Cain's perspective 1

When I was eight, my younger sister was born.

I had two younger brothers—one slightly younger, and the other three years below me, both wild and impudent.

I had longed for a sister. Once I learned of my mother’s pregnancy, I prayed each night to the stars.

Yet I never saw her.

On the morning of her second day of life, she vanished without a trace.

At the time, abductions of noble children were common. My father had just warned me about it only days before.

The grief of my parents was unbearable. My mother lay prostrate for nearly half a year. I, too, was consumed by a hollow despair as I watched her empty belly—how she had once carried life—now nothing but stillness. It was then I truly understood the meaning of a fire extinguished.

The manor, once bright with hope, now lay wrapped in a heavy, dim atmosphere, thick with melancholy. Wherever I went, guards accompanied me, and from time to time, my mother’s weeping echoed through the halls—so close to a prison that I could no longer tell the difference.

In this way, I found myself spending more time in the manor’s library. At first, it was merely distraction. Then, a thrill from satisfying my curiosity. Later, I searched for clues to reclaim my sister—though that, I now understand, was childish thinking. At the time, the adults had already exhausted every possible course.

Yet even so, I became deeply absorbed in the study of magic. The discipline of harnessing sacred power to create something from nothing, of refining one’s innate gifts—it was endlessly fascinating. In time, I would come to be known as a prodigy, a genius, in this field of study.

Not long after, perhaps half a year had passed, when, unusually, Mother appeared at the evening meal. Father then announced, “Sudden as it is, we shall take in a foster daughter.” It was then I understood why Mother’s complexion had been so vibrant. Only then did I meet my younger sister, Spica, for the first time.

In the chamber with the clearest view of the garden, the brightest room in the house, bathed in sunlight, lay a baby in a cradle—so beautiful, so unfamiliar, I had never seen such a child.

As I approached, she reached out her small hands with eager delight.

Without thought, I extended my fingers toward her, and in that instant, Spica clasped my finger tightly and smiled. My heart faltered as if struck by an arrow; my body surged with a sudden, quiet fervor. I resolved then and there to protect her—completely, fiercely—so no one, not even the shadow of fate, could take her from me.

After that, Spica became the center of our brothers’ lives—no, of our entire family’s. From morning until night, we brothers spent our days in Spica’s room. She was impossibly sweet. Simply having family near her made her cheerful and smiling most of the time. Even when she cried for reasons we could not understand, it was endearing. The way she fretted as her teeth began to emerge, the way she tugged at her first ribbon just moments after it was tied, the way she wobbled on her first attempts at crawling and standing—all of it filled us with shared joy and quiet anxiety. Those days were so radiant, they made us feel what light truly meant.

We held a celebration to mark the day she said “onītama shuki” to us, and when she confessed she feared the night, I gifted her the stuffed animal she favored most, saying I would be her stand-in.

She was aware she was being overly indulgent, but it was Spica’s very cuteness that was the problem. I did not wish to be disliked by such a sweet younger sister. I wanted to remain her most beloved elder brother.

Such thoughts, cherished like sugared confections.

It seemed the other families felt the same.

Mother had praised Spica, adorned in her dress, and I knew Father had secretly summoned Spica into his study, letting her sit upon his knee while he worked.

Her younger brother, gifted in music, would play the harp or piano each evening before Spica went to sleep. The second eldest brother, with boundless energy, would play with Spica. As Spica grew slightly older, I often held her on my lap and read books to her.

That quiet rhythm of life lasted for three years, until I entered the National Academy to study magic at an accelerated pace, reducing my visits home to once a week. Even now, that has changed little—though I still believe it was Spica’s wide-eyed admiration, her voice saying, “My elder brother is so knowledgeable, so amazing,” that gave me strength in my studies. I never wished to admit ignorance in her presence. She and the family had welcomed my enrollment with joy, and when she pouted with longing upon my absence, I found comfort in knowing I had surpassed the others. I liked that Spica missed me when I was gone.

In truth, I missed her more than she missed me, and the agony of seeing her only once a week was a weight I bore daily.

Thus, whenever I returned home, I made certain to bring back a gift. Dresses suited to the latest fashions, trinkets, and accessories began to overflow Spica’s room. Not all of them were from me, of course…

“Elder Brother, you always bring back souvenirs, but Spica already has so many—she’s quite fine! Still, Spica would be far happier if you came back safe and sound, and spent much time playing with her!”

No other girl in the world could speak such sweet things! I was truly a fortunate elder brother.

Even spoiled as I was, I never grew selfish or irritable—indeed, I boasted throughout the academy how remarkably thoughtful and kind my younger sister was.

And then, four years later, I became a researcher at the academy, rather than a student. And one truth became clear.

My sister truly was extraordinary.

In this realm, the Holy Palaces Faith is established as the state religion, and in most households, every child undergoes baptism between one and three months after birth, their sacred power assessed. In remote villages, priests are said to perform the rite collectively during the harvest festival, but in urban centers and larger towns, churches are present, making such villages an exception in a way.

If a child in a noble family is found to lack sacred power, they are almost always sent away as an adopted child or entrusted to the church. For in this land, those without sacred power cannot hold noble status.

Incidentally, many clergy members are younger sons of noble houses or former noble ladies. They take vows when they cannot inherit the family estate or when circumstances prevent marriage. Those who enter the priesthood voluntarily for the sake of the state religion are treated as quasi-nobles.

There are instances, when a child of common birth possesses strong sacred power, of a Cinderella tale wherein they are taken in by a noble house as an adopted heir. Such events occur, however, no more than once every twenty years, if at all.

One reason children are difficult to conceive is that sacred power must be balanced between compatible individuals.

And this system serves as a national defense measure as well.

The daughter of the nation’s founding emperor was exceptionally rare in her gift, and as a vital component of national defense, she created the magical system known as the Virgin of the Barrier.

A form of lost magic, much about it remains unknown, though I currently focus my research on the theoretical foundations of this magic. If its mechanism can be deciphered, it would prove immensely valuable.

The mechanism remains unknown, yet this system of magic continues to be used and activated. In brief, it functions by summoning six maidens as sacrifices, each bound to a cathedral at one of the nation’s seven major cities, with the central cathedral in the capital serving as the keystone, anchored by the daughter of the first emperor. Around this central point, the six great territorial cities each select six virgins, chosen by will, who take up the sacred duty. These maidens fall into a sacred slumber upon completing their service, remaining until their holy power wanes to the brink of exhaustion. At that moment, they awaken to pass the duty to the next chosen maiden, then spend their remaining years in honored seclusion. The greater their holy power, the longer the slumber; the less, the shorter. Some have slept for over thirty years.

The selection of these maidens has long been a source of concern for the noble lords who govern each of the six cities. The title is both an honor and, in essence, a human offering.

A parent would wish for their daughter to live a life surpassing that of ordinary folk. Yet no suitable match can be found. In recent years, the practice has become common: daughters of baronial or knightly families with weak sacred power are purchased, exchanged after only three or four years—a method inefficient and lacking in dignity.

Seven-year-old Spica listened to the tale with solemn attention. She had merely wished to boast to her younger sister about the remarkable magic she studied, but instead, she wept, moved by the plight of the noblewoman of the current generation. Upon learning that the very church in question stood within Emmental, the long-standing stronghold of their family, she declared she must console the noblewoman of the present age.

Since I am to visit the estate during the summer holiday, it was decided that I would pay a visit to the current lord at that time. A journey for my research and for Spica. A plan, I must admit, that I myself thought quite good.

Had I known such a thing would unfold before my eyes...