Kalia's Dilemma
Around the time Kasian returned from meeting Mary at the flower shop, Kalia headed to the Knight Commander's office.
She paused briefly in front of the door before knocking twice, the sharp rap-rap echoing crisply.
A deep, authoritative male voice soon responded from within, carrying a stern undertone. "Come in."
With permission granted, Kalia stepped inside.
Her eyes immediately fell on a massive middle-aged man befitting the room's commanding presence. Despite his enormous build, his hair and beard were impeccably groomed—projecting not only the intimidating aura of a seasoned warrior but also the refined poise of a great noble's retainer. Even amid the stacks of documents filling the office, his presence dominated utterly.
Kalia closed the door and approached him slowly. The bandages securing her broken arm caught his sharp gaze, but she pressed on, intent on showing proper respect.
Yet Gilroban, his eyes fixed on the papers, raised a hand lightly to stop her. "I have no hobby of forcing greetings from the injured. Sit over there first."
His words were casual, delivered without lifting his gaze, but they carried the weighty consideration of a Knight Commander who never ignored his subordinates' suffering. Perhaps due to the overwhelming pressure radiating from his hulking frame, his brief invitation rang through the room like an irrefutable command.
Kalia halted her bow and moved to the sofa he had indicated, taking a seat.
Only then did Gilroban set down his pen and lift his head to face her directly. His piercing eyes swept over her mangled left arm.
"How's the arm?"
"It's fine. The priest treated it as well."
"But you have that constitution that doesn't take to holy power properly, don't you?"
Indeed. Kalia had a peculiar body that rejected holy power, unrelated to her unique ability—it had been that way since childhood. She'd even been cursed by her parents as a "child forsaken by the gods" because of it, unable to properly receive either mana or divine blessings.
The injury to her left arm was severe to begin with, but her body imposed far harsher conditions than a normal person's. Wounds healed under a priest's prayers, but sluggishly, as if triggering a rejection response. What others shrugged off in days required her multiples of the pain and time.
Knight Commander Gilroban knew her constitution better than anyone. His brow furrowed deeper at the sight of her dragging herself here despite it—a rough, characteristic concern for a subordinate who crossed perilous frontiers without even the grace of holy aid.
"...Still, you managed to walk here in that state."
Gilroban's low voice sliced through the office's silence. He hadn't meant to scold harshly, but knowing Kalia's temperament, he phrased it sternly.
"I came because I have a request."
"No."
Gilroban's firm refusal came before she could even finish. "You haven't heard what my request is yet."
"I know exactly what you'll say. You're here feeling responsible for failing to protect Young Master Kasian properly, asking to be replaced as his guard knight."
He added indifferently, eyes still on his documents.
Kalia, usually impassive, faltered momentarily at his eerily accurate insight into her motives. It was a split-second tremor no one would notice—her eyelids flickered faintly before settling.
To Gilroban, who had commanded countless knights, that 'knightly stubbornness' of hers was all too familiar and predictable. Moreover, Kalia was the girl he himself had discovered and raised—from that dog of a family, her shining eyes had drawn him in, and he'd groomed her into a knight. In a way, he was more a parent to her than her own.
Thus, he knew better than anyone what thoughts churned behind her silence, what self-recrimination swirled beneath that stoic facade when she clammed up.
He slowly set down his pen. Leaning back deeply into his chair, he rested his sturdy arms on the desk and interlaced his fingers tightly.
Each of Gilroban's still movements pressed upon Kalia like immense pressure. He said nothing, merely staring at her with those steepled hands.
His deep, sharp gaze seemed to pierce her ironclad resolve like armor, laying bare the fragile guilt and wavering heart hidden within.
Under her mentor and superior's scrutiny, Kalia felt suffocated, forgetting even the pain in her broken left arm as she met his eyes rigidly.
The prolonged silence stretched the room's tension taut as a drawn bowstring, precarious as if it might snap at any moment.
Then, Gilroban exhaled a heavy sigh from the depths of his chest. "Hah..."
His weighted voice rumbled low in her ears, sounding less like rebuke and more like profound anguish, making her shoulders hunch.
Gilroban unclasped his hands, rubbing his temple as he murmured softly. "Kalia, I know the sense of responsibility I instilled in you as a knight. But sometimes, that very sense blinds you to what's truly important."
He met her eyes squarely again. "Do you really think stepping down now is best for the young master? Or is it just an escape to ease your own mind?"
Kalia had no retort to Gilroban's piercing question.
He sighed once more, gazing at her. With her talent achieving squire rank at such a young age, she really ought to be on the front lines...
Gilroban hoped she would learn. She was like a foster daughter to him, and he couldn't deny his heart softened for her in particular.
Watching her like this, he even wondered if he was wrong. Rather than forcibly holding onto her self-doubting self, he decided to offer a new path.
Gilroban opened a drawer, pulled out a blank sheet, and scrawled something in his bold script. The scratching of the pen nib filled the room before halting.
He tossed the freshly written paper toward Kalia with a flick. Whoosh—!
It sliced through the air straight and sharp as a blade. Instinctively, Kalia extended her good arm and snatched it mid-flight.
A flicker of brief satisfaction crossed Gilroban's eyes at her reflexes, undulled despite her injury.
"This is..."
Kalia's eyes widened upon reading the contents. It wasn't the disciplinary notice she'd half-expected.
Meeting her stunned gaze head-on, Gilroban spoke gravely. "As it says. Bring back Young Master Kasian's signature on that, and I'll send you to the front lines as you wish."
It was a sort of 'conditional transfer order.' To Kalia—who, nameless and as one knight among many, yearned only to die on the cold front-line soil—the battlefield held irresistible allure. Shedding the title of guard knight that proved her incompetence, relying solely on her sword to roam the fringes...
Yet why? Despite this longed-for chance to the front lines right before her, Kalia felt no joy. Instead, an unnamed tightness clogged her chest, tormenting her.
Before she could ponder its source, Gilroban issued a cold dismissal. "I've considered you as much as I can. If you truly want the front lines, get that signature."
He returned to his documents, ending the conversation.
Kalia gave a crisp, formal salute to the man who had averted his gaze and exited.
Once outside, her retreating figure bore not her usual poise, but a thick hesitation, lost and adrift. Creak, click.
The heavy door shut, cool corridor air enveloping her. The paper Gilroban had thrown trembled precariously in her good hand.
Her footsteps echoed unusually loudly down the hall. The only pass to the battlefield...
Kalia stared blankly at the garden visible through the window at the corridor's end. Far off, a familiar carriage passed through the gates.
Young Master Kasian was back.
Her mind in turmoil, Kalia walked the corridor. Lost in deliberation, she descended the stairs to the first floor before she knew it.
There, three uniformed female trainee knights caught her eye, giggling among themselves over something amusing. Kalia glanced naturally at the commotion before dismissing it.
Her thoughts were chaotic, but she never paid much mind to others anyway. She moved to pass by as usual—until a shrill voice halted her.
"Well, well, if it isn't Squire Kalia?"
The tone dripped with blatant mockery. Her companions covered their mouths, snickering.
But Kalia didn't register their intent to shame her with the 'squire' title. Or rather, she didn't care. Her mind was full of the paper in her hand and thoughts of Kasian.
"Yeah... Who are you?"
Her indifferent reply flushed the mockers' faces red. "Hah! So you're a squire now? Don't you recognize me? I'm Rona Scott, from the Scott Count family! You haven't even heard of us!?"
"That rude..."
"True to the rumors, what a nasty personality. And look at that arm."
Even as Rona pressed her, flaunting her noble lineage, Kalia's eyes remained unmoved. That blank stare only stoked their inferiority complex further.
"A squire by some shady means, no doubt!!"
Kalia merely gazed at Rona wordlessly, her look laced with boredom—how long until this ends?
Such barbs were familiar to her. Compared to the venomous insults drilled into her ears from birth by her family, this provocation was mere passing wind.
She had learned young that 'silence' was the most efficient way to weather such storms—and she adhered to it now.
In truth, no sane person—highborn or not—would hurl insults at a formal squire rank. The power and hierarchy gap was real.
Rona's behavior bordered on insubordination. But raised in a greenhouse with a 'brain full of flowers,' she didn't grasp a squire's true might. Clinging to middling talent and arrogance, this hothouse flower denied Kalia's status, citing her mana-less unique ability.
No way someone talentless like you took the spot I couldn't. Must've cheated.
Jealousy and insecurity twisted Rona's gaze as it raked Kalia's impassive face.
Her eyes drifted downward, lingering on the paper in Kalia's hand. Spotting the faintly visible 'Transfer,' a cruel smile curled Rona's lips.
"Transfer? Pfft! Just as I thought. Your incompetence got Kasian badly hurt—natural consequence. The Commander's too soft, though. I'm far better suited as his guard knight than some talentless hack."
Rona tilted her chin up in triumph, as if she'd already claimed the role.
"What good's a guard with that arm? Good riddance. While you're rolling in some battlefield ditch, I'll show Kasian what a real guard knight is."
Her sycophants chimed in with more giggles, egging her on. The verbal assault now eyed Kalia's position covetously.
But Kalia remained silent. To her, Rona's words were just noise—she didn't dwell on personal jabs. Only their presumption about the guard role drew her faint attention, lips parting to warn them—
"That's delightful to hear."
It wasn't Kalia's voice. It was Kasian, arriving late to witness the standoff between Rona and Kalia.