The Festival's End
It had been a remark overheard only in passing.
A slip of the tongue over drinks was hardly rare. Once a man's head was steeped in liquor, rational judgment grew hard to come by. That was precisely why Shiron had kept pressing the cups on them, and why he himself had slipped into the mood of the gathering with such lighthearted ease.
He had immersed himself in it, and yet…
"What exactly do you mean by that?"
Before he knew it his mouth was moving on its own, and his feet were already carrying him toward the place the words had come from.
Shiron approached the source of the conversation. He had no particular thought or reason for doing so. Curiosity alone had stirred him — a desire to know what the game never bothered to show.
"Hm?"
The man, face flushed red with drink, caught sight of Shiron and widened his eyes. Something about the boy's expression — the same boy who had been pouring with such easy charm a moment before — now gone stiff, left him faintly embarrassed.
"Ahem. So the story caught your interest, did it?"
"Yes. If it wouldn't be an imposition, could you tell me a little more?"
"Of course. It's no great trouble."
The man let out a deep breath and composed his features into something more solemn. Feeling the edge of his drunkenness recede a little, he faced Shiron squarely.
"Have you ever read the fairy tales?"
"You mean the books with the hero Kyle as the main character?"
"Let's be more precise, boy. Those aren't simply stories about the hero Kyle."
Margaret spoke up from behind Shiron's head.
"They begin with the day an evil god appears in the world and sets the continent ablaze, and then, not long after, a hero named Kyle emerges to confront it… That is the story."
Margaret gazed absently at her still-unfilled cup.
Time had slipped by without notice; the sunset sky was reflected in the wine. Light somewhere between gold and crimson settled over her amber eyes.
Margaret gave a small, wry smile, her face faintly flushed.
"Any martial house with centuries of history keeps a version of that tale. Nothing particularly special about it. Even my own house of Versailles has a story starring a hero named Kyle Versailles."
"Then…"
"I only learned later. There were countless such families. I know of more than twenty myself."
"…How curious."
Shiron nodded a beat late.
When he first heard it, he had thought it pure nonsense. A woman like Margaret, he had assumed, might easily spout rubbish once the wine was in her.
But here, in a place where a fair number of people had gathered, not a single soul called her on it. A few even nodded, as if in quiet agreement.
"Author unknown. No one even knows when it was written."
Dexter spat the words with a touch of irritation.
"So anyone who takes it seriously gets treated like a fool. We all believed without a doubt, when we were young, that our ancestors were the legendary figures themselves. Then that belief was smashed to pieces. The moment we learned that Kyle didn't belong to any one house, how much do you think a child's heart cried…"
"Haha. This fellow. Looks so rough, yet he's got a pure streak in him after all."
"Oh, shut it."
Dexter clicked his tongue.
"I had romance in me. I trained until I coughed blood, trying to become the hero from those stories. How many of the people sitting here didn't do the same…"
"Anyway, it's far too absurd a tale. Once you grow older and have children of your own, you stop clinging to it."
"But Sir Hugo was different."
In a voice grown a little husky, Margaret drained what remained in her cup in a single swallow.
"He declared that the Priens were the true bloodline of Kyle — that the hero's house from the stories, which no one else had the shamelessness to claim, was his own."
At those words, a fight had broken out almost at once. Margaret recalled the first time Hugo had come down to these Arwen Highlands.
A country youth with a single sword at his hip.
That had been her first impression of Hugo Prien.
A green boy from a backwater with no title and no proper fief from which to collect taxes, spouting such arrogance — of course he became a laughingstock. Every rising talent among the martial houses had mocked and scorned him.
"What do you suppose happened after that, boy?"
"A fight broke out, I imagine."
"Exactly. The obvious course of things."
Noticing Margaret's cup was empty, Shiron hastily refilled it. She smiled with her eyes at his solicitousness.
"But the people who crossed fists with him had no choice but to know it in their bones."
Noses broken.
Ribs cracked.
Teeth knocked clean out.
It wasn't only the young who suffered at Hugo's hands. Even the active veterans at the absolute peak of their physical prime were no match for him.
"That wasn't talent. The only explanation left was that he belonged to a different species altogether. When he showed strength like that, one after another they had no choice but to acknowledge him. I was already the head of Versailles at the time, but after that incident I stuffed every last one of our house's ridiculous books down into the cellar."
"I… burned every last one of mine… You've got no conscience."
Igor twitched the corner of his mouth toward Margaret. So he picks fights when he drinks, Shiron thought.
"But I still don't understand. Being good at fighting alone makes a man little better than a layabout, doesn't it?"
"…You're awfully merciless toward your own uncle."
Dexter, who had been listening, spoke up.
"It's a little late for that kind of thinking. The achievements Sir Hugo has piled up are far too great. He spends most of the year near the Demon Realm. More than some hero from a story no one has ever seen with their own eyes, Hugo Prien feels closer to a true hero."
"There are many other reasons besides, but… the greatest are Hugo's character and his strength. If some legendary being like the Evil God ever appeared, he'd be the first one put forward as a hero. That's a certainty."
"…"
"I should be getting up. Good drink."
Dexter dusted off his backside and rose from his seat.
He patted Shiron's head a few times and stretched.
The surroundings had grown excessively quiet.
When Shiron turned his head, the fog was gone, and no magic beasts moved anywhere.
The main event of the Subjugation Festival had drawn to a close. Far in the distance, he could see a girl whose entire body was stained tomato-red with blood.
The fog had vanished, and no more magic beasts stirred.
Hah— khuh—
Lucia drove her sword into the sodden earth, gasping for breath.
How many had she cut down…? She hadn't counted, but it felt like she had easily filled at least three digits' worth of carcasses.
"…Damn it."
The strength drained from her legs; she wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the ground then and there. But the corpses and blood of magic beasts covering every inch around her drove the impulse away in an instant.
Her body, however, refused to obey her will.
Thud—
In the end Lucia's knees slammed into the dirt. She had tried to brace herself against the sword planted in the ground, but the moment the tension left her, her legs gave out completely.
And so,
before the wave of dizziness could rush in and snatch her consciousness away, someone poked her sharply in the shoulder.
"Good work."
She turned slowly. There stood a face she wanted to punch on the spot.
Shiron Prien.
Where the hell was he hiding, only to show that shameless mug now…
"You… you bastard."
Lucia's face twisted as she glared at him. Then she drove her fist into his chest.
Thud—
But with every scrap of strength gone from her body, the blow landed with no force at all.
Thud— thud—
"You… you rotten bastard…"
"Were you always this weak? That didn't hurt at all."
"You son of a bitch…"
"Looks like I don't pass out from your punches anymore."
"…"
Up we go—
"Wh-what are you doing?!"
Lucia paused mid-swing. She couldn't hit him. In the blink of an eye she found herself hoisted onto Shiron's back.
"What does it look like? First time getting a piggyback?"
"…You. Just you wait."
Lucia felt her consciousness growing steadily hazier.
She wanted to thrash and struggle right that second, but her body would not listen. Gritting her teeth, she sank into the pull of sleep.
The Subjugation Festival had closed, and the sun had fully set.
"…Hey."
Lucia's eyes flew open at the presence she felt by her pillow. Shiron was lying on his side, looking down at her.
"You bastard."
"You woke up pretty quick. I figured you'd sleep straight through till morning."
"Grr…!"
Lucia tried to push herself upright at once. But her whole body ached, and she flopped back down onto the bedding. She flipped over, intending to rise again, and turned her face toward the ground.
"…Huh? What is this?"
Then, abruptly, she froze, bewildered by the warm presence beneath her cheek.
It was too dark to see, but Lucia had no trouble guessing the identity of the warm, heated pillow.
"You… you! What do you think you're—!"
She realized she had been using Shiron's thigh as a pillow.
Mortified, she tried to lift her head and sit up at once, but her body refused to cooperate. Lucia squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face against his thigh.
"What are you even doing?"
Shiron gave a short, incredulous laugh and caught her by the shoulders, hauling her upright.
It was dark, but his keen senses picked out the flush burning across Lucia's face.
This time, though, he couldn't bring himself to tease her.
"…Nngh."
He saw her face as she clenched her teeth, straining with all her might not to let the tears fall.
Lucia knew it too; she hastily scrubbed at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. The texture felt strange. Sometime while she slept, someone had changed her clothes — the sleeve was soft and clean as new.
"What…"
Lucia looked herself over. She was wearing a light, flowing dress.
"Where on earth did this even…"
"Are you just going to sit there forever?"
"…What?"
"We've got a festival to enjoy."
As he said it, Shiron took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Still weak, Lucia had no choice but to let herself be led.
There's no blood smell on me…
Even as she was pulled along, she touched her hair and fretted at her clothes.
Her hair carried the fragrant scent of perfume oil, and on her feet she wore soft silk slippers.
Lucia looked around.
At an hour when everyone else was asleep, the night sky glittered thick with stars.
And the place Shiron had brought her to still held a campfire whose embers had not yet gone out.
"…A festival? There's nothing here at all."
"The moon and stars are shining beautifully, aren't they? That's a little romantic, don't you think?"
"…"
At Shiron's grinning face, Lucia wore an expression of pure disbelief.
"……Are you an idiot? Has your brain actually broken?"
She no longer even had the energy to swear properly. But Shiron paid it no mind and held out his hand to her.
"What's this for?"
"What are you waiting for? Take it. We're dancing."
"……Ha."
"This place right here is the ballroom. Perfect spot for a dance, wouldn't you say?"
Instead of taking his hand, Lucia pressed her fingers to her aching forehead. She had planned to thrash him half to death the moment she came to her senses — yet somehow all her strength had drained away.
"You really are…"
"You talk too much."
Shiron took both of her hands. Lucia tried to shake free, but for some reason no strength would come into her fingers.
No music was needed. Shiron danced to the chirring of the insects, treating their song as accompaniment.
Or rather, he tried to…
What he actually did was take her small hands and sway loosely. Circling the campfire, his steps were clumsy by any measure.
Ahaha—
At the ridiculous sight of him, Lucia burst out laughing in spite of herself.
"You idiot. You call this dancing?"
"Huh? Isn't this what dancing is?"
"Just… never mind."
Lucia heaved a long sigh and narrowed her eyes into a glare.
Perhaps because enough time had passed since she woke, strength was slowly returning to her limbs. And yet, oddly, she felt no urge to hit him.
Why was that?
Lucia herself didn't know.
Something soft and warm was unfurling in her chest — hard to put into words.
So she decided to follow her heart. Lucia gripped Shiron's hands firmly.
"Fine. I'll lead."
The dance Lucia guided was something even Shiron had to admire, if only a little.