Chapter 1

　　A friend of a friend. Had it been too much to hope that their connection, as ambiguous as the title itself, might not curdle into this profound awkwardness? Frozen in place, Sylvia gazed at the sleeping face in the distance. His golden hair was disheveled like a child’s, his sun-kissed cheeks seemed to hold the very light of dawn, and his eyelashes swept long and low. It was a face she saw often, yet now, it felt as if she were stealing a glimpse of something deeply private.

　　That must be it, she reasoned, It’s because he is asleep, lying facedown with his back entirely exposed.

　　A glance beneath the covers confirmed her fears: she was naked, and so was he. Worse, the memories of the night before were slowly surfacing, each one a testament to the undeniable truth that she had shared his bed.

　　It is rather difficult to enter if you do not lift your hips, Sylvie.

　　I want to bite you… May I?

　　His uniquely soft tone, the velvety whisper of his voice… His moans, the touch of his hands, or rather a merciless grip, all came rushing back.

　　"Did I truly…" Her voice, hoarse from overuse, uttered the words before failing her again. Recollections of how he had regarded her, how he had touched her in the darkness, the hand that had traveled up her leg, and the amber eyes that had shone so clearly in the moonlight. The memories made her want to sink into the linens and perish.

　　How could we?

　　Sylvia curled into a ball, her hands tangled in her hair. It was not so much the how that confounded her, but the why. Alcohol, she knew, was the primary cause, but her true question was, of all the men in the world, why him? This was a man she had known for five years, yet they had always maintained a careful distance, veiled by the awkward pretense of being a "friend of a friend."

　　For that very reason, she could not simply sever the tie, even knowing this was a terrible mistake. So long as she remained by Heston’s side, she would have to continue seeing this man.

　　Oh, heavens. Heston.

　　The name surfaced with a painful jolt, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. As her mind cleared, she took in her surroundings and realized with dawning horror that she had committed this blunder without ever leaving Sodern Castle. To have done this here, of all places, in Sodern Castle, where Heston’s engagement had been celebrated. And with Heston’s friend, of all people. The guilt was enough to kill her.

　　I must leave this place. Now.

　　With that thought, Sylvia hurriedly gathered her scattered clothes. Wrapping the thin blanket around herself, she began to dress. Her hand emerged from the cocoon of linen to pull on a stocking, then the other snaked out to retrieve her chemise. Her entire body ached, especially the inside of her thighs and her lower back, which sent a jolt of pain through her with every movement, causing a cold sweat to break out across her skin. She endured it with sheer willpower.

　　How on earth did those get over there?

　　Her face flushed as she spotted a pair of white drawers tucked beneath the bedside table. It was best not to recall whose hands had removed them. Crawling on her knees, she finally retrieved the undergarment and was about to pull it on under the blanket when a voice broke the silence.

　　"Mm… Sylvia?"

　　The man’s groggy voice made her bolt upright, as if his words had scraped against her spine. She heard a rustling from the bed. The soft sound, as if he were searching the empty space beside him, sent a wave of tension through her. Sylvia pressed herself as flat against the floor as possible, trying to disappear from his line of sight. Half-dressed in her chemise, clutching her drawers, she felt so humiliated she could have died on the spot, but it still seemed a better fate than facing him.

　　Fortunately, her efforts seemed to pay off, as she heard him flop back down onto the bed.

　　"Guess she left," he murmured, his voice half-muffled by the blankets.

　　Sylvia held her breath, waiting until his breathing had evened out before she finally moved.

　　Once outside, the lingering remnants of the engagement party in Sodern Castle dealt her a second death. Sylvia hurried toward the exit, only to remember that it was unthinkable for a noble lady of her station to return home without a carriage. She changed course and headed for the room of Heston’s younger sister, Rosalyn.

　　"Rosalyn."

　　It was unlikely a reply would come from the small, whispered word, but she opened the door without waiting. Rosalyn was still sleeping soundly. With her straight black hair, so like Heston’s, spread out around her, she looked as beautiful as a doll. Sylvia shook her awake.

　　"Rosalyn. I need your help. I did not return home last night."

　　"Hmm? Sylvia?"

　　"Yes, it is I. Did my family send a message for me?"

　　If she were late, her family would certainly have sent word. Rosalyn, her eyes barely open, regarded Sylvia for a moment before bolting upright.

　　"Of course they did!"

　　Rosalyn pulled Sylvia closer, then pinched her nose and pushed her away again.

　　"Ugh, you reek of spirits. How much did you drink? Did you pass out somewhere again and only just wake up?"

　　"S-Something of the sort," Sylvia stammered, but Rosalyn paid the detail no mind. Rising and draping a shawl over her shoulders, Rosalyn scribbled a note on a piece of paper, then pulled a cord to hand it to a maid. While Rosalyn moved with brisk efficiency to manage the consequences of her friend’s mistake, Sylvia sank onto a small, floral-patterned armchair. Her head was pounding so fiercely she could not even lean it back. It was the first time she had ever drunk enough to forget, and the aftereffects were entirely foreign.

　　She remembered grabbing a bottle and hiding somewhere no one would find her. Had the man simply chanced upon her hiding place? If so, with his kind nature, he would not have been able to ignore her, a friend of Heston’s. Though they were not close, he would occasionally strike up a conversation with that same, utterly natural air. And Sylvia, however awkwardly, could manage to exchange a few words.

　　She had always taken a liking to the distinctive air he carried, an aura as warm and languid as summer, befitting his surname, Summers. Drunk as she was, and on the very day the man she loved had become engaged, Sylvia must have been the one to cling to him first. Then, unable to bear the loneliness, she must have kissed him.

　　Even drunk, I must have been completely out of my mind.

　　Sylvia buried her face in her knees and curled into a ball. The kind-hearted Summers likely could not bring himself to push her away. He knew she loved Heston; perhaps he had even held her out of pity.

　　You have a mole here.

　　His whispered words echoed in her memory. He had pushed aside her hair and toyed with her earlobe as he held her. She remembered the heat of his large hand on her bare back, the solid wall of his body against hers. Her face flushed at the memory, and she pulled her knees in tighter.

　　Having finished her tasks, Rosalyn approached, her gaze lingering on her friend’s strange posture. "Are you ill from the drink, Sylvie? You look unwell. Your face is quite flushed."

　　The nickname, coming from Rosalyn, sounded unnervingly like Owen’s voice the night before. Sylvia scratched her ear and lifted her head.

　　"It is merely a little warm."

　　"Warm? It is morning. Come, get up. I will give you some medicine after you have bathed, so go on into the bathroom."

　　"The bathroom?" Sylvia asked dully. Her only thought was to flee to the carriage as soon as it was ready and leave this castle forever. But Rosalyn, with a stern expression befitting a composed young lady who had only just woken, reprimanded her.

　　"Do you intend to go home reeking of spirits like this? What if you encounter your father? With his temper, he would lock you in your room. Then, within three months, he would have you wed to some mage you have never even met."

　　It was a scathing assessment of a friend’s father, but she was not wrong. No matter how well Sylvia performed her duties, enough to be decorated by the Emperor himself, as a mere Supporter, her father placed more value on her as a woman who could marry and bear the child of a ‘true’ mage. She imagined the harsh future Rosalyn described and shivered.

　　What if her father discovered that she and Owen had slept together? In this day and age, it was a minor transgression for an affectionate couple to share a bed before marriage, but she knew with certainty that it would not be so for her father. To him, it would be a defilement of the noble mage blood in her veins and, furthermore, a stain upon the family’s honor.

　　‘The shame I must endure because of you is truly endless.’ She could already vividly picture her father’s expression of utter contempt.

　　"So, hurry and get up!" Noticing Sylvia’s souring expression, Rosalyn grabbed her arm and forced her to her feet. As she stood, a sharp pain shot through her lower back, causing her to freeze. Rosalyn looked at Sylvia, who could barely walk and looked questioning. Sylvia, thankful for Rosalyn’s obliviousness, mustered a smile.

　　"I slept in a rather awkward position last night. My whole body is sore."

　　"Is that so? Where did you sleep? Do not tell me you passed out in the dressing room again."

　　"Well, something of the sort."

　　"You are impossible. Why must you always crawl into such strange places when you drink? Even if it was a rare chance to indulge, you went too far."

　　Sylvia smiled silently at Rosalyn’s scolding. Nearly everyone knew of her unrequited love, so when she had disappeared with a bottle last night, no one had searched for her. But Rosalyn, and the object of that love, Heston, would never have noticed her feelings, no matter the circumstances. Seeing that both siblings were the same, Sylvia surmised that a certain insensitivity must run in their blood.

　　How else could they not know? It had been a decade.

　　In that time, Sylvia had learned Heston’s habits, his thoughts. She knew he did not let people in easily, but once he did, he was the kindest soul. She knew his kindness was a quiet, steady warmth that was easy to miss. Ten years were long enough to learn the things about him that others did not see.

　　Yet in all that time, he had never once noticed her feelings for him, even when love was the only thing left in her eyes when she looked at him.

　　He called me his most cherished person.

　　Sylvia bit her lip, holding back a surge of emotion. But the image of Heston, which she had tried to bury so deep, clawed its way out of her fragile heart.

　　"I trust you. My trust in you runs so deep it verges upon doom. But I rather like it. Being with you, I mean."

　　The memory of him smiling so gently as he spoke those words. It was a scene she had wanted to cherish for a very long time. On nights when she was exhausted, she would fall asleep using her memories of him as constellations to guide her to slumber. The gentle way he treated only her. His unique smile, where only one corner of his mouth would lift. His endless devotion.

　　She had deluded herself into thinking it was hers alone until he delivered the devastating declaration.

　　"I have decided to become engaged to Her Highness the princess."