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Chapter 17
Trap
“I understand. It probably wasn’t a human shape inside.”
Anastasia looked down at Sir Bowie again, then calmly placed her boot on the back of his head.
“If you want to live, tell me what you can do for me.”
It was the worst possible humiliation.
To place one’s foot on a knight’s head.
But Sir Bowie could not afford anger.
“What I think of your usefulness… is something like a mounted footstool. And that’s something you could do even if you were dead.”
His twitching body went rigid.
“If that is what the princess desires… I will do anything.”
That was the answer she wanted.
Anastasia willingly lifted her foot from his head.
Then she sat down quietly and properly in place, helping the prostrated Bowie back up.
“P-Princess…?”
“You’re covered in tears.”
She took a handkerchief from her pocket and gently wiped his face. Watching this, Sir Bowie felt a chilling unease.
Something was wrong.
“You said you would do anything, didn’t you, Sir Bowie?”
“Y-yes, that is correct…”
“Before that, I’ll ask something.”
Anastasia ignited fire in her palm and burned the handkerchief to ash.
He swallowed hard.
“Did your father order my death?”
“That is…”
At his hesitation, a larger flame erupted from her small pale hand.
It was not an ordinary flame.
It twisted into a grotesque shape, like a screaming human being.
As if showing him his future.
“Was it my father?”
Reflected in Anastasia’s deep blue eyes, the red flame flickered wildly.
“Yes… it was.”
“Then it’s simple.”
Her ocean-dark eyes narrowed. She extinguished the flame and grabbed his hand, whispering.
“Go kill him.”
“…What?”
“The father who ordered my death. Kill him.”
Arthorius watched Sir Bowie’s retreating figure and shook his head.
“Does she really think that man can kill Duke Etranje?”
It was a serious question.
But Anastasia answered lightly.
“No.”
“Then why…?”
She looked up at him.
“To make him understand.”
“Understand what?”
“The feeling of having someone target your life.”
Arthorius fell silent.
Anastasia grabbed the arrow embedded in his back with her small hand.
“…Are you sure I can just pull this out?”
“Yes.”
“It won’t hurt?”
Arthorius hesitated briefly, then shook his head.
“It won’t hurt.”
“Liar.”
Before he could add anything else, she pulled the arrow out in one swift motion.
“See? It hurts.”
“…Still, I won’t die.”
Unluckily, the arrow had pierced through a gap in his armor.
Bad luck indeed.
“You shouldn’t treat your body so carelessly just because you won’t die.”
The bleeding stopped surprisingly quickly.
Arthorius leaned against the base of the great tree, just as Anastasia had done earlier.
The tree’s hostile aura had softened. It felt… almost warm.
As if it was trying to protect her.
“It’s just an arrow. To me, it’s no different from a toothpick.”
“A toothpick is smaller. And you can’t even clean teeth with that.”
“…That’s not the point.”
Anastasia smiled lightly and stepped into his arms on her own.
His enormous, monstrous-looking embrace turned out to be a comfortable chair.
Even though he was much larger than her.
“…I told Enoch I’d be back before sunset.”
“He won’t worry much.”
There was a strange certainty in his voice.
“Why not?”
“Because I am with you.”
Anastasia had no answer to that and simply pressed her lips together.
His large hand idly brushed her hair.
Even in his arms, she could not feel his breathing.
No heartbeat either.
As if he were a corpse forcibly made to move.
“Let’s head back, Arthorius.”
“Very well.”
Just as when they had come, his large hand grabbed her waist and lifted her.
He carefully placed her onto the saddle.
Fortunately, the horse did not panic.
“By the way… aren’t you curious?”
“About what?”
“Whether that coward will actually try to kill the Duke.”
Anastasia looked into the forest where Sir Bowie had fled.
“…I suppose he will try.”
Arthorius sounded unusually certain.
“How are you so sure?”
He drew his sword from the ground. The blade was spotless.
“If a mouse meets a cat and a lion, which way will it run?”
She understood immediately.
“So the Duke is the cat… and you are the lion?”
“A lion would be generous.”
Through the helmet, his gaze looked oddly sorrowful.
“I am a monster.”
A heavy kind of sadness.
It was a long night.
Longer still when holding an unexpected girl in one’s arms.
Nothing happened between them, but Arthorius knew that wasn’t the point.
A man who had lived as a monster for so long could not understand why Anastasia chose his arms over a bed.
Still, he made her as warm and comfortable as possible as she slept with her head on his chest, using him as a pillow.
But for Anastasia, it was simple.
She could feel his regret in the scar at the center of his chest, and his actions spoke of quiet devotion.
His arms were more comfortable than anyone else’s.
Dawn broke over the sleeping girl.
Sunlight spilled through the wooden shutters.
Arthorius picked up his helmet and put it on.
It was time for the curse. The ugly day.
His body began to grow grotesquely.
Thin, distorted, his limbs stretching as armor groaned and reshaped itself.
Each time this happened, Anastasia shifted slightly in his arms.
That small body bore the scar he had left on her chest.
The only thing he had ever given her.
His gloved hand brushed her hair like melted gold.
“…Ah.”
A small voice.
She stirred awake.
Arthorius kept his eyes closed.
Without the blue glow visible under the helmet, Anastasia quietly rose from his lap.
She opened the shutters.
Sunlight flooded in.
It was blinding.
Arthorius slowly opened his eyes as the light reddened his vision.
He saw her standing by the window.
“…You must have been uncomfortable.”
His voice was low.
“No, not really.”
“Even though you slept in the arms of a stranger?”
There was unease in his tone.
“More precisely, I should say the arms of a monster.”
Anastasia chuckled softly.
“Sorry for laughing. I wasn’t mocking you. I just found it funny that you said ‘stranger.’”
“…Then was I someone you know?”
She walked toward him in her simple nightwear.
Plain, modest, covering everything without revealing her shape.
“Who could be closer to me than you, Arthorius?”
“What… do you mean?”
“Well. You’re the only one who ever offered me tea.”
Did he?
He searched his memory.
“Before I nearly struck you down with lightning.”
“…Ah. I didn’t think you remembered that.”
“And you’re also the first person I ever refused.”
Arthorius fell silent.
Refusal requires equality, or superiority. That was how society worked.
This girl had been at the very bottom.
“That’s why you agreed to train my left hand.”
He nodded.
“You should eat properly for that.”
“In the past it was hard. I had no appetite.”
“If you’re locked in a dusty tower, even a pig would lose its appetite.”
At that, Anastasia narrowed her eyes.
“So are you calling me a skinny pig?”
“…That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s fine. I was joking.”
She giggled softly.
“It’s not about the tea.”
She put on her slippers.
One was missing.
“Oh. That one’s there. Can you hand it over?”
Arthorius picked it up with his gauntleted fingers.
He looked between the slipper and her.
“Sit on the bed.”
“Are you going to put it on for me like last time?”
“…And in the future too.”
Without another word, he stood.
Anastasia sat on the bed she had used since she was ten. Now her feet barely reached the edge.
Arthorius looked down at her small, doll-like white feet and silently slipped the shoe onto her foot.
