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In the bedroom, the discarded formal dresses hung quietly on the clothing rack.
"Then we'll take our leave, madam."
"Mm."
Hilda already looked utterly exhausted. Her current physical condition couldn't sustain her usual composed demeanor for long.
Yet, she still forced a faint smile.
"My apologies… These past two weeks, I've had you all come to the bedroom for lessons. Today, I even dozed off and nearly delayed the session… Did… Arifal call you here?"
As the question left her lips, Sylphie, Ghislaine, Rudeus, and Eris all turned their gazes toward Allen. It had been his idea to visit Hilda today. But since their leader remained silent, the others simply waited for his reaction.
After all, everyone except Eris understood the complicated dynamic between Allen and Hilda.
Eris, though unaware that the swordsmanship instructor she admired was actually her older brother, had spent enough time with him to sense his deep concern for Hilda.
But the exact reason eluded her.
The explanation was simple.
Allen cared about Sylphie. Allen cared about Rudeus. Allen cared about her.
Allen cared about everyone—and both Sylphie and Rudeus held teaching roles.
Hilda, too, was an instructor.
With their roles overlapping, Eris's young mind couldn't quite untangle the undercurrents of their relationships.
She only had a vague intuition, one she couldn't yet articulate—let alone voice aloud.
Beside her, Allen removed his formal attire, reverting to the sharp, formidable swordsman he was.
At Hilda's question, he glanced at Arifal, his gaze piercing.
Under his stare, the rabbit-eared maid stiffened, hesitated for a moment, then stammered:
"I-It was me who brought Mr. Allen and the others—"
"I brought them here."
Allen cut her off.
Hilda's faint smile faltered. She raised an eyebrow, surprised, and looked at him.
He met her gaze.
Their ash-gray eyes reflected each other.
"Lil came by after swordsmanship class this afternoon. She said you were asleep and suggested canceling today's etiquette lesson if possible."
Allen's voice was calm as he spoke, his mind flashing back to the rows of clothing in Hilda's workshop—garments unmistakably tailored for him.
"But I thought… perhaps the lesson might lift your spirits. So I brought them."
At his words, Sylphie's lips curled slightly. She recalled Allen thanking her during their dance practice earlier.
This time, in a surge of emotion, she had made another attempt—one that seemed to have worked.
It succeeded.
Her smile widened, excitement flickering in her eyes as she watched Hilda's face.
Hilda blinked, momentarily stunned.
Then, after a pause, her lips twitched.
She looked at Allen with a troubled yet fond expression, as if committing his words and appearance to memory.
"Thank you… Allen."
Allen lowered his gaze to the carpet beneath his feet.
This is the Boreas estate.
He closed his eyes briefly before replying softly:
"You're welcome… madam."
Beside them, Sylphie's smile vanished. Her face paled.
Outside the window, the night was pitch black.
The harsh winter wind howled, hurling snowflakes against the glass.
Sylphie's eyes darted anxiously to the window—then to the desk by Hilda's dressing table.
There, a diary lay untouched.
The Boreas windows were well-sealed.
No wind could slip inside.
No one could lift its pages.
And no one could read the words written within.
———
An hour had passed since they left Hilda's room.
In Allen's bedroom, candlelight flickered, casting shadows across his face.
He rested his chin on his hand, staring at the blank sheet of paper before him.
Even after acknowledging Hilda's expectations, the page remained empty.
Narrowing his eyes, he finally picked up his pen and wrote three words:
Sylphie.
Then, he fell silent.
To fulfill Sylphie's expectations, he had relied on Roxy's "permission."
But for Hilda's expectations… so far, it had been Sylphie's efforts carrying the weight.
Earlier, when they returned to the dormitory, seeing Sylphie's ashen face had twisted his heart.
He had planned to comfort her after washing up, but she hadn't even said "see you tomorrow"—just fled into her room like a startled animal.
Sigh.
Allen ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily.
His emotions were a tangled mess.
This behavior was so like Sylphie.
And that was exactly why it hurt.
Because everything she did was for him.
Just what kind of karma did I accumulate in past lives to end up in this world and meet her?
He covered his face with his hands, peering through his fingers at the paper.
The situation was clear. The deductions were straightforward.
Hilda knew he was her child. So why was she suppressing that affection?
The answer was the same as with Sauros and Philip—the Boreas family's hostage tradition. She couldn't acknowledge him openly.
If she did, everything would be out in the open.
And Sauros would promptly ship him back to the capital.
A result Hilda couldn't bear.
Judging by her behavior, there was another layer:
She likely didn't realize that Allen knew his own identity.
Philip probably hadn't told her.
And the reason was simple.
Philip knew Allen despised the Boreas name. In his eyes, Allen wasn't a reincarnated soul with no inherent loyalty—but a boy who resented being a hostage, further scarred by an assassination attempt from his "father," James.
He hated the entire Boreas family.
Philip feared that giving Hilda more information would only deepen her sorrow. So he lied.
Which was worse?
A son before her, unaware of his identity?
Or a son before her, who knew and still refused to acknowledge her?
The answer was obvious.
Philip might be a cold politician, but his genuine care for Hilda—evident since her illness—was undeniable.
People are complicated. You can't define them with simple labels.
After a long silence, Allen rubbed his face and looked back at the paper.
He picked up the pen again.
Crossed out Sylphie.
The nib scratched against the page as new words took form.
Again, three characters:
To fulfill Hilda's expectations—Sauros.
He narrowed his eyes at the name.
This is the root of it all.
Just then—
Knock, knock, knock.
Someone rapped on his door.
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