An Invitation to Leave

“Second Lieutenant…”

The sergeant called to her. Ashlyn, already thoroughly put out, answered in a half-hearted drawl.

“Don’t rush me. I’m going to send the cancellation letter this very minute—”

“Leave.”

“Huh?”

“If leave is granted, will you be going as well, Second Lieutenant.”

He spoke in that same quiet, unreadable tone—impossible to tell whether it was a question or a statement.

“Is that a question? If so… yes. I’m going. My name’s already on the list.”

“……”

A strange silence settled between them. Ashlyn stood awkwardly, clipboard in one hand, looking up at Gennady. His face was deadly serious. A tight mouth. A jaw muscle that twitched.

Is he actually deliberating?

Yes. That was unmistakably a hesitant face—the look of a man weighing something heavy, wondering whether to do it or not.

The instant she saw it, an impulse she couldn’t explain surged up inside her. Before she even realized it, her mouth was moving.

“Sergeant Vilev.”

“……”

“What do you say we go together?”

“……”

“On leave, I mean. You said yourself there’d be nothing to do if you went. Assuming headquarters actually grants the leave, of course—you could keep me company for a day.”

What the hell am I saying?

Regret hit the moment the words left her lips. What exactly did she plan to do on leave with that man? Watch a play with a werewolf? She wanted to bite her own tongue clean off, but what good would that do? The water was already spilled. The only silver lining was—

He’s going to refuse anyway.

One hundred percent certainty that Sergeant Vilev would turn the offer down.

“Yes.”

“Hm?”

What?

As if he had been waiting for this exact moment, the man nodded at once.

“Yes, Second Lieutenant. That would be fine.”

I’ll go with you. On leave.

His gaze lifted from the ground and found Ashlyn. Those annoyingly clear, luminous gold eyes settled on her.

That was all—three short sentences scrawled across a wide sheet of expensive stationery. A hollow laugh slipped through Ashlyn’s teeth.

“You could have sent a telegram. Why bother with a whole letter?”

It was absurd. Not that it actually soured her mood.

He didn’t send this to mock me. The boy doesn’t even know how to tease.

There was no mockery in those lines. This was one hundred percent Arthur’s genuine feeling. He was simply curious—whether Ashlyn was enjoying herself out on the battlefield after leaving the estate.

“If I said yes, would you try to follow me?”

And “beloved sister,” no less. It gave her chills.

Still grumbling, Ashlyn carefully folded Arthur’s letter and tucked it safely into the drawer of her bunk. Maybe it was because she hadn’t seen his face in so long, but a tiny flicker of fondness stirred for the half-brother who normally only irritated her. She sealed the drawer with a locking charm no ordinary key could open, then rose from her seat.

Besides Arthur’s, the drawer of her bunk was stuffed with letters from every direction—academy classmates, relatives on both sides of the family, even one from the stepmother who had openly kept her at arm’s length (though anyone could tell it had been ghostwritten). The only thing missing was a letter from her father, Duke Wintercrown. By now the news that she had successfully led the trench raid should have reached him. She had written him twice already, yet not a single reply had come back from that direction.

Don’t be an idiot, Ashlyn Wintercrown.

She jerked her gaze away. Nothing was uglier than fretting and fretting for a father’s praise.

I didn’t join the army just to earn Father’s approval.

In that same moment the afterimage rose before her eyes again—the horrific scene she had witnessed after the operation. The bodies of the subordinates who had died.

“Ugh.”

Nausea surged, but she had eaten so little these past few days that it only left her stomach churning.

“Second Lieutenant!”

A voice called her from outside. Ashlyn hurriedly straightened her uniform. In moments she looked every inch the proper officer; last of all she snatched up her military leather bag.

Today was the day she left for Parieri, the largest city in Paros—on leave. And she was going with Sergeant Gennady Vilev of the Fenrir Detachment.

This is not going to be easy.

The images that had been tormenting her vanished all at once, replaced by a different kind of dread. Leave with Sergeant Vilev. True, they would only be together for one of the three nights and four days, but still…

I must have been out of my mind. Why did I stick my nose in and offer to go with him?

Pity? Curiosity? Or simple guilt?

Whatever the reason, a noble could not take back words once spoken. Since things had come this far, the sensible course was to make the best of it and try to relax.

Ashlyn gathered her modest leave kit and stepped out behind the trench. A broad plain opened before her. A large wagon stood there, and a short distance away stood Sergeant Vilev. The sight of him made Ashlyn blink blankly for a second.

He was dressed far more neatly and correctly than usual. A well-pressed coat, a peaked military cap, even boots that somehow shone. If not for those unsettlingly bright gold eyes and the faintly insolent forward tilt of his posture, he could have passed for a recruiting officer. Or, conversely, for the outlaw hero of a picaresque novel. Either way, it suited him.

Sensing her gaze, the sergeant offered a light salute.

“Second Lieutenant.”

“Sergeant Vilev.”

Farther off from him, the other soldiers headed for leave stood in little clusters. Their reluctance to be near a werewolf was written all over their faces. Ashlyn hurried over to the man standing alone like an island.

“Did you pack everything properly?”

“…Yes.”

When Ashlyn strode close enough that their arms nearly brushed, Sergeant Vilev’s yellow pupils flicked sideways. She jerked her chin at the man who was awkwardly avoiding her eyes.

“I don’t see a pack. Are you sure you packed?”

“Here.”

The sergeant opened the front of his coat and pointed to a broad inner pocket sewn into the lining.

“Everything I need is here. Identification, cash, toothbrush.”

“Right, right. I can see you packed well enough.”

Ashlyn hid her own bulky military bag behind her back and changed the subject.

“Do you know why they sent a wagon instead of a motorcar?”

“No idea.”

While the two of them talked of this and that, a thick-bearded man and a soldier appeared from behind the wagon, already mid-argument.

“Look, nobody said anything about carrying a werewolf!”

“And what’s the problem with that?”

“It’ll bring bad luck, that’s what! In Paros they say if you let a blood-smelling race near you, disaster follows.”

“Don’t start quoting some backwoods superstition at me. You took the money, so shut up and take everybody!”

“It’s not superstition… You want to spook the horses? One look at a werewolf’s shadow and they’ll drop dead on the spot!”

The moment the man finished, his eyes met those of Ashlyn and Gennady. A brief silence fell. Ashlyn shot a sidelong glance at the sergeant beside her.

Good heavens. Talking about bad luck right in front of the person in question.

Instinct told her it was time to step in. She planted herself between the soldier and the man.

“I am Second Lieutenant Wintercrown of Delta Company. Is there a problem?”

The soldier finished his salute and lowered his voice as far as it would go.

“The coachman who was supposed to take today’s leave party to the station is suddenly refusing to go, saying a werewolf brings bad luck…”

The coachman exploded in the Istar tongue.

“That’s not it! It’s bad for the horses’ health! Even dumb beasts have sharp instincts. Just because something walks on two legs doesn’t mean it’s a per—”

“It is a person.”

Ashlyn cut him off coldly.

“Wildmen are people too, and they serve in the Star Alliance forces. He is also my subordinate.”

Further argument was pointless. She fixed the coachman with a low, hard stare.

“Load him first. We’ll talk if there’s still a problem after that.”

“Th-that’s…”

“See this emblem?”

Ashlyn tapped the upper left of her chest with a fingertip. There sat a small pentacle patch sewn above the Istar flag.

“I am an officer of the Magic Army. If anything goes wrong, I will take full responsibility. That is what this means.”

In Paros they feared magic with a special intensity—but that fear was a kind of awe, entirely different from their loathing of Wildmen. The fact that Ashlyn was a mage clearly unsettled him; the coachman’s eyes darted every which way. He spoke in a trembling voice.

“W-well then… I suppose there’s no choice.”

“Good.”

Just as the matter seemed settled, a cheerful snort of a horse sounded behind them.

Prrrrrhh.

Thinking something must have happened, Ashlyn whipped her head around. An intriguing sight unfolded right before her eyes.