How to Mend a Broken Heart, and... (1)
Whether the memory of nearly being consumed by demonic energy had left a scar on my mind, or whether the experiences—far too brutal for an ordinary bakery girl—had become trauma, or if the true price of my time-rewinding ability was not amnesia but mental collapse, I could not tell.
My capacity to figure it out had already shattered.
I locked the door and covered the windows with shutters.
In the room, dark as writhing demonic energy itself, I spent days sitting on the bed, trembling in terror. I could not even think of using magic to summon light. Sleep never came.
Opening the shutters would have let in sunlight or moonlight, but the mere thought of being seen by anyone outside filled me with dread. The pocket watch Professor Apryon had given me lay discarded in a drawer, untouched. Every time I looked at it, the image of Azalea dying and the people I had killed seemed to stare back at me from the glass.
Without sleeping, eating, or drinking, I drifted through what might have been two days, three, or far longer.
When hunger finally clawed past some of the fear, someone knocked twice on the door in silence and walked away. It must have been Mother.
I gathered what courage I had, opened the door, and found a basket of freshly baked bread, a little butter, and a bottle of water. Only after I took one bite and one sip did I recover enough focus to cast even the simplest illumination spell.
Whenever the bread grew stale, Mother must have replaced it with a new basket. It was always soft, as if it had just come from the oven.
Come to think of it, everyone used to say my body gave off this pleasant scent…
I had never noticed it myself. Even now, after days without bathing, shut inside this room, did that sweet aroma still cling to me?
With a fragment of reason returning, I leaned into the magical light and pulled out several books I had seen during my university days—texts on mental magic theory and application.
I sat at the desk Father had bought me as a university entrance gift, a desk I had barely used because the academy required boarding. I opened the tomes on mental magic theory and spell construction, trying to invent a way to mend a shattered mind.
Days of futile research slipped past. I never saw sunlight. I never stepped outside. I wore only a ragged nightgown and relied on the dim glow of magical light.
Anyone watching would have called it nonsense research. I was driven only by desperation; the rational mind required for proper magical study, development, and experimentation had been torn to pieces.
I scribbled theories in the margins with charcoal, forcing formulas together to create spells, ripping pages from innocent grimoires for pointless empirical tests. The resulting incantations possessed such bizarre logic that even a freshman at the Magic Academy would have spotted the errors instantly.
After forcing my way through these sham rituals, nothing ever happened. The moment I confirmed the failure, I would sometimes curl up on the chair hugging my knees, sometimes fling myself onto the bed and bury my face in the pillow, sobbing.
…I think I laughed sometimes, too. I do not know why.
I knew. If I continued like this, I would go mad. Perhaps I already had.
I lived that way for a long time. I did not count the days or the months. Since I kept the windows sealed, I could not have counted them even if I wanted to. And even if I had opened them, my broken mind would not have remembered how many nights and days had passed.
I could not recall the last time I had taken out my precious pocket watch. Since I had not wound it in so long, it must have stopped long ago, yet I could not even bring the image of it to mind.
And then Azalea came.
That day, a commotion rose outside the door. I heard Mother pleading earnestly, and a lively voice answering that the matter was urgent, that she would take responsibility, that Mother should leave it to her.
Warm, familiar light leaked through the gap in the locked door.
Soon came a clatter, and the lock fell onto the wooden floor. It had been cut cleanly in two. The pure white light radiating from the severed surface slowly cooled and took on a reddish hue.
The door opened.
I sat at the desk cluttered with magic books, feet propped on the chair, arms wrapped around my knees, and stared blankly at the door that had remained closed for so long and at the overwhelming light pouring through it.
“Kaira!!”
A voice as warm as midday sunlight—almost too bright, almost too hot—rang out.
“Lady Azalea…”
The Saint’s name. Those were the first words identifying another person that had left my lips in months.
Azalea forced her way into my room, sat on my bed as though it belonged to her, and began speaking freely.
“Wow, our Kaira. In the three months since I last saw you, you’ve turned into a proper eccentric wizard. I loved how you always showed those fresh, adorable reactions when we traveled together, but you’ve gone completely bad. What a shame.”
She sniffed a few times, then added with a bright smile.
“You’ve grown a little gaunt, but you’re still our Kaira. Still cute and pretty. And you still smell wonderful—like pleasant bread that has been carefully baked, immediately blessed, and stored in a sanctuary.”
With her characteristic honest impressions as an opening, Azalea launched into an endless stream of updates I had not asked for. I sat on the chair like an empty shell, listening in silence without a single response.
“…So, Kaira, I’d like you to get ready soon.”
“Yes…? Ah…?”
Too much information had flooded in at once; I had missed most of what she said. Seeing my vacant, foolish expression, Azalea patiently repeated the important part.
“I told you. The inquisitors sent by the church had been secretly observing you. Rumors have spread that your abnormal behavior after shutting yourself away for months might be the result of corruption by the Demon King’s fall. It is not the mainstream view, but some are even speculating wildly that you might be the next Demon King candidate.”
Azalea smiled with pity. I did the same.
“It is nothing but groundless speculation with neither evidence nor supporters. I, of course, believe in you, and I came in person to confirm that there is no demonic energy within you. But my testimony alone may not be enough, so I am asking you to accompany me to the church’s direct territory.”
“Will I… be tortured?”
I asked with an empty face.
“Of course not! We can tell at a glance. We only need to show your face at the church headquarters once. Well… perhaps your body as well.”
Azalea answered brightly. I understood. That was not the whole reason she had come. She had heard the rumors about me… and had come to save me, somehow, from these horrible days.
With unsteady steps I walked to the wardrobe. I opened it weakly. Inside, wizard’s robes and a hat lay scattered. With lifeless movements I pulled out an outer garment and put it on clumsily.
“Kaira. You cannot go out in just your nightgown and slippers with that on top.”
Mother’s gentle voice drifted from beyond the door.
“I bought you many new clothes while you were like this. Why don’t you wear one of them?”
I put on all the new clothes Mother had collected—the light travel shirts and skirts, the brand-new lambskin boots I had never worn, the wizard’s robe and hat I had not touched in so long, and finally the elven shortsword Mervin had given me. Then I climbed into the carriage Azalea had prepared.
I still did not know.
Whether the sunlight I had not seen in so long, the outside world I stepped into after months of isolation, and the journey to the heart of the church could mend a heart that had lost all will to live beneath the weight of power and memory.
Yet even with my shattered, empty heart, I could easily tell how hard Azalea had tried. In the carriage to the church, she had chattered without rest for days, pouring her strength into loosening the knots inside me.
The journey to the church took several days, but the judgment lasted only seconds.
A few high-ranking clergy scanned my face and my naked body several times, and that was all. It was slightly embarrassing to bare myself, but nothing more.
The result was obvious. There was, of course, no trace of demonic energy.
After I had dressed again and waited bored in the corridor for a long while—long enough to begin muttering old incantations from my academy days—Azalea finally reappeared.
“Kaira. Returning straight to the imperial capital would be fine, but I have a suggestion.”
I stared at her face blankly, wondering what she could mean.
“They say there is not a single wizard in the capital of the imperial count’s domain adjacent to the church’s direct territory. The count learned yesterday from his guards that you had passed through his lands. He has requested that you stay in the county capital and serve as an advisor. He will set up a magic workshop, a clinic—whatever you wish. What do you think?”
I believed the count’s offer was only the surface. This was a proposal from the church, spoken through Azalea’s mouth. They had not fully dispelled their suspicions and intended to keep me close for continued observation.
At first I wanted to refuse. My parents were waiting. The distance was more than five days by carriage, hardly close to the imperial capital.
But…
After long deliberation, I accepted. I was afraid that if I returned home I would simply lock myself in my room again.
Thanks to Azalea’s consideration, I was able to write a letter stating that I had found a new position in Valdenheim County on the southwestern frontier of the empire and send it to my parents through a church courier. That was all I needed to do in the church’s territory.
I headed straight for Valdenheim County, leaving a visibly disappointed Azalea behind.
Despite the vast difference in status, the count welcomed me warmly.
It was probably a calculated welcome simply because he needed a wizard, yet it still felt as though my broken heart loosened a little. I was grateful for the home he provided. And so I opened a magic tool shop in the village beneath the count’s castle in Valdenheim.
I promised to advise the count whenever magical assistance was required and to teach basic logic and geometry to his children or those of his vassals.
Even calling it a magic tool shop was generous; with my abilities I could not create anything remarkable. I mostly enchanted everyday items.
For example, farming tools reinforced with magic. By adapting Veltara’s Transparent Shield, I made them resistant to breaking. The enchantment would eventually peel away after tilling a few fields, but it was better than nothing. Or hammers adjusted so they would never miss their mark. The magic faded after a month or so. Still, it was enough.
The people of the county, seeing magic for the first time, were delighted even with these crude beginner’s tools. They returned often to have the spells renewed.
In truth, however, most customers came not for new enchantments or tools but to repair broken objects. I could fix what no one else could.
Items that looked as though a regular craftsman could mend them with a little effort I sent to the blacksmith or carpenter. I did not want to ruin the village smith’s or woodworker’s livelihood. I accepted only things their hands could not easily restore—shattered ceramics, precious family heirlooms, objects broken beyond ordinary repair.
Customers believed I used some simple magic to restore old items. No such spell existed, of course. I was simply using the ability granted to me in this life more freely than ever before.
Some visitors ignored repairs and tools entirely. They came only to stand inside the shop, breathe deeply a few times, and leave. They said the scent gave them strength, like chewing on a firm piece of bread early in the morning before heading to the fields.
When I first heard that, I smiled awkwardly, but I did not stop them. If my presence could give others strength in even that small way, I was glad.
It was fortunate.
That I could still turn back the time of objects.
And that, thanks to the people of Valdenheim, I could slowly begin to mend my own broken heart as well.