MCFLS 14

Chapter 14.

Children grow by fighting.

That age-old saying applied equally to the young lady of a great noble house and the heir destined to become a duke.

Adrienne and Cyril fought quite persistently, bickering relentlessly.

And it wasn’t limited to their childhood.

Just today, they had a heated argument over their shooting scores. Though it was a rather childish fight for two people who would turn fourteen in a month, both were deadly serious.

Cyril slammed the door shut behind him as he entered, irritably shrugging off his coat. A frown creased his fine forehead, which still bore traces of boyishness.

It’s not that I let her win—I told her I didn’t. What does she want me to do about it?

Unlike the old days when he always lost, Cyril was gradually beginning to outpace Adrienne.

Adrienne seemed deeply resentful of this, but there was nothing to be done.

If Adrienne was of the Cassinel bloodline, Cyril was of the Tezard bloodline.

The founding Duke of Tezard himself was a former slave who rose to become a war hero and was granted the dukedom.

The first Duke Tezard was of a different ethnicity. During the era when the Persen Empire was still the Kingdom of Persen—a time far more prejudiced against other ethnicities than the present—a former slave of foreign origin being granted a dukedom spoke volumes about his merit.

Even without looking that far back, the current Duke Tezard had risen to the rank of Field Marshal. An exceedingly honorable title granted only to the most exceptional generals.

That very blood flowed purely through Cyril’s veins. His sword skills, as if he had never fumbled, grew more proficient by the day, and he had been an excellent shot from the very beginning.

Of course, in terms of talent, Adrienne was also remarkable. But physical conditioning was a separate matter.

Their once similar eye levels had diverged significantly since last year, and now Cyril easily looked down on Adrienne.

In swordsmanship, he had become unbeatable at some point, leaving only shooting—and even in that, Cyril had recently pulled ahead.

Sensing that Adrienne seemed bothered despite pretending otherwise, Cyril had deliberately let her win just once.

And that day, he saw hell.

It was the first time Adrienne had ever been that angry. That day, Cyril learned for the first time that her pale face could turn the same color as her hair.

I just had an off day, I said. Why couldn’t she believe that?

The repercussions of that single mistake were immense.

Ever since that day, Adrienne doubted Cyril every time they made a wager.

If Cyril made even the slightest mistake, her round eyes would instantly sharpen into triangles.

Even though Cyril never repeated that behavior again.

Her pride is disgustingly strong.

Though Cyril himself had once lived with the sole determination to beat Adrienne.

By now, it was hard to tell if they had become friends because they were alike, or had become alike because they were friends.

Having grumbled to his heart’s content, Cyril’s gaze suddenly fell upon the desk. A letter he hadn’t seen before was placed there—perhaps the butler had come by while he was at the shooting range.

The sender was Duke Tezard. His father.

‘Is it about time to return soon?’

A new season was approaching, so it was indeed time for a visit. It happened every year, so it wasn’t anything new.

Another year passing by, Cyril thought indifferently as he used a knife to break the wax seal.

“……”

But as he read through the letter, Cyril unconsciously furrowed his brow. With each line, each lengthening paragraph, his expression grew increasingly rigid.

The letter’s message was clear. In a word, it could be summarized as follows:

Return to your place.

It was a letter commanding his return to Tezard.

Cyril hadn’t thought he would stay at Cassinel forever either.

After all, the reason he was sent to Cassinel in the first place was for recuperation. Now that he was healthy, returning to his rightful land was only natural.

Even if the Tezard heir had volunteered to become a squire, no one truly believed he would become a knight.

It was an era where the very existence of knights was fading.

All power flowed toward the center, and the capital overflowed with pleasure and luxury.

Countless nobles willingly threw themselves into that whirlpool.

Many chose the fleeting pleasure of amplifying meager power by the emperor’s side over the grand yet burdensome position of being a territorial lord.

It was a growing trend for nobles to offer their ancient castles and estates to the emperor and, in return, receive plausible official posts to secure a place in the imperial palace.

Thus, it was only natural that the knights who guarded estates in their family’s name were disappearing.

All knightly orders, save for the Imperial Palace Knight Order, were now considered relics of the past.

The sole exceptions were those, like Cassinel and Tezard, who defended the borders. They, like their predecessors, meticulously maintained their private armies.

Otherwise, even second sons and below from noble families who could no longer inherit titles didn’t choose the path of knighthood anymore—unless it was for the hollow prestige.

So who would think the heir of the Tezard ducal house would remain forever under the command of Count Cassinel?

Cyril didn’t think so either.

‘I’m sure I didn’t think that…’

But there was a world of difference between vaguely thinking he would leave someday and having that event thrust right before his eyes.

A squire typically referred to one who trained in martial arts under another house for about ten years. Cyril had expected to spend at least ten years at Cassinel.

He came to Cassinel at six and would soon be fourteen, so he thought he still had two or three years left.

That’s what he thought just this past autumn.

But the letter he received today wasn’t just shattering that expectation—it was trying to rush the future forward.

“Cyril.”
“……”
“Cyril—”
“……”

The fact left Cyril terribly confused. His mind was a tangled mess as he tried to figure out how to handle this unexpected situation.

That’s why he didn’t hear Adrienne calling his name.

Scrape, scrape.

Around the time the sound of scraping an empty plate instead of the properly placed roast turkey repeated a few more times, Adrienne raised her voice.

“Hey!”
“Adriana.”

Only then did Cyril realize what he was doing.

Count Cassinel lightly chastised Adrienne for her manners, but she was still more refined than Cyril, who was slicing an innocent plate.

“Adriana seems to regard the Young Lord with great familiarity. I shall admonish her, so please overlook it just this once.”
“…Not at all. It is I who am sorry for showing such poor manners.”

The Count resumed his meal in lieu of a reply.

Cyril also righted his knife and began slicing the meat, not the plate. He could feel a stinging gaze on his face but pretended not to notice.

By now, Adrienne was likely staring openly, and Reed was probably sneaking glances at him. But he didn’t have the energy to deal with the siblings right now.

In the end, the Cassinel siblings didn’t exchange a single glance with Cyril for the rest of the meal.

Come to think of it, it was simple. He came to Cassinel for a purpose, achieved it, and now would return.

It required no pondering. All he had to do was give the obvious reply: “Understood.”

“Cyril, is something wrong?”
“Adrienne… isn’t that too direct?”
“Then what should I ask the guy slicing a plate? Reed, you want to ask?”
“No. You already asked…”

The reason he couldn’t do that was because of the twins before him.

Cyril barely caught his gaze, which kept drifting leftward unconsciously.

“It’s nothing.”
“How can you lie so brazenly?”
“…If you won’t believe me, why ask?”
“You’re one to talk. Knowing I won’t fall for it, why lie?”

Her tone was convinced he was lying. It was clear she didn’t entertain the slightest thought she might be wrong.

He disliked that brazen confidence of knowing him inside out, but Adrienne was right. Because Cyril was lying.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just not feeling well.”
“What? You’ve been fine lately. Is it because it got a little cold? Don’t call Jerome. Reed, call Emma.”
“Okay, wait a sec.”
“Reed, it’s fine. Leave it.”

The siblings fussed over him in unison. They easily saw through his lie yet readily believed his claim of illness.

Come to think of it, it was always like this.

Back in childhood, when a constantly visiting Adrienne annoyed him and he used feeling sick as an excuse to send her away, she would retreat easily, though she might have persisted otherwise.

Adrienne, these siblings, the Cassinels who raised them—they were all so affectionate.

Perhaps that was why he couldn’t bring himself to give the predetermined answer.

“You’re really something, making people worry like this.”
“I’ll be fine after some rest.”
“You better be. You have to go to Tezard soon.”
“…What?”

How do you know that?

For a moment, startled, Cyril asked back, and Adrienne let out a short laugh.

“Why so surprised? It’s the same every year. How old is Samuel now? Do you think he’d remember me if I showed him my portrait?”

An indifferent reply that made his brief tension seem pointless.

Cyril inwardly sighed in relief.

If a letter had come for him, Count Cassinel must have received the same news. He had just wondered if maybe…

“Why would you show your portrait to Samuel?”
“To let your brother know you have such a beautiful friend?”
“Are you trying to make Samuel go blind? I think one person suffering is enough.”
“Cyril, do you really want me to blind you?”

Adrienne, sitting in the left chair, pretended to get up while reaching for his neck. Reed, beside her, intervened, saying, “Violence is wrong…!” and held her back.

“I’d like to see Samuel in person someday. It must feel like having four siblings.”
“…Four siblings?”
“Me and Reed, you and Samuel. That’s four.”

I wonder if Samuel is a bit lively? That would be more fun. Adrienne added with a voice tinged with laughter.

‘Siblings…’

Cyril found the resonance of that word rather unpleasant.

No, beyond unpleasant, it was disagreeable. It felt like a blow to the back of his head.