The Night the Full Moon Fades
Rustle.
In the duty room greeting the morning, I rose from bed. Just a change in sleeping arrangements, yet I felt utterly exhausted.
“……”
Imperial Princess Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen. It was 7:40 a.m. Duty ended at 7:00 anyway, so nothing unusual. Besides, once the sun rose, the mimic's ability incurred penalties again, so she had no reason to linger by my side.
'I'll tidy up a bit before leaving.'
A petty revenge, perhaps. I neatly folded the rumpled bedsheets and left the duty room.
“Good morning!”
“Yes.”
Returning greetings from the early-rising students wandering about, I exited the dormitory and headed to the parking lot behind the main building.
“Don't go to the mansion. Head to the Magic Research Society first.”
“Understood.”
Gazing at the diligent coachman already waiting bright and early, I boarded the carriage and leaned back comfortably.
The Magic Research Society. Though called a society, it was more accurately a membership-based paid library. Register a thesis, and when others paid to access it, revenue flowed in. Naturally, the knowledge couldn't be divulged externally without the original author's consent.
Part of why private lessons from renowned mages cost so much stemmed from the presence—or absence—of affiliations with this society.
“Welcome!”
With the secretary's greeting came a faint mustiness—not unpleasant, but the rich scent of aged paper wafting through the air. A serene, composed atmosphere perfect for focus.
“……”
“Heh heh… Look at this one. You should greet first before staring so stiffly.”
But without even time to savor it, I bowed my head.
“I trust you are well…”
“No need to grovel like that. Right?”
The imperial court mage of the royal palace, elder of House Roswell, and an Apollyon-rank elemental mage… Teor el Binheim Roswell.
“Enough of your mischief, sir.”
House Roswell and Brutein had frequent exchanges since childhood, and Ferzen often kicked the cane Teor leaned on, toppling him.
The reason? Severe OCD, naturally. With the cane gripped in his right hand as he stepped forward, the left hand needed to mirror it exactly—but no ordinary person would. From Ferzen's perspective, what else could he do?
“Pup. If this looks like mischief to you, you're done for.”
“……”
“Those whiskers you yanked back then? They never grew back.”
“Then maybe you shouldn't have rubbed that scruffy face on me.”
So it was the beard, not the cane.
“Be grateful I'm not an elemental mage. If I were, I would've burned them off instead of just plucking.”
The rasp of coarse whiskers dragged across a child's skin was torture beyond mere discomfort. For the first time, I deeply empathized with Ferzen's past.
“Having lost my child before even seeing their face… how could I know children hated it?”
“Playing the pitiful card now?”
Like telling a friend in new clothes they looked bad, only to hear 'Mom bought it.'
“Tsk tsk. So, what brings you to the society, brat?”
“……Registering a thesis.”
“You?”
“No rule against it.”
“Well… yours'll just get buried. Lucky for you, I'm here registering mine too.”
“……”
“So, what category?”
Old age made him chatty, it seemed. Questions galore.
I brushed past him, approached the secretary, and handed over the documents and copies I'd finalized late last night.
The Magic Research Society had six branches across the empire, not just the capital. Thus, thesis submissions required four copies.
“Category: recognition of construction formulas. Viewing: free public access for one month. Also… release date: next Thursday. Around 2 p.m. should be ideal.”
“Y-yes, understood!”
The secretary stammered, trembling hand carefully accepting the documents.
Only fully proven matters qualified as theses, and society staff couldn't lie about authenticity—bound by a mana oath upon joining. Indeed, a chain-like mana with barbed hooks clung near my heart. Violate it, and it'd pierce through.
That's why the secretary gulped and shook—face-to-face with a proven thesis on construction formula recognition. Its value? Immense.
“What? Recognition of construction formulas?”
“However, next Wednesday. Academy's A Lecture Hall auditorium. Attend the public lecture starting 9 a.m., and you'll hear the author himself explain a day early.”
“You mean…”
“Six days left. Send letters to every mage who can reach the capital in that time. You secretaries know their residences best.”
How many would come? Plenty, given the category.
Mages rarely attended lectures hyping another mage's thesis. Unlike society rules, outsiders could exaggerate freely. Pumping up sales for profit was rampant before—now, letters stuck to brief topic summaries.
“Carry on, then.”
“Y-yes…! Leave it to me!”
“Hey! Hey…! Little Ferzen! Recognition of construction formulas, you say? What concept? Tell your old man! Don't be so stiff! You symmetry freak!”
“You've gotten uglier…”
“Hmph. Who knows when I'll drop dead? Formality be damned.”
“In short: geometry.”
“Geometry? Didn't that flop already?”
Indeed. This world had explored geometric concepts for recognizing magic construction formulas. Nothing more intuitive, with geometry as legitimate mathematics.
But shapes embodied length → area → volume—not hierarchy, but mere measures of mana capacity. Metrics, nothing more.
“If it were false, the oath-bound mana near my heart would've dragged my life to the netherworld by now.”
“……”
“Curious? Come to my lecture next Wednesday. Questions only by raised hand. No exceptions for elders.”
A curt nod to the silent Teor, and I left the society, boarding the carriage.
“Back to the mansion.”
“Yes!”
Exhausted. I wanted to crash and sleep. Euphemia's warmth beckoned.
* * * * *
Sitting on a garden bench amid the flowerbeds, Euphemia tore open the hefty stack of letters awaiting her at the mansion. All invitations to tea parties.
'What's the point of going…'
Pointless. She wasn't Ferzen's wife—just a womb. Showing up would invite humiliation at best.
As a woman, she knew how viciously words concealed daggers. Outwardly, he was Brutein's second son. Plenty of women would envy her position as his wife.
Live with him, and they'd know better…
“The master has returned.”
“Ah…”
Spotting the carriage passing the main gate, her maid bowed and informed her. An unspoken nudge to greet him properly.
“Hmph…”
But Euphemia held her ground rigidly.
Soon, Ferzen dismounted, strode through the garden, spotted her, and veered her way.
“……”
No way she'd bow first—that felt like defeat. She stared him down boldly, but as he drew near, the weight proved too much, and her gaze dropped.
“I'm back.”
“W-welcome… home.”
“Tea party invites? Not going?”
“No need. Nothing good awaits.”
“If they displease you, flip the table. I can handle the fallout for most.”
“No thanks. Planning to paint me as a madwoman?”
“Nothing better to do? Get up. To the bedroom.”
“I don't wanna…”
“Better than being dragged.”
“……”
Her maids never heeded her anyway, but humiliation before them? No. She rose meekly, standing by Ferzen's side.
A yellow dress suited to the balmy spring. Perhaps that's why Ferzen suddenly saw the trailing Euphemia as a chick.
“What…”
“Nothing. Inside.”
“Ah…”
Entering the bedroom, Ferzen pushed the blankly standing Euphemia onto the bed, then clung beside her without changing.
“Didn't you… sleep?”
“Comfortable sleep at work? Hardly.”
His voice thick with fatigue. Burying his face in her exposed nape, he breathed evenly, silent for ages. Thick arms encircled her waist; a large hand caressed her belly.
“……”
Last night, the bed felt vast and empty. Now, his mere presence cramped it.
His presence so immense? Or hers so small?
Like a raging inferno devouring a tiny flame, he enveloped her, force-feeding warmth.
It was cozy. Intensely so…