Chapter 22
"In the name of Saint Mikaelta, I bestow the power to purify all evil creatures that have descended upon this land...."
Silvia stood alone, blankly letting the usual blessing prayer drift past the back of her mind. Owen still hadn’t arrived. Everyone else was standing rigidly as though on parade, staring at the dais in front of them without so much as a twitch, but for all she knew, they were stealing little glances at her now and then.
What’s going to happen to Appleton from here on out?
Who knows. Maybe they’ll change partners?
No way! Breaking them apart like that would really affect the body, wouldn’t it?
The princess can’t possibly keep putting up with Silvia forever. And now even his childhood friend is his partner? I’d be suspicious too.
Those whispers flitted busily around her. Meanwhile, Silvia herself knew nothing, still peeking back now and then to see when Owen would finally show up.
What, was he going to trudge in across the sand in the middle of this deathly quiet atmosphere? No, actually, that did seem possible for Owen. And then he’d look at her standing there beside the seat, frown, and ask, without the slightest sense of tact, What on earth is this supposed to mean?
Anyone else, she could have handled. But the thought of Owen catching her looking like this made heat rush to her head.
He was Heston’s friend, the one who had watched her botch things for the longest time.... And also....
Then a memory flashed through her mind. Herself under the night sky, sniffling and buried in the bushes—and the large hand that had reached in and dragged her back out.
"Summers."
"What."
"Can’t you hide me?"
"...."
He had always been expressionless, but that night, perhaps because he was drunk, he had looked almost gentle. Even as he pulled her away, he lifted a hand as if to make space so she wouldn’t be scratched by the branches, as though it didn’t matter whether his own arm got pricked.
And really—Can’t you hide me?
That was probably the most pathetic line of temptation Owen had ever heard.
But instead of laughing, he had tilted his head and looked down at her in silence.
"Do you want to go with me?"
The smell of Scotch and a rolled cigarette mingled together, sharp enough to sting her nose with a scent so adult it felt almost intoxicating. His solid body pressed lightly against her back. And his face—so handsome it was almost sweet to look at.
All of it churned in her stomach and made her feel sick. Silvia had reached out, wanting just to touch him a little, and then, before she knew it, had pulled him close and kissed him, as if that could serve as her answer.
Please, stop.
She couldn’t bear to hold on to that horrifying recollection any longer, so Silvia bowed her head low.
"Ugh."
Of course, the result had been exactly as she expected. No matter how rough around the edges Owen might be, he wasn’t the type to touch a girl he had never paid attention to in the first place, much less on the day of Heston’s engagement ceremony. If things had really gone that far... she’d always thought it must have been because she herself had done something that pushed him over the edge, but....
"Having the scene come back to you directly is a different problem."
The miserable words slipped out before she could stop them.
Then she heard someone approaching from behind. Silvia didn’t even need to turn her head to know it was Owen. A heavy, unhurried gait, with none of the impatience the situation should have demanded. He folded his large frame in on itself like a boy who didn’t know what to do with his own body, then slowly straightened again. When he came to stand beside her, she was reminded all over again just how big he was—so big it felt as though he could swallow the space around her whole.
He leaned slightly toward her and asked abruptly, "Why are you here."
It was honestly startling, seeing her sitting in the seat that was always empty beside him, as though it had been made for her all along.
On the other hand, Silvia felt a little relieved by the fact that Owen was behaving exactly as she’d expected. Perhaps because she had already prepared herself for it, the words that had seemed so formidable in advance felt strangely harmless when she finally heard them.
When Silvia gave no answer, Owen read her intention, lifted a brow, and stood straight again. Not long after, he noticed the princess on the dais receiving the priest’s blessing, while Heston stood a little distance away, and understood everything at once.
So she was cast out.
The way things were going, that seemed exactly right. With Heston by the princess’s side and Silvia shoved into the back rows to find a place of her own, Owen let out a disbelieving breath.
Why does she always have to look so pathetic about it?
For several days now, his chest had been tightening and aching for no good reason, and the whole thing had started to feel irritating enough that he’d thought, If she’s going to be that ridiculous, maybe I should really give her a hard time this time. But seeing her standing off by herself, staring up at the dais like some abandoned stray, he found himself thinking maybe she’d had every right to look that way.
So this really is what always happens whenever it involves Heston.
By this point, honestly, he was almost feeling sorry for her. In the end, Owen simply clasped his hands behind his back and left Silvia alone until the ceremony ended.
But that sentiment meant nothing once the ceremony was over and everyone grew chaotic with preparations to depart, because Silvia was the one who came up to him first and disturbed him.
"Give me your hand."
Her calm face looked exactly like someone who had entrusted him with an errand and expected it to be done.
"Why."
"What do you mean, why? I need to support you."
He couldn’t help frowning hard at that.
"Support me how?"
"I need your hand so I can prepare the support. It’s not like our compatibility is truly terrible, anyway. We should at least do a little mana exchange and set up a few spells in advance so I can do my job properly later."
"No, I mean—why are you the one supporting me?"
"Then why do you think I was standing next to you during the consecration ceremony?"
"What, because there was an empty seat?"
Owen folded his arms, saying something that made it sound as though the problem was not the seat but his own empty head. Silvia let her shoulders sag as if she were dealing with a stubborn child.
"The squad leader ordered it."
"Then do only the simple support the squad leader expected. Nothing that needs mana exchange or preparation."
He seemed to have something he didn’t want touched. Well, it made sense. There probably wasn’t anyone with more secrets than Owen. The way he had abruptly become Count Bronovich’s uncle, the way he’d casually stepped into a temple under a Yem-je barrier and tampered with the compatibility test results—
"I don’t work like that."
But whatever secrets he had, Silvia still had her own job to do.
"I’m not the type to just keep my place and leave. Supporters are people who work alongside others. We’re not there just to lend a hand when we have spare capacity—we’re people who do our jobs with everything we’ve got."
With that, Owen rubbed a hand over his hair as though he had a headache. Seeing the small, focused face she made when she knit her brows like that, he didn’t think she was going to back down easily. He had seen that expression many times during deployments with Silvia.
When she stood behind Heston to guard his back. When she hoisted an injured comrade onto her small body with stubborn strength. When she looked out at a village reduced to ruins after a monster attack.
In the end, Owen gave in and held out his hand, though not very willingly. Not with his palm up, and not with the back of his hand turned in the dainty way noble ladies offered theirs when they wanted a kiss on the knuckles, either—so Silvia rolled her eyes before she could stop herself. Then she seized his hand and pulled it toward her, turning it over to inspect the palm.
"Ow!"
And then, for all her confidence in tugging him closer, she let out a short cry and flung it away as though it belonged to some monster. A moment later, she looked up at Owen with complete disbelief.
"What is this?"
His palm was a mess of dried blood and scabs. She couldn’t help wondering just what someone had to do to get that badly mangled. Owen turned his head away with a weary expression, as though he had anticipated this reaction, but he didn’t stop Silvia from taking his hand back and examining it carefully.
"Aren’t these claw marks? Did you do this? Is this some kind of hobby of yours?"
"Sometimes. When I’m bored."
Owen answered her crooked remark with maddening ease. Silvia had been wondering if they should stop by the infirmary before departure and have the palm treated, but when Owen noticed where her thoughts were headed, he pulled his hand back, and she let out a sigh and stepped away.
"Fine. I don’t care if your palm’s a disaster—let’s just get this over with."
Supporting his hand with both of hers, Silvia closed her eyes and began the incantation. From the tips of her fingers, pink letters began to rise, climbing over the back of his hand and up his arm. Owen was a little surprised to find that her mana flowing into him wasn’t unpleasant at all. It wrapped around his whole body like warm, heavy water washing over him.
But for Silvia, who was holding his hand, it was different.
The more her mana entered his body, the more she could feel how thoroughly ruined he was. The damage was so extensive, and the magic that hid it so sloppily layered over it, that she could read the scars with the tips of her fingers.
Silvia repaired Owen’s body as best she could, then layered on several support spells. Some let him see monsters’ weaknesses; others became the foundation that would help support magic settle quickly and effectively.
But casting spells like that was, in essence, the same as sharing her sight with him, and Silvia could see everything he had hidden beneath that crude magic—his split lip, the bruise along his jaw, and, by the look of it, how hard it was to find even a single unharmed patch anywhere on his torso.
Her delicate brow naturally furrowed at the sight, and Owen mistook the reason for her frown.
"What? Why are you making that face? Does it hurt?"
He hurriedly shook off the hand he’d grabbed and then braced her by the elbow as though to steady her.
"I told you, I’m not—"
If it was going to be like this, then what had been the point of enduring it at all?
Owen swallowed the rest of what he had been about to say and looked at Silvia in displeasure.
Silvia stared at him with a grave expression and asked, "Who did this?"
"I told you. My hobby—"
"Was it Count Bronovich?"
Only then did Owen close his mouth. He realized that Silvia hadn’t merely identified the injuries on his palm.
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