Fret’s perspective 1

I cannot handle things as smoothly as my elder brothers do.

I dislike studying, and I am awkward with the rigid duties of nobility and the formalities of etiquette.

As the third son, I am neither expected to excel nor given time to grow.

Perhaps it is my nature—I was always a hot-tempered, wild child since childhood.

Yet at some point, I changed, shifting from a rambunctious boy to a knight.

A younger sister was born. The first one, I was told, was taken before I could meet her, and the household fell into darkness for a time. My mother and father were rarely together, and I grew wilder still. My elder brother Alex often mocked me for my outbursts.

My first sight of my younger sister was like that of a princess from a picture book. She lay in a baby bed bathed in bright light, dressed in a pure white gown, her face alight with a delicate smile. Something about her—unnamable, yet certain—made me feel I must not approach unless I were properly composed.

From that moment, I ceased my wild behavior.

I would rather spend my time at her side than indulge in such restlessness.

Merely being near her brought Spica joy. A baby’s smile alone could stir a strange, warm tingle within me—difficult to describe, yet unmistakably alive, fluttering, pulsing.

To learn how best to protect Spica, I sought counsel from the head of the household’s knightly guard.

“Perhaps, young sir, you should sharpen your swordsmanship,” he said. “If your blade trembles with strength, you may well guard the young lady at her side.”

I am not good at overthinking, so from that day on, I began training in swordsmanship. It must have suited me. My brothers also trained, yet somehow, among us siblings, I became the best.

My younger sister grew quickly, chasing after me like a chick, always clinging to my back—still, she was just as endearing. I could not help but smile. I was utterly captivated by this small creature.

The rice dumpling worm I found in the garden, the smooth stone, the wing of a magical moth—each was treasure to me, but I gave them all to her.

She cried a few times, yet always smiled afterward, saying, “Nii-chan, thank you!” So I vowed, “I’ll gather every thing you like, everything you might like, and give it to you.” And she replied, “Spica will make your favorite things, too—so many, so many!”—and again, I could not help but think, *How sweet.*

Spica grew, as expected, into a true princess. Unlike me, she remembered things well and was kind, always mindful of others.

When I was training in the practice yard, I saw Spica—accompanied by a maid—running toward me, holding a towel and a drink. But just a few steps from me, she stumbled. Instinctively, I caught her, preventing her fall.

“Running like that is dangerous! Are you hurt?”

Spica blinked her large eyes rapidly. “I am unharmed! Brother, you look just like the knight in the picture book—so handsome!” I could not stop smiling. “Then I shall be Spica’s knight. Anyone who dares harm you shall fall before this sword, and I shall shield you with this shield!” I brought my right arm sharply to my chest, striking it with a resounding thud.

Spica gave a soft, refined laugh and said, “A most dependable knight, you are,” offering me a towel.

At six and beyond, her sister had blossomed from child to maiden—beautiful enough that friends now asked to be introduced to her, not once or twice, but more.

She had silenced such trivial distractions with force, unyielding and certain.

Thinking it too late to act once trouble came, she had begun, with her father’s consent, to teach her self-defense and horsemanship—this was the time it had begun.

Movement at first was unfamiliar, yet Spica’s form improved steadily. Within half a year, she had mastered horseback riding to the point of being able to ride long distances. As for self-defense, she seemed to find it pitiful to harm another, and so could only manage what was necessary for self-protection. On her seventh birthday, when she was given a horse, she was greatly surprised. It was a beautiful chestnut mare from among my own steeds—a horse Spica had named Thymus and grown fond of. I had cherished her too, but for Spica’s sake, I would not have hesitated to part with her.

It is not truly enjoyable to watch Spica play with her other brothers, yet if I remind myself that she trusts me above all, my unease eases. The other two will not guard her as a knight would, after all.