Guardian's Atonement
To match the dress, I'd tied my hair up high, but when I let it down, it sprang out everywhere like a lion's mane. Curly hair is just so inconvenient. I grimaced, enduring the stiff brushing.
"Anyway, tell Ian to come to my room once he comes to."
"Yes, got it. I'll finish this up and let him know."
But it turned out there was no need. The maid tending to Ian came straight to me herself, announcing that he'd woken up. I told her to bring him over and sent May off to rest.
Ian soon arrived in my room.
"How's your body feeling?"
"……."
I handed a cup of warm tea to Ian, who hung his head with a dark expression. It was the kind I liked—bitter at first, but with a nutty finish.
Ian merely glanced at the tea I'd given him.
"Sit down and drink. This one should suit your taste."
I said it thinking of how he'd suffered from the strawberry milk last time—the one he'd swapped with Ren.
But Ian remained unmoved. Still standing before me with his head bowed, he suddenly dropped to his knees.
"My liege, punish me."
His abrupt words made my eyes widen.
"What?"
A sense of déjà vu washed over me. It felt like this wasn't the first time Ian had knelt before me. Why does this guy always drop to his knees out of nowhere?
Flustered, I asked, "You aren't remembering something, are you?"
"…No."
"Then why?"
Ian as a berserker had been a completely different person—one even I, his supposed master, couldn't recognize. He'd lost all reason, unable to distinguish friend from foe as he charged. It was only natural he wouldn't remember.
Yet here he was, head bowed as if he were a criminal deserving death.
Of course, losing control against Marquis Ater could be counted as a sin, but it felt like more than that.
My suspicions were confirmed.
"You've been unable to control that power for a while now, haven't you?"
"……."
Ian's face went pale, as if he truly were a guilty man.
It was unexpected. I'd heard the Servo clan trained rigorously to control their power. For someone as talented as Ian to be selected as a guardian—and for the high priest to send him despite that—it didn't add up.
"No matter how exceptional you are, they wouldn't select you as guardian if you couldn't control your power."
"That's because… I'm the high priest's only son."
"Ah."
In other words, Ian was the only guardian the high priest could send right now. In the original story, Abigail never would have awakened, so there'd have been no need to send a flawed one like him.
That's how the original plot had gone. In short, this was the karma I'd earned by twisting the story.
A faint smile tugged at my lips.
"I lack the qualifications. Please dispose of me."
"Hmm."
I crossed my arms and looked down at him.
If I rejected him here, his clan would cast him out like trash. Rigid as he was, Ian probably wouldn't even consider running away.
"Fine. Looks like I'll need to revise your training going forward."
"…Pardon?"
"Don't worry. I'll help you until you can control it."
Maybe the knight order could assist? It was a bit optimistic, but I'd cling to that hope. That black aura emanating from him bothered me too—perhaps the Magic Tower could help with that.
"B-but I nearly injured you, my liege…."
"I'm not hurt. See? Perfectly fine."
I raised both hands demonstratively. I'd depleted my mana all at once and felt drained, but no actual harm done.
That should be enough, right?
Ian's face crumpled at my shameless expression.
"I lack the qualifications."
"I'll be the one to judge that, not you. Ian Servbo."
I pushed my chair back and stood. The tea had gone cold from our long talk. I slowly reheated the water, glancing at him.
"You did very well, Ian. Even I couldn't have taken on five knights alone."
"That's…."
"Well, any minor flaws can be fixed in time."
I dismissed it lightly as I poured the tea. I watched the stream fill the cup with a soft gurgle.
Toward Ian, still kneeling, I issued a curt command.
"Last chance. Drink the tea."
"…Yes."
Finally, teatime. Ian sat across from me with an incredibly awkward expression. He glanced at me nervously before reaching for the steaming cup.
I actually struggled with hot drinks myself—Abigail had a cat's tongue too. So while I savored the aroma first, Ian sipped tentatively.
His complexion eased a bit—did it suit him? Unlike the strange look he'd had with the strawberry milk.
Satisfied, I spoke up.
"If you want, I can give you a punishment."
"…Yes."
Ian set down his cup, his face instantly solemn. Grinning mischievously before him, I pressed on.
My plan was falling perfectly into place.
"Come to my room tonight. Secretly, away from prying eyes."
"…Understood."
Ian nodded without a hint of suspicion. I planned to give the oblivious boy a splendid punishment.
* * *
Michael sat alone in the guest room the duke had prepared. For some reason, his chest felt tight. Skipping dinner, he sat blankly on the bed. Patrick had fretted over him, but he'd waved him off, insisting he was fine, and shooed him away.
Michael recalled the Abigail he'd met earlier that day.
"…Lady Abigail."
Murmuring her name absentmindedly made his heart clench.
And it hit him anew—he'd never once called her by name.
Lady had always sufficed. To Michael, Lady Abigail was no person, merely a symbol.
Her glossy black hair, praised like fine silk; her ruby-like red eyes—none had ever captured his gaze.
Beautiful appearances were just that—pleasing to the eye. Knowing the ugliness beneath, Michael had always treated Abigail like a stone.
A doll labeled Lady, ornate and nothing more. A card to play in righting the regime.
No more, no less.
But these past few months, the lady's behavior had been strange. No more high-pitched chatter grating on his nerves. She'd even apologized for her past conduct.
How stunned he'd been, seeing Carpoem bow her head to another. Unthinkable.
And that time she'd appeared in just thin breeches and a tunic, excusing it as riding attire. Her face had been shadowed with worry for her fallen father, though she tried not to show it. Those fleeting glimpses had stuck with him.
Inwardly, Michael had wondered. Abigail has changed. The Abigail I knew is gone.
Yet he hadn't wanted to admit it. Treating her as the same old lady was easier. It let him assuage his guilt.
That way, he could escape the remorse of exploiting a woman who'd whispered her love for him.
But Abigail had changed. And now, she no longer seemed to like him.
Michael couldn't bear to admit how that hurt.
'It was I who told Father I wished to break the engagement, Your Highness.'
Abigail had said it with not a trace of emotion. In her pristine white dress, she looked like a fairy from a tale.
Seeing her today, Michael had felt the world halt.
But her cold voice had yanked him back to reality.
Like a utter fool, he'd said nothing to her. He couldn't bring himself to ask if she still loved him—such cowardice.
Woooong.
Then, the crystal orb on the table lit up. A magical communicator for contacts.
The sender was the emperor.
With a heavy heart, Michael activated it. No image appeared—just the emperor's voice echoing in the room.
[Is that Michael?]
"Yes, Your Majesty. Speak."
Michael replied calmly, eyeing the translucent orb. The emperor contacting him directly like this was rare. It meant he was deeply anxious.
And Michael knew exactly what had the emperor so worked up.
[Did you speak with the lady?]
"Well, that is…."
Telling the truth would disappoint the expectant emperor greatly. But lying was out of the question.
As Michael hesitated, mumbling, the emperor's voice sharpened with anger.
[What's wrong?]
"The lady…."
Her cold tone lingered in his ears. Could he win her back now? The pathetic sight of himself, unable to muster a proper word, flashed in his mind.
Praised as the empire's crown prince his whole life, strip away his background and he was just an ordinary man.
Perhaps Abigail had seen through his inadequacy and lost all affection.
Michael sighed unwittingly.
"It didn't go well. My apologies."
[Hah, how are we to handle this…?]
Hearing the emperor's sigh, Michael's spirits sank further. He'd spent his life watching the emperor's mood, desperate not to disappoint.
The emperor wanted him to surpass him in talent and ability—to reform the empire.
To achieve what he couldn't. That wish had always weighed on Michael's shoulders.
Not a day passed without effort to be the perfect son and crown prince.
At five, he'd met Abigail; at fourteen, become engaged to her.
The emperor had been overjoyed at the betrothal—a rare sight.
It had been Abigail pushing for it entirely. In other words, Michael's value came bundled with her.
Now, with her interest gone, he had none left.
[The duke has summoned the northern nobles. Something's afoot—the situation looks grave.]
"Isn't it for the Magic Festival?"
[You think he'd call in all those high nobles for a yearly event?]
The emperor had always distrusted the duke. The nobles visiting for this festival were all major northern powers. Even the Magic Tower Master. It was stressing the emperor to the brink.
[So secure the lady at all costs. The festival hasn't ended yet—turn her heart however you must!]
"But…."
[I'm counting on you.]
Michael sighed at the abruptly severed communication, staring at the orb.
Exhausted, he rubbed his eyes slowly.
If the emperor wished it, he'd obey. But his chest felt so constricted.
Standing, he approached the window. Outside was dark and still.
He gazed out quietly. Late hour, few people about, serene.
As an honored guest on a high floor, but he could easily descend barehanded.
Gathering a few items, Michael hurled himself out the window.