SN Chapter 13

Rosaline was not even iron in silk—to all outward appearances, she was simply soft.

When the lower knights she was grouped with said unpleasant things, she absorbed them without a word. When they played strange tricks or picked fights, she did not so much as think to report them to a superior. Her promotion had changed nothing. She showed no inclination to press others down with her rank, and for remarks that would have had any other senior knight reaching for punishments long since, she merely looked. Her sharp eyes were somewhat threatening, it was true—but the man knew better. That was simply how Rosaline had always looked.

Nestor of Seacrag. The blond man was the second son of Count Seacrag. He had entered the White Night Order as a trainee knight at the same time as Rosaline, bound together under the name of cohort. In Nestor's estimation, Rosaline was the textbook female knight: insufficient swordsmanship, compensated for by brains. For tactics, after all, one could simply keep a decent strategist nearby—and wasn't swordsmanship what truly mattered for a knight? Nestor fed his self-esteem by comparing himself to her at every turn.

But from the day Rosaline was promoted to lower knight before him, his pride had gone and crumpled.

He had been promoted to lower knight soon enough himself. But whether a day or two, the fact that she was ahead was intolerable.

And now she had been promoted all the way to senior knight on top of it. It was a moment that made him question the judgment of the Knight Captain he had so deeply admired. Watching the prince conduct her investiture ceremony in person, something blazed up in his gut. Trading complaints with the lower knights who harbored ill feeling toward Rosaline, mocking every little thing about her—that had worn thin after a day or two as well. He'd been starting to think he was the one who looked ridiculous when he saw it.

Rosaline was endlessly repeating the most basic sword forms—the ones children from knight families drilled at age eight. Several times slower than they were normally performed, at that.

How could anyone be this thoroughly inadequate. A skill level that simply made you want to laugh.

'She made senior knight with that?'

Nestor laughed.

There were no senior knights who lost to lower knights. Nor were there any women among the senior knights to begin with—they were all battle-hardened veterans. This was not a position that could be entered by a woman who was merely somewhat clever. Nestor resolved that he himself would have to make her feel the difference in her very bones.

"Seeing as we once watched each other's backs—won't you teach me a thing or two, Dame Rosaline."

The lower knights standing behind Nestor were visibly barely swallowing their laughter.

Rosaline watched them all.

'What was she supposed to do in a case like this. In a case like this......'

'There are still some who are blinded by jealousy and forget their place.'

'They'll definitely make an issue of Sister's weak swordsmanship.'

Words from Kallix's mouth, after their fifth sparring match. He had been kneeling on the training ground floor, dragging in rough, ragged breaths—Rosaline's sword casting a cold light at his left nape. He let out a few hollow laughs as if at his own expense, then turned a mischievous look toward her.

'Whether it's swords or fists—give them whatever they want.'

Rosaline retrieved a few keywords from memory. 'Give them what they want.' And what else had he said?

'So they can never crawl back up again.'

Ah. Right. 'So they can never crawl back up again.'

Rosaline nodded.

Nestor shuddered, a sudden chill washing over him.

Watching Rosaline nod, Nestor curled one corner of his mouth into a smile. A puppy born yesterday feared no tiger—did she imagine that her swordsmanship had simply risen along with her rank?

"Let's do this properly, with witnesses present. One can't know what might happen during a sparring match, after all."

"Understood."

"Sir Claude, Sir Bastian. If you please."

Two knights from the group behind Nestor stepped forward. The conditions were read aloud to Rosaline by two unfamiliar faces: no hidden weapons; combined sword and fist combat; to continue until one party declared surrender; no liability between them for anything that transpired.

Under the witnessing of the two lower knights, preparations were made.

By the time Rosaline was retying her disheveled hair, people had begun arriving one by one. They had evidently come to practice, only to find their eyes caught by the unexpected scene. Watching the two face off with witnesses present, like a proper duel, everyone looked on with evident pleasure. The much-talked-about senior knight Rosaline. And Nestor of Seacrag—lower knight, certainly, but said to have considerable sword skill. The outcome was as clear as looking into a flame.

Whether word had spread in short order, trainee knights and lower knights alike had surrounded the training ground. Here and there, senior knights were mixed among them. Nestor laughed inwardly. Things were unfolding exactly as he'd intended. The more people watching, the easier it would be to pull Rosaline down.

He studied her with gleaming eyes. Fine, loose black hair. Tall, for a woman. Her appearance—too commonplace to be called beautiful—was dragged down further still by those sharp eyes. She was warming up with no particular reaction to the commotion around her. Worried about stray fragments from a breaking blade, the spectators spread themselves a little further apart.

Rosaline and Nestor drew their swords. The sound of blades leaving their scabbards rang through the training ground. Both raised their swords before their faces, then leveled the tips toward each other. The contrast between the thin, narrow blade and the large, broad one was stark.

With a small sound—ching—the match began.

Swift. Decisive.

Nestor's sword cleaved the air. A brute force that seemed capable of snapping her blade directed itself at her sword.

Ching!

Metal rang on metal—and then the sword leapt high into the sky.

It wheeled and spun through the air, sunlight sparkling and scattering from the blade. It seemed to hang there a moment—then embedded itself in the training ground floor with a thud.

The knights began to stir.

Dropping your sword was something not even trainee knights did. It was an extremely shameful thing.

Nestor's face went blotchy red.

The one who had dropped the sword was not Rosaline.

Nestor's hand was trembling. The hand that had taken a tremendous shock in a single instant was shaking beyond his control. It was as if he'd swung his sword against a stone wall.

'What is this? What in the world just happened—to me, to her? What did I just do?'

He looked to Rosaline. Her green eyes looked back.

Nestor grasped the current state of affairs.

"Wh—what is this—!"

He turned to look at the colleagues standing as witnesses. Claude and Bastian's eyes had gone wide.

Under Nestor's sharp gaze, both men shook their heads vigorously. No hidden weapons. No tricks. Reading this, Nestor became even more confused. He stood there blankly. A voice without inflection reached him.

"Did you learn well—that lesson?"

Nestor's face reddened as if about to burst. He could feel the countless knights surrounding the training ground beginning to stir. He ground his teeth.

'Lucky—she must have gotten lucky somehow, caught the balance of force. To be so insufferably triumphant about just that.'

"......I'd like to request a little more."

"Understood."

Rosaline nodded and sheathed her sword.

?

She said understood—so why was she sheathing it? His question was soon answered. She had untied the scabbard from her waist and thrown it far away.

While he stood there dumbfounded, Rosaline clenched her fists and took a fighting stance.

'She wants to fight unarmed now? Is that woman out of her mind?' Weight class aside, the difference in strength between a woman and a man was so great one might as well call them different species. She, who had become a knight in a woman's body and should feel this truth more keenly than anyone, was now flashing her eyes at him from over her fists.

In Nestor's estimation, Rosaline was simply a human much shorter and leaner than himself.

From that body of hers, something rose in soft, rounded billows.

Nestor had seen war. He knew what this was.

Pressure.

His own instincts were genuinely warning him about this woman. The smile from the beginning of the match had long since left him. Nestor settled into a fighting stance, just as she had. The watching knights swallowed hard at the tension flowing between the two.

The wind stirred. On the cooling air, a single leaf drifted through and crossed the space between them.

It was the same color as Rosaline's irises.

That was the last thing Nestor remembered.

The incident at the hunting competition had drastically reduced the White Night Order's personnel. Hurried investiture ceremonies had filled the empty positions since, but returning to normal operations would still require considerable time.

At present, there was sufficient staff to guard the Second Prince's castle. The problem was that there were not many with the actual skill required to stand at the side of Second Prince Rikardis. Before, they had covered him in three shifts without gaps; now they were barely managing even the minimum of two. It was a time when the new senior knights needed to grow, and quickly.

Raymond was in the middle of reviewing the training performance reports he had received from each squad when Vice-Captain Nathan, who had stepped out briefly, came in wearing a dazed expression and dropped into his chair.

Raymond asked without lifting his eyes from the documents.

"Is something the matter, Vice-Captain?"

"Dame Rosaline of Redwheel is being assigned to Second Prince Rikardis's personal escort."

"Y—"

"Dame Rosaline of Redwheel is being assigned to Second Prince Rikardis's personal escort."

"I beg—" Raymond's voice stalled and restarted. "No! I am not begging anything—I heard you the first time! No, no, no—what are you suddenly saying? Didn't I tell you that Dame Rosaline is currently very—her heart and...... her mind—didn't I say she is very much unwell!"