Once the observation tour concluded, Lillian made her way toward the student council room. Her steps were steady but slower than usual—she had walked out of fundamental magecraft midway and never returned before the tour ended. Felix would likely have something to say about that.
Still… that chess class had been unexpectedly enjoyable.
Chess entertained her in a way different from equations and magical formulae. As she traced through alternate possibilities—what would have changed if she'd advanced a knight instead of a pawn, or how the board might've shifted had her opponent taken a different line—she opened the door to the student council room.
Only Cyril and Elliott were inside. Both stood over a sheet of paper, deep in discussion, their expressions serious. Curious whether there was actual trouble, Lillian paused and listened.
"…Cyril, I'm going to ask again. What is this?"
"All I can see is a bull and a wheel."
"All I can see is a rabbit and a rotten orange slice!"
Though she tried to piece together their conversation, Lillian had no idea what they were referring to. Before she could decide whether to announce herself, Elliott looked up—and upon seeing her, immediately turned away with a bitter expression.
Did she misstep during chess? Had she unintentionally offended him?
The thought crossed her mind, but she remained outwardly composed.
Cyril noticed her next. "Oh. Accountant Lillian."
The title straightened her posture instinctively. Lillian inclined her head politely. "Good afternoon. May I ask what you were discussing?"
Cyril lowered his gaze to the paper in his hand. "Preparations for the school festival will be in full swing next month. We'll have more contractors entering the grounds, so we're verifying their seals in advance."
Lillian recalled the contractor documents she and Neil had sorted the previous day—the various emblems etched beside company names.
Elliott added, "I'm handling the Abbott Company this year. Cyril managed them last year. When I asked him what their seal looked like, he said it was a bull and a wheel. But both of those are incredibly common. I can name three or four companies with that motif."
"That's why I drew it out for you," Cyril said, scowling as he pushed the paper into Elliott's hands.
Lillian glimpsed it—and paused. If she had to summarize it, she would describe it as a twelve-part wheel behind… some kind of wiggling quadruped.
Elliott jabbed a finger at the creature's head. "Right here, poking up vertically—those are rabbit ears, aren't they?"
"They're bull's horns," Cyril stated flatly.
Elliott cast him a pitying look.
Lillian said nothing, though she agreed silently with Elliott. The round, short-legged creature had a distinctly rabbit-like stance. She was still studying its overly large eyes when Elliott addressed her.
"Hey, Lady Lillian. Does this look like a bull to you?"
"…Well." Her tone remained steady, though she flicked a brief glance toward Cyril. His sharp eyes watched her—expectant, almost hopeful, like he awaited validation.
She didn't lie. But she also didn't answer fast.
When she remained silent, Elliott sighed. "See, Cyril? Face reality."
"Well, this is all the prince himself needed to figure it out!"
"Yeah, probably because he knows you were handling Abbott last year," Elliott replied, exasperated.
Cyril bristled. "You doubt His Royal Highness's words?!"
"What I doubt is your artistic sense! How did you think this would get your point across?! Ugh. This is what happens when someone has no refinement!"
Hostility flared between them again. Lillian decided to intervene before the argument spiraled. Calmly, she reached for a feather pen, pulled a spare sheet toward her, and began sketching.
Her strokes were clean, precise, and practiced. Within a minute, she set the pen down.
"This," she said simply, "is the emblem of the Abbott Company."
A bull facing left, with a twelve-spoked wheel behind it. Drawn from memory.
Cyril and Elliott stared.
"It's exactly how I remember it."
"Lady Lillian, would you happen to be related to the Abbott Company in some way?"
Lillian returned the pen to its stand. "No. I saw the seal yesterday while reviewing documents. I simply memorized diagrams and reproduced them."
She didn't elaborate on how deeply she admired the precise geometry of magical formula patterns or how often she had redrawn them to the point of inky fingertips.
Elliott murmured, "How do you draw such perfect circles and straight lines without any tools…?"
Cyril compared their drawings, realization dawning. "I see. My bull was missing a tail."
"What it was missing was any kind of artistic ability," Elliott shot back. "How can someone so embarrassed about their singing being heard shamelessly show other people something like this?"
The tension was rising again when the door swung open.
Bridget Greyham stepped inside—poised, elegant, and expressionless.
"Security contacted us saying an Abbott Company cart is at the front gate. Whoever is handling them, please go check them in."
Elliott frowned. "A shipment of supplies? This is considerably earlier than expected. They deal in fireworks and explosives—bringing them too soon risks dampness. … All right. I'll head over."
He moved toward the exit, but Cyril stopped him. "The rules say that when outside contractors are on academy grounds, they must be greeted by one faculty member or two student council officers. I'll come with you."
"You have a meeting with the club presidents," Elliott reminded him. "And Lady Bridget is busy writing invitations." His gaze shifted to Lillian—the only one free. "Lady Lillian, you're with me."
"Me?"
"You've never supervised outside contractors before. This is a good chance to learn."
His reasoning was sound. And even though Elliott had been curt with her all day, Lillian simply nodded.
"I understand. I'll accompany you."
"Great. Thanks, Lady Lillian."
His expression held something more layered than distaste—complicated, conflicted. Then he left with her at his side.
Cyril's eyes followed them until they disappeared down the hall.
… Will they be all right?
Elliott despised "upstarts," and his aggression toward them was notorious. Cyril himself had endured it—especially back when he first enrolled.
"Don't get cocky, commoner. I hate people like you—people who don't know their place—to death."
Cyril judged people by merit. Elliott judged by class. Naturally, someone fixated on status wouldn't look kindly upon Lillian, whose upbringing... Wait, what is her last name?
As Cyril continued to stare at the doorway, realizing how little he knew about Lillian, Bridget spoke without looking up from her writing.
"You're so overprotective."
He scowled. "Should Accountant Lillian embarrass us in front of outsiders, it could affect Serendia Academy's reputation. It's only natural I'd be concerned."
"Let's leave it at that, then, shall we?" she replied, her tone cool as glass.
Only then did her gaze drift toward the sheet still in Cyril's hand—his "bull."
"What is that child's doodle? Some sort of code?"
"...… Forget about it."
.....
Elliott looked away from Lillian and fixed his gaze ahead, a sour expression tightening his jaw. His strides were long and clipped. Beside him, Lillian walked with quiet, steady steps, her eyes occasionally drifting toward him—not with fear, but with a reserved caution, gauging him the way one might read an unfamiliar chess position.
She likely expected he would scold her. And she wasn't wrong.
Ah, for the love of…, he thought. I managed to bring her out here, but what am I supposed to say?
Earlier, in chess class, he had played against Lillian and won—but only because he'd used castling, a move he hadn't explained to her.
A girl who had barely known the rules had cornered him with cold, meticulous logic… and he had panicked.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't noble, either. But apologizing irked him.
His irritation churned with embarrassment, leaving him opening his mouth, then shutting it, then opening it again. Nothing came out.
By the time he'd worked up the courage, they had already exited the school building and reached the west storehouse. A cart waited there—the delivery cart that should have passed inspection at the front gate by now.
Since Elliott held the key to the storehouse, all that remained was to check the materials and unload them.
Once the work began, he would lose his moment to speak.
Realizing that, he forced the words out.
"Oh, Lady Lillian, about the chess match earlier…" he said, glancing sideways.
But Lillian—who had stopped walking—was staring ahead, her expression subtly sharpened. Calm, focused, all trace of polite softness gone.
"…It's different," she murmured.
"What?"
Lillian lifted a hand and pointed to the emblem painted on the side of the cart. "That seal isn't the same as I remember."
Elliott frowned and examined the emblem. A large wheel and a bull. It looked exactly like what she'd drawn earlier. "What's different?"
"The wheel should have twelve spokes," she said evenly. "But the wheel in the cart's emblem only has ten."
"Are you sure you're not misremembering?" he asked, skeptical.
Her response came immediately, firm and precise. "Yes, I'm sure. Once I see a design, I never forget it."
That unnervingly serene intensity again. Whether she was reviewing accounting books or analyzing chess—when Lillian concentrated, she became disturbingly unreadable. Her eyes never left the emblem. The world around her seemed to dissolve until only the object of scrutiny remained.
Elliott swallowed and leaned closer to the cart.
A typical covered wagon. Two horses. One man holding the reins, another standing beside him. Both middle-aged, dressed like ordinary merchants dealing with prestigious clients. Nothing suspicious at first glance.
She must be mistaken, he told himself. Still… This delivery is more than a week early.
Before he could settle on a conclusion, Lillian added quietly, "There's one more thing."
"Is there?"
"The bull—it looks very similar, but… they forgot to draw the tail."
That sealed it. Elliott straightened. "Yes, that is strange. A first-rate contractor selling to Serendia Academy would never make as silly a mistake as Cyril."
If these men were lying about being Abbott contractors, then they were here for something else—stealing supplies, spying, even kidnapping. Nothing good.
The man beside the horses noticed Elliott's approach and came toward him. The driver, however, remained seated, hands still on the reins.
A real merchant would have tied the horses, stepped down, and greeted his client properly.
This alone was a warning sign.
Keeping his eyes on the men, he whispered, "Lady Lillian, I'll stall for time by talking to them. You go call..."
"No, that won't be necessary," interupting Elliott, Lillian stated.
"What!?" Elliot asked, frowning. "This isn't the time to be stubborn. Unlike you, I have oblications."
Elliott Howard is a man who held fast to notions of social status. He believed everyone should carry out the roles assigned to them at birth, nobles should act like nobles, commoners like commoners. A noble must serve as a model to the people and contribute to society. They must provide assistance to the powerless citizens and protect them.
For that reason, he had to remain while Lillian fled, to fulfill his duty and protect his pride as a noble.
However, Lillian calmly argued, "Unlike you, I am proficient in both physical and magical comabt. Besides, I won't be alone," she said while turning her head over to tree.
Elliott followed Lillian's gaze and felt that something was moving in the shadows of those trees but he didn't have much time to see or understand what it was. The man pretending to be with the Abbott Company was now close enough to hear them, and the false smile vanished from his face. He'd probably noticed the change in Elliott's and Lillian's expressions.
However, before he could do anything, he was punched down to the ground. The one responsible for it was Lillian's ever faithful attendant, Zen.
"You've got some nerve attempting to harm our lady," Zen took off the blazer of his school uniform as Lillian approached.
"I can handle them on my own, Zen."
"Even without the coat, you're in a skirt. Do you really want to create more weird rumors and lose all hope of making friends? Just stay here and let me handle this."
While apologetic, she did appreciate his concern. "Sorry, Zen."
"Don't mention it. The day before yesterday, since I had been taked with gathering information, I got not chance to let loose at all." Zen threw his blazer to Lillian for safe keeping and looked at to state at Lillian with his clear eyes. "Sometimes, you should just be quite and let me protect you."
As soon as he said that, the man on the carriage reached in his coat as if he had been waiting. He was probably thinking of pulling out his gun but Zen, in just two steps, instantly closed in the distance and jumped at the man before he could even point the gun to shoot at him.
The two men who impersonated the merchants, lost to Zen who was only using his fists and lost consciousness. It looked like something out of a play. He really has become strong, hasn't he, that Zen...While looking over his rampage from a distance, Lillian admired his impressive growth.
Lillian recalled the first time they met. She was seven and Zen was six-years-old at the time.
"It's better if you don't approach this child too often, young miss."
The boy the Islar family brought in was smaller than Lillian, his entire body covered in bruises and scratches. A piece of gauze clung to his cheek, and his expression was pitch-black—muddy, lifeless eyes that never lifted from the floor.
The adults of the household formed a protective wall between them, as if shielding Lillian from a wild animal.
"This child," one of the retainers explained stiffly, "had been committing theft on another family's territory. He was… corrected rather severely for it, and fled into Turin. The family head took him in for protection."
"...…"
"He looks obedient now, but apparently he managed to take down several members of the other family before they subdued him. If he were to attack you too, young mi—young miss!!?"
Their warning came too late—Francesca had already stepped past their backs and walked straight up to the silent boy.
"Hello, Zen. I'm Lillian, seven-years-old."
She smiled brightly, but Zen didn't react—not a twitch, not a blink.
Of course, this was the first time he had ever met Lillian. But she had met his mother's ghost. She already knew everything about him.
People think he's just a commoner orphan, but his father is actually a marquis. His mother, a prostitute, died when he was four. After his mother died, he survived alone in the slums. At six, he learned by chance who his father was.)
His mother had whispered that man's name to him over and over until her last breath. Zen never forgot it. One day, with all the determination his little body could hold, he sprinted after a carriage and climbed onto it.
It wasn't for salvation, or money, or food. He only wanted to deliver his mother's final words:
"I was happy to have met that man."
After saying that, he fully intended to return to the mud, to his life of hunger and filth. But his father, seeing the shadow of his former lover in the boy, said only:
"How can such filthy children be allowed to linger near my mansion?—Contact the Ranieri family. Tell them a child is stealing on their land."
The Ranieri enforcers beat him senseless. Zen fled for his life.
Looking at the small, battered child before her, Lillian's heart throbbed painfully. She reached out to him. Zen instinctively recoiled—his body so used to being struck that it moved on its own.
Slowly, gently, Lillian stroked the cheek that wasn't wrapped in gauze. This time, he looked up. And when he saw her expression, he froze. Of course he did—because Lillian was crying, tears streaming silently down her face as she touched him.
"Wha—"
"Y-young miss!?"
She hadn't meant to cry here. She tried to hold it in, but her emotions overwhelmed her.
"It must have hurt… right, Zen?"
"...?"
Not just the cuts and bruises.
The wounds on his heart must have been far deeper. Imagining his loneliness made her chest ache. Seeing him in person—small, real, trembling—was so much heavier than listening about him. This wasn't a stranger. This was a living child.
"From now on… you don't have to be afraid anymore. You'll eat warm meals, take hot baths, and sleep somewhere no one will yell at you."
"....."
Rubbing her eyes, voice shaking, Lillian continued:
"Everyone here will protect you… okay?"
"...uhh..."
"And that includes me! I'll… I'll definitely keep you safe…!"
"Uwahh...…"
That was the first—and the last—time she ever saw Zen cry like that. From that day forward, little by little, he began to open his heart to her. For a short while, it was adorable how he clung to her side everywhere she went, following her like a shadow. But that cute phase lasted only a few months.
He grew quickly—too quickly—shooting up taller than Lillian in no time. Soon, he began training to become a proper young member of the Islar family. And the once-broken boy with muddy eyes learned, slowly but surely, how to stand tall.
"I'm sorry to ask this," said Elliott, "but could you keep the horses calm? The two people you just beat up are intruders pretending to be with a contractor."
"Okay," Zen answered non-chalantly, nodding without argument.
Elliott removed the key to the west storehouse from his pocket, opened the door and threw the two unconscious men inside. Then he closed the door agian and locked it.
"Good. That should keep them out of trouble. Lady Lillian, wait here. I'll go call security and the faculty."
Leaving them with clear instructions, Elliott hurried off toward the front gate. He probably figured he'd be faster than Lillian. After watching him go, Lillian turned to Zen.
"Any injuries?" Lillian asked.
Zen scoffed. "Did you forget who I am? Of course I'm uninjured. As if I'd get hurt against scrubs like these."
"You're right. I know," she said gently. "Still… thank you, Zen."
At her quiet gratitude, even Zen—who normally wore a perpetually bored expression—couldn't hide the flicker of pride tugging at his lips.
"Hmph." His tone was dismissive, but the small smile remained, which was rare enough to be noteworthy. "Well, it's not too bad having you worry about me. I'll let it slide."
Of course she would worry. Before he was her attendant, Zen had been like a younger brother. Strong magic or not, power or not, there was never a guarantee that things would always go well.
And Lillian, calm as she was, would never take that risk lightly.
She used wind magecraft and pulled out a small jewel-like object from the back of the wagon. Fire element. Aosrbing and compressing the surrounding mana. Mana whirling like a vortex on the inside. This is...Back when she'd attended Minerva's, Lillian had seen this particular mana flow before, in a magic-item class. It was an extremely leathal magic item meant for assassination...
"What's that, my lady?" Zen asked.
"...Spiralflame."