A Farewell Waltz
Pfft. Another hollow laugh slipped through Ashlyn’s teeth.
…Stepmother, really. How does she plan to make that eccentric into the family head? Her ambitions are far too grand, aren’t they?
Even Ashlyn had to concede that Arthur was an extraordinarily gifted mage—the kind of talent that appeared once in a hundred years, or perhaps once in two hundred. But being a brilliant mage was no guarantee of becoming a brilliant head of house. A thousand years of Istar’s history had proven that well enough. How many mages, gifted in magic yet bankrupt in character, had dragged their entire families into ruin?
Yes. Character was the problem. More precisely, Arthur Wintercrown’s complete lack of social instinct. Some might say he was only a teenager—that shyness or wariness of strangers was nothing serious. But Arthur went far beyond mere shyness. He possessed no interest in other people whatsoever. When spoken to, he would simply stare blankly and never return an answer.
He deigned to respond, after a fashion, to members of his own house and a handful of mages. Everyone else he treated as if they did not exist in his world at all. People said the same things of him with one voice: A genius, no question—but utterly insane.An unpleasant boy. Even the Wintercrown elders, and those who supported the duchess, watched Arthur with uneasy eyes.
Even here, in the middle of the banquet hall, she could hear them murmuring.
“Arthur certainly has formidable skill. By the time he graduates from the academy he’ll be counted among the foremost mages of his generation. But a head of house must command both the main line and the cadet branches. Whether that boy can manage the role… I have my doubts.”
“Head of house? Horace, I’ve never once seen the lad meet anyone’s eyes. Never heard him hold a proper conversation either.”
“Hush! If Janet overhears, she’ll have your head.”
“Am I wrong? At this point even Annette ought to admit the truth. Arthur is far better suited to life as a researcher in a mage tower than as head of the family. If she lets ambition cloud her judgment, we may all come to a miserable end.”
“Then go tell Janet yourself. Tell her to give it up.”
“Well, that’s a bit…”
“Ugh. If only Ashlyn had Arthur’s gift for magic—or if Arthur had Ashlyn’s temperament—everything would be so much simpler.”
Ashlyn could agree with the first half of that. Had she possessed Arthur’s talent, the position of head of house would already have been hers for the taking.
I wouldn’t have needed to become an officer in the Mage Corps either.
The faint smile at the corner of her mouth dimmed for a moment.
An officer of the Istar Mage Corps. It was, without question, an honorable post—service to Istar and the Starlight Alliance. No one could dispute that. Her own grandfather, the previous Duke of Wintercrown and the man she respected most in the world, had served as a Mage Corps officer before assuming the title.
And yet, if she claimed she felt no unease about marching to the front, she would be lying. What she truly feared was spending too much time away from Istar, away from the capital, on the battlefield. She hated to admit it, but Arthur’s magical ability was advancing at a terrifying pace. No matter how hopeless his social skills, the Wintercrowns were a mage family. If the gap in raw power between them grew too wide, she would be in real trouble.
Moreover, the longer Ashlyn remained distant from Istar’s magical circles, the more the Duchess of Wintercrown’s influence would naturally expand. That woman would find some way to win the elders over. In short, Ashlyn did not have much time.
Two years at most. Within two years I have to produce results so undeniable that even Father will have no choice but to accept them.
Her grip tightened unconsciously on the railing. As she repeated the vow to herself, familiar voices rose behind her.
“Ashlyn. So this is where you’ve been hiding.”
She turned. There stood her classmates from the magic academy. Three years had passed since they graduated together from the Istaria Magic School, and each had gone their separate ways in the world. Some, like Ashlyn, were training as Mage Corps officers at the military academy; others pursued research in the mage towers. Their paths differed, yet they remained close friends.
One of them—a particularly tall young man with golden hair—grinned at her with pure mischief.
“Ashlyn. You really do look better in an officer’s uniform than a dress. Why not just go and plant yourself on the front for good?”
Federin Taragor. Heir to the Taragor family, masters of earth magic, and Ashlyn’s closest friend. She shook her head at the teasing.
“Federin, is that supposed to be a compliment or a curse?”
“A compliment, obviously. Even if you go off and become a war hero, don’t you dare forget me, Ashlyn.”
“I’m sorry—who are you again?”
“Hey!”
The usual harmless banter of old friends rolled on for a while. It was Federin who finally changed the subject. He glanced sideways at Ashlyn and asked with studied casualness,
“By the way—why Paros of all places? There are plenty of postings where you could earn glory. Why that one?”
The classmate beside him gave a theatrical shudder.
“Yeah, I heard that place is crawling with Wildman soldiers. Just thinking about it gives me the creeps.”
“Ugh, right? Even so, fighting alongside werewolves and vampires… doesn’t sit well, does it? When you get down to it, they’re more unsettling than the Barbaros army.”
The reaction was thoroughly negative—so much so that a stranger might have thought the enemy was the Wildmen rather than the Barbaros Empire. It was not surprising. That was simply what Wildmen were: creatures that inspired revulsion and fear. Neither human nor beast nor monster, but something caught between.
Wildman—the collective name for beings that were neither fully human nor fully magical beasts: werewolves, vampires, sirens, centaurs, and their like. They wore forms that looked reasonably human and could mimic human speech, yet they could never be called true humans. Their innate instincts and natures set them fundamentally apart.
Once they had stood with the evil dragons and waged war against humanity. Now they were broken, the few survivors scattered across the world. Their lives were far from easy. The Barbaros Empire and several other nations pursued systematic extermination and expulsion. Even in Istar, which was relatively willing to accept them, discrimination remained firmly entrenched. Rumors still circulated freely: that Wildmen stole children to eat them, that one day they would rise in packs and rebel.
As a result, the occupations open to them were limited. A great many became professional soldiers or mercenaries, posted to the harsh frontiers ordinary people avoided. Paros, where Ashlyn was bound, was precisely such a place—so she would inevitably encounter large numbers of Wildman soldiers.
Ashlyn spoke with easy confidence, as if to put her worried friends at ease.
“Stop fretting over nothing. What kind of mage is afraid of Wildmen? Our ancestors who fought in the Twilight War would be ashamed.”
“That’s true enough, but you never know what those things might do behind your back. Honestly, I’d rather they were enemies than allies.”
“An officer can’t be afraid of her own troops. Don’t worry.”
Her classmates stirred with appreciative murmurs at the bold reply.
“Wow. Impressive, Ashlyn. You’ve become a real officer already.”
“Still—watch your back. They only look human on the outside. Inside they’re beasts. Who knows what they’ll do if something sets them off?”
Once the subject of Wildmen had run its course, Federin steered the conversation again. He stretched a hand toward Ashlyn.
“Come on, let’s not stand around up here yapping. This is supposed to be your farewell party. You’ve got to show off those dance skills on the floor at least once.”
Ashlyn shook her head at once.
“I’m not even wearing a dress. What dance?”
But Federin was not so easily deterred. He held his hand out more insistently.
“That’s exactly why you should show off—you’re in uniform. You and me out on the floor? What a picture we’d make. Everyone would be calling us the perfect couple.”
Behind them the others made exaggerated gagging noises.
“Ugh, I’m gonna be sick.”
“There he goes again with the Ashlyn routine.”
“He’s not even trying to hide it anymore.”
“Federin, isn’t it time you gave up? We’ve been watching this for seven years—don’t you feel sorry for us?”
Jeers rained down from every side, though none of them were truly mean-spirited. Everyone present knew Federin’s feelings. He had been in love with Ashlyn for more than ten years, not merely seven. And Ashlyn knew it too. She simply chose to pretend otherwise. She intended to do the same tonight—play along with the man’s little game and pretend she noticed nothing. After all, it was her last night in the capital.
Feeling unusually generous, Ashlyn let the tension drain from her shoulders and lightly took Federin’s offered hand.
“Fine. One last display of dancing skill before I leave.”
As if on cue, the orchestra shifted. A grand waltz rolled through the banquet hall with powerful, soaring notes—the sound of Istar’s golden age itself.