Waiting in the shadow of the academy's main house for the exam to begin, Emily and I found ourselves facing off with an agitated young lady.
Looking at that person, one word immediately sprang to mind: witch.
By conscious choice or by pure coincidence—an archetypal witch.
Not a hook-nosed, wrinkled old granny, who gave poison apples to unsuspecting children, but the modern sort, who put as much effort into her looks as her magic. Tall figure, head proudly high. An expensive, embroidered dress that emphasized the wearer's thin waistline. Long, slick auburn hair, a river of red gold streaming back along the scalp. Sharp eyes aglow with pride and contempt. Chips of engraved gold and rare stones chained around the neck in many loops.
Such a girl made her way to us in brisk steps, quietly tailed by a tall, brawny man of dreadfully pale complexion and dark eyes, like an aspiring knight errant from ancient times summoned back to life. But toying with the dead was criminal, and he had too much quiet consciousness in his gaze to be a flesh puppet.
"Excuse me, you two," the girl spoke as she came to stand in front of us, not even trying to keep her voice down. "Might I know what's the deal with you, gossiping about others behind their backs like a pair of old widows? Aren't you at all ashamed of yourselves?"
"What?" Emily replied, quick to take offense. "We were just chatting in broad daylight and behind nobody's back! And it's not like I was telling any lies! If anything, I was flattering people!"
The stranger haughtily snorted. "Depending on the speaker, even flattery can become an insult. I doubt any of those you blabbered about appreciate their name passing the lips of a dirty mothball like you."
"What is your problem!?"
I wouldn't have guessed it, seeing Emily's humble attitude with us earlier, but she could be surprisingly feisty, not backing down when admonished. But the other girl disregarded her and raised a hand high in a gesture that seemed to call for attention.
"Since you already got started on it, why don't you go ahead and introduce myself as well? Surely you know my name, being so knowledgeable on capital celebrities?"
Emily gritted her teeth and glared at the witch. She could see people turn our way, and the unwanted attention painted an embarrassed red on her cheeks. Now that she'd been put on the spot, she could only either rise to the challenge or bow out. But she didn't turn away.
"…You must be Drusilla, the eldest daughter of the Hallant family. The house of one of the Four Grand Dukes of the Kingdom. A family that northerners have long dreaded as cruel and despotic—"
"—That's right!" the girl loudly interrupted her. "I am Drusilla Hallant! And my house is one of the Pillars of Calidea. That much even a barbarian could tell you. A Tier 4 All-Rounder, a neutral mage of many specialties, an honorary member of the Mysterium, and—very unlike yourself—a true mage."
Then she cut herself off abruptly to glance at me standing on the side.
It seemed my lack of reaction bothered her.
"...And who are you supposed to be?" she asked. "I'm confident I know anyone who's anyone in this Kingdom, yet you seem a vacuum personified even among the rabble."
"I'm Hope Ruthford," I said.
"Hmm?" Her frown grew, if possible, even more disgusted. "Ruthford. Speak of the devil. I'd recently heard this bizarre rumor that the Iron Valkyrie had adopted some war orphan. So it was true? You're the charity case then?"
"That's me."
The news sure spread quickly.
"Then you ought to be especially careful," Drusilla told me, "lest you make your saintly benefactor look very stupid. I don't know what the hero thought to see in you, but you will soon find it takes more than four eyes to get by in Belmesion. They ask for a little bit of real talent too!"
I had to admit that was a bit funny.
"Why, you—!" Emily began to fume even louder on my behalf.
Drusilla spun back to her, venomously grinning, and raised her voice again so that the applicants gathered in the yard couldn't not hear it,
"As for your name, little hussy, I needn't even ask! Head of ash and eyes like dumb rocks, dressed in rags, the way of an impoverished vagabond—no mistake about it. This is the Ghost of Brume! The girl they call 'walking dead', child of misfortune; the sole heiress of the fallen Baron Troyard, now a beggar who can't even afford a horse! Hahaha!"
Emily flashed pale, trembling with wrath and shock.
"H-how could you…!"
"Why couldn't I?" Drusilla spread her arms wide and pirouetted around, like turned into a minstrel on a stage. "You're famous too! Do you think everyone here doesn't already know? How there was a very foolish girl who grossly overestimated her paltry talent, and tried to summon a heroic spirit to save her debt-ridden house? But, alas, she lost control of her magic and almost died! How sad! You're not the first one to fall into that trap. Overloading is merely nature's own way of culling the unfit."
"Shut. Up!"
"Why? 'I'm not telling lies here!' As said, everyone already knows. You are a celebrity, my dear. Famed throughout land as a cautionary example! A screw-up of epic grade. Why bother hide it? Or perhaps it's the climax of that story that still haunts you? Aw, there was one miserable victim to this girl's big blunder!"
"Don't you dare—" Emily began to say, trembling, but went ignored.
"—Oh, her very own father! A reputable mage in his own right, whom his foolish child's rampaging magic struck dead! With one fell swoop, the heiress of the Troyards eliminated not only her future as a mage but also her family's noble name. A patricide!"
Emily snapped at last.
—"You're dead, bitch!"
One thing became immediately clear. Despite overloading in the past, Emily Troyard's mana channel was still fully functional. Magic surged through the girl, coalescing in a starry, cold light in her clenched left fist, which she drew back to strike, blasting off spectacular animosity. And I had no doubt she meant what she said: she was going to kill Drusilla Hallant with a direct blow to the head.
Hallant, having baited the outburst from the start, had been secretly assembling a shield of sorts, but underestimated her opponent. Her defense was too slow and weak to stop the impending attack. She was going to lose her face.
It really was going a bit too far.
I stepped between the two and caught Emily's fist in my left hand before she could launch it. I didn't need to use magic to block it. The black dragon rings repelled mana of this level on contact, and her physical might wasn't very deadly by itself.
The power feed disrupted, the ritual fell apart.
Everything ended quietly before it could even begin. For a beat, the two of them stared at me without moving, not even blinking, one girl frozen in the striking pose, the other one cowering before a blow that never came.
—"What's going on here!?"
A new voice broke the stare-off. Emily shook her hand free, and the three of us turned to face a pair of older students coming our way. They'd probably been tasked to supervise the exam day.
A boy tall and comely; a girl bright and gallant. Even more so than Drusilla, they were like figures from fairy tales come to life, and left the whole crowd gawking with mouths wide open as they passed. At one glance at the male's face, Drusilla shed her flamboyant act and humbly bowed her head. With a slight, startled delay, Emily copied the gesture.
Suppose I had to do the same.
I'd never seen him before, but it wasn't too hard to guess who he was, by their reactions. Charlotte had already spoiled he'd be here and I knew to expect this encounter. That could only be Leander, the third prince of Calidea.
Damn it. And here I'd meant to avoid him.
Did he know who I was? The King knew I'd be here, and probably the first prince did too, since he sat among the Chiefs of Staff. Leander was too young for the RA and had no formal need to know, but…For now, I could only pray he wouldn't do anything stupid to expose me.
But the third prince showed no sign that he recognized me.
"What were you doing?" he asked, eyeing the three of us. "I could hear you yelling a mile away. I understand this is a big day and tensions are high, but don't do anything you might come to regret. Carry yourselves with dignity in this place of learning."
"My deepest apologies, your highness," Drusilla said, keeping her head down. "Forgive us for disturbing your day. I took it upon myself to educate these peasants, who were speaking rudely of their betters, and they took offense. I forgot how volatile the commoners' temper can be and how poor their self-control."
"Is that true?" the Prince asked.
"Yes," Emily bitterly answered. "I lost myself when Lady Hallant maliciously humiliated me, insulted my family and my friend in front of half the country. I apologize."
The Prince looked taken aback. He glanced around, suddenly keenly aware of the hundreds of eyes on him, everyone waiting for his reaction with bated breath.
Would he side with a commoner to rebuke a high-ranking noble? But there were more highborn in the academy. Careless words could cost him dearly in political support…But would he dismiss Emily as a liar then, and anger all the commoners? Or would he do nothing and look like a wimp?
Great power, great responsibility.
"Ahem, Lady Hallant," the Prince stiffly resumed, clearing his throat, "I hope I won't have to remind you that every student is considered equal in Belmesion. We must all treat one another fairly and respectfully here, and guide each other with understanding."
"Indeed," Drusilla replied, "but surely your highness remembers we are not students yet. We of lesser standing must still prove our worth to be allowed the status that belongs to Belmesion's pupils. And some of us may never get that far."
A deafening silence followed.
It was a surprisingly daring riposte. Audacious, even.
Members of the royal family were guaranteed studentship by tradition, and their entrance exam scores didn't technically matter at all. Words about equality and fairness rang hollow coming from a Prince. Hypocrisy, even. But that Hallant would dare challenge his authority so openly…It appeared the elite of the capital didn't think very highly of the third prince.
——"Yes, how about just saying 'sorry'?"
Everyone's eyes went wide. Who dared to butt into a conversation between a prince and a grand duke's daughter? It was the student standing next to Leander. I'd thought she was merely a bodyguard at first, but now had to look again. A mere guard would never make a sound in such a situation.
There was a strange air about that girl.
A kind of rare purity and freshness. Her clear eyes showed no pretense or hidden intentions. They were like a forest pond, devoid of fear, or doubt, or anger, only a steady, honest glimmer in them. She looked at princes and mages like we were all children of the same village, none better than the other, each with our strengths and flaws, but lovable and precious as family.
You couldn't avoid feeling lightened and at ease next to such an undisguised person.
As if you could be just who you were, the burden of obligations and expectations entirely removed. It was a feeling like coming out of a bath, naked and tender and scrubbed clean, and she made the less insecure of us very awkward and ashamed. Even I felt like the dark, clouded, ever-smoldering hellscape inside me had momentarily had a gap pierced into it, where a bright ray of sunlight shone through.
That effect couldn't be fully natural.
There was something off about that girl, though I couldn't tell what.
"Excuse me!?" Drusilla staggered back at the comment, blushing with rage.
"I think it's clear to everyone who was at fault here," the unknown girl continued, like berating a neighbor's naughty child. "Your words are so full of venom, you'll make yourself sick if you keep up like that. You should just apologize to this girl. Badmouthing someone's family is really low."
"And who on earth are you supposed to be!?"
Prince Leander now recovered and took the opportunity to shake off his earlier humiliation. Raising his voice for everyone to hear, he introduced his odd companion.
"This is Vanille, of the House of D'Arnos! A bearer of the blessing of Saravan, the Martial God; a Sword Saint candidate recognized by Sir Lebercant himself!"
A collective gasp passed over the yard like a gust of wind.
Sword Saint. The title granted to those transcendent few who'd climbed to the ultimate pinnacle of swordsmanship. A rank impossible to attain solely by practice, however great the talent. It took divine inspiration.
In all of Calidea, only one Sword Saint was left after the war, Lebercant, the Thousand-Trade. Just having your potential acknowledged by a warrior of his level was a great honor for martial artists.
The audience forgot everything that happened earlier and began to bombard the prince and D'Arnos with excited questions. Drusilla seized the opportunity to slip away with her gloomy follower, not offering a word of apology.
Shortly after, an adult looking like a professor appeared at the door of the main house.
"Those here for the entrance exam, please follow me. Your escorts, if you have any, must wait outside until the exam is over."
The applicants remembered their purpose again, and a somber silence took over the yard. Everyone began to shift in, but Emily made no move to follow with the flow. She stood rooted in place like a statue, staring down at her toes and squeezing her fists. I didn't want to plunge into the bottlenecked human mass at the entryway either, but waited with her.
In a moment, the worst traffic had cleared and she still wasn't moving.
"Hey," Emily suddenly grunted at me. "Don't ever touch a magician when they're casting a spell. You could've been badly hurt!"
Was this the time to worry about others?
"What were you thinking?" I asked. "Trying to kill a person in broad daylight?"
"I meant to hold back."
That's not how it seemed to me.
"Even if your strike didn't land, you would've been disqualified from the exam. Is that how you repay us for the ride? Throwing the test without even trying? If that's how you meant to end it, we should've left you in the dust."
"Well, sorry!" Emily bit her lip, holding back tears.
I turned to face her.
"A mage must be the master of her feelings, no matter what. That doesn't mean becoming a cold device. Having temperament can be a source of great strength, but for that, you have to be the one in control. Why let mere words rile you up like that? Just shrug it off."
"What do you even care!?" she shouted, now openly spilling tears. "Why are you still there!? Why are you talking like I have any chance here!? Didn't you hear it? Every word that witch said was true! I killed a person! I have no talent! I—because of me, my own father…! Don't you think it's unforgivable? Don't you regret helping me now?"
"I see. So it was your father who helped you weather the mana overload?"
Emily raised her face in shock.
"H-how could you know that…? I've never told a soul…"
"I have eyes, don't I?"
An overloading mage had no control. Whatever spell she'd tried to cast was in pieces by that point. And mana by itself was formless and harmless—save for the caster, who had it in her own body. She couldn't have hurt her father in such a state, unless he chose to link with her of his own will and knowingly played the role of a lightning rod.
"You're not a killer," I said. "Your father made the only right choice, as a mage. The preservation of the family's arts in your descendants must always be the top priority. Why does that upset you? You should be proud. I don't know your father, but I can tell he was a professional of true skill. If he weren't, you wouldn't be standing there."
"…"
"I saw your power up close, and it wasn't without value. So get a grip now, Emily Troyard. Forget about one mean witch. What you should be thinking about are all the people who helped bring you here today. There must have been more than one or two. Will you throw away their high hopes out of a fit of anger?"
"No. No!" Emily wiped her eyes in her dusty sleeve and looked a little firmer again. "Damn it, I know! I'll do it! I'll do it, all right! I'll take that damn test, and I'll show them all!"
I watched the girl make her passionate vow and found myself smiling at it.
"Very good. Then let's go."