The Name on Her Lips
When I touched the tip of my nose, fresh blood came away smeared across my fingertip.
“Huh? What… why…?”
As I stood staring blankly down at my bloody hand, Celly let out a startled cry.
“Oh no, what do I do! Butler! H-here, take my handkerchief! Use this, please!”
Waaah! Celly burst into tears as she thrust her own handkerchief into my hands.
Trying to reassure her, I pressed the handkerchief to my nose.
“It's all right, Celly. Calm down. Nobody dies from a little nosebleed—”
Before I could even finish saying that nobody dies from a little nosebleed, my head began to spin.
Wha…?
What's going on…?
My reassuring words had been wasted effort — the scenery around me was blurring fast. I shook my head lightly from side to side, trying to force my mind back into focus.
Then the strength drained from my legs as well. It felt as though something were surging up from the ground, winding around my body and dragging me down.
Why is this happening…?
I'm going to collapse at this rate—!
That was my last thought before I toppled straight onto the dirt of the garden. There, my memory cut off clean.
Kadrian's bedchamber.
Kadrian gazed down at Freya, who lay moaning weakly in his bed, her face drained paper-white.
Gritting his teeth, he turned to Lanners, the family physician standing behind him, and asked, “What happened to her?”
At that voice, lower and colder than usual, Lanners — personal physician to the Grand Ducal House though he was — felt his shoulders flinch.
“Th-that is, there doesn't seem to be any particular cause—”
“No cause? You mean to tell me she bled all over the place and collapsed right in front of everyone, for no reason? How can there be no reason!”
Under that thunderous fury, Lanners's hands trembled uncontrollably.
Rumors had always painted the Grand Duke as a cruel man, yet in the decades he had served as Kadrian's physician, he had never once witnessed such a side of him. But today, for the first time, he understood just how the Grand Duke changed when truly angered. So this was the legendary, blade-cold wrath he'd only ever heard about.
After swallowing dryly several times, Lanners finally managed to force out an answer.
“I-I believe it may be accumulated fatigue, my lord.”
What? Kadrian turned to stare at him.
“Fatigue? Are you telling me a person vomits blood and loses consciousness over mere fatigue?”
Hm? Vomits blood? Lanners tilted his head slightly as he looked at Freya lying there.
Wasn't it a nosebleed she had?
Calling it vomiting blood seemed a bit of a stretch…
But even if the Grand Duke was exaggerating a little, the phrase mere fatigue clearly needed correcting.
Lanners swallowed hard and stole a careful glance at Kadrian's face.
“M-my lord. They say fatigue is the root of all illness. I may not know every detail of Miss Freya's schedule, but that she has been cutting into her sleep to keep up with the Grand Ducal estate's work — that much everyone in this house knows.”
“……”
Freya barely managed a single hour of true sleep each day. She rose earlier than anyone and went to bed later than anyone.
When it came to matters concerning the Grand Ducal estate, she likely knew more than anyone else within its walls.
“And once the estate work is done, she goes straight into sword training, doesn't she?”
When Lanners had learned of this, he had even gone to Freya himself and begged her to stop.
If she didn't rest properly, he'd warned, her body would eventually break down.
Instead, Freya had only driven herself harder, training with greater and greater severity. She was like someone being chased by something — or perhaps like someone chasing after something.
Having lost her memories, knowing no one, forced to live under constant watch inside this estate — how much must that have weighed on her heart?
Lanners always felt a pang of sorrow watching Freya lash herself so mercilessly. It reminded him of the daughter he had lost too soon.
Perhaps that was why her figure struck him as so heartbreakingly pitiable. No doubt most of the household's employees felt much the same as he did.
Lanners lowered his eyes and spoke.
“My lord… I believe all of this is Miss Freya's way of fighting to survive in this place they call the Butler's Graveyard.”
No ordinary person, absolutely none, could carry on like this as if it were nothing.
He bowed his head as he added, “However great her aura may be, pushing the body this hard is a trial even for knights trained over many long years.”
Freya's punishing schedule had continued for two full years now, from her days as a maid up to this very moment.
Two whole years of a regimen that would break most people within a week — a month, even.
If no one stopped her now, this was a woman who would surely go on living this way forever.
Lanners turned his gaze toward Freya. Deep regret welled in his eyes.
“…The fact that she has held out this long is nothing short of a miracle… my lord.”
Determined to leave nothing unsaid and regret nothing later, Lanners poured out everything he had felt watching Freya all this time.
Even if I draw his wrath, so be it.
Saving the girl came first.
Miss Freya may not listen to me, but if the Grand Duke himself steps in, perhaps she'll start taking better care of herself.
Head bowed, Lanners squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
How much time had passed?
At long last, the Grand Duke, who had remained silent for an age, opened his mouth.
“Lanners.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Prepare the medicine the butler needs and bring it up.”
“…I beg your pardon?”
At the Grand Duke's calm voice — a far cry from the scolding Lanners had braced himself for — the physician's head shot up.
The Grand Duke was seated in the chair beside the bed, quietly watching over Freya.
“From now on, you will answer for the butler's health.”
“M-me, my lord?”
“Yes. Attend to her exactly as you attend to me.”
“……”
Lanners's eyes widened slightly. Then he bowed his head deeply and answered, “I shall carry out your orders, my lord.”
“Prepare the medicine at once so she can recover her strength.”
“At once, my lord!”
Lanners hurried out of the room. With even the physician gone, the bedchamber sank into an even deeper stillness.
Only the faint, pained whimpers of Freya, still struggling back toward consciousness, could be heard.
Kadrian opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was so much he wanted to say, yet the moment he tried to speak, the words caught in his throat.
Instead, he gently laid his own hand over Freya's, which rested atop the covers.
It was a small, delicate hand.
“For all that you eat… how are you still—”
Why are you so small?
Kadrian frowned and murmured under his breath. Then, suddenly, he recalled the words Lanners had poured out only a short while ago.
“I believe all of this is Miss Freya's way of fighting to survive in this place they call the Butler's Graveyard.”
He had known. He watched her every day — how could he not?
And yet, knowing, he had pretended not to.
Part of him had hoped she would crumple and break under the strain. Part of him had hoped that, running wild and alone like that, her true nature would finally show itself.
But Freya had endured, and endured again, and in the end she had collapsed.
Whether this counted as breaking under the strain, he couldn't say.
The very situation he had wished for had finally arrived — so why did his heart feel like this?
Before she lost her memories, and after — either way…
Freya was the only person who ever disturbed Kadrian's peace.
Just then—
Freya's eyelids quivered, then slowly lifted. The blue eyes beneath them surveyed the room for a moment, found Kadrian, and brightened with relief. Then her gaze softened into a gentle curve.
“Kadrian…”
“……”
Freya wrapped her fingers tightly around his index finger and, as though reassured by that alone, closed her eyes once more.
The pained moans subsided, and her breathing grew steadier than before.
Kadrian's violet eyes wavered, just for an instant.
He gazed quietly down at Freya's sleeping face, his finger still held captive in her grip.
There it is again…
The way she called him by name. The habit of clutching his index finger. In both, he kept glimpsing the Freya of their childhood.
It had been the same on the day of the great nobles' assembly. That day, too, Freya had lost consciousness and collapsed.
And she had muttered something then, like sleep-talk.
“Kadrian! You idiot!”
Even out of her mind, that scolding had rung out loud enough to shake the room.
It had truly felt as though the Freya of their childhood had come back to life. Just like now.
There were no reports of her losing consciousness while I was away on campaign.
Which meant…
Could it be that these blackouts, like the one just now, are what happens as her memories return?
Kadrian shook his head.
He had threatened and pressed her to recover her memories as quickly as possible — but that didn't mean he wanted her collapsing every time she did.
Maybe it would be better if she never remembered anything at all.
Returning to House Flanker would only drag her back into factional strife. Wouldn't it be better for her to live in peace, even if she never recalled a thing?
Kadrian sank into thought as he looked down at Freya, still clinging tight to his finger.
A short while passed like that.
“Ugh… ahh…”
Suddenly, Freya let out a pained groan.
“Freya…”
Kadrian picked up a damp cloth and wiped the sweat streaming down her face.
At that very moment, the grip on his index finger tightened fiercely.
And then, through a voice crushed and strangled, she chewed out a single name.
“Serhin…!”
Serhin?
Kadrian's eyes narrowed to slits.