6.
The Grand Dame halted before the table, peeled off her winter leather gloves, and offered a faint, thin smile.
“Come here, Claunia. Why don’t you have a warm cup of tea and chat with your grandmother for once…?”
“What are you doing, Grandmother! Why are you ignoring our Anita!”
Claunia stepped in front of Anita, who remained rooted to the spot, her feet seemingly nailed to the floor. Claunia shouted, the veins in her neck standing out in sharp relief.
“I asked why you’re ignoring her!”
A chilling, stern aura descended over the Grand Dame’s eyes.
“Lower your voice. The women of our Edenbahir do not raise their voices so carelessly, Claunia. It seems you need a lesson in manners.”
“But Grandmother was…”
“Address me as the Grand Dame. And since you seem to have forgotten, let me refresh your memory.”
*Click.* She pulled the tableware closer, shifted the colorful slices of cake and bread onto a plate, and warned in a cold, measured tone.
“You must not pick up things that roll in the gutters and call them friends. Do not forget that we are the descendants of the great empire, Atlante.”
Anita squeezed her eyes shut, then forced them open.
The first thought that flickered through her mind was that it didn’t hurt as much as it used to—the sensation of her heart being torn apart was gone.
It was strange. Why?
“Ugh!”
Unable to contain her fury, Claunia trembled and lunged forward.
With a sharp *flap*, the elegant navy fabric of the Grand Dame’s dress swept toward the ceiling like a night sky stripped of its stars. Anita found her mouth hanging open in shock.
“Claunia!”
Ignoring the startled shout, Claunia grabbed Anita’s hand and bolted.
The Grand Dame, hastily smoothing her skirts, cried out, her voice curdling with rage.
“Don’t you dare stand there!”
Why did I run?
I don’t know. As I sprinted with everything I had, I felt the stifling weight on my chest begin to lift. At some point, I think I even heard myself giggling along with Claunia.
*Bang.*
They slammed the door shut and scrambled behind the bed.
In this vast ducal estate, there was only one place to hide.
Lancelot’s bedroom.
Catching her breath, Claunia glanced at the door and scoffed.
“Don’t take it to heart. Grandmother has been like that for a long time. Stuck-up, boring, and always barking about the ‘dignity of Edenbahir!’—isn’t that right, Lancelot?”
Lancelot, who had been quietly turning the pages of his book on the bed, shifted his gaze toward them with an indifferent expression.
“Don’t you know? She just completely ignored Anita’s greeting and walked away!”
A clear shadow of displeasure crossed Lancelot’s face.
“If anyone asks for me, say I’m sick. Tell them I’m so ill I’m dying and won’t be able to see anyone for a month.”
“See? Even that grouchy Lancelot finds her uncomfortable! He knows she’s awful. You should ignore her too, Anita.”
I nodded absentmindedly, but then I heard Lancelot’s sharp retort.
“Call that advice? You know full well that girl isn’t in the same position as you. That’s enough—stop jabbering and get out.”
*Not the same position.*
He was right. But for a fleeting moment, I wanted to believe Claunia was correct.
If not for her, I would have simply trembled, the way I did that day… hiding alone in a dark room…
Anita didn’t let the thought linger; she hugged Claunia tight.
“Thank you so much. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Hm? Uh-huh…”
Claunia hunched her shoulders, acting shy, but soon opened her arms wide to pull Anita into a return embrace.
It was the first time she had felt such soft warmth from someone other than her father.
***
That day, a snowstorm raged for the first time in weeks.
Walking through the long corridor, Anita’s footsteps slowed to a stop before a massive wall mural.
‘Was this painting always here?’
It was a magnificent piece, one that required stepping back several paces just to take it all in. Despite the distance, the texture of every brushstroke remained vivid.
‘It’s beautiful.’
In the painting, a giant dragon roared. A sage, an old man, a young child, and the maimed knelt before it in prayer.
Anita recognized the dragon.
Nuaza, the Golden Dragon, master of the legend.
The progenitor of the great empire of Atlante, which had dominated an era before vanishing into history.
‘I saw this in a book when I was little… I didn’t know it belonged to Edenbahir.’
The immense status of Claunia and Lancelot felt real now, in a way it never had before.
Because the Edenbahir family were descendants of the Atlante imperial line, they might have sat upon the throne had the empire survived.
‘And I would have had no chance to meet them until the day I died.’
*I must study harder so I won’t be an embarrassing friend.* Just as she resolved this and turned to leave, a voice drifted from above.
“Edenbahir is one of the three legendary families with Nuaza as their progenitor.”
It was the Grand Dame’s voice.
Anita turned in a hurry. It was the first time the woman had acknowledged her, let alone approached her.
“The blood of Nuaza still flows in Edenbahir, and occasionally, those who can *manifest* that great power are born. The people here have long regarded this house as the guardian deity of Shavalon.”
‘…Manifest?’
The Grand Dame gazed at the painting with an ecstatic, rapturous look, then continued in a voice brimming with pride.
“Lancelot is the only heir in our generation expected to *manifest* it. He is, so to speak, Edenbahir itself—raised with the utmost care by the Duke and me.”
This was the first time the Grand Dame had spoken to her so directly. Anita felt a glimmer of hope.
Had she finally accepted her as a friend to her grandchildren?
Summoning her courage, she answered.
“Th-that’s wonderful. Lancelot is so loved by His Grace the Duke and the Grand Dame…”
“Lancelot?”
The voice rose, sharp enough to pierce her eardrums. The Grand Dame’s eyes flashed with venomous displeasure.
“How vulgar. Address him as Lord Lancelot.”
“……”
“If one is born base, one should at least be clever. You don’t know your place, and you dare to climb.”
It wasn’t just a look of indifference; it was a gaze dripping with toxic hatred. It was exactly how one would look at the carcass of a rat floating in a sewer.
The look made Anita feel as if existing in the same space were a sin. She bowed her head involuntarily, the familiar, suffocating heat rising in her throat.
“Boellony… I didn’t know that man was so cunning. To try and covet the bloodline of Edenbahir using his own daughter? How dare he try to launder his filthy lineage through Lancelot!”
*Filthy lineage.*
Her heart hammered against her ribs, her hands trembling, but—
“F-father is not…”
Anita no longer wanted to stand there like a fool while her family was slandered.
“Father is not… cunning.”
She spoke clearly. Though she still avoided the Grand Dame’s gaze, her voice didn’t waver.
The Grand Dame stared at her with sheer disgust.
“To think you’d sire a stuttering daughter—he must be deeply devious himself.”
She clicked her tongue.
“Enough. It’s pathetic even to get angry at a girl like you. Go and tell your father: a base child who stutters, trying to cling to Lord Lancelot…”
The warning didn’t reach its conclusion. The Grand Dame’s gaze shifted, widening in shock.
“Good heavens, Lancelot!”
Lancelot?
Startled, Anita turned. Lancelot was walking toward them, his complexion so pale he looked as if he might shatter. He moved in total silence, and very, very slowly.
“Child, why have you come out in such cold weather? Your cough will only worsen!”
His expression was—to put it mildly, stoic; to put it harshly, freezing.
As he drew closer, the faint, biting air surrounding him reached Anita. His lips were pressed into a thin, white line, his mood hostile.
But the Grand Dame seemed oblivious.
“You must be a good child and listen, won’t you? Only a good child can become the head of the great Edenbahir.”
Lancelot stood beside them, smelling faintly of the warmth of a gentle flame and sun-dried bedding.
“Your father is the problem! You must never resemble him, Lancelot. Even if you are the son I bore with such pain…”
*Go.*
It was a whisper, audible only to Anita.
At the same time, her shoulder was nudged. Lancelot stepped in front of her, shielding her from the Grand Dame.
Anita stared at the boy’s back.
He was thin, even compared to her. The nape of his neck, exposed by his collar, was deathly white, as if it had never touched the sun. His wrists, his knuckles—he looked more like a delicate girl than a boy.
*Shouldn’t it be him, not me, who needs protection?*
“Sigh. Come here, Lancelot. Together with this grandmother…”
Lancelot didn’t budge.
Anita took slow, tentative steps backward. Then, she fled as if her life depended on it.
Had Lancelot helped her?
I don’t know.
Anita followed her instincts back to the only sanctuary she knew. Toward Lancelot’s room, their secret hideout.
The room, devoid of its master, was silent.
‘And warm.’
Lancelot’s room was always warm. That was why she liked it.
Even though the master of the room was cold and detached. Even though he could be difficult, sometimes even frightening.
‘Because he never said he hated me.’
Because he never told me to leave because I was base.
She closed the door quietly and sat there for a long time, eventually dozing off.
“Cough.”
When she drifted back to consciousness, she heard a sharp intake of breath.
It was Lancelot. But if she wasn’t mistaken, his cough sounded raw, labored, and far worse than before.