small hands — flushed red from the burning fever — crept up along Sophia's sleeve, trembling and demanding all at once, until they had locked, with a grip that refused to let go, around Sophia's wrist.
Sophia's brow lifted slightly at the sudden presumption.
But looking at Daphne's face — contorted by pain and longing in equal measure — and hearing that low, soft sound coming from her throat, near-animal in its desperate need, something in the hardest layer of Sophia's defenses quietly gave way.
She kept her composure, her spine straight as a blade, and tried to use that cool exterior to keep a lid on the atmosphere in the room, which was growing more charged by the moment.
"Daphne. Let go.
You are completely without dignity right now."
Sophia's voice could have been carved from frost — yet the wrist being gripped made no real effort to pull free.
Quite the opposite: when Daphne's fever-weakened hold began to slip, Sophia tilted imperceptibly, just a fraction, in her direction.
That contradiction — cold words, permissive body — became the final straw that snapped what was left of Daphne's reason.
Sophia was watching her state carefully. She could feel the resonance building between her hand and Daphne's.
If she forced herself away right now, the psychological collapse that would follow — the kind born of attachment abruptly severed — would undo all the mutual trust they had worked so carefully to build.
If she needs to draw on this sense of safety, then let her.
This is not a personal matter. This is simply… a matter of protecting Mason's most precious resource.
I am permitting her momentary indiscretion in exchange for a more absolute, unwavering loyalty.
Yes. That, and nothing more.
Sophia told herself this, and so she allowed Daphne to do as she pleased.
Bolstered by Sophia's implicit permission, Daphne grew bolder.
The small silver spoon was no longer enough. Following the line of Sophia's wrist, Daphne burrowed half of herself inside the black cape, pressing close.
She breathed deeply, greedily, drinking in the cool, clean scent that clung to Sophia — and pressed her burning forehead against the Black Rose clasp at Sophia's collarbone, releasing a sigh that was fractured with relief and satisfaction.
"Your Majesty… give me that rhythm again…"
Daphne's voice, roughened by the fever to something that curled like a hook, came out with a rasp. She clung like a vine in full riotous growth, trying through this near-total closeness to steal away more of that coolness from Sophia's body.
For a brief, unavoidable instant, Sophia's breathing faltered.
She looked down at the bundle of "golden cream" that had entirely melted in her arms, and gripped the porcelain bowl tighter in her hand — the last thread anchoring her queenly composure.
She could feel Daphne's burning tears soaking through her collar.
This was no longer merely a body's need. This was the secret transfer of a soul's ownership.
Sophia looked down at that golden head, nearly buried in the hollow of her collarbone — the rapid, fevered breath pressing through thin fabric against the side of her neck in warm waves, one after another.
The warmth and that damp heat together made even this Queen, so renowned for her composure, let out a soundless sigh somewhere deep inside.
Sophia did not push away the hands locked onto her sleeve. Instead, she slowly raised her other hand — the one slightly cool from years spent holding a pen — and with quiet precision, laid it upon Daphne's golden hair, hair like the finest silk.
She followed the strands, slightly curled from the fever's heat, and stroked them, gently, slowly, a few times.
"Mm…"
A sound came from Daphne — soft and pleased, almost a purr. The spine that had been rigid with pain went completely soft in that instant.
As if she had found some shelter for her soul, she turned her face instinctively, pressing that flushed cheek into the cool of Sophia's palm, rubbing against it without any thought or care.
So good… that cold feeling goes right from the top of my head all the way down into my heart.
It's Her Majesty's hand.
Only she can quiet this Holy Light that's burning me to ash.
Don't stop… even if this tenderness is poison with barbs in it, I want to swallow every last drop.
In this rhythm, Daphne felt herself cease to be the Saint who must carry the weight of countless subjects. She was just a small cat curled at Her Majesty's feet — and with just this one slow stroke across her head, the hollow place in her soul was filled.
Sophia looked at the small creature in her arms — all that Saint's holy shell stripped away now, leaving only someone who needed her completely — and let her voice drop very low, though it still carried an undertone of cold clarity, an insistence on finding the truth.
"Daphne. Come back to yourself.
Tell me — what exactly happened? You are a high-tier Magical Girl. Your self-healing should be constant and unwavering. Why has this illness struck you so hard?"
At Sophia's question, Daphne forced open her heavy eyelids just a crack. Those golden pupils were full of scattered, fractured light.
She opened her mouth, struggling to retrieve the logic that the fever had chased clean away. What came out was fragmented, dreamy:
"Your Majesty, the cards… they keep moving.
Two thousand of them. Two thousand voices… all of them calling your name inside my head. So full… I can't fit any more…
That rhythm from last night — it tied itself into a knot inside me.
I… I tried to use the Holy Light to smooth it out, but it — it carries your scent. I couldn't bring myself to…"
By the end, Daphne's voice had slipped into something close to tears, tangled and confused.
She shut her eyes tight and wrapped both arms hard around Sophia's waist, burying her face in her chest. Her voice came out muffled:
"I suppose I overextended my magic.
Or my vessel is just too small.
Your Majesty — don't go. Don't leave me alone in that net…"
Sophia listened to the incoherent rambling. Something moved quietly through those pale golden eyes.
"If you can't explain it clearly, don't try."
Sophia released the searching coldness from her gaze and replaced it with the resigned patience of someone giving indulgence.
She let Daphne hang off her like a sloth, and kept her fingers moving in a steady rhythm through that golden hair — serving as the stabilizer that could calm the turbulent, storm-tossed magic.
Since Daphne in this state had entirely lost the capacity for clear thought that her role as Saint required, all Sophia could do was sit here at the edge of this bed and wait for the tide of wildness to recede.
Outside the oak door, Willow stood like a perfectly finished sculpture, unmoving.
Though a solid door separated them, her hearing — several times sharper than an ordinary person's — still caught the faint sound of the porcelain bowl within, and the small, contented sounds Daphne made through her nose.
Willow, who had been standing bolt upright, found her own breathing going slightly uneven as those sounds of soft wheedling drifted through the door.
Her grip on the silver water pitcher she'd been holding tightened until the knuckles went faintly white.
How utterly galling…
Those sweet things — I made them myself, so that Her Majesty might have some small comfort in the midst of all her busy work.
And now they have become the tools Daphne is using to squander Her Majesty's affection without the slightest shame.
Listen to those sounds. It's as if she's trying to melt herself entirely into the tips of Her Majesty's fingers.
Isn't this whole 'frail and ailing Saint' performance just slightly overdone?
Willow's fingernails pressed deep into her palm. The surface of those eyes — clear as autumn water just moments ago — rippled now with the sourness and the sting of it.
But the feeling lasted fewer than five breaths.
Willow closed her eyes, drew in one long, slow breath of the cool corridor air, and when she opened them again, every trace of that cloud had dissolved.
In its place was an expression of remarkable peculiarity — something almost warm, even carrying a suggestion of fond, affectionate amusement.
It was the particular smile of those well-bred noblewomen in the Royal City, the one they wore when gossiping over some sweet secret: the knowing, indulgent look of a fond older aunt.
Willow's recovery was swift. She murmured quietly to herself:
"Honestly… Miss Daphne. Such a refined and elegant person the rest of the time, and yet here she is, using illness as an excuse to be this shameless about seeking Her Majesty's attention.
But I must say — watching Her Majesty say 'you are completely without dignity' with her lips while her eyes don't show even a flicker of real displeasure, watching that cool and imperious Queen get worn down to something almost soft… it really is… rather hard to look away.
My, my. If little Hailey had seen this, she'd have filled up another few rolls of parchment, I'm sure."
Willow straightened the Black Rose embroidery on her cuff — a flower that had gone slightly creased.
She looked at the thread of warm light leaking through the gap in the door, and the expression in her eyes grew steadier and more clear-eyed by the moment.
She gave herself a quiet, inward reminder.
Willow. Know your place.
Her Majesty is a sun — one that shines over Mason without ceasing — and around such a sun, there will always be many stars in orbit.
Even if that light has shifted just a little toward Daphne right now, you must never become a woman given to petty jealousy.
In Her Majesty's eyes, steadiness and capable efficiency are the qualities that matter most.
If I became like those vapid, ordinary women — spending every day squabbling over a scrap of warmth, sowing discord in the Palace — I would be putting distance between myself and Her Majesty's inner circle before long.
Only by being magnanimous, accommodating — even willing to personally manage these interesting little relationships on Her Majesty's behalf — can I remain as Her Majesty's most trusted shadow, always within reach whenever she extends her hand.
With that thought, the last of the tension left Willow's shoulders entirely.
She looked down at the silver pitcher in her hand and noticed, with mild surprise, that the water had actually cooled slightly from her little emotional detour.
She let out a soft, wry laugh, the practiced efficiency returning to her eyes.
Muttering quietly to herself, she turned with elegant composure and made her way to the side corridor to reheat the water.
"In any case — once Miss Daphne's fever has broken and she puts that heavy Saint's ceremonial robes back on, the one who still gets to share a glass of goodnight milk with Her Majesty in the Bedchamber at the end of the day will always, in the end, be me."
Willow walked with light, brisk steps, her skirt tracing a graceful arc through the empty corridor. That smile stayed at the corner of her mouth, and showed no sign of leaving anytime soon.
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