INTERMISSION
The First-Love Thief and I
When Byron Garrett was around ten years old, his uncle—who belonged to the Magic Corps—once said this to him: “Byron, you need to work on observation. Always take time to observe your opponent. If you do this, your next move will come to you naturally.”
When he was fourteen, he finally realized the truth in his uncle’s words.
He was attending class for his elective, Introduction to Magecraft, when he laid eyes on a girl he’d never seen before. She had silvery hair tied back behind her neck. From the side, her face was beautiful and delicate, transient as ice that might melt at a single touch. And yet her clear eyes were focused straight ahead, giving the impression of inner strength. The way she sat was beautiful, too—straight-backed, with proper posture.
He couldn’t help but stare, and soon his friend Conrad, sitting next to him, spoke up. “Oh, that’s the transfer student,” he said. “I think you’re in a different class, though, Lord Byron.”
“Transfer student? Then I bet she doesn’t have a table of magicules. We’ll be using it in class today.”
The table of magicules was the first thing students were made to memorize in introductory magecraft classes. They had also been tasked with creating an individual table of the element they were suited to.
Byron, thinking the day’s lecture would be difficult for the new girl if she didn’t have one, stood up from his seat, textbook in hand.
“I’m gonna go talk to her,” he said.
“…What?” asked Conrad, confused.
Byron didn’t notice. Instead, he strode up to the transfer student and called out to her. “Hello there,” he said. “You’re a transfer student, right? Did you get a table of magicules already? Or the individual elemental tables?”
“I checked beforehand,” she said, “and came prepared. But thank you.”
For a noble girl, her tone was brusque. But her sincerity came through at the end.
What man would ever be displeased to receive thanks from such a cute girl? None would. Absolutely nobody, he thought, his mouth itching.
No, no, he told himself. I’m a man of honor. I can’t start grinning over something like this. He barely managed to keep his expression in check.
“You do seem well prepared,” he agreed. “I’m Byron Garrett. If there is anything you have trouble with, feel free to ask me.”
“Thank you. I believe I will. My name is Cyril Ashley.”
“…………What?”
He could have sworn that Marquess Highown’s daughter—of the Lineage of the Wise—was named Claudia Ashley. Was this girl her relative?
Actually, the problem wasn’t her family name. It was her given name. Sounds like a boy’s name, Byron noted, looking down slightly. Then he opened his eyes wide. The transfer student was wearing a boy’s uniform.
His uncle’s words came back to him.
Byron, you need to work on observation.
Ah, he thought. You were right, Uncle.
He’d been looking only at the transfer student’s face. Now he staggered back, fully aware of his own foolishness.
Behind him, Conrad gave a guttural, breathy laugh that sounded a bit like a pig.
Cyril looked up at Byron, relieved.
As Marquess Highown’s adopted son, Cyril was in an odd position. Not many students would take the initiative to talk to him. In fact, his classmate Elliott Howard bullied him whenever they met.
Byron Garrett…, he thought. I bet we can become great friends. Now in high spirits, he rearranged his writing utensils and decided to talk to the boy more after class.
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