The Imperial Sword
For Felice, today had been an ordinary day.
Yet her heart had felt heavy and stifled from morning until night.
She could not say why. All that had happened yesterday was the expulsion of Louis Wallenstein—and that, to her, had been nothing more than the natural course of things. Something she had been obligated to do.
She was the eldest daughter of the Ansberg Count family, known as the Imperial Sword.
Her father had always taken pride in that title. He had taught her, time and again, to take pride in the chance to become the Imperial Sword herself. And so it was only natural that Felice had come to think the same way.
Her father, Count Ansberg, was the perfect knight. He understood honor, looked after the weak, and remained unwaveringly loyal to the Imperial family. Yet no man could be perfect in every respect. The very temperament that made him a flawless knight also made him a stiff, distant head of household. And because the duties of a family head kept him endlessly occupied, he could never devote himself fully to his home.
Still a young child, Felice had naturally yearned for her father’s attention and affection.
The first time he discovered her talent for swordsmanship, he praised her and told her to train hard so that she might one day become a sword that protected the Imperial family. It was the first praise she had ever received from him. The words filled her with such joy that they etched themselves deep into her mind.
She trained like a madwoman after that. Her words grew fewer; her manner turned blunt and cold. None of it mattered. She was not a noble young lady—she was a knight. She wanted to hear her father’s praise again. She wanted his recognition.
From then on, becoming the Imperial Sword of House Ansberg became her sole goal.
No matter how swamped he was with public and private affairs, the Count was never entirely without time for his daughter. Ordinary father-daughter conversations never took place, but he did impart many lessons. One of the convictions he drilled into Felice was hatred for the Wallenstein Count family. It was only natural that the Imperial Sword should revile and despise the traitorous House of Wallenstein.
Before she entered Helon Academy, the Count had given her a warning. A scion of the Wallenstein Count family would be enrolling that year. She was never to associate with him, and she was never to fall behind him in her grades.
Felice carved those words into her heart. They had come from her own father; of course she would.
The problem arose after she entered the academy. As if to mock her resolve never to spare Wallenstein so much as a glance, she found herself assigned to the same class as Louis Wallenstein. And that was not all. The parties formed in the first year—parties that, barring extraordinary circumstances, remained fixed for all three years—placed Felice and Louis together as well.
Her mood soured, but there was nothing she could do. She could hardly demand that the professors rearrange a party they themselves had decided.
So she tried, as much as possible, not to get entangled with Louis Wallenstein. No private conversation. Only the words that were strictly necessary. Given how taciturn she already was, she had thought it would be easy.
It would have been—if only Louis Wallenstein had not kept trying to talk to her.
She never understood why he did it. At first she had not even wanted to know. Yet living academy life in the same party meant she was forced, like it or not, to keep seeing him. And the Louis Wallenstein she came to know was an alarmingly likable human being.
Kind at his core. Free of the arrogance so common among nobles. Friendly to everyone, and genuinely cheerful. He was nothing like the Wallenstein she had imagined since childhood. The gap threw her into confusion. Count Ansberg’s words—her father’s words—were still absolute, yet Felice could not help nursing the faintest flicker of doubt.
Even so, she still had not the slightest intention of growing close to Louis Wallenstein.
If only that day had never happened.
Quite some time had passed since then, yet the memory remained vivid in Felice’s mind.
At the time she had been nursing a quiet disappointment in her academy peers. The academy was full of those with outstanding talent, or those who poured blood and sweat into their efforts—often both. She could dislike, yet still understand, the talented ones who refused to work. But those who possessed neither talent nor diligence—those who coasted into the academy on family influence and parental power, then lived stupid, lazy lives—were far too numerous.
That was why the sound drifting from the training grounds that night had pleased her. The ring of a sword being swung. Aside from herself, no one had ever practiced this late. Whoever it was had to be earnest. Her mood lifted a little as she stepped inside.
And then her eyes went wide with shock.
The one practicing swordsmanship within was Louis Wallenstein.
Kind, cheerful—and diligent on top of it all…
No. Felice shook her head. Why was she evaluating him so favorably? He was a Wallenstein, after all.
Yet from everything she had observed of Louis Wallenstein so far, she had already concluded that while his house remained untouchable, the young man himself was not quite so bad.
At first she had simply been startled that he of all people was still here swinging a sword at this hour. Soon, however, she found herself drawn into the swordsmanship itself. It was a style she had never seen, and that alone caught her eye. After that, it was the beauty that held her.
The technique itself was fluid and elegant, but what she truly found beautiful was the emotion housed within it. His skill at the time had not been especially high. He did not look as though he had trained in the sword for long. Yet sincerity lived in every stroke. It was nothing like the repetitive, mechanical swings she herself had been making for so long—swings she made simply because she “had to.” It was closer to the feeling she had known the very first time she ever held a blade. Joy lived inside those movements.
It was an emotion she had not felt in a very long while.
She watched, lost in it, until at last he stopped and their eyes met.
“Ah…”
For a moment she forgot how to speak.
Louis addressed her first.
“Oh—Felice? What’s up?”
As if they had ever shared a real conversation, he approached with easy familiarity. Yet today she did not feel like pushing him away. She wanted to talk about the swordsmanship she had just witnessed. Perhaps that was why the words slipped out before she knew it.
“Your swordsmanship… was beautiful.”
Even she was startled that she had said such a thing.
“Uh—th-thanks…?”
The same Louis who usually kept talking no matter how hard she rebuffed him was now flustered by a single compliment. Then he said to her,
“From what I saw last time, your swordsmanship was pretty much perfect. Seriously impressive.”
He must have meant their previous spar. The boys at the academy—especially the noble cadets—always opened with praise for her looks whenever they spoke to her. Beautiful this, flower that… The words made her skin crawl. And the way their eyes moved while they said them always left her feeling filthy.
But Louis Wallenstein was the first person who had ever praised her swordsmanship before her face. Because of that, his compliment actually lifted her spirits—enough that she decided, with no one else around, that continuing the conversation a little longer would be fine.
“What style was that just now? I’d never seen it before.”
“Ah—our family’s secret swordsmanship. So yeah, makes sense you wouldn’t have.”
The answer startled her. A house’s secret sword arts were never taught to outsiders, and rarely even shown. Spying on them, even by accident, was a serious breach of etiquette. Without hesitation she bowed her head.
“My apologies. That was a grave discourtesy.”
He waved both hands at once.
“No, no. You didn’t mean to peek or anything.”
Still she kept her head lowered. After a brief pause, Louis’s expression turned mischievous and he spoke in a teasing tone.
“Want me to teach you our family swordsmanship? If Felice would just get a little friendlier with me…”
She could not hide her shock.
“Do you mean that?”
Louis nodded vigorously.
Why on earth…? Even as the question rose, Felice’s mind was already painting pictures. She loved the sword at her core. In her head she saw herself learning that beautiful style she had just watched.
It wasn’t a bad—
In the next instant another image overwrote the first: herself being discovered by her father with the newly learned technique. Of course he would never realize the swordsmanship was Wallenstein’s. Even so, the thought of lying to her father was unthinkable. The image of his disappointment rose before her with merciless clarity.
In a single breath, Felice’s mind went cold.
What had she nearly done? After all her father’s warnings about the Wallensteins…
In a voice that even she found icy, she spoke.
“I have no intention of learning the swordsmanship of the traitor Wallenstein house.”