017. Trap

He could understand. The thing inside probably wasn’t a human form. Anastasia looked down at Sir Bowie again and, calmly, placed her boot on the back of his head.

“If you want to live, tell me what you can do for me.”

It was the worst kind of humiliation.

To place one’s foot on a knight’s head.

But Sir Bowie could not afford to be angry.

“What I think your usefulness is… is about as much as a taxidermied footrest. That’s something you can do even if you’re not alive.”

The body that had been writhing froze stiff in an instant.

“If that is what the princess desires… I will do anything.”

That was the answer she wanted to hear.

Anastasia gladly lifted her foot off his head.

Then she sat quietly in place, composed and proper, and helped raise the upper body of Sir Bowie, who had been prostrating himself.

“P-Princess…?”

“You’re a mess from crying.”

She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped his eyes. Watching her, Sir Bowie felt an inexplicable chill.

Something was wrong.

“You said you’d do anything, Sir Bowie?”

“I-I did…”

“Before that, let me ask you something.”

Anastasia ignited a flame in her hand and burned the handkerchief into a handful of ash.

He could see his throat bob as he swallowed dryly.

“Was it my father who told you to kill me?”

“That is…”

At the moment he hesitated to answer, a larger flame suddenly flared up from Anastasia’s small, pale hand.

It was not an ordinary flame.

A grotesquely distorted shape, like a screaming human figure.

It looked as though it was showing him his future.

“Was it my father?”

Red flames flickered in Anastasia’s deep navy-blue eyes.

“Y-yes… it was.”

“Then this is simple.”

Her deep navy eyes, like the sea, narrowed. Anastasia extinguished the flames in her hand and took Sir Bowie’s hand, whispering:

“Go and kill him.”

“…Pardon?”

“Kill the father who ordered my death.”

Artorius shook his head as he watched Sir Bowie’s retreating figure disappear into the distance.

“Do you really think that man can kill the Duke of Étranger?”

It was a fairly serious question. But Anastasia answered lightly.

“No.”

“Then why…?”

Anastasia looked up at Artorius and shrugged.

“To let him know.”

“To whom? And what?”

“To my father. The feeling that someone might be coming for his life.”

Artorius fell silent. Anastasia reached out with her small hand and firmly grasped the arrow embedded in his back.

“…Can I really just pull this out?”

“Yes.”

“It won’t hurt?”

Artorius paused for a moment, then shook his head.

“It won’t hurt.”

“Liar.”

He didn’t even have time to offer another excuse. Anastasia pulled the arrow out in one swift motion, and Artorius let out an involuntary grunt.

“See? It hurts.”

“…And yet I will not die.”

The arrow had pierced through a gap in his armor. Bad luck.

“If you’re not going to die, you shouldn’t treat your body so carelessly.”

The blood that had been flowing stopped surprisingly quickly.

Artorius leaned back against the base of a large tree, just as Anastasia had done earlier.

The tree’s once sharp, threatening presence had softened somewhat. It felt warm. Strangely so.

As if… the tree itself was trying to protect her.

“It’s just one arrow. To me, it’s no different from having a toothpick stuck in me.”

“A toothpick is a bit smaller than that. And you can’t even use that to pick your teeth.”

“…It’s a figure of speech.”

Anastasia gave a light laugh and, on her own, walked into Artorius’s embrace.

His large arms, said to be monstrous, were like a comfortable armchair. Even at night, his frame towered far above Anastasia’s.

“…I told Enoch I’d be back before sunset.”

“He probably isn’t too worried.”

There was a strange certainty in his voice, which made Anastasia tilt her head.

“Why?”

“Because I’m with you.”

Anastasia had no response, so she simply closed her small lips tightly.

His large hand brushed through her hair. Even while resting against his chest, she could not feel his breathing.

Perhaps because of the armor, even pressing her ear against him revealed no heartbeat. It was as if a dead man had been forcibly summoned and made to move like a monster.

“Let’s head back, Artorius.”

“Very well.”

Just as when they had set out into the forest, his large hand firmly grasped Anastasia’s waist.

Carefully, he approached the horse and seated Anastasia in the saddle.

Fortunately, the horse did not startle.

“By the way, aren’t you curious?”

“About what, Artorius?”

“Whether that coward will actually kill the Duke or not.”

Anastasia stared into the distance where Sir Bowie had fled in haste, then spoke:

“I wonder…”

“He’ll probably at least try.”

Artorius sounded unusually certain. Anastasia tilted her head.

“How can you be so sure?”

He drew his sword from where it had been planted in the ground. Remarkably, the blade remained spotless, not a speck of dirt on its gleaming surface.

“If a mouse meets both a cat and a lion, which direction will it run?”

Anastasia understood what he meant and shrugged.

“So… you’re saying my father is the cat, and you’re the lion?”

“A lion would be generous.”

The glow beneath his helmet seemed somehow sorrowful today.

“I am a monster.”

It was a sorrow as solid as iron.

It was a long night.

Even longer when holding an unexpected girl in his arms.

Nothing happened between them, but Artorius knew that was not the whole truth.

Having lived as a monster for so long, he could not understand why Anastasia chose his arms instead of a bed.

He simply did his best to make the princess—who was sleeping with her head resting on his chest, seated on his lap—as warm and comfortable as possible.

But for Anastasia, it was only natural.

From the scar at the center of his chest, she could sense his regret, and from his actions thus far, she could feel his devotion.

His embrace was more comfortable than anyone else’s.

Soon, the sun rose over the face of the sleeping girl. Sunlight poured in through the wooden shutters.

Artorius picked up the helmet at his feet and put it on.

It was the hour of his curse. A vile daylight.

Soon, his body began to grow, terribly and unnaturally. Emaciated, surging from within, his limbs lengthened along with his armor.

Each time this happened, Anastasia shifted gently in his arms.

At the center of that small upper body lay the wound he had left behind. That alone was all that Artorius had ever given her.

Her hair brushed his gauntleted hand like molten gold.

“…Ah.”

A small voice sounded, and she stirred awake.

Artorius kept his eyes closed.

Because the blue glow beneath the helmet was not visible, Anastasia quietly rose from his lap.

When she opened the shutters, sunlight flooded in.

It was blinding.

Feeling the brightness before his eyes turn red, Artorius slowly opened his eyes.

He saw her standing by the window.

“…It must have been an uncomfortable night.”

Artorius spoke in a low voice. Anastasia shook her head without turning to look at him.

“No. It wasn’t.”

“Even though it was in the arms of an unfamiliar man?”

There was a hint of unease, mixed with self-mockery in his tone.

“Perhaps it is more accurate to say the arms of a monster.”

Anastasia let out a soft chuckle. Artorius watched her quietly.

“Ah… I’m sorry for laughing. I didn’t mean to mock you. It’s just that calling yourself an ‘unfamiliar man’ sounded a bit amusing.”

“…Then am I someone familiar to you?”

Anastasia walked over slowly in her nightclothes.

She wore neat clothing that revealed nothing, not even her silhouette—no belt tied at the waist, nothing at all.

“Who could be closer to me than you, Artorius?”

“What… do you mean by that?”

“Well. For one, you’re the only person who has ever offered me tea.”

Had he really ever done that?

Artorius searched through his memories.

“Before I suddenly struck you with lightning, Artorius.”

“…Ah. I didn’t expect you to remember that.”

“And you were also the first person I ever refused.”

Artorius fell silent. Refusal is something that can only be done between equals, or by someone of higher standing. In this society, at least.

This girl must have been at the very lowest position in her household.

“So you agreed to train my ‘left hand.’”

Artorius nodded.

“In order to do that, you’ll need to eat well first.”

“That would have been difficult back then. I had no appetite, day after day.”

Artorius replied indifferently.

“If you’re locked in a room at the top of a dust-covered tower, even a pig would lose its appetite and grow thin.”

At his words, Anastasia narrowed her eyes and asked:

“So… are you saying I was a thin pig?”

“Ah, no… that’s not what I meant…”

“Forget it. I was joking. Don’t worry about it.”

A soft giggle slipped past her lips again.

“In truth, it’s not because of the tea.”

Anastasia muttered as she found her fur slippers and put them on.

Unfortunately, one of them was by Artorius’s side.

“Ah. That one there—could you hand it to me?”

With his long, sharp, gauntleted fingers, he picked up the small slipper.

Artorius looked back and forth between the slipper and Anastasia before speaking quietly:

“Sit on the bed.”

“You’ll put it on for me like last time?”

“…And in the future as well.”

Despite calling it just indoor footwear and speaking without formality, Artorius stood up.

Anastasia shrugged lightly and sat on the bed she had used since she was ten years old. Now her toes barely reached the edge.

Artorius silently looked down at her small, doll-like white feet… and slipped the indoor shoe onto them.