The Melancholy of the Ancient Rose

Few lights burned within the manor at midnight.

In a chamber of a single room lit by few lamps, a pair of master and servant sat facing each other across a table, savoring tea.

In a world where hierarchy was rigid, to serve tea before her master was either the boldness of a reckless soul or the trust of a confidant close at heart. And she was the latter.

More than thirty years have passed since I came to this estate, and over fifty years since I began serving this master.

And how was the girl’s condition?

The master inquires of his aged confidant.

You seemed a little down, I'm afraid. How pitiful.

There was reproach in the voice of the elderly lady-in-waiting.

It is not a matter of saying such things, but of innate disposition.

As if to say, “I understand perfectly,” she poured another cup of tea, her movements precise. “Of course it exists. That is precisely why it is being tested?”

Skillful, quick-witted, and well-educated—remarkable even for one of her years. Her heart is kind as well. Bloodline is a flaw, to be sure, but with such intelligence and strength of holy power, she would naturally be considered a candidate, even by mere glance.

“Yes… I must prepare myself for what is to come…”

In a chamber of the Emmental lord’s manor, former Countess Francesca let out a long sigh.