North: Blood or Wine (04) 029
"How did Father know about this boy..."
The girl's flustered question echoed through the room. Selasier stared at Azkal as she spoke.
"That saintly one who so rarely offers praise. Impossible to forget." The "saint" Azkal meant was Everchan Rakatus, head of the Rakatus family. He'd always buried himself in work, earning the nickname, but it had grown extreme around nine years ago. Azkal had only recently heard about some high-society affair and sent a congratulatory letter. He'd raved about the boy who'd solved what seemed an utterly hopeless problem. The boy's name was Kalen. Unmistakably Kalen.
Having Selasier assign a bodyguard was fine in itself, but if that bodyguard was Kalen, it changed everything.
"Bodyguard... bodyguard... Ah, yes. That must mean you were the one protecting the little Rakatus miss."
Azkal fixed Kalen with an intensely excited glare. His eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth stretched into a broad grin.
Kalen shot a sidelong glance at Young Master Torun. Does that kind of easy excitability run in the family? He'd assumed it was just Torun's rotten personality.
The tension peaked in that moment—only for Azkal to suddenly shift his attention from Kalen to Selasier.
"What sort of deal did you strike with the old man, Selasier?"
"...It has nothing to do with Father."
Everchan had gone so far as to call it a personal debt. Azkal had never heard his sole true friend phrase things that way. He couldn't not be curious.
The ruler of the North peered into his daughter's eyes. Rubies gleaming with venom and defiance—and, faintly, resentment.
I don't regret it. This was the consequence of her choice. From the moment he'd resolved to endure it, he'd severed their father-daughter bond himself.
Instead, Azkal laughed. As always, oozing with that what can a little girl like you do? attitude. Though this time, it carried a subtle difference—a nod to the foundation of the changes she'd shown.
"The front lines. Starting tomorrow, you're joining them too."
"Pardon?"
With that, Azkal shoved back his chair and stood. The expensive seat toppled backward with a loud crash. Then he stormed out of the dining hall. His final glance lingered on Kalen.
Bang!
The door slammed shut, leaving only silence in its wake.
"What the hell is it about the front lines that sets him off like that?"
In the end, their meal amounted to just two bites of salmon. Selasier sat dazed for a long while after Azkal's words.
You little—! The front lines?!
Torun, who had been equally frozen in shock, finally pointed and bellowed—right before Selasier, without a word of rebuttal like when they'd first entered, simply took Kalen and left the room.
As Kalen recalled Torun's ridiculous outburst, a clear, soft melody whispered in his ear.
"A place crawling with monsters."
Selasier's voice was calm, but Kalen quickly sensed the awkward strain. It was the tone of someone forcibly holding something back.
"Is that what you mean by 'dare to'?"
"Not quite."
Selasier began explaining what Azkal had truly meant.
"Remember how both factions are positioned at the foremost front?"
"Yes."
"Torun's been handling front-line duties all this time. I wasn't allowed to go, under the excuse it was too dangerous."
Selasier was certain it was just a pretext. Anyone who understood how vital the front lines were—to preventing civil war, or even securing the North—couldn't justify it. Especially not her father, the Grand Duke of the North.
"The front lines are swarming with monsters. Subjugating them wins public favor, and it gives the pretext of warding off potential wars."
True enough. Battles were frequent in the remote North. No one knew when their life might be threatened. Even common folk in the rearmost areas couldn't escape that reality. The people of the North knew it all too well.
"He let Torun monopolize it. Put more precisely... the freedom it offers. After all, there's a limit to how much you can monitor schemes from the front lines."
In short, this was it. The favoritism Kalen had sensed. Azkal seemed to be indulging Torun's convenience. And Selasier's words just now confirmed it. It explained why she'd included her father among her civil war adversaries.
"And... most importantly. The front lines have tons of monsters, right?"
"Yes."
"That also means it's easy to disguise accidents. Even if someone dies, uncovering the truth is damn near impossible."
The North's foremost front remained in constant tension, even in peaceful times. Enemy nations might unite against the Claire Empire at any moment, unknown to them. Add the ever-present monster threat, and who knew if a single death was coincidence or murder? Now, two rivals in a civil war would jointly oversee it. Subtle intrigues once confined to the estate would escalate openly.
"Are you all right?"
"Hm? Oh. Yeah, I'm fine. Truth be told, I was agonizing over how to get to the front lines. I should be thanking you."
Relief tinged Selasier's voice. You could feel how desperately she'd wanted to go there.
As they discussed the front lines, Selasier—who'd been walking ahead—suddenly halted.
"Do you know why I became a mage?"
A question utterly out of left field, deeply personal and mismatched to the flow. Everyone has emotional walls thinner than they think; a tiny trigger can crack them open. Even the toughest souls unburden themselves to someone, seeking solace. And now, with an opening to the long-blocked path of the front lines, a sliver of relief had eased her tension-fraught body. Quietly, facing the faint gap in her heart's wall.
"Where do young masters' eyes go first when they see me?"
"No idea."
"Take a guess."
Instead of resuming her walk, Selasier reached back, trailing a hand along the corridor wall. Kalen watched from behind, pondering her question. Where did strangers' eyes go first?
He recalled her ruby-embedded gaze.
"Your eyes."
"Huh?"
"They look at your eyes first."
"My eyes?"
Strangers might not be Northerners, so they wouldn't find her blood-like hue ominous. That was his reasoning—but Selasier fell silent in surprise, then smiled.
"My body. Every last one of them ogled my body first."
Her eyes lost focus, as if reliving old memories.
"Ah. Now there's exactly one exception. You looked at my eyes first."
"..."
"I hated it. To me, this body might as well be cursed."
A woman's body. And Selasier was tall even among women—a fact clear from their first meeting. Her figure was strikingly mature. Everyone who met her eyed her chest or hips. A body that was neither one thing nor the other served no purpose.
"In the North, knighthood is the highest honor. Magic wedged its way in somehow, but the ethos remains."
Back to her original question: why she'd chosen the path of magic.
"I couldn't become a knight. No armor fit this frame, and my shoulders knotted up just standing still—I couldn't even hold a sword straight. And while everyone leered at my body, I was going mad."
The Eclesia Salon—one of high society's most famed—was originally tied to Rakatus and Hiatt. But before Eliana attended, both houses' young ladies had been absent. Eliana had no choice, but Selasier had refused of her own will. Under the pretext of "not fitting in." Most twisted that to mean arrogance, but Selasier was simply exhausted. By the stares fixated on her body.
Leaning one hand against the corridor wall, she confronted the faint crack in her heart's wall.
"That trash so-called 'big brother' lunged at me daily, ranting about my ominous hair and trying to rip it out. I ran away in terror. They said Northerners must grow strong—no crying allowed."
"The Grand Duke seems to favor you. Related to that?"
"Sharp as ever. Well, way back, I think I loved him too. Not anymore."
Selasier withdrew her hand from the wall. She tapped her chin with her index finger.
"Torun's been buying and selling village women as slaves."
The shocking revelation burst forth. A crime by the young master of the North's ruling house.
"Under the guise of introducing them to empire men once they come of age."
"...The Grand Duke."
"Not sure if Father knows. But he assumes succession is his birthright, so I've been blocking him."
The sudden exposé left Kalen briefly confused, but he sorted his thoughts calmly. It merely added a justification. Proof that the civil war's spark wasn't mere dregs of power lust—a pretext to condemn Torun.
No wonder he came off so slimy.
And for Kalen...
"Anyway, thank you."
"For looking at your eyes instead of your body?"
"No. For saying my hair color is pretty."
The loneliness that had flickered in Selasier's eyes. He could now pinpoint its origins.
"Let's go. The front lines are brutal—you rest when you can."
"Yes."
Her smiling face hadn't changed, but she seemed just a bit lighter.