MCFLS 04

Chapter 04

‘I won’t live long anyway.’

Cyril Valentin de Tesar, a young heir only six years old, sat in the carriage headed for the Kashinel territory, thinking exactly that.

With eyes as lifeless as his pessimistic thoughts, the child rested his chin on his hand and stared blankly out the window. His gaze toward the receding ducal castle held no emotion at all.

It was understandable. Even the duchy—his entire life thus far, all six years of it—felt unfamiliar to him. He had never once stepped foot outside the castle, let alone gone on an outing.

Lying in bed with a cough, Cyril had always wondered about the world outside.

If only he could go out just once. If only he could look around, even a little….

But once he finally came out, his expectations turned into disappointment. The outside world wasn’t nearly as impressive as he’d imagined.

The bare winter trees were as gaunt as Cyril himself, and despite being bundled up in scarves and cloaks, the wind that cut through him was bitterly cold.

More than anything….

‘They’ve given up on me.’

Once that thought settled in, all expectations for life drained away. Cyril could no longer feel anything.

‘They’ve finally given up on me.’

When his father told him to leave for a faraway land to cultivate the dignity of an heir…

When his mother told him to go and regain his health…

When both said those words in the cold, stiff tone typical of Northerners…

Only one thought came to Cyril’s mind.

‘So in the end…’

They’ve abandoned me.
There was no other conclusion.

What hope could remain in a life that had been thrown away?

Cyril, who had lived his entire life among pitying looks and sighs, tried to pretend it was for the best—yet he could not stop his eyes from reddening.

He would slowly die in this far southeastern land called Kashinel. As always, he would fall sick, suffer, and eventually die.

Someday, he would be forgotten, and a new heir—a healthy one who could satisfy his parents—would be born.

By that time, he…

Cyril tore his gaze from the window and buried his face against his knees.

His thoughts grew darker and darker.

Cyril’s first impression of Kashinel was, in truth, not good.

Compared to the duchy, it was smaller, and everything he saw seemed inferior to what he had grown up with.

When one stays inside all the time, one inevitably grows used to certain standards.

In Cyril’s case, those standards were his home.

Even if he didn’t understand terms like “old-fashioned yet elegant,” his eye for it had grown naturally.

To such a child, the Kashinel county estate looked shabby. An antiquated castle with visible signs of age—enough to make any delicate young lord harbor immediate dislike.

An ordinary six-year-old might have cried from fear and unfamiliarity, but Cyril was a pessimistic six-year-old, so he thought:

‘So I’ll die in a place like this….’

Just then, the Earl of Kashinel appeared.

The middle-aged earl, broad-shouldered and fierce-eyed like a tiger, looked down at Cyril and spoke.

“Welcome, young lord. Starting today, you will be living here in Kashinel.”

“…I look forward to your care.”

Cyril, pessimistic yet dignified, answered calmly.

“Daddy, is that him?”

The tiny voice popped out at that moment.

Cyril blinked, hearing a voice but seeing no one. Only then did he notice a small girl peeking from behind the earl.

She had bright red hair, like a rose he had once seen in a book. Her large eyes blinked slowly.

To Cyril, she looked exactly like a character pulled straight from the picture books his nanny had shown him—a fairy, even.

“Adriana, mind your manners before the young lord.”

“Wow, he’s really tiny!”

The earl’s stern face instantly softened into that of a doting father. Even his rebuke sounded gentle.

But Cyril was focused not on the change in demeanor—but on what the girl had just said while staring directly at him.

“Really tiny!”

Unless his eyesight had failed him, she was absolutely pointing at him.

“Really tiny!”

Not even ‘small.’ Not even the neutral ‘little.’
Tiny.
The rudest possible version.

Cyril pressed his lips together tightly.

He wanted to argue, but arguing felt like lowering himself to her childish level. He hesitated.

But in the end, he couldn’t resist the temptation to fight back.

“…You’re small too.”

“I’m a kid, so of course I’m small.”

The girl—Adriana—answered as if stating something utterly obvious.

Blink. Every time she closed her eyes, her long lashes fluttered like wings. Even that seemed fairy-like.

Cyril was momentarily distracted before retorting again.

“I’m a kid just like you.”

“I know. But you’re smaller than me.”

So yes—tiny.

Her added comment was fatal. Cyril was speechless.

He had admitted he was a kid, but in the end, the conclusion was still that he was tiny.

And truthfully—though he hated to admit it—he was smaller than she was.

Everything she said was true. But truth was not always pleasant.

“…I’ll grow soon.”

“If you grow, I’ll grow too.”

“I’ll grow taller than you.”

“Right now I’m taller. So later I’ll still be taller.”

Behind them, the doctor stifled a laugh—“Kk!”—and the servants of the Kashinel household all had similar expressions. Even the earl had a faint smile on his lips.

Only two people weren’t smiling: the two overly serious six-year-olds.

“…How annoying.”

Feeling like a joke, Cyril muttered under his breath.

Whether they didn’t hear him or simply found it adorable, the adults only laughed harder.

“Are you annoyed because I’m taller?”

The girl understood him perfectly and drove the point home with innocent cruelty.

Truly annoying.

Cyril exhaled sharply in frustration.

‘I’m going to grow taller than her.’

Only an hour ago, the heir of the ducal family had been preparing for death. And yet in that moment, he vowed with all his heart that he would grow tall.

＊ ＊ ＊

“Young lord, your medicine will be taken three times a day as before. Once the weather warms up a bit more, it will be good for you to keep the window open. Unlike the duchy, winters here don’t last long, so it won’t be much of a wait.”

Jerome, Cyril’s personal physician, adjusted his slipping glasses and smiled gently.

His warm gaze turned toward Cyril, who sat sulking and glaring down at the blanket.

The sensitive young lord had been in this mood ever since meeting the earl’s daughter.

Whatever had offended him so terribly, he kept biting his lip with his neatly aligned front teeth.

Good, Jerome thought pleasantly.

A person needed willpower to live. But Cyril, already weak in body, had none.

He lacked many things people ought to naturally have—fun, motivation, ambition.

He had spent his entire life fighting illness with doctors constantly at his side. It was only natural.

But today, Cyril had shown a clear emotion toward another person—for the first time.

Of course, he’d always displayed irritability and bad temper due to being ill, but this was different.

He’s learned competition, Jerome thought delightedly.

“Young lord, at this rate your lips won’t run away anywhere.”

“Leave me alone.”

“But as your doctor, I must worry about situations where you might start bleeding.”

Cyril sighed and released his abused lip.

Jerome smiled silently at the sight.

Though sensitive and fussy, Cyril listened well—a gentle child by nature.

Had he grown up healthy, he would have brought warmth to the cold North.

Watching him reminded Jerome of someone. A small child he might have saved.

Perhaps that was why he cherished Cyril even more. He often imagined the boy running around happily someday.

Knock.

A faint sound snapped him out of his daydream.

Jerome stood up, as Cyril continued staring at the blanket.

Knock.

The tiny knock came again, at even intervals—an adorably small sound.

The visitor made no effort to announce themselves or ask permission, but Jerome easily guessed who it was.

“Young lord, it seems you have a visitor. Let’s end today’s examination here.”

Jerome gathered his things and cracked the door open.

Cyril frowned, but Jerome ignored him. Once he saw the visitor, he would forget all about Jerome anyway.

“Oh my, a very precious guest has come.”

Jerome greeted the tiny visitor warmly.

“Me?”

The child pointed at herself with doll-like fingers.

“Of course.”

Swsh.

At that moment, the blanket rustled violently as Cyril yanked it over his head. He clearly wanted no part of this.

Still smiling with his eyes, Jerome stepped aside to let the visitor in. Then, loudly enough for Cyril to hear, he announced:

“Young lord, Mademoiselle Kashinel has come to see you.”

R-rustle.

At that, the blanket slowly lowered again.

Jerome couldn’t hold back his laughter.