"It's the first time you've come looking for me," the boy said.

  They walked up the great slope, their steps slow. Elisa knew he was searching for a topic and found this one foolish. "I told you, the wine sold well. So I packed up early to find you."

  "Any particular reason?" He quickly corrected himself. "Is something the matter?" (Or is it simply that you wanted to see me?)

  He hadn't expected her silence to stretch so long. "You could say there is..." Her answer remained evasive. "Or not." She corrected herself just as quickly. "I wanted to see you. Is that not allowed?"

  The boy smiled, nearly shouting the words "Of course it is!"

  Once they reached the top of the slope, Elisa Fey had the poet sit on the stone bench where they'd rested before. "Wait for me." With that, she crossed to the bakery opposite. The bread apprentice inside was very young—no more than thirteen—listlessly swatting at flies. "What can I get you, fair lady?" His voice was as languid as a snake roused from winter sleep.

  "Two long loaves, please."

  The apprentice paused, sparing the fly beneath his board. "Black or white?"

  "White," the girl answered without hesitation.

  The apprentice stood, his expression incredulous. "White long loaves are expensive, miss. Usually only the nobility buy them."

  "Do you think I cannot afford them?" Elisa asked with a smile. "Or perhaps I don't look the part of a noble lady?"

  "I meant no offense." The young boy slipped two white loaves into thin paper bags. "That'll be ten glen total."

  Elisa Fey placed the money on the counter.

  The bread was soft, warm, and fragrant. This bakery was one of Monowe's three public establishments, regulated by the Empire. Imperial law required public bakeries to bake fresh daily; no loaf could be kept longer than a day—a guarantee of quality. Elisa hadn't even finished half her loaf when the Great Poet Lucas held nothing but the paper bag. "Delicious," he told her.

  "Delicious doesn't mean you should devour it so quickly." She reached out, using her thumb to wipe the breadcrumbs from the corner of his mouth. "Delicious... truly delicious," the poet said, almost dazed.

  (How should I tell him? The maidservant slowly placed the bread in her mouth. How can I tell him without arousing suspicion? No, Elisa. You can't even be certain you'll succeed in persuading him...)

  "You seemed to be absent from the market yesterday," the Great Poet said when she remained silent, taking the initiative. "I went to your stall and found you weren't there."

  "...Yes, I wasn't there yesterday." She decided to speak truthfully.

  "Did something happen?" Lucas forced a smile. "Don't tell me—you wanted to slack off?"

  "It was because of Amy."

  "What happened to Miss Clawyn?"

  "She... she had another episode." Elisa Fey sighed softly. "I don't know how to describe the scene. She just... like someone possessed, sat up in bed, speaking nonsense. She, she said..." She deliberately left it unfinished.

  "What did she say?" Lucas was already caught in her grasp.

  "She... she seemed bewitched," the girl said, burying her face in her hands. She wept—partly from genuine emotion, for Carl's fate stirred feelings she could not suppress. Yet she also allowed her tears to fall with calculated grace—like pear blossoms in rain—to awaken the Great Poet Lucas's sympathy and touch that most secret thread of affection in his heart. "She told my lady and me that Carl Clawyn—that my lord is already dead."

  "Dead!?" The Great Poet's expression was as shocked as if his lyre strings had snapped. Elisa Fey nodded, answering with tears.

  "When exactly did this..." His poetry writing had taught him something of chronology. "No, wait. Elisa, this makes no sense." He put his arm around her. "Hasn't Miss Clawyn been bedridden all this time? How could she know... if it's true, how could she possibly know?"

  "We don't know either." Her voice sounded hollow, distant. "Perhaps it was just delirium, but my lady and I are more inclined to believe she was possessed by some creature."

  "Possessed!?" The Great Poet's expression was as terrified as if his lyre had shattered. "This is grave! This—"

  "That's not the crucial point." The girl lifted her head, eyes red and swollen. "Whatever it was, my lady has already driven it away. For the time being, it shouldn't dare return to trouble the manor. What we truly care about is the message it brought—the message about Lord Clawyn."

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  "If—if it was possession, then it's indeed possible to know Lord Clawyn's whereabouts, even if he's on the battlefield." The poet took the opportunity to hold her tighter. "I know this is hard to accept, but this is... war."

  "We don't entirely believe what the young lady said." Elisa Fey straightened abruptly, so fast that she shook off the hand resting on her shoulder. "What we truly believe is only the official casualty notice from Imperial soldiers. But we're just two women, confined to the manor—we can do nothing."

  The Great Poet Lucas seemed to only half-understand her words, but a notion stirred within him. "If only someone could bring us word," she said. Then silence descended between them.

  "It seems we've sat here too long." Seeing the poet keep his head bowed without response, Elisa nearly admitted defeat. "The evening glow is beautiful." She raised her eyes to admire the fire-painted clouds. "What a pity so few are here to appreciate it." She paused, then added: "Because most people have gone to war. Especially the men." This was her final attempt.

  Seeing the Great Poet Lucas still unmoved, she decided to abandon her efforts. "Let's go, Great Poet." She stood and patted his shoulder. "I should get back—"

  "I can," he said suddenly.

  "You can what?" Elisa Fey was both startled and delighted, victory and defeat separated by the thinnest line. "Lucas? What are you saying?"

  "I can bring you word," he said. "I can enlist."

  The girl sat down again, grasping his hand. "Lucas, listen—you don't have to..."

  "I can, trust me." Every syllable betrayed his lack of confidence. "I can enlist, bring you and Lady Clawyn news of Lord Clawyn. For you, I can do this."

  "You don't need to enlist for me, Lucas. You're a poet, not a warrior. This isn't where your talents lie."

  "Fuck poetry—it's useless in times of war!" Though the girl was surprised by his anger, she felt deeply gratified that her goading had succeeded. "This age needs warriors, Elisa. Didn't I tell you before? I wanted to enlist. Because poetry is only useful in peacetime. What this age needs is iron and fire, blood and tears."

  The girl didn't care that his words were becoming increasingly rhythmic, increasingly poetic. "Lucas, look at me." She met his gaze directly. "I want you to think this through carefully. I don't want you dying on the battlefield because of momentary anger. My lady and I—we're grateful that you're willing to go to the front lines to seek information for us. We've already felt your sincerity, and that's enough. The battlefield is something that makes even grown men tremble!"

  "But I'm not afraid!" The boy's anger and passion surged, nearly uncontainable, ready to burst forth. "I'm not afraid—I fear nothing!" Elisa jerked her hand back in alarm, for his body temperature had spiked dramatically, almost burning her. "Nothing—nothing at all—can stop—my path."

  "Calm yourself!" the girl cried out in fright.

  The boy rapidly cooled, returning to his normal state. "I'm sorry." He panted, as if his metabolism had greatly accelerated. "Sometimes I just... become like this." He recalled the last time, when he and Elisa were insulted by the Archon's son in the marketplace—he'd felt the same way then. "Don't be afraid, Elisa. I would never hurt you."

  "I'm not afraid you'll hurt me, Lucas. It's just that everything happened so suddenly—I was caught off guard." She tentatively touched his hand. "I'm glad you're alright," she said gently. "But can you tell me... what happens to you when you get like that?"

  Lucas pulled his hand back, his face embarrassed. "It's just that sometimes my anger is difficult to control." He straightened his clothes, not wanting to linger. "I won't see you home today, Elisa. Goodbye."

  The girl placed her hands in front of her. "Goodbye." Then she glanced at the bench. "Oh, Lucas. Your lyre is still here!"

  "I don't need it anymore."

  "You don't need it?"

  "Not for now," he corrected. "Until I return, I won't need this lyre. Could you keep it for me, please?"

  "Where are you going?" she asked, though she knew.

  "To enlist."

  "Your mind is made up?"

  "Yes."

  "Then, safe travels, Lucas." For some reason, in this moment, she didn't want him to leave—wanted him to stay here forever, in their garden, on this stone bench, with those two white loaves.

  "I will, Elisa. Please take good care of the lyre."

  "I will, Lucas."

  "Thank you."

  She smiled.

  "Goodbye, Elisa."

  "Goodbye, Lucas."

  Like a final farewell.

  At the manor, the moment Elisa Fey saw Daisy Clawyn, she set down the lyre and threw herself into her arms. She wept, wept openly. The lady stroked her brown hair, kissing it again and again. Amy Clawyn had fully recovered and sat at the bedside, legs swinging, sipping a broth that tasted only of salt. Daisy wiped away Elisa's tears. Elisa recounted everything.

  "I cannot judge what you've done." Her thumb caressed the girl's cheek. "Ordinarily, this would be wrong—even something only the lowest of women would do—because you used him, especially used his feelings for you." She continued gently. "But in times like these, there is no moral right or wrong, because it's all too chaotic, too cruel." The lady sighed. "I cannot reproach you. Because if it were me, I might have done the same. Perhaps we are all among the lowest of women."

  Amy Clawyn set down her soup bowl, savoring the phrase "lowest of women."

  "I truly do like him very much," Elisa said, her breathing steadying. "I should say—I love him."

  "I can see that," the lady said. "In the past, I never imagined I could be so despicable. Even now, I could have you run out as fast as possible, find the poet, and persuade him to abandon this notion. But I haven't. I hold you, weep with you, shed the tears of low women—tears for the poet's courage and nobility, and for our own wretchedness."

  "This could very well kill him."

  "Yes, very possibly," Daisy Clawyn agreed. "Before today, his hands held only a lyre, his lips sang only poetry. But tomorrow, his hands will grip a sword, and his lips will chant songs of war."

  "I don't even know if, even after becoming an Imperial soldier, there's any real chance of learning news about Lord Clawyn."

  "No one can know, child." Lady Clawyn released her. "You can go bring him back—I won't stop you. The choice is in your hands."

  The girl shook her head. "It's too late, my lady. I don't know where he lives."

  "Then let us pray for him, girl." Daisy Clawyn clasped her fists together, holding them before her chest. "Pray that he achieves victory from the start, pray that he advances without hesitation, pray that he returns safely."

  Elisa Fey knelt down as well, praying before the candlelight.

  Amy Clawyn, after a moment of curiosity, set down her soup bowl, squeezed between the two women, knelt, clasped her fists, and spoke wishes as boundless as the sky to the candlelight.