First (6)
First (6)
The room reeked of hard liquor, blood, and stale cigarette smoke.
Levina had always loathed smells like this. Anything unkempt, uncontrolled, ugly, and filthy.
Her gaze was fixed on the half-brother sprawled across the bed like discarded rags.
He lay there motionless, caked in blood and grime. A faint breath, too ragged to tell whether it came in rhythm or not, was the only thing breaking the silence.
Ravin was the sum of everything she despised.
But the feeling filling her mind now wasn't her usual contempt or revulsion. It was something dull and aching that she couldn't explain. The sensation was unfamiliar and deeply unpleasant.
Levina rose from her chair. Her shoe nudged an empty bottle lying on the floor.
Rattle.
The glass rolled across the floorboards, a hollow sound echoing through the bare room.
She ignored it and stepped closer to the bed where Ravin lay. Up close, he looked even worse. Split lips, swollen cheeks, dark bruises visible through the gashes in his uniform.
'The family disgrace has gotten himself into trouble again.'
Normally, that was what she would have thought. It was the most logical, convenient conclusion.
From the start of the term, he had challenged a commoner named Kyle—a mere second seat—to a duel over some petty nonsense, suffered a humiliating defeat, and made the Edelgard name a laughingstock. Throughout his time at the Academy, he had done nothing but pile up notoriety, run with thugs, and stir up chaos. Days ago, he had abused the family's influence to storm the Forbidden Archive and gotten himself implicated in a summoning incident. A hopeless imbecile.
Levina knew the truth—Ravin had merely entered the Forbidden Archive and bore no responsibility for the disaster that followed. But aside from their father, she had told no one. She saw no reason to. Truth or not, Ravin stood at the center of every storm. That alone made him deserving of blame.
Levina let herself think that and moved on. By inertia, the way she always did.
In any case, she had come today to deliver their father's final judgment. A sentence: 'Even if he insists on staying at the Academy, he is to be expelled immediately. All support from House Edelgard will be cut off, and he will be disowned.'
She planned to relay that, and then sever this miserable farce for good. She wanted him gone.
Every attempt to help him only made things worse. Whenever she scolded him, he would grovel through the moment, then turn around and pull the same stunts. She didn't want to call this bastard a brother. She didn't want to be called the sister of a degenerate.
She reached out. For a brief moment—just a moment—she hesitated.
Without thinking, she touched his bloodied lip, then brushed the cold sweat from his forehead. She recoiled as if burned.
Her hand stayed frozen in the air. It wasn't the filth that stopped her. She didn't know why, but she felt certain that if she left him like this, Ravin would die. Pure intuition, without any basis in logic.
Levina seriously wondered if she had lost her mind. An inexplicable sadness, guilt, and nausea churned inside her.
Her fingers hung in the air as if stopped by an invisible wall. In the end, she withdrew them, having done nothing.
She didn't want to clean this up herself. There was a simpler way: push it onto someone else. As she always did. Just as she had always used Ravin as a vessel for her frustrations, seizing on any pretext when she was in a foul mood—all while telling herself it was sincere counsel.
Levina had never understood why Ravin relied on alcohol, cigarettes, and likely even drugs. She had always dismissed it as weakness and a lack of will.
But now, she felt as though she understood, if only a little. She didn't want to be in this room sober.
* * *
When a villain meets a laughably miserable end or dies a dog's death, no one shines a spotlight on it afterward—not unless they intend to mock that wretched life further. Such deaths usually pass with a touch of levity and derision rather than grief. A fittingly pathetic end for a degenerate, or maybe just a chance to confirm that Serepina would never have to think of him again.
Judging by the agonizing pain, I guessed I hadn't died a laughingstock's death yet.
I was drifting through idle thoughts when a stranger's voice reached me.
"So the rumors were true. What a cesspool. Booze, cigarettes... ugh. Do you ever clean this room? It doesn't look like a person lives here. It's a goblin den."
It was a light, teasing voice.
A strange steadiness had settled over my body in place of the pain and intoxication. I felt a touch—neither hot nor cold, a pleasant warmth. The sensation was as though those hands were smoothing over the broken parts of me, easing them back into place.
"Usually, other noble brats in this state jump up screaming, 'How dare filth like you lay a hand on me?' But you're different, Young Master. Or maybe you got hit so hard you've just lost your mind?"
I opened my eyes slowly. My vision was a watery blur. Everything swam. I blinked several times until the focus started sharpening.
A woman was looking down at me, my head resting on her lap.
"......Estelle?"
It came out as a slurred murmur.
A small, pale face with silver hair in a neat braid. Eyes that turned up at the corners like a mischievous cat's, and lips that seemed ready to curl into a grin even when pressed shut. The Saintess, famed across the Empire for her benevolence and beauty—and the most heretical Saintess to ever hold the title.
"Oh? Wait, you know me, Young Master?"
She wore a simple white priest's robe, but she radiated nothing sacred. She had the air of a wandering minstrel from some roadside tavern.
"Is there anyone here who doesn't know you? You or me—there's not a person in this Academy who doesn't."
"Well, that's true. But you're known for the bad reasons. I'm known for the good ones."
Estelle giggled.
The sensation of light seeping into my body was an odd one.
"You're not like the rumors."
"...What part."
She'd barely looked at me. How could she already tell? I'd never listened to the rumors about myself, so I couldn't really guess.
"Hmm. The Ravin Edelgard from the rumors was more impatient, arrogant, and violent. A thoughtless thug, I suppose. So I was going to just leave you. But in person, you're just...."
She stared at me, about to say something, then shook her head and changed the subject.
"You just look really tired. Rough night?"
Maybe not the most tactful thing to say to someone who'd been unconscious until a moment ago.
"Anyway, I've healed most of your injuries, so you'll be fine. Your left ankle was twisted badly—it might ache for a few days. Still, I reset your broken nose, and you actually look better than I expected. Should I call you handsome? Not really my type, though."
She chattered on carelessly as she pulled her hands away from my face.
"Aren't you going to thank me? I know your fancy older sister already paid me generously, but basic manners are still a thing. Does the Edelgard family not teach those?"
I searched my memory. No, I was pretty sure they never had.
"They don't. Must be because I'm a lowly bastard."
At my answer, Estelle's eyes darted around, slightly flustered. She let out an awkward cough.
"Ah, well. Hm. That's... a pity. You're really honest, aren't you?"
She pulled a small apple from her robes, gave it a quick polish on her sleeve, and bit into it with a loud crunch that rang through the silent room.
"Want one? Best thing when you're feeling down."
She held out the apple, a bite already missing.
"Not really."
"Suit yourself. More for me."
She shrugged and took another bite. Her gaze swept the room again—the letters on the table, the bottles on the floor, and my face.
I reached for the crumpled cigarette pack on the table. Mercifully, there were still a few left. I lit one and looked at Estelle.
I did have a rough idea of the original story. Though years had blurred the details.
Serepina liked lilacs and receiving letters. Levina liked it when people were emotionally honest with her. And the Saintess before me was, quite charmingly, a chain-smoker much like myself.
Though a handful of trivial points undercut that charm. Usually, fascinating women have their secrets, but Estelle carried hers to excess.
"Come to think of it, I heard an interesting rumor."
Unfortunately, she was the real culprit behind the Forbidden Archive incident. Not that remembering it ever did me any good.
I had no way, no justification, to approach the esteemed Saintess about it. Even if I exposed her, no one would have believed the Saintess had done it.
"Didn't you get cleared? Ruled innocent, I mean?"
Instead of answering, I exhaled a long stream of smoke.
The smoke hit Estelle's face. She gave me a strange look.
Maybe if anyone else had said that, I would have been moved to tears and thrown my arms around them. But hearing it from the person who had let the monsters loose in the Forbidden Archive gave the whole thing a surreal feeling.
"Are you listening? This is the kind of story that could clear your name."
More like she had just stood by and let it happen. She had slipped into the Forbidden Archive and helped them summon the monster, but she hadn't done the actual summoning herself.
In the first place, demon worshippers couldn't just 'slip' into the Academy's Forbidden Archive unnoticed. Unless they bullied their way in by flaunting a noble family's name, like I had.
"It was you."
Estelle stopped mid-chew on her apple and looked at me. Her eyes narrowed with interest.
"Me? Why would I do that?"
"Who knows. I just felt like you did."
In that instant, Estelle's hand shot out like lightning and snatched the cigarette from my lips.
I just watched her, dazed. If I took a punch from that hand instead of Marcus's soft fists, my head wouldn't just burst—it would turn to pulp.
"How much do you know?"
The corners of her eyes curved softly as she looked at me. She brought the cigarette, still damp from a stranger's lips, to her own without a trace of hesitation. She took a deep drag, then blew the grey smoke right into my face.
"This tastes awful. Buy something more expensive next time, Young Master."
Her voice was light and cheerful, as if she were gossiping about a neighbor. The tone didn't match the weight of the subject at all.