Like Tending a Houseplant
Sent by the Dowager Duchess of Villemon? Lefonya knew a bitter factional feud raged within the family, but to think a grandmother would dispatch assassins to butcher her own flesh and blood.
Then these aren't my former brethren sent by the Pope to silence me?
Lefonya tracked the assassins' footwork with a practiced eye. In the shadows beneath the Holy Temple, she and the other captive children had been drilled to dispatch their marks in seconds and flee before the alarm could sound. Consequently, their blades were trained strictly on lethal vitals, instinctively scoping out lethal targets before striking.
Yet the men before her swung their blades with crude, singular malice, driven purely by the urge to slaughter.
They really aren't assassins from the Holy Temple. They're hired killers in the Dowager Duchess's pocket.
What stunned her far more was Rudeum's martial prowess.
Can a boy his age really move like that?
His handling of the assassins was ruthlessly efficient. Lefonya stood frozen, forgetting that she ought to cry out for help, her gaze transfixed on Rudeum's back.
Even without formal aristocratic schooling, she had absorbed the fundamental principle that a spirit contractor could never wield high-level swordsmanship in tandem with spirits. The strain placed upon a contractor escalated sharply with the rank and number of spirits summoned. Maintaining a high-ranking entity sapped so much mental fortitude that dual-wielding refined blade arts was considered an impossible feat.
Judging by its sheer scale, that silver wolf is at least a high-ranking spirit. How can he brandish a sword with such fluid precision while sustaining it?
Faded historical tomes spoke of legendary figures from antiquity—Spirit Knights whose spiritual aptitude was so profound that their contracted spirits accommodated them, allowing blade and elemental fury to flow as one. Legends claimed their dual mastery rendered them peerless across the continent, but that was ancient lore. Could Rudeum possess that long-lost gift?
"Whew."
Planting his boot firmly on the spine of the last fallen assassin, Rudeum let out a measured breath and sheathed his blade. The skirmish was settled cleanly without an ounce of wasted motion.
With a subtle flick of Rudeum's fingers, the silver wolf scooped the unconscious men into its jaws and bounded soundlessly through the open window, vanishing into the night. Even the cleanup was immaculate.
Once every trace of the assassins was purged, Rudeum casually pulled the window shut. The waiting room lapsed into profound silence, as if the violent clash had never transpired.
"Fonya. Did they scare you?"
Rudeum sank onto the sofa with easy grace, utterly unruffled.
At least I know he isn't my enemy. If he wanted me dead, he could have easily let their blades slip past him and claimed it was an accident.
Lefonya watched him sweep his jet-black hair from his brow.
Still, sparing my life doesn't automatically make him an ally.
Even after subduing three armed assassins, his complexion hadn't paled in the slightest.
"...This isn't your first time, is it?"
"Power struggles are filthy, ugly affairs, after all."
How could he sound so detached?
"Is there no one to stop her?"
"She disguises it as 'education,' so no one dares intervene. She claims that the rightful head of House Villemon must be capable of drawing steel under any circumstance, using that excuse to unleash assassins whenever and wherever she pleases."
"That makes no sense."
"Of course it doesn't."
Rudeum began to lift his arm, only to hitch slightly mid-motion.
Hm? What was that?
Catching the microscopic flinch, Lefonya pattered over to him.
"Roll up your sleeve."
"Hmm?"
"I said roll it up."
At her insistence, Rudeum pushed back the fabric of his right sleeve. A crimson bloom was spreading across the cloth where a blade must have grazed him moments earlier. Just as she thought—there was no way he could have clashed with three armed men entirely unscathed.
"It's fine. I'm ambidextrous."
"Uh-huh. Sure. Good for you," Lefonya muttered dismissively. "That needs treatment. Do you have any ointment here?"
"I can dress it myself."
"Ambidextrous or not, I'll do a better job than you. Do you have ointment or not?"
"I do."
Yielding meekly, Rudeum retrieved a jar of salve and clean bandages.
"You spread the ointment. I'll wrap the bandage," Lefonya said as she unrolled a length of linen.
Yet the boy who claimed to be ambidextrous shook his head instead of touching the jar.
"You apply it."
"...Didn't you just say you could do it alone?"
"My right arm is injured."
"You literally said you're ambidextrous."
"To be honest, I'm only clumsy with my left."
Rudeum propped his wounded arm on the sofa rest, offering a faint, playful smile.
Should I just call a servant and leave?
No, that wouldn't do. If rumors circulated that the young Duke of Villemon had been injured during his own succession gala and the daughter of Craitan simply abandoned him, it would only invite unwanted scrutiny.
Lefonya scooped a dab of salve onto her fingertips and carefully smoothed it over the laceration. Dressing wounds and wrapping splints had been routine for as long as she could remember; tending to her own injuries in isolation was second nature.
"Rudeum. Earlier, you said you needed me."
"Yeah."
"Why do you need me? Ah... don't tell me you're going to dodge that question too."
"I'm not that petty."
Rudeum quietly watched her tiny hands patting the ointment into place.
"It won't put me in danger, will it?"
"If it put you in danger, Fonya, I wouldn't have approached you in the first place."
Hearing him state so casually that he would never involve her in anything perilous brought a sudden, warm flutter to her chest.
"If we meet frequently, my standing solidifies while the Dowager Duchess's faction loses ground."
"You want to expand your influence through me?"
"Yes. Simply having you—the young lady of Craitan—by my side shifts the entire political balance."
Lefonya gave an understanding nod.
...So why do I feel so deflated?
He had claimed that he needed her, yet what he truly sought was not Lefonya, but the 'Lady of Craitan.'
As if sensing the subtle dip in her mood, Rudeum softly added, "To the world, it will look as though I'm desperately clinging to you in hopes of winning your favor. So you will come to no harm, Fonya."
"I don't need that," she muttered, the wind completely knocked out of her sails.
What is there to feel down about? Pull yourself together!
Giving her head a brisk shake, Lefonya picked up the linen to bind the cut. Bandaging was something she excelled at, so she intended to wrap it swiftly and take her leave.
However...
...Wait, this is weird.
The confidence on her face faltered into a bewildered tilt. Resting his chin in his palm, Rudeum watched her clumsy struggle before speaking up.
"Fonya. Are you certain you're better at this than I am?"
Her hands were simply too small. She couldn't muster enough leverage to pull the cloth taut, nor could her stubby fingers grip the roll properly, leaving the bandage hanging in loose, sagging loops. Lefonya stared at the unraveling mess, her golden eyes quivering in mortification.
"Ahem. ...Just do it yourself."
She moved to unwind the limp cloth, but Rudeum lifted his clumsily bound arm high into the air.
"I like it."
"What?"
He liked a bandage that was already sliding off his forearm?
"I really like it."
"...Have a physician treat it properly once the gala ends."
"No point. Even if I return to the manor, no one will treat me. The servants currently residing in the estate are too busy walking on eggshells around the Dowager Duchess."
His voice was terribly calm. Lefonya knew that expression intimately—the hollow look of someone who had learned to accept misery because there was simply no alternative. It was the face she had worn for most of her life.
"Is there... really no outsider who can help you?"
"Well, I don't attend the Academy."
Heirs to grand noble houses normally enrolled in the Imperial Academy early to begin their succession studies, yet Rudeum had been denied even that fundamental privilege.
"No tutors visit the estate, and my swordsmanship instruction was overseen by the Dowager Duchess's younger brother, so I quit long ago."
Observing the shifting shadows across Lefonya's face, Rudeum's eyes flashed with a sudden, keen light, like a cornered beast discovering an unexpected route of escape.
"Fonya. Do you feel sorry for me? Are you pitying me?"
Startled by how easily he had read her thoughts, Lefonya flinched. Who was she to pity anyone?
"Then do just that. Pity my miserable self and come check on me often. And whenever I'm hurt, you can patch me up."
"Can't someone else—"
"There is no one else."
Rudeum offered a quiet, unadorned smile.
"I told you, you're the only one I need, Fonya."
She couldn't bring herself to dismiss his plea. Surrounded entirely by the Dowager Duchess's sycophants, stalked by death every single day—it was a life where trust was an impossible luxury.
Maybe Rudeum truly sees me as the only person he can trust and lean on.
Since he had been the one to discover and report her presence in that abandoned shack, he had no reason to suspect her of colluding with the Dowager Duchess. Furthermore, merely conversing with the young lady of Craitan bolstered his authority enough to tie the Dowager Duchess's hands. It made sense that he deemed her indispensable.
"Come on. Just think of it as tending a houseplant. Have you ever grown a plant before, Fonya?"
"...No."
"It's easy. You just give it water when it's time, let it catch some sunlight, and let the breeze hit it now and then. That's all."
He was the young sovereign of House Villemon, the storied rivals of House Craitan, the Empire's foremost martial pillar. Now that his succession was formalized, the high-stakes political arena would revolve ceaselessly around him for months to come.
"You don't even have to look at it often. Just an occasional glance is enough."
Even so, wasn't this casting his dignity away a bit too far?
Lefonya subtly took a step back from him. "You shouldn't raise anything with a half-hearted attitude. The book said you have to prepare your heart before taking in any living creature."
"Prepare your heart for what...? Wait, do you actually think I'm a plant? I'm a human being."
Rudeum corrected her with utmost gravity.
He acts so meek and submissive on the surface, but who knows what he's really scheming?
He had no formal heir's schooling, no Academy credentials, and no personal tutors. Yet he had boldly orchestrated this grand succession gala to cement his position, cleverly inviting the lady of Craitan beforehand to prevent the Dowager Duchess from canceling it. He was navigating the matriarch's venom with razor-sharp cunning; he was far from a helpless fool.
"I have to head back now. If Pelens realizes I've vanished, he might level the entire estate."
Skillfully steering the subject away, Lefonya stood up.
"And Pelens seemed convinced that wolf spirit was an enemy. It's probably best you don't reveal that you summoned it."
"Right. Aside from you, Fonya, no one in the world knows I can summon spirits. I'd appreciate it if you kept it our secret."
Lefonya nodded and made her way toward the door, Rudeum falling naturally into step behind her.
"Fonya. Give some serious thought to keeping poor, pitiful me by your side."
"I'm still thinking about it."
"Just treat me like a plant and give it a try. How do you know it won't be easy?"
"The books clearly said you shouldn't take on a life lightly—"
"Then don't take it lightly. Just resolve to take responsibility for me until the very end."
Lefonya froze in her tracks.
Take responsibility until the very end?
How could she promise such a thing when she didn't even know how long she would remain a Craitan? Once the truth came to light and she faced Disownment, she would be stripped of the Craitan name. To Rudeum, who only needed the 'Lady of Craitan,' Lefonya herself would become utterly worthless.
"...We'll see."
Muttering an evasive reply, she forced her frozen feet forward.
Fortunately, the banquet hall remained completely intact.
Thank goodness. He actually kept his promise.
She let out a quiet sigh of relief.
"Fonya."
At the soft call from behind, she turned around. Rudeum had closed the distance without making a sound, standing mere inches away. Reaching out, he pressed a cool Green Gem into her palm.
"Whenever you want to see me, hold this and whisper my name. I'll come to you right away."
"......"
"I'll be waiting for your call. Reach for me anytime."
Whispering in a low, tender cadence, Rudeum gently cradled her hand and pressed a fleeting kiss to the back of her knuckles.
"Thank you for today, Fonya. I had a wonderful time."
With that parting farewell, Rudeum released her hand, as if silently affirming that he would respect her choices and await her answer.
Lefonya stared at him for a quiet beat before turning away.
"Fluffball!"
To her immense relief, she immediately crossed paths with Pelens, who had just returned. The moment he spotted her, he scooped her up into his arms in one sweeping embrace.
"Were you having fun?"
"Yeah. Did you finish your business without breaking any walls?"
"You told me not to break anything, so I behaved myself."
Beaming at his restraint, Lefonya reached out with her small hand and lightly patted Pelens's head.
Wait. That's my old habit with the little kids!
Back when she lived in the training quarters established by the Pope, her heart had often ached for the younger children destined to endure the same brutal training. Whenever they did well, she had habitually patted their heads in praise. Driven by muscle memory, she had just patted Pelens Craitan's head as if he were a toddler.
Her hand froze mid-air, her face stiffening in awkward dread. Pelens, too, wore a stunned expression, as if entirely unprepared for the gesture.
"Uh, um... Brother."
Worse, countless aristocrats were watching. An adoptee daring to pat the head of the second young master of House Craitan was a catastrophic breach of etiquette.
Just as Lefonya scrambled to stammer out an apology—
"Fluffball. Were you just praising me?"
Pelens's vibrant blue eyes lit up with unbridled joy. Grabbing her tiny hand, he pressed it right back down onto his silver hair.
"Why did you stop? Keep doing it as much as you want. I didn't smash a single pillar, so I deserve a massive reward, don't I?"
A collective gasp rippled through the surrounding nobles at his shameless indulgence. Yet Pelens paid them no mind, his gaze locked solely on Lefonya, his face practically glowing with pride.
He really doesn't care about what anyone thinks, does he?
The tension drained from Lefonya's small frame. Softening, she gently stroked the silver strands resting beneath her palm—locks that matched the color of her own, gliding silkily through her fingers.