Two of the four double beds that had originally been laid out on the floor were gone. The brown‑haired knight had already folded them up and stacked them by the unused fireplace, clearing out a whole new patch of space in an already not‑so‑small room.
Leif didn’t exactly object to sharing a room with a stranger—especially when that stranger was a very beautiful lady‑in‑waiting—but she still wasn’t used to sleeping in the same bed with anyone. So when the lady‑in‑waiting was summoned away by the little princess, Leif not only put away the extra two beds, she also dragged the remaining two to opposite sides of the room, as far apart as possible.
Only after doing all that did she finally plan to take advantage of this rare leisure to pull out a book and read. If she hadn’t heard the little princess calling for the lady‑in‑waiting just now, Leif might still be sitting under the oil lamp, slowly savoring each line until sleep overtook her.
But the lady‑in‑waiting’s actions just now had, without question, plucked the most dangerous string in the mind of a knight who always carried a blade.
The sudden flood of adrenaline brought Leif a moment of icy calm—the kind of calm that only comes before a storm. Her hand went to her scabbard. She turned her head and looked at the lady‑in‑waiting. That look was like a hunter drawing a bow on a tiger, gauging the precise point to loose the arrow.
Under the dim, yellow glow of the oil lamp, the lady‑in‑waiting’s fair face was hazy, as if half‑swallowed by darkness. Only those amber‑gold eyes shimmered with strange colors, making Leif, for an instant, wonder where the light in them was coming from.
The lady‑in‑waiting lowered her head, placed her hands on the knight’s waist, and in a tone soft as a murmur, called:
“Miss Knight…”
That gentle lilt was so terribly familiar.
At that, the brown‑haired knight hesitated no longer. In one motion she drew the chopping blade from its sheath. This blade had once been stained with the foul blood of monsters and strengthened with beast cores. Even in the not‑so‑bright chamber its edge flashed with a chill too sharp to face directly.
She let out a breath of a barely audible growl, raised the blade high, then brought it down hard. Her target was the lady‑in‑waiting’s slender neck that looked like it would snap at the slightest squeeze. She had no wish to alarm the princess. She wanted to end it in a single stroke.
“You evil dragon—”
There was a thud.
The lady‑in‑waiting collapsed, a trace of disbelief still frozen on her beautiful face.
Leif, however, looked even more stunned than she did. She stared at the blade in her hand—spotless, without a single drop of blood—then at the lady‑in‑waiting lying motionless on the floor, and frowned.
She bent down and tentatively touched the lady’s face, which had gone paper‑white from sheer fright. Then, lowering her gaze, Leif noticed the lady‑in‑waiting was still clutching a belt from a sleeping robe that had fallen to the floor when she hurried over.
That seemed to make one thing very clear: the woman had probably only been trying to help this careless knight tidy her clothing.
And instead…
Leif had scared her into fainting on the spot.
Just like those sheltered, timid noble ladies who’d never seen much of the world and could only faint when something frightened them.
Leif, thoroughly baffled, planted her blade into the carpet for support and slumped down. The lamp flame flickered strangely in her dark eyes. She ran a hand through her hair, her expression pure disbelief.
The lady‑in‑waiting was roused by the sting of smelling salts. The moment she opened her eyes she clutched her chest in panic. After staring blankly at Leif for a while, terror flooded her gaze. Her eyelids fluttered; she almost fainted again on the spot.
On the Deya Continent, many places regarded feminine frailty and timidity as virtues. In countless bards’ tales and knightly romances, the beauties were all like this: at the sight of the slightest impropriety, at the sound of any grim news, even at the mere thought of something indecent, they would swoon. A beauty’s weakness stirred a hero’s urge to protect. At the same time, many noble girls were taught: when faced with anything untimely or improper, the noblest response is simply to faint.
As a knight, one naturally had to keep a small vial of smelling salts on hand, so that when ladies inevitably collapsed, one could wake them promptly. Captain Hilton had just finished drumming this into Leif’s head.
Leif was profoundly grateful that the kind Captain Hilton had given her a vial of salts as a welcome gift; otherwise she could only have squatted there staring helplessly at the unconscious lady‑in‑waiting.
“Th‑that was terribly rude of me.”
Leif stood at the bedside, lowered her head, and gave a solemn bow.
“I’m truly sorry for frightening you.”
Seeing the woman’s breathing grow fast and shallow with fear, her lovely eyes rolling white more than once, Leif hurried to support her back, gently patting to help her catch her breath.
“Oh, Holy Temple…”
It took the lady‑in‑waiting quite some time to recover. The pallor from the fright still hadn’t faded from her face. She stared at the brown‑haired knight, who kept her head bowed, so ashamed she didn’t dare look up, and shrank back in fear.
“Miss Knight, what were you going to do to me? I don’t know what I did wrong. Why would you treat me like that? You actually raised a blade against me!”
She tried hard to keep her voice steady, but it still trembled with the edge of tears. Her golden eyes shimmered with unshed tears. That fragile, innocent look was enough to make Leif’s guilt overflow the moment she glanced at it, to the point she nearly started banging her head on the floor to apologize.
The brown‑haired knight wiped the sweat beading on her nose, bowing so low her head was almost touching the ground. She would not have flinched even with a beast’s fangs in her face, but this tearful reproach from the lady‑in‑waiting left her utterly at a loss.
In that moment, talk of demon dragons and knightly honor all vanished. All that remained was guilt—thick, suffocating guilt.
What had she just tried to do?
She had raised her blade against an unarmed, innocent woman.
Hair and eye colors on the continent were only so many, names only a few hundred commonly used. It was not impossible that a few combinations would produce uncanny coincidences. In the end, she had nothing but suspicion and no proof. And even if the proof had been stronger, she still shouldn’t have raised her blade without giving the other party a chance to defend herself.
She really had gone mad thinking about slaying that dragon. This mission didn’t just violate the knight’s code; it went against the most basic decency of a human being.
By now the lady‑in‑waiting had shrunk all the way into a corner, looking like she was certain Leif meant to murder her.
“Actually, I… I’m sorry…”
Leif absolutely could not let her know she had really meant to slice through that elegant, slender neck. Her fingers trembled as she pointed toward the wall and stammered out an unseemly lie.
“Actually, the reason I raised my blade just now was to…”
The lady‑in‑waiting crawled shakily off the bed and looked toward where Leif was pointing—Leif’s chopping blade was buried point‑first in the wall.
Puzzled, she took up the oil lamp from the bedside table, climbed down, and walked closer for a look.
Then she let out another shriek.
“Oh, Holy Temple!”
The tip of the blade had nailed an enormous cockroach to the wall.
The frail lady‑in‑waiting was terrified all over again by the sight of its corpse and promptly fell backward into the arms of the knight standing right behind her. She clung tightly, both hands covering her mouth as if afraid that too‑loud cries of terror would disturb the little princess’s sweet dreams. Shaken so many times in such a short span, her slight frame was still trembling nonstop.
“It’s all thanks to you, Miss Knight. That thing is horrible.”
Her gaze toward Leif shifted, suddenly full of gratitude tinged with apology. Curled up in Leif’s arms, she shivered again.
“If you hadn’t killed that nasty little thing… I can’t even imagine—what if it crawled onto my face while I was asleep… Holy Temple! My heart’s pounding, I really don’t dare imagine it any further… Truly, it’s all thanks to you, Miss Knight…”
Leif helped her sit back down on the bed. Hearing the sincere thanks, her face flushed scarlet. She forced herself to sound calm.
“I was only doing my duty.”
“This chamber is so dark and damp. What if there are more of those things hiding in places we can’t see?”
The lady‑in‑waiting’s face was full of dread as her eyes swept nervously around every corner of the room. Then she looked at Leif, hope shining in her gaze.
“Miss Knight, could you sleep in my bed with me tonight?”
Leif pulled her blade out of the wall, kicked the shriveled corpse into the dirty bucket by the fireplace, then wiped the weapon clean with a cloth. Seeing that the lady‑in‑waiting had finally calmed down, she tucked the smelling salts back into its usual place in her belt pouch. At the request, she hesitated.
“I…”
“Could you really be so hard‑hearted as to leave a helpless, delicate woman like me awake all night, scared and alone?”
The lady‑in‑waiting’s golden eyes sparkled. Her fine, pale‑ash‑blond hair framed a small heart‑shaped face. With her head slightly tilted up, she looked especially pitiful.
“It’s one thing if I can’t sleep, but if our poor princess starts worrying about me, what should we do then…”
Leif turned and met those golden eyes head‑on.
The lady‑in‑waiting’s gaze seemed to carry a kind of magic. The longer one looked, the more impossible it became to harden one’s heart. At last, Leif understood why so many knightly tales said things like “beauty is a hero’s grave,” and why so many promising knights, once they met a beauty, simply gave up the chance to share eternity with the Heavenly Father.
She even worried that if she looked at this lady‑in‑waiting any longer, she might never again raise her blade.
In the end, the knight who had set out to slay a dragon took on, at least for now, a different mission—protecting a fragile lady‑in‑waiting from the threat of tiny insects.
Because of their height difference, lying together on the bed actually made it look like the frail lady‑in‑waiting was the one holding the knight in her arms. That detail bothered Leif a little. But since the lady clung to her like she was some kind of universal insect repellent, she likely had no choice but to keep that posture and lie still.
“The lady‑in‑waiting’s name is Natiaveda?”
“Yes, Miss Knight. Is something the matter?”
Leif said,
“Oh. It’s just that I once killed a beast with the same name.”
“A… a beast had a name?”
“A demon dragon. It could take human form. When it did, it was almost impossible to tell the difference. It would act pitiful, very good at deceiving people…”
As Leif spoke, she felt the arm around her waist grow tighter and couldn’t help letting out a soft “mm.”
“A… dragon…”
It seemed that compared to cockroaches, demon dragons were far more terrifying to Natiaveda.
“Heavens, you’re so brave, Miss Knight. I don’t even dare say that word. To think there really are such fearsome monsters in this world… How can anyone sleep at night?”
“One day,”
Leif said, as if the lady’s fear ignited her fighting spirit,
“I’ll kill it.”
“…”
Natiaveda said,
“Your embrace is really reassuring, Miss Knight. I’m going to sleep. You’re not allowed to sneak off while I’m asleep.”
The night was long. Leif lay on her back, eyes open, counting the faint grain patterns on the ceiling. Ever since she’d come to this world, she’d never shared a bed with anyone. She’d thought she would be too uncomfortable with such closeness and had braced herself to stare at the ceiling until dawn. It wasn’t much of a problem; she was often on the road, after all. If she didn’t reach a town by nightfall, she would have to sleep in the wild with one eye open like Lily, watching for venomous insects, beasts, or murderous thieves trying to take her life under cover of darkness. A few sleepless nights were nothing her body couldn’t handle.
Yet unexpectedly, the faint, fresh scent of lemongrass on the lady‑in‑waiting’s body soon wrapped around her, and sleep descended quickly. She blinked a few times, her eyelids growing heavier and heavier, until everything sank into comforting black.
Right before she slipped completely under, it suddenly struck her that the scent was awfully familiar. But as that thought rose, her heartbeat was already slowing, her mind sinking into calm. By the time she woke, she had forgotten the question altogether.
Starlight spilled in through the small window. The brown‑haired knight slept soundly, eyes closed, fingers unconsciously buried in the lady‑in‑waiting’s soft ash‑blond hair. The face that had stayed so strict and solemn all day had finally relaxed completely.
Natiaveda narrowed her golden eyes and reached out to touch the knight’s neck, her hand closing as if to squeeze.
–– Four days later, a grand court ball was held in the banquet hall, with the receiving officials issuing invitations in Prince Tenny’s name to all the attending princesses.
The doors of the hall stood wide open. A master of ceremonies in formal dress stood to the left with a list in his hand. Each time a princess entered, he would announce her name and her homeland. On the opposite side, another master of ceremonies held a second list. He read out the names and titles of the other Natiwoods nobles, male and female, who had also been invited to the ball.
This was the custom at Natiwoods balls. As a large social occasion, the court ball gathered people of many ranks. Natiwoods was a country that took hierarchy and propriety extremely seriously; different noble ranks had different modes of greeting one another. If everyone knew each other’s identities before entering, they could conduct themselves with proper decorum during the ball.
“Princess Erik Freeman, from the Kingdom of Eudora.
“Princess Marilyn Kennedy, from the Kingdom of Octavia.
“Princess Patricia Fink, from the Kingdom of Camille…”
“Elvis Richards, Baron.
“Abraham Martha, Viscount.
“Bill Carr, Marquis…”
Some nobles who had arrived early stood inside with wine glasses in hand, chatting and laughing with those around them. Even so, they still kept one eye and one ear on the door, quietly memorizing the identities of these nobles and foreign princesses. Their main focus was on the domestic nobles. The Kingdom of Natiwoods was vast; there were many fiefs and families none of them could possibly know by heart, and these countrymen were their main targets for networking.
As for the foreign princesses, most of their homelands were nowhere near as powerful as the Kingdom of Natiwoods. Many had come purely for Prince Tenny himself and the might of the country he was set to inherit.
There were indeed a few princesses from nations of comparable strength, such as the three who had just entered one after another: Erik Freeman, Marilyn Kennedy, and Patricia Fink. Each of them had a powerful mother country behind her. They naturally had no need to toil for their homeland’s interests. Unlike some of the other princesses, if they failed to win Prince Tenny’s hand this time, it didn’t mean that once they returned home they’d soon be shipped off to marry some strong but often old and lecherous king as a lesser wife.
To these three, Natiwoods’ power was little more than icing on the cake. What drew them here was only Prince Tenny’s character and talent, and that handsome face so clearly favored by the Heavenly Father.
Nobles were like sharp‑nosed hounds; they could smell power with a single sniff. The gowns of these three princesses were exquisite and elegant without being showy; their expressions carried a faint, aloof arrogance, and their bearing was that of those raised in luxury and indulgence—unhurried, unruffled. All this set them apart from the little princesses of minor countries around them, who had usually poured everything into their appearance: almost bursting bodices, heavy makeup, and perfumes so sharp they stung the nose.
These three had been the first to receive the news of the prince’s bride‑selection and the first invited to reside in the guest palace. Unlike some princesses who might not even have seen Prince Tenny yet, these three had already met him face‑to‑face, with the prince personally calling upon them.
Though the gravely ill old king had agreed that the prince could disregard rank and marry whomever he loved, the nobles instinctively believed that people should remain with their own kind. A noble prince ought, naturally, to wed an equally noble princess.
In truth, long before the news of the bride‑selection spread across the continent, Natiwoods’ nobles had all silently reached a consensus: the future princess‑consort would certainly be one of these three.
Seeing them enter together, nobles practically lined up to curry favor. Even when met with cool, distant responses, they did not lose heart.
“Princess Boris Lloyd, from the Kingdom of Freya.”
The name of this tiny country naturally did not attract much attention, only a few murmurs like, “Does that place really exist? Never heard of it before.”
Princess Boris Lloyd’s looks were outstanding, but in the eyes of court nobles, the most alluring thing would always be power.
“Miss Knight, do you think I look all right like this?”
The gray‑eyed little princess sounded a bit nervous.
She wore a deep purple bell‑shaped gown with a hooped petticoat that flared the skirt out wide. Ruffles edged the hem, and a small train trailed behind her—lively, spirited, and very cute.
Leif looked at her.
“You’re truly beautiful, Your Highness.”
The princess still seemed unsure. She tugged at the lace on her sleeve.
“But it feels a little old.”
Off to the side, the lady‑in‑waiting in white was smoothing the train, snipping off a loose thread with a tiny pair of shears. At those words, she patted the princess’s back lightly.
“You should be holding your head high right now, Your Highness. Go on—go speak with those nobles and princesses. Even if the prince isn’t here yet, you should get to know a few people.”
Boris gazed at the guests inside the hall. They were all already talking in little knots of three or five, laughing with warm, animated expressions, like old friends reunited after years apart, exchanging heartfelt confidences. Their intimacy made it look as if no outsider could possibly squeeze in.
She took a breath and slowly walked into the hall. Hesitation colored her eyes, and beneath it was a timidity she could not completely suppress. She looked toward Erik Freeman, Marilyn Kennedy, and Patricia Fink. Merely hearing the names of their homelands, nearly everyone recognized them. They were lodged in the best suites at the center of the guest palace and each had brought over a hundred attendants in their train. At this moment, people crowded around them like stars circling three moons.
Boris couldn’t help turning back to look at the lady‑in‑waiting and the knight standing by the wall, both watching her with encouraging gazes. Even though her hair and gown had been carefully prepared today, the princess still desperately wanted to flee.
“This child has hardly traveled anywhere…”
The lady‑in‑waiting’s eyes, full of pity, lingered on the princess. With some effort Boris had finally succeeded in inserting herself into a conversation among a group of princesses. Though the others were clearly less than welcoming, at least they didn’t reject her outright.
The lady‑in‑waiting went on,
“The Kingdom of Freya is small, poor in resources, and sparsely populated, but it’s peaceful and calm. The child has always been this guileless. This is really hard on her…”
“It seems Princess Boris truly likes Prince Tenny, working this hard,” Leif said. “Her Highness said they’ve met before. When was that?”
“Oh, that was when Boris was five. The king and queen took her traveling. She was timid even then, but she loved to play. That time… ah, it was my fault for not watching her properly. She slipped out on a rainy day, and we almost couldn’t find her. The old king was beside himself with worry…”
The lady‑in‑waiting’s voice slowed, her gaze on the princess softening with a motherly warmth.
“It was Prince Tenny who found her. If it hadn’t been for him, I suppose I’d have had to take my own life in guilt.”
Leif let out a quiet “oh,” withdrew the probing look from her eyes, and picked up a cup of fruit tea from the table, taking a small sip. At last, she dispelled her suspicions completely.
The lady‑in‑waiting spoke of Boris’s past with such ease, painting events from ten years ago as if they’d happened yesterday. If she really were that demon dragon, how could she have stayed by Boris’s side for a full decade? And the intimacy and concern between her and Boris—that kind of bond only childhood companions shared. It didn’t feel the least bit fake.
She really had been obsessed to the point of derangement to even link this woman with that dragon.
That demon dragon was no soft‑hearted creature. Maybe it had accepted the Aisaiah royal family’s offer and turned Sophie into a lamb for their sake. But what Sophie had suffered in the sheep market, and the way she’d trembled on seeing the dragon again, all proved the same thing: the dragon had been cruel to that adorable little princess. There was nothing gentle about it.
“I only saw Prince Tenny from afar back then,” the lady‑in‑waiting continued. “He was about ten at the time. Such a proper‑looking boy, very polite. Even at that age he had great poise. He never took advantage of adults being away to bully little girls—completely unlike other boys.”
She kept watching Princess Boris.
“After Boris was brought back, she never even mentioned Prince Tenny’s name. But I could tell she was truly happy. Ten more years passed, and she never met the prince again, never once brought him up, and even when others mentioned him she didn’t ask. I thought she was too young back then and had forgotten.”
“Until the day she heard Prince Tenny was to take a bride. All of a sudden she was terribly excited and insisted on coming here no matter what. Turned out she remembered everything that clearly.”
The ball had been underway for some time now, yet its nominal host had still not appeared.
The crowd was growing restless. Countless eyes turned toward the door. Just then, the court musicians began to play.
To the sound of gentle yet solemn music, Prince Tenny appeared at the entrance.
His hair was golden like sunlight, tied back in a short tail with a pure‑white ribbon. His eyes were a clear, sky‑blue. His features had a girl’s delicate beauty but lost none of their noble bearing. Over a fitted, richly embroidered gold doublet, he wore a light‑purple coat that reached his knees. Below were silk stockings and buckled shoes.
This was the most formal attire for Natiwoods royal men when attending a ball. Natiwoods fashion for men was as flamboyant as could be, to the point that foreign men mocked it as “peacock dress that loves to show its backside.” But on Prince Tenny, the clothes seemed perfectly natural.
A closer look revealed that the prince was thin and not especially tall, but thanks to his proportions he appeared very upright and spirited. In his slender, beautiful hand he held a glass of dark‑purple wine. In his light‑blue eyes, there was the faintest shadow of worry.
“Forgive me. I’m a little late.”
Prince Tenny lifted his glass in a toast to the guests from afar.
That soft, gentle voice made it nearly impossible for anyone to feel annoyed with him.
The noblemen present placed their right hands over their hearts and bowed. Those wearing hats removed them and held them in their right hands. The princesses and noble ladies lifted the sides of their skirts, bent their knees in curtsies, and dipped their heads like gracious swans, revealing their lovely necks.
Once the formal salute was over, the court musicians changed to a new piece. When that short prelude finished, the dancing would officially begin.
Yet within that festive music, few noticed that Prince Tenny did not seem at all eager to be at this ball held in his honor—whether because he was worrying over the ailing king, or because, as rumor had it, he was deeply averse to marriage itself.
Soon, the music for the first dance began. Every princess in the hall held her breath; each one hoped the prince would invite her to be his first partner.
Prince Tenny only cast his gaze toward a princess standing not far from his side. He wore a properly polite smile as he slowly walked up to her, bowed slightly, and extended his hand in invitation.
The one thus honored was Princess Erik Freeman—one of the three princesses with the strongest backgrounds.
No one knew whether he had chosen her because of her powerful homeland, because she was particularly beautiful, or simply because at that moment she happened to be standing closest to him.
As the music swelled, the remaining male nobles also led princesses and ladies by the hand into the dance.
In that weaving of steps and skirts, the nobles of Natiwoods exchanged knowing looks.
Prince Tenny had shown no particular favor to any one princess. Perhaps that was for the best. A man long unwilling to wed, now forced by circumstance to marry, would very likely end up choosing the queen most in line with his nobles’ expectations.
From far away, Boris stared at him. In a dance floor crowded with hundreds of people, she had no presence at all. Her small figure was quickly swallowed by the sea of bodies.
The lady‑in‑waiting said softly, unable to bear watching,
“She’ll probably cry when we go back. To have hidden her feelings so long… and I doubt the prince even remembers her.”
Leif said nothing. She simply watched Boris dance with strange nobles, her hand quietly curling into a fist.
The first dance ended.
By Natiwoods custom, only once the host of the ball had finished the first dance could the banquet formally begin.
Prince Tenny released Princess Erik Freeman’s hand, picked up a bottle, and poured the wine into a pyramid of crystal glasses. Rich, dark‑purple wine, fragrant with fruit, spilled over the rims.
After taking three glasses and handing them, symbolically, to three noble ladies at his side, he walked over to the laden tables. Taking up a carving knife, he made a cut into a roasted steer. Honey‑colored fat flowed from the slit in the glistening hide.
Boris lifted her skirt slightly, as if to move a little closer, hoping for the chance to speak with him. But afraid that others would see through her intentions, her face went crimson.
Prince Tenny, however, had no desire to linger. His lovely lips pressed into a thin line, and with a somewhat absent, preoccupied air he walked out of the hall.
“How could he just…”
“He’s already gone…”
“The prince must have urgent business…”
One of the prince’s attendants smiled and said,
“Please enjoy yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. State affairs are pressing; His Highness must excuse himself.”
The prince had appeared for less than a quarter of an hour before vanishing, and he hadn’t even said much on his way out. Any other prince would have been criticized as rude. But Prince Tenny was different. It seemed that as long as he looked at people with those faintly troubled eyes, no one could bring themselves to fault him for anything.
Boris puffed out her cheeks and glanced over at the white‑robed lady‑in‑waiting and the brown‑haired knight. Her look was just like a child who’d been bullied outside, turning to her family for comfort. Disappointment brimmed so thickly in her eyes it almost seemed it would spill out. Yet the ball went on, and she did not run away. Instead she kept trying to make small talk with nobles she didn’t know. At first she’d been terribly nervous; now she was doing a little better.
“The battlefield for knights should be full of blades and blood, not some corner of a ballroom where all we can do is watch a princess’s face slowly cloud over and be unable to cut down the culprits one by one.”
The brown‑haired knight said,
“If Her Highness permits my rudeness, I’d stake my life on dragging that man in front of her.”
“If Boris heard that,”
the lady‑in‑waiting said in a low voice,
“She’d just blush again.”
After a while, Leif suddenly blurted,
“I think Princess Boris could be the princess‑consort.”
“…”
The lady‑in‑waiting smiled faintly.
“I think so too.”
“Out of confidence in my own skill,”
Leif looked over the hall and, somewhat discouraged, decided that a place like this had no use for a knight’s strength at all. Her hand wandered unconsciously to her back where her blade would normally be slung, and found only air. Remembering how all weapons had to be surrendered at the entrance, she couldn’t help pursing her lips.
“If the only criterion for choosing the princess‑consort were a fight to the death between the knights under each princess’s command…”
“Out of confidence in yours, Miss Knight,”
the lady‑in‑waiting covered her mouth and laughed softly,
“I think so too.”
Leif straightened her back and gave a very justified “mm.”
Suddenly, someone clapped her hard on the back and a familiar male voice sounded beside her ear.
“Well now, Little Knight Leif, big words for someone so small.”
She turned and saw it was Lance.
After Leif had thrown him over her shoulder and pinned him in front of the entire order, this young knight’s reputation in the regiment had been shredded. He had lost all authority and, from that day on, had stopped treating Leif as a girl at all.
Lance had just about forgotten the humiliating feeling of being slammed to the ground, knees crushing his chest so he couldn’t move or breathe. Like everyone else in the order, he convinced himself Leif had only taken advantage of his momentary lack of guard and underhanded him. Ever since, he’d been looking for a chance to regain his honor.
These past few days, every time they crossed paths in the guest palace he looked ready to tear her apart with his bare hands. Only the mission kept their conflict from exploding.
Naturally, Lance had heard what Leif had just said—“I think Princess Boris could be the princess‑consort,” and, “If the only criterion for choosing the princess‑consort were a death match between her knights…” Those sentences clearly showed she didn’t take any of the other Sword and Blood Rose knights seriously, least of all him.
Leif pried his hand off her shoulder, acting as if she had no idea how much that gesture must be infuriating him.
“I was only stating the truth.”
“Hmph, I’ll let it slide.”
Right now there was a hint of smugness in the young knight’s blue eyes, as if something wonderful had happened or was about to. In his good mood he was magnanimous; even Leif looked more pleasing to the eye. Still, her obvious provocation was too much to ignore, and he couldn’t help leaking some of his news. He wanted to see jealousy twist that infuriating face—that would be a satisfying sight.
“You didn’t notice? The princess who danced with the prince just now…”
Leif knew that the princess who’d danced with the prince—Erik Freeman—was the one Lance had been assigned to guard.
The bias of the receiving officials was blatant—even in how knights were assigned. A knight’s experience and skill were matched to the power behind each princess. Lance was second only to Captain Hilton among the fifty members of the order (not counting Leif), young and handsome to boot. Naturally, the princess he guarded came from a formidable realm. She was also universally regarded among Natiwoods nobles as one of the strongest contenders for the position of princess‑consort and future queen.
“Tch… I saw. So what?”
Leif glanced at Lance’s brand‑new clothes, knowing they had to be gifts from Princess Erik Freeman. His jeweled belt in particular, with its huge gemstones, showed just how lavish this great‑power princess could be.
Lance, however, didn’t know that such trinkets were no longer enough to stir envy in Leif.
“The princess‑consort will come from those three.”
Lance grinned, flashing white teeth.
“And Her Highness has already given me a task.”
At the word “task,” Leif’s ears practically pricked up.
“Oh?”
Lance hadn’t planned to keep it secret from her anyway, so he started spilling it all before she could ask.
“There’s a forbidden place in Timm City where a vicious demon bird lives. They call it the Firelark. They say it was born from flames in a palace fire. Its whole body is blazing red, and on its head grows a single colorful feather that changes color with the light. Anyone who sees that feather falls in love with it. The legend goes that if you make a brooch from that Firelark feather, the wearer will make their beloved fall hopelessly in love, body and soul.
“I’m going to slay that Firelark for my princess and use its feather to add to her brilliance.”
