Abduction: Reasons for Loyalty

“That should do it…”

Roylen gave the rope hanging from the ceiling another hard pull, then let his aching arms fall. The knot held. He had tested it with all his strength, and it hadn't shifted.

His hands shook as he took hold of it again.

So this is where it ends.

Roylen had been born the son of a serf in a remote corner of the Empire. Even as a boy, he had possessed a quick mind and an insatiable appetite for books. His parents couldn't read, much less teach him, so he had taught himself his letters and devoured every book he could find in the village.

Soon he knew more than many of the adults. He answered the elders' questions with whatever knowledge his reading had given him, and they praised him as the village's little genius.

The rumor eventually reached the local lord.

Curious, the lord visited the village and spoke with Roylen. In the course of their conversation, he recognized the boy's talent for magic and made an extraordinary offer.

He would write a recommendation in his own name. Would Roylen care to study at the Mage Tower?

Roylen could scarcely believe it. Then the lord explained that the Tower held more books than he could hope to read.

Roylen accepted at once.

I should have said no.

The Mage Tower was supposed to value talent above all else. In practice, his classmates had never let him forget that he was born a serf's son.

Roylen endured the slights and studied harder. If knowledge and skill were the Tower's professed standards, he would give its people no excuse to dismiss him. Slowly, his persistence earned him some respect. He graduated with respectable marks and enough friends to believe that perhaps he had found a place for himself.

He wanted to continue his research, so he sought a position under Professor Ailesay. After years of work he gained a faculty appointment and assisted the senior professor while pursuing his own studies whenever time allowed.

Seven years later, he completed a dissertation.

Its title was The Correlation Between Proportional Deterrence Strategy and Mutually Assured Destruction Through Dark Magic and Divine Power, and the Quantification of Mana Consumption Efficiency for Each School of Magic.

He had spent countless nights awake over it. To his eyes, the work was as sound as he could possibly make it.

Even so, he wanted a more experienced scholar to check for errors. He entrusted the manuscript to Ailesay.

That was his mistake.

Ailesay… You bastard…

Several days later, news spread that a great new mind had shaken the world of magical research.

Roylen was curious enough to investigate.

The celebrated scholar was Ailesay.

His mentor had taken Roylen's dissertation, disguised its contents and published the findings under his own name.

Roylen protested to the research foundation and to the Mage Tower. He tried to bring the theft before a court. Every appeal failed.

Ailesay had powerful connections: he was related to Duke Brillt Adenoel, one of the most influential men in the imperial establishment. Roylen was a commoner, the son of a serf.

That was enough to decide the matter.

Only then did Roylen understand what equality at the Mage Tower was worth. In an Empire built upon rank, even a place that claimed to reward ability could shut its doors against someone of low birth.

“…”

He had expected to weep. No tears came.

Perhaps, deep down, he had always known.

With a bitter laugh, Roylen placed the rope around his neck and climbed onto the chair beneath it. He closed his eyes, called up the few warm memories he had left, and kicked the chair away.

“Ghk—!”

The rope tightened. Instinct overcame his resolve; his hands shot to his throat and he struggled to loosen the knot.

He couldn't.

His vision blurred. His strength ebbed. Gradually his hands slipped down, and the frantic movements of his body grew weaker.

I'm really going to die.

He had wanted it. What remained in this world that he could regret leaving?

As consciousness faded, he tried to accept the end.

Then—

Snap!

Something was cut.

For an instant he felt as though he were floating. Then he struck the floor.

Crash!

Roylen rolled onto his side and dragged in a breath.

“Hah—!”

His body, which he had only just resolved to destroy, fought desperately to stay alive. He coughed, gasped and gulped air until he could finally raise his head.

“…You sick bastard.”

The voice was cold enough to freeze him in place.

A young girl stood before him, long ash-black hair falling to her waist and gold eyes narrowed with contempt. A sword hung from her hand.

Princess Benelia.

She had cut the rope.

Roylen's confusion gave way to rage.

“Sick? Did you just call me sick?”

“Yes. Should I call an idiot anything else?”

“What do you know about me, you bitch?”

He had intended to die. Why should he hold his tongue merely because the person standing over him belonged to the imperial family?

“Don't pretend you understand! You were born into royalty. You grew up in a greenhouse, with every comfort handed to you. You don't know a thing about how someone like me lives!”

Benelia stepped on his hand.

A sharp crack of pain shot through his fingers. Roylen clenched his teeth to keep from crying out as the princess lowered herself to one knee.

“Shut your mouth. Unless you want me to tear it open.”

There was a fury in her voice that Roylen couldn't explain. Even a man who had wanted to die could still feel fear. He bowed his head, and Benelia clicked her tongue.

“I thought you might be useful. What a pathetic wretch.”

Roylen's jaw tightened.

“If you're looking for another tool to throw away, then leave. I won't let anyone use me again.”

“You keep talking without listening. I'm here to offer you a deal.”

“Spare me. Ailesay said exactly the same thing before he—”

“I killed Orquell the Millennium.”

Roylen stared at her.

“…What?”

“During the Orc Conquest War. How do you think I gained command when I was only twelve years old?”

The princess had served at the front as Orquell's adjutant. Despite her youth, she offered advice on strategy and tactics. Orquell despised the outcast royal girl and refused to heed her.

He commanded the troops as he pleased. Nearly three hundred soldiers died while the campaign made little progress. Rather than reflect on those losses, he spent his time drinking in the command tent.

Benelia decided that if he continued to lead them, the entire force would be lost.

During the next engagement, she killed Orquell herself and assumed command under military law.

“Everyone says the orcs struck the rear of our camp and killed him,” she said. “That's only half the truth. The orcs did attack. But Orquell died by my hand.”

Benelia did not flinch at her own confession.

“I don't regret it. If that fool had stayed in command, neither I nor his soldiers would have returned alive. Even if time turned back, I would kill him again.”

Roylen's eyes trembled. Why tell him this? Why hand such a secret to a man she had just found on the floor?

Benelia drew a small ring from her clothes and offered it.

“Take it.”

“What is this?”

“A recording artifact. Everything I just told you is recorded on it. Sell it to one of my political enemies, if you like. They'd pay dearly for it.”

“Why would you…?”

“You said you wanted someone to trust. There's your proof.”

Roylen looked from the princess to the ring. By placing evidence of her own confession in his hands, she was giving him power over her.

He swallowed and accepted it.

Only then did Benelia lift her foot from his bruised hand and rise.

“We'll discuss what I want from you after I've punished Ailesay. Until then, keep that ring safe.”

She turned toward the open door.

“Your Highness, wait!”

Benelia stopped.

“I don't understand. What could either of us gain from such a bargain? What use could someone like me possibly be to you?”

A mere assistant scholar. A ruined commoner. Why bother drawing him to her side at all?

Benelia answered without hesitation.

“Life.”

One word, and somehow more than one meaning.

“That is all, Roylen.”

For a long moment he could say nothing. Then Roylen lowered his head.

---

“…I intend to include this incident in Your Majesty's imperial biography.”

Benelia sat behind her desk and looked up with naked disgust.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Pardon? But it really happened. It's a remarkable story, and readers would surely—”

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous it would be to publish a biography about myself while I'm alive and ruling?”

It's an imperial tradition, Roylen wanted to say.

He kept the words to himself. Benelia was already irritated; arguing about custom would only make matters worse.

“Enough. Come here and help me with this.”

“Ah, of course.”

Roylen approached.

The emperor was struggling with a location note, working its writing surface with hands that appeared utterly unfamiliar with the device.

“Oh. A location note? I'm surprised.”

“Why?”

“I didn't know Your Majesty had any interest in these.”

“Everyone young uses them these days. I don't intend to fall behind.”

Young?

Roylen stared. Benelia was only twenty-five.

“…What?”

“Nothing, Your Majesty. What seems to be troubling you?”

“I don't understand how to send a message. I've already added Theorad as a friend. What comes next?”

That explained it.

Roylen took the location note and opened a private conversation with Theorad.

“Write what you want here. When you send it, the message will reach him.”

“Oh.”

Benelia studied the new window with undisguised interest. Then she raised her pen.

And stopped.

The tip hovered over the page. She lowered it, waited, lifted it again. No words appeared.

Roylen watched the struggle.

“Are you nervous, Your Majesty? About sending a message to the man you love?”

“W-what?!”

Her golden eyes flashed.

“Nervous? Don't be absurd! Stop speaking nonsense!”

She was nervous. Painfully, unmistakably nervous.

“If that's so, why not write the way you usually speak to him?”

“I know how to do that.”

Benelia gripped the pen again, drew a breath and wrote with a trembling hand.

▷ Viscount Theorad. Reply when you see this.

Roylen sighed at the stiff, commanding words.

“Your Majesty, you wanted to speak naturally. Why does this sound like an order?”

“…Is it strange?”

“Very. If I were Viscount Theorad, I'd wonder why you'd suddenly begun issuing instructions.”

Benelia hesitated, then hurried to add another line.

▷ That was a joke. It isn't an order. Please reply whenever you have time.

She sat back with the triumphant look of someone who had rescued the situation.

Roylen could scarcely believe what he was witnessing. For someone so formidable, Benelia had no idea how to behave in love.

Before he could suggest a better approach, a reply arrived.

▶ Your Majesty, I'm delighted that we can exchange messages through location notes. Have you learned how to use them?

A perfectly courteous answer. Just what Roylen would have expected from Theorad.

He smiled.

Benelia, meanwhile, shut the location note at once.

“…Your Majesty?”

She didn't move. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, and her expression had gone rigid.

“Roylen.”

Her voice trembled.

“I saw Theorad's account name.”

“Yes? Naturally.”

“Then… that means he must have seen mine as well.”

“Of course. Is there something wrong with it?”

Benelia nodded faintly.

“It's… Theo.”

Roylen considered that.

“That's harmless enough. You shortened his name.”

“There's something after it.”

Her face reddened.

“…A heart.”

A heart.

Roylen stared at her.

So the emperor had named her account Theo ♥, apparently assuming she alone would ever see it.

Now she had sent a private message to Theorad. Of course he would see the account it came from.

Benelia closed her eyes and clenched her fists as though sheer determination could undo the past.

Good heavens…

People said love made fools of everyone. Evidently it could make a fool even of the emperor.

Roylen hid a smile and resolved to stay beside her until she had learned to use location notes properly.

Someone had to prevent Her Majesty from suffering another disaster of this sort.

And judging by how things were going, her education in love had a very long way to go.