Chapter 5

　　Once the fleeting thrill subsided, it was inevitably followed by a tidal wave of shame. She could not fathom why, in such an unexpected place, she had become aroused by him of all people. Was this simply a consequence of intimacy? No, that could not be. If it were so, every member of the notoriously debauched Knights of the First Order would be perpetually short of breath. It seemed Sylvia had simply lost her sanity, utterly undone by a single night with Owen Summers.

　　"I ought to just die," she muttered, banging her head against her knees. Her pink hair swayed with each dull thud. After a few particularly sincere impacts left her forehead red and throbbing, Sylvia decided that what was done was done. She had to at least try to manage the fallout. She had quite literally upended a tea party hosted by the princess. The sound of shattering porcelain still echoed in her ears. If her father found out… she shuddered to think of the consequences.

　　First, I must establish proof that I was ill.

　　The Imperial Palace employed a physician who exclusively attended to the Knights’ Order, and so Sylvia headed for the infirmary, her head still spinning. She was pressing her palms to her temples when a hand clamped down on her arm, spinning her around. She staggered, finding herself held in the gaze of intense green eyes that seemed to consume her whole.

　　"Heston? What are you doing here?"

　　"Are you all right?" he asked, while his chest, which remained steady even after fifty laps around the training grounds, was rising and falling with uncharacteristic speed. He pulled her closer, his gaze sweeping over her, examining her flushed face and turning her by the shoulders. Trapped in his grasp, Sylvia was struck by the sudden realization that they were still within the palace, where eyes and ears were plentiful. She pushed him away. As if causing a scene at the princess’s tea party were not enough, the thought of being seen in a compromising position with Her Highness’s own fiancé was grim indeed.

　　"What is it? I am perfectly fine."

　　"I heard you were unwell."

　　"From whom?" Her voice became a whisper. Had rumors of her disgraceful conduct already begun to circulate?

　　To her relief, Heston quickly put her fears to rest. "From Rose. She said you seemed ill, that you could hardly stand."

　　Sylvia breathed out in relief. At last, she understood his sudden appearance. "You came as Rosalyn’s escort. I thought you…"

　　…had heard about me from the princess. Sylvia pressed her lips together, silencing the rest of the thought.

　　Heston, frustrated by her evasiveness, closed the distance between them again.

　　"So, how are you feeling?"

　　He was a large man, and his shadow was just as imposing. Being enveloped by it had always been peculiar, and Sylvia retreated a step for every one he took forward. She would never confess her true condition to Heston, of all people. Even if it risked the princess learning of it, she decided she must send him away by insisting she was well.

　　"I am fine. I was merely dizzy—likely a consequence of the wine. I had a bit to drink yesterday."

　　"How much?" he pressed.

　　As she expected, Heston’s brow furrowed in disapproval. It was an unspoken rule that knights were to look after the well-being of their Supporters, but Heston was always exceptionally attentive. Sylvia attributed it to the overprotective instincts of an older brother whose sister had been sickly as a child.

　　"It is nothing to concern yourself with. I was on my way to see the physician."

　　"I will accompany you."

　　"No. Rosalyn is waiting. Please, just go. It is nothing to worry about, I assure you."

　　"How can I not worry about you?" he countered, his frown deepening with frustration. For a moment, his gentle sigh settled upon Sylvia’s heart with a heavy weight. "If you drank so much, you should have remained at home. You did not have to come simply because you were summoned."

　　His tone was dismissive, as if the person who had summoned her wasn’t his own fiancée. Sylvia bit back the urge to retort, to ask if he truly believed she had a choice in the matter. Heston moved to support her with a familiar ease.

　　"Let us go."

　　His determined profile seemed to declare his intent to remain by her side until she had been examined and properly tended to. But how could he? He belonged to another woman now. This was wrong. He should not look upon her as if she were more important than his fiancée, more precious than his own sister, and come rushing to her side.

　　If he had decided against choosing her, then he ought to have abandoned her completely. He should have been cold, unfeeling.

　　She pulled away from his touch, her expression hardening. "I cannot go with you," she said, her voice firm.

　　Heston frowned, as if her words were incomprehensible.

　　"It is perfectly obvious, is it not? You came with Rosalyn, therefore you must leave with Rosalyn. Instead of seeing to me, you should be using this time to attend to Her Highness."

　　"How could I, when you are ill—"

　　She cut off his tender protest. "Whether I am ill or not, nothing has changed. You must keep your distance from me. We are no longer children, Heston."

　　"Are you angry?" he asked cautiously, studying her face. It was a cruel question. He often posed it when she spoke this way, acting as if her boundaries were an unreasonable imposition. He did it every single time she tried to finally let go of the hopeless feelings of love she harbored for a decade.

　　And yet, Sylvia vividly recalled the sight of him the night before, standing beside the princess in his formal attire. They had stood side by side, a perfect pair in colors that so perfectly complemented one another. In that moment, Sylvia had felt he had crossed a river she could never traverse, gone from her forever. But here he was, back at her side, just as he always was.

　　"I am not angry. I am saying that as adults, we must abide by the proper rules of conduct. It is not right for a grown man and woman—especially when one is betrothed—to maintain such excessive closeness."

　　"Sylvie, we are as good as family. How can the years we have shared be severed in a single moment?" Heston argued, his tone suggesting she was the one being stubborn.

　　Sylvia shook her head, her face a calm mask. "Do you not remember the vow you made yesterday?"

　　At her words, Heston fell silent.

　　"Before God, I vow to place you first, above all others."

　　He seemed to recall the words spoken before the priest as he held Princess Katrin’s hand. He would never comprehend how deeply Sylvia’s heart had shattered in that moment, when that promise had passed his lips.

　　"Sylvia, that was…" Heston began, but his mouth snapped shut.

　　She gently pushed his hand away. "To truly place one person first, you must be willing to place others second. It does not matter what your relationship with them may be."

　　Their palms brushed for a fleeting second. Heston glanced down at his hand before raising his gaze. He had been uncharacteristically emotional today, and for a moment, Sylvia feared he might be wounded by her words and lash out. But after a brief silence, the Heston who met her eyes had regained his customary composure, all traces of his earlier confusion gone.

　　"Yes. You are right," he said, taking a few steps back. "I have Her Highness now. My apologies. Rosalyn spoke with such gravity that I must have been alarmed. You are more than capable of seeing to yourself. I should not have bothered you."

　　As he retreated with such clean finality, a bitter taste filled her mouth. Sylvia forced a smile. "Indeed. You should hurry back to Rosalyn."

　　"Do send Rose a short note when you receive your results. She was terribly worried."

　　She merely nodded in response. He watched her for a moment longer before turning away with a hint of awkwardness. A passing group of knights spotted him and bowed their heads in greeting. Certain that her own face was a ruin, Sylvia quickly turned away before she could meet anyone’s eyes. She hurried into the building that housed the infirmary, leaning against a wall as she hung her head.

　　How foolish of me. She roughly wiped away the tears streaming down her cheeks. What sort of madness was this? To hand him a weapon and demand he strike her, only to weep from the wound when he obliged.

　　"Yes. You are right. I have Her Highness now."

　　His words echoed in her mind. Until the engagement ceremony itself, she had never been certain if Heston truly loved Princess Katrin. The betrothal had been so abrupt. But that evening, she had caught the first glimpse of his affection in the way his eyes followed the princess. It had been just once, for a fleeting moment.

　　When it seemed Heston was overindulging in the endless toasts, Katrin had placed her hand over his on the table, her gaze warm with concern. Heston had turned to her, a flicker of surprise on his face, and had tried to withdraw his hand, as if embarrassed by the public display. But the princess had smiled softly and murmured something. Whatever Heston saw in that smile, it had frozen him in place.

　　He had stared at her, utterly captivated, for a long moment. And then, slowly, so very carefully, his hand had reached out to cup her cheek.

　　That was why Sylvia had fled the banquet hall. She had seen it: an intimacy so profound it could not be concealed.

　　"Why can I not…" she whispered, the words catching in her throat.

　　…be the one he gazes at like that? She knew it was childish, but the sorrow was unbearable. Drowning in a strange sense of deprivation, wondering why the things she wanted most were always denied to her, Sylvia allowed herself to cry, just for a little while.