SN Chapter 29

Rosaline smiled—warm and easy. Yes, she answered. And added that lately she'd grown quite partial to tarts and cakes with seasonal fruit as well.

Kallix let the stoic line of his face break. He smiled, and said he understood.

"You're a good boy, Cal."

The words came from his sister's mouth as she swung their joined hands with bright, delighted energy—back and forth, back and forth. Words that stung deep and healed the wound in the same instant. A haunting resonance of everything he had been missing.

Hff—hff—hff!

Her heart felt ready to burst. Even mid-sprint she could smell the blood from her own body—the scent thick enough, even without the searing pain in her back, to estimate the wound's depth.

'......'

'He didn't see my—' The rain had made wearing the cloak natural—she was grateful for that. A plain pattern, the kind shared by all knight orders without distinction. That alone wouldn't be enough to identify who she was.

The sound of pursuit reached her from far behind. Goosebumps swept up the back of her neck and the color left her face. She barely managed to pull her shaking body together.

'I have to think clearly. Cannot return to camp. If I return to the White Night to survive, it could endanger—but I have to warn them. I have to—I must warn them! I need to think. A way to protect h—'

!

Mid-sprint, the ground vanished beneath her feet.

A dark night, and the cliff hidden by undergrowth—she hadn't seen it. She nearly screamed, but bit down on her lip and swallowed it. The taste of blood spread thick and sticky in her mouth.

One moment of floating in black nothing.

Krrunnch.

The sound of bones breaking. Her whole body was shaking before she could register the pain. Her mind wouldn't work properly—the impact, perhaps. A heavy death pressed down on her entire body.

Sound began to go. Color began to go.

"Ah........."

Her vision flickered.

!

Leaves dyed in darkness filled her vision.

Rosaline drew in a breath—deep, sharp. The cold evening air reached down to the bottom of her lungs. She had woken from the dream, but the sensation of being crushed remained in her body. Perhaps because where she sat now so closely resembled the environment of the dream. The fresh night air felt strange—where the smell of blood should have been.

She looked around.

A dim night. She was, as always, guarding from the tree before the balcony of Rikardis's room. It seemed she had fallen briefly into a light sleep—she had kept herself on high alert for days, for weeks, and the vigilance had lapsed.

She looked toward Rikardis's room. Candlelight flickered through the window. The candle's length had not changed significantly. Not much time had passed. In that short interval, she had dreamed a long dream.

Someone's memory.

The 'I' in the dream had fled. The pain from the back had been enough to know the wound had come before the running. Someone had been pursuing—the 'I' had run until she could run no farther. A steady drizzle. Wet soil. The smell of grass and branches brushing past. All of it vivid with the clarity of something truly experienced. The pain in the back, the landscape before her eyes—indistinguishable from reality. The vividness of something she had actually lived through.

'It' understood.

'Rosaline......'

Rosaline's memory.

She hadn't seen whoever had been pursuing her. But she could tell that the 'I' who had been fleeing had been shaking with fear.

A Dark Moon assassin? No. If it had been an assassin, Rosaline would have drawn her sword rather than fled. That had been her duty as a knight. Which was precisely why it made no sense. She did not know what else Rosaline would have been afraid of.

A heart hammering in her chest. Shallow scratches forming one by one as branches caught and drew past. The moon buried behind rain clouds. Darkness settled over a forest as deep and dark as the inside of a monster's mouth. The footsteps of an unknown pursuer behind her—

trampling and snapping branches,

advancing terrifyingly fast.

Who had it been.

What had it been.

The delegation departing from Tigaard, the capital of Illavénia, carried about it an air of solemnity.

Knights armored in gleaming plate and full equipment. Herds of white horses passing with manes streaming. The banners of the White Night Order rising high enough to threaten the sky. And at the center of all that grandeur and intimidation, Rikardis rode in an ornate carriage.

Flowers and colorful scraps of paper rained down across the delegation's path. Women thrust themselves out of windows to throw handkerchiefs. A great roar rose up—such that an observer might have thought he was watching a hero return triumphant from a major battle.

The people of Illavénia paid no heed to Rikardis's furrowed expression. The atmosphere was more festive than any festival. They well knew: whenever Rikardis led the White Night Order on campaign, wherever it was, he always returned with good results.

Everyone understood the delegation's destination was Balta, and its purpose diplomatic relations, not war. Even so, it would be a journey no less important—and no less dangerous.

The filthy pack of dogs eyeing Idelabheim's nation. Dark Moon. Recent border battles had been frequent, and considerable unrest had stirred even among the common people. For a prince of noble blood to depart on such a long and treacherous road at such a time—how could anyone not send him off with everything they had?

The crowds packed every road from Diamond Castle to the edge of Tigaard.

Waaah—

The roar made Rikardis's brow furrow. He looked entirely displeased and dissatisfied with the noise. Itserion sighed heavily beside him. He had been in this state ever since First Prince Elpydion had paid a visit just before they left Diamond Castle.

'A long and dangerous journey ahead, it seems. I shall pray to Idelabheim for your safe return and await you, Rikardis.'

Elpydion's smirking face had been saying something entirely different from what his mouth produced. Of course Rikardis understood better than anyone what lay underneath—but he had smiled brilliantly in return.

'I shall do my utmost to bring you good news, Brother.'

I'll find every last scrap of proof you're in bed with Dark Moon and make you choke on it, you idiot. Whether that meaning had come through clearly, Elpydion's smirk had gone rigid. The two brothers had exchanged several more pleasantries after that, smiling the entire time.

Elpydion's words had been accurate—a dangerous road. The actual danger had not yet shown its shape. The crowd's cheers made him sink further. Several drifting scraps of paper stuck flat against Rikardis's face. His expression worsened. Itserion peeled the paper from his face.

"Oh dear, Your Highness—you must be warm?"

Itserion diligently fanned the air with his hand, working to soothe him.

The delegation consisted of Rikardis and the White Night Order. Knight-Captain Stas, serving as Count Autumngloam, and Kylo—second son of Marquis Azurelume and escort knight—were attending as the marquis's representative to assist with the delegation's affairs.

Beyond the White Night Order itself, the noble houses under Rikardis's banner had each dispatched several knights to accompany the delegation. All of them fell under what was called the Second Prince faction—with one exception.

Fifth Prince Diez of the Glacial Laurus. He had not been on the original roster, but at some point his name had appeared on the list. Grounds: he had previously cultivated a strategic rapport with Haqaev, First Prince of Balta, while abroad.

If one were to categorize him, Diez fell under Elpydion's people. But he had no ambition—his nature was gentle by disposition—and he had never actively involved himself in power struggles. He had simply lived quietly in one corner of the palace, drinking tea and reading books. The one who had dragged that Diez out to the front lines of this filthy political contest was certainly Elpydion. Of course it was unlikely that Diez had followed him in pursuit of material gain—the more probable scenario was simply that he was being used.

Even granting that Elpydion had joined hands with Dark Moon, that alliance would never be built on genuine trust. They would be hiding sharp teeth behind the pretense of mutual benefit. What that mutual benefit amounted to was, in all likelihood, his own death. And once they achieved the death of Illavénia's Second Prince, the time would come for the hunting dog to be tossed into the pot. Who would feast on whom remained to be seen.

There was no room for trust on a tightrope this precarious. As long as any danger remained, Elpydion would never set foot in Balta himself. That was why Diez was necessary. A disposable set of eyes who could die without consequence—who would serve as liaison to Haqaev in the meantime.

He hadn't thought Elpydion would see him off pleasantly. But the way he had attached Diez so openly—as if making a declaration—was suspicious in its obviousness. For all that, the options actually available to Rikardis, given that Diez was Elpydion's man, were not many. Simply survive, by whatever means necessary, as he always had. The first oath carved deepest in Rikardis.

He took a long breath and looked out the window. Several senior knights on escort duty came into view. Among them was the black-haired knight on horseback—gazing at the crowd with languid eyes, squinting against the glare of the sun, handkerchiefs and flower blooms clustered all over her hair. Every scrap of paper sailing toward Rikardis she batted away without hesitation—while appearing to give no thought whatsoever to her own state.

Rikardis smiled.

Several times he had survived because of that ridiculous-looking knight. She had pulled him from danger time and time again.

'Your Highness. I will surely protect you. You alone, Your Highness—I will... surely... even at the cost of my life......'

Rosaline was a flame quietly holding its breath. He had seen the embers flickering in her eyes. Her oath was not merely formal language, not the kind that would quickly die down.