The Thoughts of Two Cats

Blow and Skadi rubbed their eyes again and again at the unbelievable sight spread out before them.

A battle-axe—a long haft with a double-bladed head fixed at the end. And yet the thing Yulia was handling now looked less like an axe than a gigantic hammer.

Thoom—

Rachel, facing her, did not so much as hold a sword. She simply matched Yulia step for step. Blow could not help wondering how on earth she meant to stand her ground before a weapon that savage with nothing in her hands at all.

"Yulia, getting the feel of it now?"

"Hah—hah—yes..."

"That's plenty, isn't it? Blow's here."

Yulia cut off her panting and looked toward the entrance of the sparring room. The moment she saw Blow's wave, color rushed into her face, and a smile bloomed with it.

"Young master!"

"Ah. It seems we've interrupted your practice. My apologies."

"Not at all! We ought to have a simple dinner now and rest. Skadi and Jane came too?"

"Hello, Senior. But that weapon—what in the world is it...?"

Skadi and Jane, who knew nothing of Yulia's plan, were staring dumbfounded. A little embarrassed, Yulia cleared her throat a few times and answered in a calm voice.

"You saw the semifinals, so you'll understand. This time my strategy calls for using my body a great deal."

"You can actually swing that? It looks far too heavy."

"Haha, young master! There's a secret, actually. It'll be more fun if you see it for yourself tomorrow!"

"Right. Don't go trying to learn every detail. You'll get hurt."

Rachel said it and preened. Blow had the distinct sense that one more question really would get him hurt, so he shifted his gaze to Yulia.

"Then I'll stop asking."

"Honestly. Sometimes that boy seems to have no backbone at all."

"What are you saying... Anyway, everyone, let's go have dinner at my restaurant. You must be hungry."

"Yeah. I'm starving."

"Lady Rachel and I will shower and head up! See you all in a bit!"

"Do we really have to shower? We could just roughly—"

Yulia shot Rachel a look of pure, undisguised disgust. Abashed by that expression, Rachel had no choice but to follow her toward the showers.

Once they were gone, Skadi—who had been unable to take her eyes off the battle-axe—sidled over, poked the blade a few times, and tilted her head as if she still could not believe it.

Around the time Blow was in the middle of dining with Yulia at Hotel Edfolk, Hervena Westriver was alone in a practice room, loosening her body.

She could die a hundred times and still never allow that. She could not disappoint him. Not even a little.

Once, she had had a dream. If she took first place, her young master would praise her. Before she sparred, he would cheer for her and worry over her. If she won, he would rejoice with her.

That dream was real now. And tomorrow, she had been given a chance to make that everyday life shine a little brighter. If she brought down Yulia Edfolk, the news would reach even the Imperial Capital.

Back in Roten, on the day her young master first spoke with Yulia about a contract, he had seemed to weigh House Deblique against House Edfolk, the person called Blow against the person called Yulia, and to mind how far short he fell of her.

From now on, nothing of the kind would ever happen again. Because from now on, behind the name Blow Deblique, the words master of Hervena Westriver would follow.

Melo had taken her place for certain as head chef of Hills, and Jane as proprietor of the potion shop that bore her own name. That they held their places so firmly had, in truth, left Hervena more than a little envious.

But the envy ended today. Tomorrow, she would become Blow's pride. When that happened, the view she and he looked out upon would change as well. And looking at that view, Hervena meant to write a few more words into the dream she held so dear. Those words, of course, concerned what lay between her young master and herself.

And—

Yes, Yulia Edfolk. I'm sorry for you, who keep snagging on my eye these days.

And I bear you no ill will. No—perhaps the sand still clinging to one's hands after playing on the beach and brushing them off could be called ill will.

Yes. For a reason no greater than that, you are going to be trampled by me. Thoroughly. Relentlessly. So that if you happen to hear my name, you'll flinch, and if we meet, you'll have to work to keep your expression in order.

Not so that you meet the young master shoulder to shoulder—but so that you rise onto your toes to reach his shoulder. I'll make you that way.

When the thought was finished, Hervena drew the Jet-Black Bracelet she had given Blow tight against her chest and held it there. The practice-room door opened, and Linne came in and bowed to her.

"H-hello, Senior."

"Linne, sorry for calling you out so suddenly. You were the only person I could think to ask."

"N-not at all! It's truly an incredible honor."

Linne clenched her fist and let her eyes sparkle. Hervena smiled at her.

"Today, try everything you want to try on me."

"Y-yes?!"

"I mean every anti-personnel spell you've been wanting to cast. After the match, I'll give you feedback on all of them."

"R-really?"

"Yes. Though, well..."

An eerie smile had crept onto her face, and Linne froze. Hervena added one more line, barely loud enough to hear.

"Casting them might not be so easy, mind you..."

While Hervena was working through this spell and that with Linne, Deschamps Edfolk was staying at another hotel in nearby Eastpol. He was far too well known. If he lodged at some other hotel in Caipol and left Hotel Edfolk empty, useless rumors were sure to spread.

He was having a glass of wine and watching the moonlight fill the room when a communication came in from Bjorn, Skadi's father.

"Well, Bjorn. What brings you to call?"

"I realized I'd returned to my domain without even offering my greetings, and I felt ashamed."

"Haha. When public and private affairs pile up, these things happen. Thank you for thinking of me."

"Are you still in Caipol, my lord marquis?"

"It seems that's how it's turned out."

"You and Lady Yulia are a little distant, aren't you?"

"We are. What's gotten into you, bringing that up?"

"I'm a father raising a daughter myself, the same as you, my lord. I find I can't help worrying."

"Hoh. If I've given even you cause to fret, I've nothing left to say."

"Even so—she's grown up admirably, I hear."

"And how does she compare to Skadi?"

"Forgive me, but I must ask your understanding. No one can be compared to Skadi."

"The same is true of our Yulia."

Each set his daughter forward, and neither yielded an inch. Deschamps found it amusing that Bjorn, who had been a slaughterer on the battlefield, had a side like this.

"In any case, thank you for the concern. Still, I have a feeling things may turn out well this time."

"You think so?"

"Yes."

"Don't tell me that boy, Blow Deblique, has done something?"

At those words Deschamps started so hard he shot up from his seat, and he asked it back.

"How do you know that?"

"So I was right."

"Have you dined with Blow as well?"

"No. It was only something my daughter said, and I went once to a meeting held at Hills. About two days after I last saw you."

"I see."

"My lord marquis. I had a reason for speaking as I did. Watching the boy... well. I'm not sure I ought to say this..."

Bjorn stopped there and hesitated. So curious about what would come next that he could not help himself, Deschamps spoke first.

"What is it? This may be the thing I've grown most curious about all year."

"Strangely, when I look at that Blow Deblique, the late Emperor overlaps him."

Silence flowed between them for a long while. Deschamps's throat had gone dry; only when he had emptied his wine glass did Bjorn take up the thread again.

"Lady Rachel of House Campbell—and from what I hear of Lady Yulia, he's even taken the makings of an archmage as a retainer, hasn't he? Beastkin besides. So many people of different colors gathering, and he embraces them all. Doesn't he resemble that man?"

"Saintess Marta is with him as well."

"Ah, that's right. I heard it from Skadi."

"Hoh... well now."

"A powerful feeling came over me, and there was no one around me I could share it with."

"I believe I've felt something strangely similar to what you describe."

At that, a cry slipped from Bjorn's side, as if he had known it all along.

"As I thought."

"It seems there's nothing to be done about the two of us."

"To my mind, if others were to lay eyes on Young Master Blow, things would become rather interesting. Lady Karen, for instance. Or Lord Flowing Water."

That Bjorn, one of the late Emperor's Four Swords, had felt the very same thing Deschamps himself had felt toward Blow struck him as remarkable all over again. He filled the empty glass to the brim.

"Bjorn, would you care to hear, briefly, about the meal I shared with the boy?"

"By all means."

And so the two of them spoke of Blow, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the late Emperor, and set the two side by side, and together they met the sun as dawn broke.

The day of the match. Yulia Edfolk was riding to the school in a carriage with Marchen.

"Marchen."

"Yes, my lady."

"Young Master Blow met Father, didn't he?"

Marchen flinched, turned her gaze to Yulia, and her lips parted. Instead of a rebuke, Yulia gently took her trembling hand.

"I'm not going to say anything. I'm only asking."

"I'm sorry, my lady."

"Don't be. The young master would have done it for my sake."

"It seemed so."

Hearing Marchen's answer, Yulia thought it over, let out an empty little laugh, and shook her head.

"Remarkable courage, isn't it? I think the young master is the only person alive who could speak to my father about me."

"Yes."

"And really—what did he think I'd do if I said something? Thinking about it, there's no way the young master would be afraid of the likes of me. He even talked to Father about me..."

Still, I wish he had told me himself. Does he still not trust me?

Even so, a hurt feeling rose in her whether she wanted it or not. Marchen, who had been watching her in silence, cleared her throat and carefully opened her mouth.

"My lady, the young master said he did not tell you because you have the final of the Academia preliminaries today."

"I see. He was being considerate."

"Yes. And he seemed to trust you."

"Trust?"

It was so far from what she had expected that Yulia stared at Marchen with eyes gone round. Marchen answered her.

"He seemed to believe that you, as you are now, would understand him."

"......"

"That a clash of opinions might arise, that your voices might grow loud—but that in the end, you would understand."

"Marchen, did you just soften that so it would be pleasant for me to hear?"

"No. I brought the young master's words exactly as he spoke them."

A clash of opinions. That was something Yulia truly dreaded, and truly feared. Perhaps that was why she had lived until now showing everyone that dry distance. And yet this person called Blow Deblique spoke of the very thing she loathed and wanted to flee, strangely, as if it were nothing at all.

Our bond might be ruined forever. And every time, I have been the one to ruin things...

A little gloomed by the worry, Yulia rested her head against the carriage window. Into the feelings that had been swirling for so long rose the conversation at the Nyx Inn, the first time she had seen Blow again—the very conversation from when she had gone to stop him sparring with Greig.

A voice with not a shred of intent to change its mind, nothing but stubborn. At the time, she truly had not understood a Blow like that. A single misstep could estrange him from House Campbell forever, and even if he refused the match, the worst he would suffer was being mocked. She had thought the choice to set foot in the dueling ground was nothing but childish pride.

Calling his face to mind again, Yulia felt the storm inside her settle, calm.

If rain can pack the earth solid, the young master was someone willing to stand in it. All this time, I was the one screaming to keep out of the wet.

As if she could count every grain of sand in a lake once the sediment had all gone still. Her mind cleared, and only then, within the hard stretch of time that had been like one long monsoon, could she see the faces of the people who had willingly stood in the rain with her.

I thought there was no one. But they were all one step behind me, watching.

A long while passed before she turned her gaze to Marchen, who was watching her from across the carriage with worry.

"Marchen."

"Yes, my lady."

Marchen's face, held in Yulia's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eyes, seemed to blur and spread—and then Yulia spoke, each letter precious, in a voice upright and clear.

"Thank you, Marchen."

A tone soft enough to call up a past that had grown far too distant. Eyes shining with innocence. Marchen startled so hard her mouth worked without sound, and only barely found her voice.

"My lady?"

"...Marchen. I really want to win."

"My lady..."

"I really... really want to win."

"......"

"So you won't regret not leaving me. So I can become, even a little, someone the young master can look at and be proud of."

At those words the whole of the past passed through Marchen in an instant, and tears fell from her eyes, drop by drop. Yulia smiled and gently stroked her back. Marchen dabbed the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief, forced a smile, and spoke.

"Regret, miss? I, Marchen, have never held even a speck of such a thought."

"Thank you, Marchen."

"Miss, then... may I ask just one thing of you?"

"What is it...?"

"I would like you to call me that way even after today has passed. Closely, and warmly."

A bright smile Yulia felt she was seeing for the first time in eight years. She studied Marchen's face, piece by piece. Marchen was only a year or two older than she was, and yet somewhere along the way white hairs had begun to grow among her bangs, and fine lines had formed at the corners of her eyes. The face that had always been full of life was only dry now.

Because of me. Because of me, the Marchen who used to shine ended up like this.

Sorry, and not knowing what she ought to say, Yulia's hands trembled little by little. This time it was Marchen who took her hand and held it tight. Only then did Yulia's closed mouth open, softly.

"I will. I'll be sure to call you that way."

"Yes, miss."

Marchen gathered her feelings and nodded to her. In that time the carriage wheels stopped. They had arrived at Caipol Municipal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Magic School. From outside came the voices of countless students, full of expectation, and their heat reached even into the carriage. Feeling anew that today was today, Yulia let out a long breath and smiled at Marchen.

"I'll be back, Marchen."