Secrets of the Silent Witch - Volume 6 - Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The Three Young Sages Assemble

The New Year’s magecraft dedication performed at the royal castle of Ridill was a huge hit. The people were treated to the brilliant flames of Bradford Firestone, the Artillery Mage, and the wondrous tones of Alteria chimes created by Monica Everett, the Silent Witch, and they showered the Seven Sages with praise.

Now that the dedication was over, the kingdom’s highest mages were waiting in the Jade Chamber—a space open only to the Sages and the king himself. They would remain there on standby until the next ceremony commenced.

The Barrier Mage Louis Miller, seated at the chamber’s round table, rested his cheek on his hand. “What an astonishing display we had this year! Truly unprecedented!” he said, his voice bright and cheery. Then he pushed his monocle up with one fingertip and plastered a thin smile on his face. “After all, we were missing one of the Sages, and another passed out while standing up!”

The Sage who had passed out while standing up—Monica—buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry!” she repeated between sobs.

Monica had sworn an oath to do her best to be brave around other people. That was part of why she’d pushed herself to produce the Alteria chimes for the magecraft dedication a little while ago.

…It had all gone so well. Up to a certain point, anyway.

Monica needed to do a massive amount of calculations to make the chimes ring beautifully. And so, while she was using the spell, she’d been able to forget all about how many people were watching.

The problem occurred after she finished.

As she dispelled her Alteria chimes, she found herself suddenly engulfed by raucous applause and cries of adulation. Realizing how many people had their eyes on her, Monica began to panic. It got so bad, she actually managed to pass out while still standing upright. According to Louis, she’d made a strange sort of pffhhh noise, and her eyes had rolled back into their sockets. Bradford noticed her lose consciousness, and he and Louis held on to her from either side, keeping her upright and helping drag her away so that no one would notice.

To make matters worse, one of the Sages—the Witch of Thorns—was late and completely absent. Mary Harvey had used her illusions to fake his presence.

In the end, one of the Sages had been an illusion, and another had passed out mid-ceremony. It was indeed an unprecedented state of affairs.

The people had lauded the Seven Sages’ magecraft as a miracle, but for the Sages, it was a much bigger miracle that they’d managed to keep the crowd from noticing their ridiculous situation.

Right now, all six of them, excluding the Witch of Thorns, were seated at the round table. They had assigned seats that ran from the room’s entrance clockwise in this order: the Starseer Witch, a beauty of indeterminate age with her silvery hair tied back; the Artillery Mage, a large man with black hair and a beard; the Gem Mage, an elderly man adorned head to toe with jewels; the Abyss Shaman, a gloomy man with purple hair; the absent Witch of Thorns; the Barrier Mage, his chestnut hair in a braid; and finally, the short-statured Silent Witch.

Mary served as the facilitator of the group. She looked at Monica and Louis to her right, and gave a gentle smile. “Now, now, Louie. Don’t be so grumpy. My dear Monica’s Alteria chimes were truly a sight to behold!”

Emanuel Darwin, the Gem Mage, quickly added his own praise to Mary’s. “Indeed, indeed. Not everyone can use large-scale magecraft like that at the drop of a hat! Well done, Lady Silent Witch!”

The man spoke quickly in an insincere, theatrical tone. Then, as though just remembering something, he pounded his palm with a fist.

“Ah, yes. I heard you and Prince Felix slayed a cursed dragon. Truly remarkable! As a fellow Sage, my chest swells with pride.”

“Umm… Well…,” Monica stammered.

“First the Black Dragon of Worgan, and now the Cursed Dragon of Rehnberg! You are a hero of this kingdom, a slayer of two great and wicked dragons!”

His attitude and heaps of praise had an obvious motive—he wanted Monica on his side. Emanuel was a vehement supporter of Duke Clockford and the second prince. Among the Seven Sages, Louis backed the first prince, Emanuel the second. The other five Sages were mostly neutral. If even one more of their number decided to support the second prince, it would massively tilt the scales. And now that Emanuel had heard about how Monica fought a cursed dragon with the second prince, he wanted her in his camp.

H-how am I supposed to turn him down in this situation…? she wondered desperately.

“To tell the truth,” said Emanuel, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I’ve been doing some research on imbuing a magical item with a reflective barrier. What do you think? If you’d like, Lady Silent Witch, we can discuss the specifics over lunch—”

“Lord Gem Mage,” interrupted Louis, his voice cold. Playing with his long braid, he shot a glance at Emanuel. “Reflective barriers consume a terrific amount of mana. Imbuing a magical item with one would require a very high mana capacity, would it not?”

“Ah, you’re curious, are you? …I suppose the completion of such an item would put you in a vulnerable position. Mm, yes.”

Reflective barriers were just what they sounded like—barriers that could send an enemy’s magecraft back at them. They were extremely powerful, but extremely difficult to use, and thus uncommon. The capacity of such barriers was rated according to a class system; Monica had once heard that Louis was capable of using up to class two. These could reflect most attack spells.

But if a magical item could be made with the same effect, then it was logical that some would think Louis—whose barriers were his calling card—might find himself in a precarious position. Not Monica, though. She knew that his talents went well beyond the strength of his barriers.

Louis was perfectly aware of this, too; his confident smile never faltered. “If you were able to create such an item, I would be overjoyed. It would mean less work for me.” He chuckled at Emanuel’s jab, then shrugged dramatically. “But you need a great quantity of mana to make an item like that, right? I know your capacity is rather low, Lord Gem Mage, and I worry the strain may cause you to drop dead from mana deficiency— Ah, I apologize. I meant to say that I’m worried you might damage your health.”

Emanuel grimaced. He had the lowest mana capacity among the Sages, and he was rather self-conscious about it. Monica, stressed by the charged air between the two men, put one hand on her aching stomach.

“I’m surprised Thorns still hasn’t shown his face,” said Bradford, stroking his beard. “I thought for sure he’d be here before the ceremony.”

On the first day of the new year, once the royal procession and magecraft dedication were finished at the gates, a ceremony was held in the throne room. The Sages were currently waiting for this event to begin. Everyone figured the Witch of Thorns would come back during the interim, but there had been no sign of him.

Mary put a hand to her cheek. “Yes, I’m a little worried about him,” she said gently. “Monica, my dear, would you mind taking a little walk and looking for him? I’m sure he’s somewhere in the gardens.”

Monica was struggling to endure the room’s awkward atmosphere, so she nodded without a second thought.

Mary smiled sweetly, then addressed Ray Albright, the Abyss Shaman, who had been snoozing, head down, on the table the entire time. “Would you go, too, Ray dear? Have a walk, soak in the sunlight, and take your mind off things.”

Ray sluggishly lifted his head and stared into space with empty eyes. A creepy smile appeared on his lips. “A walk… Just the two of us… A walk alone with a girl. They call that a walking date, right? Ah, a walking date. How wholesome. I, a shaman, feel loved in a wholesome way. How nice. Yes, how wonderful.”

Ray’s thirst for love continued unabated. While Monica was a little put off by his grin, she actually did have something to discuss with him alone. This was her chance to ask him about his progress investigating the traitor.

She stood up and gave him a short bow. “Um, er, Lord Abyss Mage… W-will you, um, come with me?”

Ray stood and gazed at her. A fire seemed to burn deep in his pink eyes. He took a step toward her, then another. The way he was closing in frightened her.

“…Do you love me?” he asked.

“I, um, rephpect you!”

“…But do you hold me in high esteem?”

“Y-yes!”

“…Then do you love me platonically? As a friend? Do you…care for me?”

“Hwah? Huh, um…? What…what is love anyway…?”

It was only the first day of the new year, and Monica was already worrying about the nature of love. The other Sages looked at her with pity.

For a single moment, the elder Sages, who almost never agreed, were finally on the same page—primarily in feeling sorry for Monica.

After disembarking from his carriage, Cyril Ashley gazed up at the royal palace towering above him. As he walked along the stone path leading to its gates, he was overcome with a mix of tension and admiration.

Next to him was his foster father, Marquess Highown. He looked at his son. “Nervous?” he asked.

“…No,” said Cyril. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re swinging your right hand and right leg at the same time.”

Cyril immediately grimaced and stopped walking.

At the New Year’s ceremony, Cyril would officially be named the marquess’s heir. Failure wasn’t an option, and the pressure was so great, it had made his expressions and mannerisms jerky and stiff.

Cyril had attended several high society gatherings since his adoption, but this was his first time visiting the palace. He had seen several mansions along the way, all the height of luxury, but the castle wasn’t just extravagant—it was majestic, historic. He felt overwhelmed.

“Hmm,” his father said, looking thoughtful.

Had he gotten fed up with Cyril? Lost hope in him? Cyril’s anxiety was spiking.

Then his father made a suggestion. “You haven’t been to the palace gardens yet, have you?”

“Oh, uh, no…”

“They’re gorgeous. Why don’t you go have a look? I’ll be waiting right here.”

Cyril’s father was telling him to take a walk through the gardens to unravel the knot of tension in his stomach. The man was going out of his way to help him. Feeling guilty, Cyril decided to take him up on the offer.

“…I truly apologize, Father.”

“You’re young. Young enough to be a little more excited at the prospect of visiting the palace.” The marquess’s voice was low and gentle. “Go on,” he added quietly.

Cyril bowed, then started off toward the gardens.

The moment he set foot into the palace gardens and took a look around, Cyril let out a sigh of admiration.

It was winter now, and cold enough that snow could start falling at any moment. And yet the flowers here bloomed in a rainbow of colors. The winter roses especially—he found that the word “beautiful” wasn’t nearly enough to describe them. Roses that bloomed in autumn and winter were by no means commonplace, and normally, you’d see only one or two high up on leafless branches. Here, though, the roses were so big and so numerous, it was like the garden had been frozen in time at the height of summer.

It’s so beautiful, thought Cyril. I could almost forget it’s winter.

It wasn’t just the flower beds—the trees planted near the palace walls were just as colorful. They weren’t very tall, but their reddish-pink flowers, yellow pistils and stamens, and emerald leaves provided a vivid contrast to the gray winter sky.

As Cyril stared, entranced, at their unfamiliar flowers, he heard a voice.

“Pretty, right? We recently imported those from abroad. They’re called camellias.”

The voice sounded as though it had come from up in the tree behind Cyril. He looked over his shoulder and tilted his head, and he spotted a man sitting high up on a tree branch.

The man looked about the same age as Cyril, and in his arms, he was cradling a cream-colored kitten.

He wore an undyed shirt and a pair of pants with suspenders—the clothes of a peasant farmer. In addition, he had a towel thrown around his neck and a straw hat atop his head. Judging from his outfit, Cyril thought he might be the palace’s gardener.

But why would he wear a straw hat in the middle of winter? wondered Cyril.

“Hey, um, I climbed up here to save this cat. But now I can’t get down,” the man said candidly. “Could you help me out?”

A gardener? Stuck in a tree? Sighing to himself, Cyril murmured a short spell and created a plank of ice stretching from the ground up to the branch.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” said the man in the tree, sliding down the ice. “You really saved me, there. I’m not great with high places, you see.”

“…You’re not?” said Cyril. “Then why did you climb up?”

“I was just so focused on saving this little guy.” The man stroked the kitten in his arms.

Cyril looked at him again and noted his facial features. He was surprisingly handsome. The most attractive man Cyril knew of was his beloved prince, Felix Arc Ridill, but the man before him was handsome enough to rival even Felix. His vivid, curly hair reminded Cyril of scarlet roses; that and his deep-green irises were particularly eye-catching. He looked like the personification of a rose.

In contrast to his gorgeous face, however, he was quite muscular. Cyril had never been able to put on muscle, no matter how much he trained, and he found himself a little envious of the man’s thick arms.

Then Cyril looked at the man’s hat. “Why are you wearing a straw hat in the middle of winter?”

“Don’t you think it makes me a little more approachable?”

“Actually, I think it just looks strange at this time of year,” said Cyril bluntly.

“You do?” The man sounded a little disappointed as he pinched the edge of his hat. Beneath it were more of those fluffy, scarlet curls.

A gorgeous face, a toned physique, and peasant clothes. The man was a mass of contradictions.

“Are you here for the New Year greetings?” he asked. “The son of a noble, maybe?”

He certainly didn’t speak like any gardener Cyril had ever met. The man’s lack of politeness irritated him slightly. “…I am Cyril Ashley, son of Vincent Ashley, the Marquess of Highown,” he said gruffly.

“Oh, Marquess Highown!” said the man, his face lighting up. “He does a lot for me, you know. Provides a lot of financing.”

“Really?”

“You see all these flowers here? My family has been taking care of these gardens for generations.” The man smiled a little proudly and cast his green eyes over their surroundings. “Strange to see so many flowers blooming outside of a greenhouse, isn’t it? We actually use a secret blend of fertilizer for everything. And the secret ingredient is mana.”

“…Isn’t it forbidden to imbue animals and plants with mana?”

“Well, strictly speaking, it’s forbidden to imbue them with enough mana to cause harm, like how a human gets mana poisoning when they absorb too much. As long as you don’t go over that limit, it’s allowed.”

Just as humans were born with a certain amount of mana, animals and plants had trace amounts of it, too. The man explained that he was doing research on how to strengthen plants by changing the ratios of the elements composing their native mana, rather than by simply adding more.

“If a human’s mana is equivalent to one hundred, this flower would be at about a one. So I make sure not to go above one as I adjust the balance of mana using our special fertilizer. By doing that, I can create cultivars that resist cold, and so on. Right now, I’m only using it for the ornamental plants in these gardens, but eventually, I want to do the same with other plants, too.”

Cyril was impressed by the man’s explanation. It made sense to him now why his foster father would be investing. If this method could create vegetables and herbs that grew even in barren lands, it would go a long way toward solving food and medicine shortages.

“How innovative,” said Cyril.

“Well, it’s not as easy as I make it sound. I’ve had one failure after another. A tiny mistake in the proportions can increase a plant’s mana so much it withers, and even the dirt beneath it becomes unusable. And I still need to investigate whether vegetables with altered mana capacities have any negative effects on humans. Unfortunately, Ridill hasn’t put much research into these subjects, and we’re lagging behind.”

When a person absorbed too much mana, it could cause awful side effects. Cyril knew that personally, thanks to his mana hyper-absorption syndrome. It would likely take years of hard work to figure out if the edible plants this man created were safe to consume.

Even so, Cyril felt like such research deserved praise. “It’s an excellent topic for investigation. If we were to suffer food shortages, such as during a famine, this work could save the lives of thousands. Tens of thousands, even.”

“Aww, shucks. Such praise from the future marquess of Highown really means a lot!” The man smiled from ear to ear, showing off his pearly whites. Then he took a carrot out of the shoulder bag he’d left at the base of the tree and held it out to Cyril. “As a sign of our friendship, have a vegetable from my field! Oh, and I grew it with normal fertilizer, so no need to worry.”

“…I’ll pass, but thanks. I have my greeting shortly.”

“You could have just eaten it here,” said the man, chomping into the raw carrot himself. “Do you still have time? I can show you around the gardens.”

Cyril hesitated a moment, then accepted the offer. “I’d love that. Thank you.” He was extremely interested in the man’s work, and more importantly, talking to such a candid person was making him less nervous.

The man flashed him a smile, then started down the garden path, kitten still in his arms and carrot in his mouth.

Cyril looked at the furry creature. “About the cat,” he said.

“What?” asked the man.

“…Would it be all right if I pet it?”

“Sure! Here you go.”

The animal’s fluffy, cream-colored fur proved very relaxing.

The gardener loved to talk. There was clear joy in his voice as he walked among the flower beds, kitten held in his thick arms.

“My ancestor was something else, too,” the man said. “So frightening, even the king was terrified. Bent the king’s arm to get permission to build these gardens.”

If there was ever a time when the king was terrified of a mere gardener, then it would have been a grave matter indeed. Cyril decided the man must have been exaggerating and silently waited for him to continue.

“Did you know that nobles back then didn’t do their business in bathrooms? When they needed to go, they’d do so behind the flower beds. Have you ever heard a woman say she’s ‘going to pick flowers’ when she needs to go? That’s where it comes from. Or at least, that’s the theory.”

Why was he suddenly talking about bathrooms? Cyril scrunched up his face. This was a decidedly low-class topic, and yet the gardener didn’t seem to care.

“And so, you wound up with excrement all over the place! But when they did that to my ancestor’s gardens, she flew into a rage and forced them to create these extravagant bathrooms inside the palace. Then she threatened to crush anyone who sullied her gardens to bits and bury their pieces with the fertilizer. After that, everyone got into the habit of using the bathroom.”

“……”

“Eventually, it became all the rage for nobles to build grand bathrooms inside their homes. Every single aristocrat started maintaining one of their own. That custom trickled down to the commoners via the nobles’ servants, and now having bathrooms in regular houses is deeply ingrained in our culture.”

At the end of his patience, Cyril glared at the gardener. “…Is this really an appropriate discussion for a tour of the gardens?”

“Now, listen to the end, all right? A few decades after the bathroom craze, an infectious disease swept the known world. But it barely affected Ridill. And why do you think that was? Because we take proper care of our bodily waste. This concern for public hygiene then began to permeate other countries, spreading out from our kingdom. And everyone lived happily ever after. The end.”

The discussion ended on a surprisingly reasonable note. But still, bathrooms? How had this man made the leap from flower beds to bathrooms? Cyril made a difficult expression.

“In conclusion,” said the gardener proudly, “since my ancestor created wonderful bathrooms to protect her flower beds, I think she deserves to be called the ‘Witch of Bathrooms.’ So since I’m the fifth to take her name, you can call me the ‘Fifth Witch of Bathrooms’ if you like!”

“Fifth? And what? A witch?”

“When you go into the palace, take a look at my ancestor’s bathrooms. They’re really something else, I promise. Each one is as big as my laboratory. Truly extravagant. I was almost moved to tears the first time I used one of them.”

The kitten, still resting in the gardener’s arms as he passionately went on about bathrooms, seemed to notice something and meowed. The gardener gazed farther down the path and spotted two figures, then proceeded to wave.

“Oh, my friends are over there! Heeey! Heeey!”

“The sun’s light is blinding… I’m going to melt… The sun refuses to love me…”

Monica and Ray had gone outside to look for the Witch of Thorns, and within minutes, Ray was clinging to his staff. His face was pale even at the best of times, but now he was a ghastly shade of white. If they were out here for too much longer, he was liable to turn into an actual ghost.

“Um, Lord Abyss Mage,” said Monica, “are you feeling unwell?”

“I need sleep… I was up late last night doing research…on this…”

Monica gasped. Ray had just taken something out of his robe’s pocket—an ornamental item made of pitch-black stone entwined with goldwork. It was the cursed tool Barry Oats, the shaman who had betrayed House Albright, had used just before he died.

“This tool uses a curse to rob its target of their sanity, and puts them under the user’s complete control.”

“Their complete control?” repeated Monica, frowning. This was unexpected.

“…But this one’s a dud,” added Ray in a mumble. “He needed to strengthen the curse to fully control his target, but he strengthened it too much. This thing will just kill whoever it’s used on…”

His explanation surprised Monica. She’d never considered the possibility of controlling someone using cursecraft. Things like that were the domain of mental interference magecraft.

Ray seemed to have the same opinion; he nodded solemnly. “Few people would think to use cursecraft to control someone… If you wanted to, there are ways to do something similar, but it’s an awful, wicked idea. No one in House Albright would do such a thing. It’s shameful, and anyone who tried it would be kicked out of the family, and with good reason…”

He pulled his robe’s hood down low. As his gemlike pink eyes glinted in its shadow, he said lowly, “But someone asked me recently if there was a way to control living creatures.”

“…Huh?” said Monica. She blinked, caught off guard.

“It was the second prince—Felix Arc Ridill.”

Monica felt the scattered puzzle pieces in her mind slowly fitting together, and in the worst way imaginable.

“And while I was investigating the whereabouts of Barry Oats,” Ray continued, “I was stalled for a period of time…thanks to the intervention of a certain influential figure.”

“Who could that be…?” asked Monica, her heart pounding in her ears.

Ray looked around to make sure nobody else was nearby, then said, “the second prince’s grandfather—Darius Nightray, the Duke of Clockford.”

A shaman was involved in the death of Monica’s father, Venedict Reyn. And her foster mother, Hilda Everett, had told her someone influential was behind the culprit.

If that person was Duke Clockford… Then is he linked to my father’s death?

The traitorous shaman, Duke Clockford, and Felix. If Monica assumed the three were connected, it would lead her to a single, terrifying thought.

“Then the Cursed Dragon of Rehnberg was…” She trailed off, hesitant to say the rest.

“Yes,” said Ray, groaning. “It could have all been a farce set up by Duke Clockford.”

The traitor was ordered by the duke to curse a green dragon, thus creating a cursed dragon. His plan was probably to gain full control over the creature and have Felix slay it at a convenient time and place.

But the cursecraft failed, and the dragon went berserk.

Ultimately, they defeated the dragon, and Felix was hailed as a hero and a protector of the kingdom, just as intended. But the dragon’s rampage was not part of the shaman’s plan. And in the end, he died, engulfed by his own curse.

So Duke Clockford was the one who set the entire cursed dragon affair into motion? And he’s also tied to Dad’s death…? How much of this does the prince know?

What if Felix knew everything and still followed the duke’s commands? What if his beautiful smile concealed a dark truth? Monica was terrified just thinking about it. Goose bumps covered her skin, and not because of the cold winter wind.

…I’m scared, she thought, rubbing her arms together.

“If the duke is involved in this incident,” said Ray, his expression sour, “we can’t make any careless moves.”

“…Right.”

They didn’t have the evidence to say for sure that Duke Clockford was the mastermind behind the cursed dragon incident. And the shaman in question was dead, so any accusations would be difficult.

The whole thing left a bad taste in Monica’s mouth, and she was starting to trust Felix less and less. She clenched her fists and felt her left hand throb in pain—a reminder of her brush with the cursed dragon. The bruise was already gone, but the pain remained, and it hurt every time she curled her fingers. She had almost no grip strength, either.

Once winter vacation is over…will I be able to keep protecting the prince as I was before?

Such beautiful flowers were blooming in the palace gardens, and yet Monica didn’t have the energy to enjoy them. Thinking about Felix was depressing her.

She and Ray walked, hoods pulled low over their eyes, a melancholy air about them. They must have looked like a couple of ghosts haunting the place. The two of them hardly belonged in the gorgeous gardens under such a clear, blue sky.

Just then, they heard an enthusiastic voice calling, “Heeey! Heeey!” from farther down the path. It was the very person they were looking for—the Witch of Thorns.

Ray clicked his tongue, looking annoyed. “Finally found him,” he said. “I can’t stand this guy. He’s so loud. And he always tries to foist vegetables off on you… I don’t like how good-looking he is, either… Ugh, I’m green with envy, envy, envy…”

Monica heard none of his vengeful mutterings. She was too busy staring at the young man next to the one they’d come to find. That gorgeous silver hair, conspicuous enough to pick out at a distance and that slender figure dressed in expensive clothing—how could she mistake them?

L-Lo-Lo-Lo, Lord Cyril?!

Monica almost dropped her staff out of sheer confusion.

Cyril unconsciously rubbed his eyes, then looked at the scene in front of him again.

The gardener’s friends were a man and a woman wearing matching robes and holding matching staffs. Both had their hoods pulled down, and the woman wore a veil concealing her mouth.

The robes were extravagant, featuring a lot of gold and silver thread, and the staffs were taller than their holders. Weren’t such things reserved for the greatest mages in the kingdom? For the Seven Sages?

As Cyril stood there dumbly, the gardener ran over to the figures, still holding the kitten in his arms.

“Hey!” he said. “I don’t see you two in the gardens much!”

“You never showed up at the Jade Chamber,” muttered one of the robed figures—a gloomy man. “So we had to come get you…”

The gardener rapped his fist against his forehead. “Oh, shoot. I forgot. Come to think of it, I heard some big booms earlier, and the sound of bells… Wait, was that the magecraft dedication? Don’t tell me it’s already over.”

“It’s long over, you dolt…!”

“Oh. Sorry about that! Want a carrot as an apology?”

“No…”

“Well, shucks,” replied the gardener, sounding disappointed. He took another carrot out of his shoulder bag and began chomping on it.

Wait… It can’t be…

Cyril’s blank mind slowly started to work again. The Jade Chamber the gloomy man had mentioned was a special room open only to the king and the Seven Sages. And one of those Sages was the fifth head of House Roseburg, a distinguished magecraft family.

Cyril said that Sage’s name, his voice trembling. “The fifth…Witch of Thorns…?”

“Huh?” said the Witch of Thorns between bites of carrot. “Didn’t you know? I thought for sure you’d pieced it together a long time ago.”

“…It’s because you’re not wearing your robe, stupid,” the gloomy man muttered.

“Oh, that’s right! I took it off so it wouldn’t get in the way of my gardening work. Here, could you hold this little guy for a second?”

He pushed the kitten into the other man’s hands, then ran over to a cart parked to one side of the gardens. There, he picked up a cloth hanging over a bunch of farming implements. It was an extravagant robe, adorned with silver and gold embroidery.

After throwing it on, he took his staff from the cart as well; it was lying there next to a hoe and a shovel. The staff’s beautiful decorations jingled softly.

“I am Raul Roseburg, the fifth Witch of Thorns!” he said. “Pleased to meet you!”

The man was already unbelievably handsome, but dressed in the brilliant robe and gripping his staff, he instantly took on an impressive, dignified air—though marred slightly by his peasant clothes, straw hat, and the towel still hanging around his neck. And regardless of his attire, the man had been stuck in a tree, had offered Cyril vegetables on their first meeting, and had called himself the Witch of Bathrooms. Who would have imagined he was a Sage?

The Witch of Thorns took back the cream-colored kitten and smiled. “Oh, and let me introduce you to my friends!” he said. “The purple one is the Abyss Shaman, and the short one is the Silent Witch! We’re the three youngest members of the Seven Sages!”

The Abyss Shaman scowled at this sloppy introduction, and the Silent Witch remained as quiet as her name.

These people are Sages… The greatest mages in the kingdom!

Belatedly, Cyril paled, wondering if he’d offended them with his behavior. He was speaking to counts of magic who served as direct advisers to His Majesty. Flustered, he tried to bow.

But before he could, the Abyss Mage closed in on him. The man’s hood fell back, exposing his distinctive purple hair. Unfazed, he stared at Cyril, his eyes open wide.

Is he going to berate me for being rude? wondered Cyril as he grew still paler.

A fire seemed to burn in the Abyss Shaman’s pink eyes. “D-do you love me?”

“……” Cyril reined in his confusion. “I apologize,” he said flatly. “What was that now, sir?”

“Do you love me?”

Cyril hadn’t misheard. How should he respond? He was at a loss.

The Abyss Shaman’s pale cheeks took on a rose-colored blush, and he began speaking very quickly. “Meeting a woman in a garden filled with blooming roses. Surely it must be fate. And if it’s fate, then we’re destined to be drawn together—to love each other, yes? A beauty dressed as a man… That’s good. That’s very good. Keh-heh… Keh-heh-heh.”

“Dressed as a man? What are you—?”

“It’s all right. As someone once said, the size of one’s breasts isn’t important—what’s important is the size of one’s love… So please. Please, tell me you love me. Love me. Love me, love me, love me…”

As the Abyss Shaman begged rapturously for love, a small hand tugged on his robe. It belonged to the Silent Witch. The little witch stood on her tiptoes and murmured something into the Abyss Shaman’s ear.

“…What? …A man? Not a girl?”

The Silent Witch nodded.

“Yeah, he’s male,” said the Witch of Thorns, who had been playing with the kitten. “He’s Marquess Highown’s son.”

The Abyss Shaman opened his eyes as wide as they would go and stared at Cyril. Then his voice dropped.

“I’ll curse you…” He squatted down on the spot. “I think I might throw up…” He was being very rude.

Cyril stood there in a daze.

These were the Seven Sages? The greatest mages in the kingdom? His Majesty’s advisers? The Abyss Shaman was rude, the Witch of Thorns dressed like a peasant, and the Silent Witch—well, she was nothing but a child!

…Hmm? A child?

Cyril’s gaze unconsciously landed on the childlike witch. She was flailing her arms around, for some reason. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and he saw that her hands were a little rough—swollen and red. As he watched them, the Silent Witch hung her head and began fidgeting with her fingers.

The youthful mannerism seemed somehow familiar to Cyril. “Excuse me, Lady Silent Witch. Might we have met some—?”

The Silent Witch’s shoulders lurched, but before Cyril could continue, a loud voice interrupted him.

“Graaaaahhhhhhhhh! Apologies! Gentlemen, lady, please catch that cat for me!”

The voice was deep, like the roar of a bull. Cyril looked toward the source and saw a white kitten dashing toward him. Chasing it was a tall man with a stern face, blond hair, and light-blue eyes. The kitten’s hairs all stood on end; it was scared senseless.

The Silent Witch was closest to the kitten’s trajectory, so she stooped down and picked it up.

“…Oof!”

The Silent Witch let out a little groan from behind her veil—a cry of pain. Cyril looked closer and noticed her favoring her left hand. He gently picked the cat up out of her arms.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Is your hand injured?”

“……Ah…”

The Silent Witch stopped herself from looking up and quickly hung her head again. Cyril could only see the fabric of her hood. He tried to say something, but the cat in his arms started to fuss, so he held it out to the tall man, who seemed to be its owner.

The man took the kitten and offered them a solemn bow. “Oh, I thank you! From the bottom of my heart!”

His loud voice seemed to shock the cat; its head jerked up to look at him.

“You can be quite loud, Prince,” said the Witch of Thorns casually. “You probably scared it.”

“What?! Really? I’m so sorry for startling you, Adrian,” said the prince, apologizing softly to the cat in his arms. It mewled back at him. The man took a small piece of dried fish out of his pocket and gave it to the cat.

Wait. Prince? But wouldn’t that make him…?

The prince—a tall blond man—looked at the cream-colored kitten held by the Witch of Thorns, and his stern features relaxed. “Ah, and there’s Rodevake. I can’t apologize enough for bothering you, Lord Sage.”

“I’m used to it by now,” said the Witch of Thorns. “Oh, can you hold both?”

“Yes,” said the man, nodding and taking the other cat as well. His arms were thick as logs and covered in rippling muscles; both cats seemed safe and secure in their grasp.

After adjusting his grip, the prince turned to Cyril. “Sorry about that, dear guest. Mother loves these cats. Thank you so much for catching them.”

Cyril, panicking, dropped into a polite bow. “N-no, sir, no thanks necessary, Prince Lionel, Your Highness!”

Yes, this tall blond man was Felix Arc Ridill’s elder brother by a different mother, First Prince Lionel Brem Edward Ridill. Cyril was so flustered that his hands began to feel cold beneath his gloves.

Ever since he found out he’d be visiting the palace, he’d privately hoped that he might run into Felix. But he’d never dreamed he’d run into his elder brother first, and certainly not like this.

Cyril was a supporter of the second prince and believed Felix was best suited to be the next king, but that didn’t mean he could neglect his manners with the first prince. Besides, Cyril only supported Felix as an individual—his father, Marquess Highown, was neutral.

Cyril desperately hoped nothing he’d said or done had been perceived as rude, but Lionel just grinned casually at him.

“It’s not every year we get someone as young as you taking part in the New Year’s ceremony. Forgive my rudeness, but may I ask your name?”

“Yes, sir,” Cyril replied, voice strained. “I am Cyril Ashley, foster son of Vincent Ashley, the Marquess of Highown.”

“Oh!” said Lionel, his eyes lighting up. This made his stern features seem somehow charming. “You’re Marquess Highown’s son. I see. The Lineage of the Wise has done so much for us. I hope you’ll continue to support the royal family with your wisdom.”

Cyril found himself at a loss for words.

The Lineage of the Wise were the brains behind the Kingdom of Ridill—a family with immense knowledge, whose members were sometimes called “walking libraries.” But Cyril was unable to proudly declare he was qualified to inherit this name. The one who actually deserved the title was his foster sister Claudia. If she’d been a boy, there would have been no doubt as to her succession.

Privately, Cyril was panicking. There had been expectation, anticipation, in the first prince’s words. Cyril knew he only had to say “Thank you, your words honor me,” but it was like his tongue had gone numb.

“I am not sure how much I will be able to live up to your expectations, young as I am…but I will do my best, sir.”

That was as much as Cyril could manage.

Agh. What am I doing? A member of the royal family is expecting great things from me. I shouldn’t be making excuses. I should be telling him that I won’t let him down!

Inwardly, he paled. Lionel, however, wore an energetic smile.

“No need to get nervous,” said the prince. “I’m inexperienced myself. I may be good at swinging a sword around, but my diplomatic skills are practically nonexistent. Everyone says my little brother Felix is far more put-together than I am.”

“Well, um…”

“And I share their opinion. He’s a better fit for the throne. But even if I don’t become king, I want to defend this kingdom with every ounce of my power. So I’d like you to share your wisdom and strength with us—for the sake of Ridill.”

Just then, they heard a voice calling out, “Sir, where have you gone?!”

Lionel turned around, the hem of his coat flapping, and headed off toward the voice. “My chamberlain is calling. I bid you all farewell. You have my thanks, Lord Sage! And let us meet again, future marquess of Highown!”

His back as he walked boldly away seemed very large to Cyril.

That’s a man whose gaze is set on this nation’s future, he thought.

Lionel hadn’t asked Cyril to support him. Instead, he’d been clear he wanted Cyril to aid the kingdom as a whole.

Ridill was currently split between two factions: supporters of the first prince and supporters of the second prince. This divide made the country vulnerable. The reason Lionel had spoken to Cyril like that was probably because he wanted the nobles to unite and protect the kingdom’s future, regardless of his own succession.

“Always makes you feel good, that prince,” said the Witch of Thorns, removing his robe and brushing off the cat hair. “Casual, doesn’t act like he’s better than you. Knows what he can and can’t do.”

“Do you support the first prince, Lord Witch of Thorns?” Cyril asked carefully.

“Hmm. I could support either, as long as it seemed fun. What about you two?” he said, looking over at the Silent Witch and the Abyss Shaman.

Neither of them commented. The Silent Witch looked down and fidgeted, while the Abyss Shaman muttered, “I think the handsome ones should be the first to fall…”

The Witch of Thorns laughed cheerfully in response to this troubling remark. “Can’t expect any decent opinions from the Seven Sages, I suppose!”

Cyril felt his image of the kingdom’s greatest mages crumbling to dust—mostly his faith in their respectability.

I should get back to my father soon…

There was still some time before their audience, but he didn’t want to worry his foster father by making him wait any longer. He stifled an exhausted sigh. He’d never thought he would run into three Sages and the first prince on a little walk meant to calm his nerves.

He bowed to the others. “I should be going as well. And I ask your forgiveness for any rudeness I may have shown to you all.”

“Hey, no need to worry about that,” said the Witch of Thorns. “You should come hang out in the gardens again sometime! I’ll give you the grand tour!”

“…Of course, sir. Please excuse me.”

Just before leaving, Cyril cast a glance at the Silent Witch. Her head was down, her little hands gripping her staff.

Something about her still bothered him—he felt like he’d seen someone a lot like her somewhere before.

Okay, um, I managed to deal with that crisis…

As Monica was covertly wiping the sweat from her brow, she heard a clattering noise. Raul had taken a handcart and was rolling it toward them. It was a simple thing, just a wooden plank with handles and wheels. Raul brought it over to Ray, then lifted him up with a “hup.” Ray was skinny, yes, but he was still an adult man. Raul would have needed quite a lot of arm strength to pick him up like that. He must have acquired it from his regular work tending to the gardens.

After Raul put Ray onto the cart in a huddle, he smiled to Monica. “Let’s get back ourselves, shall we? Oh! You want a ride, too?”

“N-no, um… I’ll walk…”

Once Monica declined, Raul started pushing Ray along in the handcart. Monica hurried after them.

Raul started humming a tune as he walked through the flower beds, but then he glanced back at Monica, as if something had just struck him. “Oh, right. Are you and Marquess Highown’s son acquainted?”

“Huh?! N-n-n-n-no, no, we’re not… I’ve nepher m-met him before in my life! ”

“Really? I see. You just seemed so desperate to help him when Ray rushed up to him like that. I wondered if you knew him.”

The only Sages aware of Monica’s secret mission at Serendia Academy were Louis and Ray. She couldn’t afford to speak of it to the others. For a moment she panicked, wondering what she’d do if Raul pressed her. But he seemed to quickly lose interest in the topic.

Rounding the corner of a flower bed, he stopped, then took a pair of small pruning scissors out of his bag. He clipped one of the light crimson roses blooming in the flower bed, pulled out the thorns, and handed it to Monica.

“You can have this.”

“Th-thank you.”

Why had he suddenly given her a rose? She felt more confused than happy.

Raul smiled amiably at her. “To tell you the truth, I can hear the voices of plants.”

“…Huh?”

“That rose said the Silent Witch and the Abyss Shaman are secretly doing something very interesting.”

Raul narrowed his green eyes. That alone was intimidating enough to send a chill down her spine.

Did he hear my discussion with the Abyss Shaman?!

She’d never heard of anyone who could hear plants talk. But perhaps this man could—he was said to be the second coming of the first Witch of Thorns, after all.

“…We slipped up. A sound collecting spell, right?” muttered Ray, still curled up on the handcart.

He slowly got up, plucked the rose from Monica’s hands, whispered something to it, then squeezed it. It wasn’t much, but the rose immediately blackened and turned to dust.

Curses were engraved all over Ray’s body, and he could use them freely. He’d probably activated one that made plants wither. Normally, he was a coward begging for affection, but he, too, was the head of an elite family every bit the Roseburgs’ equal.

He discarded the withered rose and fixed Raul with a nasty glare. “The plants in these gardens are full of your mana… You used the flowers as relays to cast a precision sound collection spell, didn’t you?”

A sound collection spell gathered audio from the surrounding area. It was a handy tool for collecting information, but extremely hard to use. Louis’s contracted spirit Ryn could manage something similar, but only because she was a high spirit and very skilled at mana manipulation.

Raul put the scissors in his pocket and shrugged, looking disappointed. “Guess you found me out, huh? But isn’t it much cooler to say I can hear the plants’ voices?”

“What are you plotting?” demanded Ray, thrusting his staff at Raul. “Depending on how you answer, I might curse you to stub your pinkie toes on the corner of a desk once per day.”

Raul raised his hands to signal his surrender. “I wasn’t actually trying to eavesdrop on your conversation,” he explained. “I was using the technique to look for that cat. Rodevake was up in a tree, so I wondered if the prince’s other cat had gotten out, too. That’s why I was monitoring the sounds of the gardens. And then I happened to hear you two talking.”

“…How much did you hear?”

“I heard you say that the cursed dragon incident may have been a farce set up by Duke Clockford… Oh, and you even complimented me on how handsome I am. You made me blush a little!” answered Raul with an artless smile.

Ray looked disgusted.

“…This is why I hate this guy,” he muttered to himself.

Monica unconsciously clung to her staff and trembled. Now Raul knew that they were sniffing around Duke Clockford. The Witch of Thorns was neutral—he didn’t support either prince—but he probably wouldn’t just forget that Monica and Ray were potentially opposing the duke.

“A-are you going to…to tell on us to the other Sages?” she stammered, her voice shaking.

Raul shook his head. “Nah. It sounded like fun. In fact, I was hoping I could join in.”

His casual tone caught Monica off guard, but Ray only glared at him cautiously.

“Oh, I know your type,” he murmured. “You give out your love on a whim and betray it just as easily…”

“I never said I loved you,” said Raul.

“You’ll pretend you love us and get close, then fling us down into the deepest pits of despair. That’s your game, isn’t it? Everyone with a handsome face is like that. I will curse you…”

Ray was exaggerating, but Monica couldn’t bring herself to wholly trust Raul, either.

The matter of the cursed dragon was linked to the truth behind the death of Monica’s father and to the honor of House Albright. Raul, however, had nothing to gain from investigating it. At most, he would only be sating his own curiosity.

Raul lowered his eyebrows sadly. “It’s not a bad deal for you two,” he said. “The duke has me maintaining the gardens at his mansion. I can talk to the servants there. In fact, I could even infiltrate… How about it?”

The proposition was extremely attractive, considering neither Ray nor Monica had any connections with the duke. Nevertheless, for better or worse, they were both timid and cautious by nature. They couldn’t trust him.

As they looked at him skeptically, he scratched his head full of scarlet curls and seemed to resign himself to something. “All right, I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “To tell the truth…”

The current head of House Roseburg was said to have inherited his gorgeous looks from the first Witch of Thorns herself. Now his beautiful face stiffened into an expression of utmost seriousness.

“I just want friends,” he confessed.

“You’re lying,” said Ray.

“Why would I lie about that?!” cried Raul, surprised. “My ancestor’s name is so notorious that nobody wants to be friends with me!”

Raul’s ancestor Rebecca Roseburg, the first Witch of Thorns, had been able to bend more than just plants to her will. She was an astounding genius who even mastered a spell to control black flames, a technique forbidden in modern times. But she’d also been infamous as the wickedest of women. Some said she used those she didn’t like for magecraft experiments, or that she had her roses suck the blood of young men while they were still alive.

There was no telling how much of it was true, but many stories spoke of how the king was at her beck and call.

“I always hoped I could be friends with the other Sages around my age. But you two never come to our meetings!”

Raul was right. Both Monica and Ray constantly skipped out on such gatherings. Monica thought back to when she first met Raul not long after becoming a Sage.

“Hey. I’m the fifth Witch of Thorns, Raul Roseburg. We’re both young, so let’s be friends. Nice to meet you! Oh, right. As a sign of our friendship, here’s a vegetable!”

He’d then offered her a carrot, but Monica had been so nervous, she’d passed out, her eyes rolling up into her head. Ever since, she almost never spoke with him.

“It’s been so long since I saw you two that when I spotted you today, I swore I’d finally make friends with you. But then I found out you were off doing something secret all by yourselves. It’s not fair!” Raul began pouting like a child throwing a tantrum, even though he was technically two years older than Monica. “I want to do friend stuff with other people my age!”

Ray quietly observed the Witch of Thorns as he sulked. “What do you think, Silent Witch?”

“Um, well… I, um, would be happy to join forces.” Under pressure, she gave in and bowed.

“Whoo-hoo!” Raul exclaimed like an excited child. He reached out his thick arms, putting his right around Ray’s shoulders and his left around Monica’s. “Great! Then starting today, the three of us young Sages are on this mission together!”

“Umm, er, umm…”

“It’s too much,” said Ray. “He’s too cheerful, and I’m a shaman… The barrier is far too great…”

A confused Monica looked on as Ray muttered to himself and Raul exclaimed brightly, “Let’s do our best, all of us!”