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Chapter 02
“I guess you didn’t know I’d be here. You must have been surprised to see me after so long.”
Of course, they had exchanged letters even during the war, and in the last letter sent after the victory was confirmed, it was clearly written: “I’m going to the capital for the debutante ball. If we run into each other, don’t acknowledge me.”
Whether Syril hadn’t received the letter or had received it but pretended not to, either way, the reaction he showed today was disadvantageous for Adrien.
The social circles of the capital were too ruthless and exhausting for Adrien, a country bumpkin, as the rumors had suggested.
Especially when dealing with young ladies about to make their debut or their parents, being treated like this was even more taxing.
“I should just run away.”
Staying here any longer would only result in questions like “What’s your relationship with Lord Thesar?”, “What will your relationship be in the future?”, or “Did you have any promises in the past?”
“We grew up as friends who just fought with each other, in the future we’ll be enemies who clash with words, and I’ve once unilaterally heard a declaration that I will never marry you…”
How nice would it be to say that? Unfortunately, since he couldn’t, running away was the only option.
Exactly five minutes later, Adrien quietly excused himself, claiming he wasn’t feeling well.
Time had passed steadily even while being harassed, and twilight had already fallen. Adrien walked slowly through the garden, now enveloped in darkness.
Wandering without purpose, he stopped near a bronze statue.
Going further into a more secluded spot might have led him to encounter a noble couple playing with dangerous fire.
“I’ll stay a little longer and then slip out. Good thing I left the carriage outside.”
Had the carriage been left at the palace, the elaborate crest of the Cassinel family would have flapped unnecessarily, and news of Adrien’s escape would have spread like the wind.
Sighing from the creeping fatigue, Adrien noticed a long shadow at his feet.
Only then did he realize someone was behind him.
Given the location, it wasn’t likely to be a street thug, but if it was someone familiar, that could be troublesome.
“Pretending to be sick is the best option in this case.”
Lowering his eyebrows, Adrien pressed a delicate hand to his temple and slowly turned around.
And then,
“What are you doing here alone?”
His expression twisted instantly.
The man of beauty, allure, and all that—Syril Valentin de Thesar—was standing right in front of her.
“Ah, it’s Syril.”
Adrien abandoned the act of feigning illness at an astonishing speed.
Her finely shaped eyebrows returned to their place, and the hand that had pretended weakness now brushed her hair back gracefully.
“…It’s been two years since we last saw each other, right?”
“Time flies, doesn’t it? I was surprised too.”
“You could at least pretend to be happy to see me.”
“I am happy. Truly happy. You’ve grown well, haven’t you?”
Syril chuckled dryly at her overly attentive words. Though he said them, his eyes scanned her body thoroughly, which was even funnier.
Finally, after assessing her, Adrien looked up at Syril and paused.
She squinted at him as if seeing something strange and tilted her head.
“Syril.”
“Yes?”
“Did you always grow this tall?”
Two years ago, it hadn’t been like this.
Adrien swallowed her words.
Of course, he had already been tall back then, but the feeling was different now.
Looking up at Syril felt unfamiliar.
“…Adrien, I told you your memory is seriously distorted. I haven’t been shorter than you since I was thirteen.”
“I only remember you being too small until you were thirteen.”
This time, Syril frowned.
There was a silent reproach in her expression, as if to say “When exactly are you talking about?”, but Adrien remained confident.
Naturally, the eight years they had lived together were more vivid than the five years apart.
Syril had been smaller than Adrien for quite a long time.
Even now, Adrien was tall for a woman—5.5 brues (about 170 cm)—and had been roughly that height at thirteen.
The frail and delicate Syril had always seemed below Adrien in memory.
Now, seeing Syril this tall, recalling her past rapid growth as if watered overnight, it seemed almost miraculous.
Come to think of it, Syril Valentin, who could have died at any moment, had grown up to become a soldier, even in the Emperor’s honor guard—a mere ceremonial post—and that in itself was a miracle. There was no exaggeration in calling it that.
“Stop staring at me like that.”
“…What?”
“You’re looking at me like a son sent far away.”
“You really have no filter with me, do you.”
“What? I—”
Syril scoffed, clearly unimpressed by the flattery.
‘I know because my cousin is in the army, and there’s no one as taciturn as Lord Thesar.’
Adrien’s ears replayed what she had heard earlier.
Taciturn…? Syril Valentin? Is that really what counts as taciturn?
“Anyway, Syril, you didn’t get my letters?”
“The last one was six months ago.”
“No wonder. That’s why you acted like you knew me there.”
Syril opened her mouth, reacting to her muttering, a habit when exasperated.
Adrien waved his hand, signaling her to stop speaking.
But if a childhood friend she hadn’t seen in two years had pretended to know her and then said that, anyone would be bewildered.
Syril wanted to ask how exactly his mind worked but held back, knowing she’d only get a naïve, dismissive answer.
“Give it here.”
“You kept it?”
“Who was it that said they’d return it properly if I came back safely?”
Syril took the handkerchief from her pocket and waved it in front of Adrien.
[Cyri]
The embroidery was terrible, incomplete even.
On the day he left for the battlefield, receiving this handkerchief had left her so exasperated.
Syril still remembered vividly:
“…My name isn’t Cyri.”
“I know.”
“You know, but you embroidered it like this…?”
“So that it annoys you every time you see it. You can’t stand it, can you? I’ll make it properly when you come back safely.”
And just like that, Syril’s proper name had lost its “l” without warning.
She thought Adrien had made a mistake.
After all, the embroidery itself was crooked and messy—a beginner’s work. So leaving out one letter seemed natural.
Thus, she accepted the handkerchief without complaint.
Thinking of Adrien struggling with the fabric, though lacking any skill, she had felt pity.
In any case, Adrien’s excuse was quite plausible.
Syril often clicked her tongue at the imperfect embroidery every time she saw it.
She had endured two years just to get her proper name back. Today was that day.
“I asked who it was, Adrien.”
Syril gave him a sharp glance, and Adrien shrugged.
“Of course, it’s me staying in the capital now. Don’t worry. I keep my promises.”
Adrien, with a magnanimous look as if doing a favor, took a piece of cloth from his dress pocket.
Last time it had been red; this time, it was a pristine white handkerchief.
Looking briefly, it seemed there were many more letters than last time. He hadn’t been entirely idle.
Still, knowing he had stitched it out of concern for her safety, she didn’t feel completely displeased.
Friends, for better or worse…
“Why white?”
“…To make it harder to maintain? Or just for display?”
“To make sure you never go somewhere dangerous again.”
Her gaze seemed to say she understood the deep meaning behind it.
Syril could bet her entire fortune that that was the reason. He probably just grabbed the only white cloth he saw.
Still, she could praise him for keeping his promise.
Syril smiled and accepted the handkerchief.
But that didn’t last long.
“…Adrien de Cassinel Bloua.”
“You haven’t forgotten my name yet. Well done, Syril.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
Her bright yellow eyes blazed with anger.
Syril opened the handkerchief.
[Syril Valentin De Thesar]
Instead of the “C,” there was boldly an “S.”
Yet, the noticeably improved embroidery and the rest of the perfect name made Syril feel sad.
If you were going to do it, you might as well have messed up the whole thing…
