Chapter 6

　　"Did you hear? Owen Summers apparently broke down in tears during training."

　　When Sylvia stopped by the Knights’ Order on an errand, the headquarters was abuzz with a rare excitement. The topic of conversation, however, was far from what she had anticipated. It was not the news of Heston’s engagement, which had dominated the previous night, nor was it gossip about Sylvia’s dramatic exit from the princess’s tea party. It was about Owen Summers, who had suddenly burst into tears before a wooden dummy during afternoon training. For a man known to remain dry-eyed even at funerals, the reaction was immense.

　　"Like a man possessed, he just stood there, tears pouring down his face. His expression was completely blank through it all, though. It is far more unsettling when someone cries with an impassive face, is it not? How uncanny."

　　Moreover, witnesses reported that it seemed he had not cried in so long that he failed to recognize his own tears, lifting a hand to his tear-soaked face in a gesture that was described as nothing short of terrifying.

　　"But what if he is truly cursed?"

　　"Is there such a curse?"

　　While the knights debated that there could be no other explanation, Sylvia, pricked by her conscience, darted her eyes about the room.

　　Surely it could not be because of me?

　　No, Owen was not the sort to be troubled by a woman he had spent the night with vanishing without a word. Even if she had offered him her earnest comfort, and even if their night together had been born of simple goodwill… even if she had fled without so much as a note…

　　Or… perhaps he was?

　　Just this morning, she had been certain he would not give it a second thought. But hearing the unbelievable news of his weeping, her certainty now felt like arrogance. No matter how impossibly handsome he was, or how stoic his heart seemed, Owen was still human. He could not have been pleased to awaken to an empty bed. Perhaps he, too, had been in need of some solace last night.

　　Perhaps the sight of the empty bed had made him feel rejected, and the tears had simply come. Seizing upon this familiar narrative, Sylvia was overcome with a disquiet she could not name. To make matters worse, a knight who spotted her confirmed her fears with an excited voice, throwing her into further confusion.

　　"Appleton! You heard, did you not?"

　　When she gave a hesitant nod, the knight, Allen, clapped a hand on her shoulder, his face alight with curiosity. "What in the world did you do to him?"

　　"What do you mean, what did I do?!" Sylvia exclaimed, recoiling as if she had been scalded.

　　Allen’s brows drew together. "Well, they said Owen was eerily calling your name while he cried. We all just assumed you got drunk yesterday and did something dreadful to him."

　　"Dreadful? I did not even see him! You know I hide myself away when I drink!"

　　"Do you?"

　　But his questioning gaze held not a shred of trust. Fearing her indiscretion would be discovered in less than a day, Sylvia grew cautious. "I was with Rosalyn yesterday!" she lied, grabbing Allen’s arm.

　　"Right."

　　"It is the truth!"

　　"I said I believe you. What is the matter with you?"

　　As she bickered with him, a man exuding an unmistakably ominous aura rounded the corner. He had blond hair and was rubbing at his red, swollen eyes with an irritated gesture. It was Owen Summers.

　　"You," Owen muttered, his voice low as he came face-to-face with her.

　　Sylvia, her face flushing, spun on her heel and fled. Her actions rather contradicted her claim of not having seen Owen the night before, but it could not be helped. The memory of their night together was enough to make her wish to avoid his face for the next three years. But after that unspeakably mortifying incident at the tea party, Sylvia was now in a position where she could never face him again, not even in death.

　　Left in her wake, Owen let out a long sigh, surrounded by the bewildered stares of his fellow knights. It was the sigh of a man who could already foresee the trials to come.

　　***

　　Having rushed home, Sylvia decided to request a few days’ leave and confine herself to the mansion. She intended to use the time to clear her head and steel herself for the hellish encounters that were sure to follow. Fortunately, her visit to the imperial physician had provided the perfect excuse. He had informed her that her mana was heavily entangled with ‘something else’ and had inquired if she had recently suffered a major magical attack.

　　"An attack?"

　　"Yes. An attack, or perhaps contact with another’s magic… Ah, perhaps with Sir Heston…"

　　The physician’s tone had become exceedingly cautious. His voice dropped so low that Sylvia had to lean forward to hear him properly.

　　"When was your last expedition?"

　　"Two months ago. It was brief, so I provided little support."

　　"I see."

　　"Ah. Come to think of it, I did receive some mana from Aerut a few days ago."

　　The doctor pushed his slipping spectacles up his nose, his interest piqued, so Sylvia told him of the letter from her older brother. It was just one of his usual pranks. Aerut was their father’s only hope and a brilliant mage, but he was also an imbecile. Unable to attend the princess’s engagement ceremony, he had sent congratulatory letters instead: one for Sylvia, and one for the princess.

　　Congratulations on the end of your pathetic, unrequited love. At least now I will not have to suffer the sight of your stupid, sniveling face!

　　That short sentence was all that was written in Sylvia’s letter, which was enchanted to scatter flower petals upon opening. Sylvia had been showered with them. But she was not surprised. Possessing the ability to see magic circles, she had known of the spell before she broke the seal.

　　The problem was the letter addressed to the princess. It bore at least two spells, layered so perfectly in the same spot that they were nearly impossible to distinguish. Moreover, the skill with which they were intertwined to prevent separation was truly the work of a genius.

　　That fiend.

　　To think he would expend such effort on a small letter. Unable to allow Aerut to play a prank on the princess, Sylvia had no choice but to open it herself. She had assumed the magic would be similar to that in her own letter, but the moment she did, a surge of mana turned everything from her head to her stomach inside out. Sylvia had run straight for the washroom and retched until there was nothing left inside her.

　　Once her stomach had settled, she opened the letter again, wondering if her brother had truly lost his mind. Inside was a formal note of congratulations for the princess and a small, separate note teasing Sylvia.

　　Just because you can see it does not mean you can prepare for it.

　　Sylvia had crumpled the note. When she relayed the incident to the doctor whilst omitting the profanities, he tilted his head as if something did not quite add up, but he seemed to accept her explanation and move on.

　　"Your mana is entangled, so you must be careful. Get some rest. You will feel much better."

　　So Sylvia rested. Her mind was put at ease when Rosalyn visited with delicious desserts and relayed that, far from being angry, the princess was quite worried for her.

　　But a day later, Sylvia sensed something was terribly wrong. Just as at the tea party, her body began to heat up for no reason at all. She was alone in her room, yet Owen’s moans began to echo in her ears again. All Sylvia could do was squeeze her legs together and endure the rising heat.

　　She refused her meals and remained all but motionless in her room. Due to the scolding she had received from the housekeeper, Mrs. Blanke, the previous evening, the staff assumed she was merely melancholic. In truth, Sylvia was standing in her room, gripping a bedpost and breathing in ragged gasps.

　　Am I truly cursed?

　　A third small climax washed over her without her having so much as touched herself, and she could think of no other explanation. Unless she had gone mad, this could not be happening. Especially not over Owen. Her heart felt no excitement, only a profound sense of transgression.

　　"Hnngh…"

　　It felt as if a phantom touch were prying her legs apart, rolling a pearl against her most sensitive flesh. Sylvia bit back a moan and threw her head back, her flushed eyes already shimmering with tears. She gripped the bedpost with both hands, swearing to God that she would not lower them, yet her hips trembled with the irregular waves of arousal, twitching as if in supplication.

　　"Ugh… please."

　　I cannot sink this low. So please, spare me, she pleaded inwardly, not knowing to what or whom she prayed. But the ache below grew more intense, her head grew dizzier, and her reason began to fray. Sylvia’s experience was far too meager to withstand the simmering tide of arousal.

　　Her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the bed, her hands clutching at the hem of her skirt. The thin fabric of her inner dress crumpled beyond repair, revealing the pale skin of her thighs. Her knuckles were white from how tightly she clenched her fists, and her hand slowly crept toward her inner thigh. Sylvia could not stop it. Instead, she felt an answering twitch of anticipation from deep within. As her middle finger pressed down on the aching spot through the thin fabric, the wetness that had been pooling inside her gushed forth.

　　"Have you truly never explored yourself?"