Fair Fight (5)

Theorad stared at the elf.

He had never expected to hear her admit defeat. In all the time he had known her, she had carried herself as though she knew everything and the world belonged to her.

Now she sat before him in tears, saying she had lost.

“You won…”

The words barely escaped her trembling lips. She looked as fragile as glass tossed into the air.

Only then did Theorad allow himself to relax.

Her hair was disheveled, her eyes downcast. Sweat glistened on her breasts, and semen from their encounter was still visible between her thighs.

When she noticed him looking, she pulled the blanket over herself.

She seemed far more miserable than he had anticipated. This had been a contest, but the sight of the defeated party so despondent left him uncomfortable.

He hesitated, then rose. Perhaps she needed time alone to collect herself.

“Wait here a moment.”

Theorad crossed the room and closed the door behind him.

Left to herself, the elf crawled back against the headboard. Its cool surface pressed against her back, a sharp contrast to the warmth and lingering evidence of what they had just done. The sensation helped clear her muddled thoughts.

Remember me.

Words Theorad had spoken long ago returned to her in the silence.

Back then she had thought him a villain. His face had looked strangely sorrowful, but she had taken it for a sneer at her expense. Since then, as their shared memories accumulated, she had begun to reconsider.

Had Theorad truly been the villain she believed him to be?

If she had misunderstood him from the beginning, how many other mistakes had she made?

Theorad…

What would have happened to her if she had never met him?

Her eyelids sank, and with that question came memories she did not want.

A curse of recollection seemed to have seized her. The things she had struggled to forget rose one after another: old humiliations, painful truths, experiences she had buried as deeply as she could.

I don't want to think about them.

But her memories refused to stop.

Creak.

The noise at the door pulled her out of the past.

Theorad came in, nudging the door open with his shoulder. He carried a cup of black tea in each hand. He had dressed again in underclothes and a robe, making a small effort to recover some dignity after what had happened between them.

It was an absurdly domestic thing to do immediately afterward, and he seemed to know it. He cleared his throat.

“…Would you like some?”

He offered her a cup awkwardly.

The elf did not resent the gesture. She nodded and accepted it, holding the warm cup in both hands.

For a while she simply stared at the tea.

Theorad found that absent expression oddly endearing. He sat beside her against the headboard, and the two drank in silence.

Whenever he raised his cup, she followed his lead.

When they had drunk about half their tea, he spoke quietly.

“You're attractive enough as you are.”

She turned to him, startled by the abrupt subject.

“I didn't avoid touching you during our stay at the Mage Tower because I found you unattractive. I'm not the sort of man who chooses someone only for her looks, either. Besides, as you know, I've promised to marry Ashley.”

He kept his gaze straight ahead, trying to reassure her without quite daring to meet the eyes of someone still upset over losing.

“So please don't be so hard on yourself. There are other men besides me who—”

“I don't like that.”

The answer came so sharply that he shut his mouth.

He had no idea which part she disliked. There was little to gain from upsetting her further, so he tried to finish his tea as casually as he could.

His shaking hands rather spoiled the effect.

“…Master. May I ask you something?”

He lowered his cup and turned toward her.

There was life in her red eyes again, along with nervousness and an unmistakable curiosity. At least the gloom seemed to have lifted a little.

“Did Lady Ashley last longer than I did?”

Theorad's shoulders jerked. A chill ran down his back.

How does she know about Ashley and me?

If the elf decided to hold that knowledge over him, he would be in serious trouble. She could be relentless when she wanted something, and he could think of no excuse that would satisfy her.

What am I supposed to say?

Cold sweat gathered on his skin.

But the elf shook her head gently, as though she could tell what he was thinking.

“You don't have to lie. I've suspected it for a while. I won't use it to trouble you, Master. I'm only curious…”

That was almost more unnerving than a threat.

He would have expected her to use the knowledge as leverage. Yet she was asking as though she genuinely wanted to know.

Since she was not pressing him, lying might only make matters worse.

“A little…”

Even now, admitting it made him feel ashamed. He thought back to his time with Ashley and answered in a hoarse voice.

“It lasted a little longer.”

“I see.”

The elf smiled bitterly. She fidgeted with the cup, her fingers tracing its rim. After a long hesitation, she tried one final question.

“But my breasts are larger, aren't they?”

“…I'm sorry. I don't think so.”

The honest answer left her motionless.

A moment later, tears filled her lowered eyes. She looked as forlorn as a cat whose fish had been taken away.

Too late, Theorad realized that blunt honesty was not helping.

He stood, teacup in hand. Remaining beside her might only make her angrier.

“I'll bring you something to eat. Some snacks.”

He hurried out.

The elf watched him leave, finding his retreat strangely unkind.

---

What is that woman really after?

In a junior suite on the Mage Tower's forty-third floor, Weedra lay on her bed and frowned at the ceiling.

She had come to the tower at an invitation. Shortly after her arrival, the Empire's third princess, Benelia, had sought an audience with her.

A chance to widen her connections had sounded welcome, so Weedra had readily agreed.

She had not expected the princess to make such an outrageous proposal.

She wants to hire every witch mercenary company…

Purchasing the services of one or two private mercenary groups would have been a straightforward deal. Weedra would gladly have considered it.

But Benelia meant all the privately organized mercenary forces operated by witches.

There must be another purpose.

War was approaching, certainly. Yet why would the princess spend her own money to gather every available witch company? This was Benelia's personal project, not an imperial policy.

Weedra had spoken with her several times, hoping to understand what she intended. Benelia had refused to disclose her full plans before an agreement was signed.

Instead, she had extended a hand and offered a future.

Do you really believe the pact made on Walpurgis Night will protect you forever? Benelia had asked. The Cult of Balance still refuses to recognize you. My father regards you as pieces on a board.

Ordinary people still look at you with contempt. Men on the street claim to be more upright than you. Even those who sell themselves claim greater dignity. The nobles openly scorn you, although they themselves agreed to the pact on Walpurgis Night.

So tell me: is this the equality you fought for? Is this what you won with your comrades' blood and lives? Can you truly be satisfied with the Empire as it is?

If you are content with the appearance of equality, then remain where you are. I won't interfere.

But if the injustice still troubles you—if you want something more than equality in name…

Take my hand.

Benelia had made the offer with infuriating composure.

There was determination behind it. Weedra could feel that much. But accepting it meant gambling with the fate of every witch under her authority.

Either a mad swindler or a revolutionary who won't apologize for what she is.

Which was it?

She still had no reliable way to decide.

“Chairwoman!”

A shrill voice interrupted her thoughts.

Weedra pushed herself upright just as Pares rushed through the doorway and tripped over the threshold.

“Ah!”

The young witch tumbled across the floor, then climbed painfully to her feet.

Weedra abandoned the thought of asking whether she was all right. There was only so much sympathy that entrance could inspire.

“It hurts…”

Pares brushed dust off her clothes. Her eyes watered, but an instant later she was bursting with excitement again.

“Chairwoman! Something incredible happened! I found out an enormous secret!”

Here we go again.

Last time it had been some adorable cat behind a shop, or the claim that the coffee in the capital tasted like poison. Weedra sighed.

“What secret?”

“I met the apprentice of the Witch of Black Flame!”

“An apprentice? What nonsense are you—”

“I saw it myself! Viscount Theorad has the same location notebook as the Witch of Black Flame!”

Theorad?

Weedra knew the name. He was the nobleman who had perfected artificial rain magic and displayed extraordinary power during a lecture at the tower.

Her interest stirred. She motioned for Pares to go on.

“Remember when the Witch of Black Flame warned me on the witch channel? The notebook Viscount Theorad uses has the same identification code and unique number as hers. And Viscount Theorad told me the Witch of Black Flame supports Princess Benelia!”

The same identification number.

If another witch had brought her that story, Weedra might have dismissed it outright. But Pares had directly encountered the mysterious witch through the channel. Whatever the connection amounted to, her report deserved attention.

Pares, moreover, was not someone who could knowingly tell a lie.

That made her testimony credible. It did not necessarily make her interpretation correct.

If Theorad had indeed learned from the Witch of Black Flame, his startling knowledge of magic would make considerably more sense.

There was that connection to Deharem Mansion eighteen years ago, too…

Could the Witch of Black Flame have taken Theorad as a disciple? Might the Deharem family even have sheltered her?

Those were possibilities, nothing more.

Yet this same witch, who had fought at the forefront of the struggle for witches' rights, was said to be supporting Benelia.

Is the princess in contact with her?

Weedra couldn't know. If Pares was right, however, the proposed bargain with the princess deserved much more serious consideration.

She sat up and fixed Pares with a grave look.

“Pares. Bring me your location notebook. I want to see the record of your conversation with the Witch of Black Flame.”

“Uh… I can't. I deleted it…”

“That doesn't matter. I have administrator privileges.”

“Ah. Well, you see…”

Pares looked away.

Weedra frowned. The girl was suddenly sweating as though someone had put her beside a furnace.

Oh, no.

Every night before sleeping, Pares had written pages of abuse about the chairwoman in that very notebook.

And she had never deleted those.