After the festival
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The family arrived at the Imperial Palace in Emmental long after midnight, perhaps closer to dawn.
Only the head of the household and his wife, along with their two sons, stepped down from the carriage.
The third son had gone to the guest quarters, the eldest daughter remained at the Imperial Palace, and the eldest son’s wife had already departed for her family home in the capital.
In the quiet of her own chamber, Maskey stirred the glass of wine.
The ball of the previous evening had been meant to be her daughter Stella’s moment of glory.
Yet her younger daughter, Spica, had ruined it all.
He poured the wine with a bitter expression, as though reliving something he wished to forget.
Suddenly remembering, he rang the bell and summoned the steward.
“Do you require something, my lord?”
“Ah, has Spica returned?”
He turned his flushed face toward the steward, as if considering whether to reprimand her once more, should she have come back.
The steward briefly furrowed his brow, then quickly composed his expression.
“Spica-sama has not yet returned. She said she would not come back even before her departure.”
Mascy exhaled deeply.
“So she did come back… Yet why does she not understand that it is shameful for an unmarried lady to remain absent so late… Most likely she has taken refuge at a friend’s house…
Weaver, by tomorrow… no, by morning, compile a list of Spica’s friends.”
“Understood, my lord.”
Additionally, a message has just arrived from the estate: the next heir has entered the domain. Inquiry also came regarding whether the scheduled witness should be the late earl, as planned.”
The steward’s words drew a quiet, solitary sigh from Mascy.
The transfer of the Virgin of the Barrier, originally set for early summer, had been postponed at the next heir’s request.
The current holder, thanks to her son’s research, had enjoyed an unusually long reign—but even so, it could not last much longer.
The next heir’s name had not appeared in the noble registry, so she was likely another daughter of a quasi-noble house fallen from grace.
Though the Empress Dowager had recommended her, the prolonged wait had stirred doubt—was she truly coming at all?—yet it seems that matter may yet be resolved.
It was welcome that Spica had declined the reward and gratitude offered, yet there had been no word on the timing of her arrival. She had only been told it would be before summer’s end—a vague and troubling uncertainty, though now that concern no longer mattered.
“There is no issue. Arrange for the journey to proceed as soon as preparations are complete.”
“Understood.”
The aged steward bowed and dispatched the fastest hawk from his estate, bound for the manor in Emmental.
The message would reach Emmental by dawn.
Mascy did not know. The steward had spoken of departure before the evening gathering—before the night’s ceremony, not the journey itself…
The steward had chosen silence. He would not have shattered the young girl’s pride, the pride he had watched over since her earliest days.
The following morning, Mascy sent inquiry to the homes of Spica’s friends, as compiled by the steward, to learn whether Spica had been staying with them.
No household could confirm Spica’s stay.
Should she have gone to a friend’s home or taken lodgings, Mascy sent messengers to the academy as well, but no reply came—perhaps due to the Foundation Festival period.
She shook her head, sighing. So troublesome… not like her at all.
That day, with the Foundation Festival and the engagement ceremony having passed, and no family gathering, the hours passed in silence.
A message arrived in the late afternoon that Stella, her beloved daughter, would remain at the Imperial Palace for a time…
The twilight sky seemed sadder than usual, as if weighed down by sorrow.
A heaviness in her head… perhaps she had overindulged in wine at her daughter’s moment of triumph, Mascy thought.
Unaware that this was the first sign of the Emmental family’s decline…
That night, a report reached Mascy: the ritual of the Virgin of the Barrier in the Emmental domain had been successfully completed.
At the same time, she received a greeting from her father—“Be proud of the daughter who serves the nation”—addressed to Stella, who would surely become the crown princess.
Mascy scoffed through her nose. Exaggerated, even without an engagement to the crown prince.
Three days passed, and still there was no word from Spica.
Even if she were hidden away, she should have sent word by now…
She had contacted the homes of her friends, but found no trace. She had inquired at the imperial capital’s gates about departure records, yet Spica’s name was absent. If Spica had attempted to leave the capital, she had instructed the imperial guards to send word to their household. Out of caution, she had also asked the guild about users of teleportation magic—whether anyone named “Spica von Emmental” had used it. Though such magic cost a great sum, and no money had been transferred from Spica’s allotted funds, she suspected the lead would be weak. Still, the guild’s reply came as expected: no such individual had been recorded. She must still be within the capital…
At that moment, Mascy asked, “Had any eighteen-year-old woman used teleportation magic?” The guild official would have replied:
“Yes—on the night of the Foundation Festival, a nameless woman named Spica Luciana was sent toward Emmental.”
The guild official had merely answered as instructed.
There was no name listed among the guild’s teleportation magic users—no eighteen-year-old noblewoman named Spica von Emmental.
Mascy, hearing the guild’s reply, grew increasingly anxious about Spica’s whereabouts.
Since yesterday, her head had felt heavy, her thoughts consumed by worry over Spica.
Yet this unease was pushed to the edge of her mind by a report—no, an arrival. The donor’s magical eye, capable of breaking the impasse of her younger son’s illness, had been delivered by the attending physician.
The boy would undergo treatment immediately…
Thank the gods it had come in time, before his sacred power was lost entirely to blindness.
She gave thanks to the divine for her son’s fortune—his life would continue, as a noble, as it should.
The report of a successful transplant arrived shortly thereafter.
The procedure, being a high-grade magical transplant, carried little physical burden, though it was cautioned that a rejection response from sacred energy was likely.
One must accept that such a forced transfer of another’s power would only succeed with exceptional compatibility.
Though threatened with possible side effects such as fever or nausea, no such signs were present, and the post-operative course remained stable.
Still, she claimed her head felt heavy—perhaps due to the sudden influx of sacred energy—but it would surely pass soon.
Though nearly all household matters had been resolved, the count found Spica’s gait still unclear, a matter that troubled him strangely…
Indeed, her head ached dull and heavy…
Mascy’s beloved wife had also fallen ill with headaches ever since the Foundation Festival.
Could Spica be cursing us out of resentment…? No, that child would not do such a thing…
Why would that child bear ill will toward us, in the first place?
Had I not provided a life free from want…?
I regret the matter of the betrothal—it was beyond my power to change, as it was a royal decree—but surely she understands it is a family celebration…
Mascy considers once more.
Truly?
Truly did I see her?
Still, a sensation like a fishbone lodged in the throat lingers as Mascy confronts a new matter.
On the morning one week after the Foundation Festival, Mascy is roused by a swift messenger from the Imperial Palace.
With hasty preparations for court, Mascy climbs into the carriage and sets off toward the city.
There has been an anomaly in the Barrier…
If any recent change has occurred in the Barrier’s affairs, it must be the change of the Virgin of the Barrier in the Emmental territory.
It is for this reason that Mascy has been summoned to the city.
Yet Mascy cannot fathom the nature of this anomaly—or its cause.
A report has come from the father that the ceremony was conducted without flaw, and another from the church stating it followed the same rite as the previous one.
Despite his inner urge to flee, the carriage passes unrelentingly through the gates of the Imperial Palace.
The situation appears urgent, yet no one intervenes; he is led without hindrance into the audience chamber.
To be brought here means the Emperor himself will speak.
Mascy, whose spirit is frail, looks so pale that one might fear she would collapse should she be rebuked.
Bowing in the posture of a subordinate, she struggles to find words with which to excuse herself—her thoughts still unformed—when the Emperor enters the audience room.
His steps are heavier than usual, his voice edged with excitement, his presence unmistakably agitated.
The Emperor’s intake of breath sounded to Mascy like a death sentence, heavy and final. She stiffened her body, bracing herself against the reprimand she knew must follow.
“Lord Count of Emmental, raise your face. Well done!
The maiden entrusted to your domain has accomplished great deeds. Be proud of having nurtured such an excellent maiden.”
Mascy stared at the Emperor, her expression blank, as though struck dumb by a birdshot.
“What are you gaping at? The boundary of the ward has expanded since the maiden took up her post—now it covers even the frontier. Surely you knew this?”
Mascy could muster only a weak, “Yes, Your Majesty, I… do not understand.”
The Emperor continued, unmoved.
“The maiden’s wish has been granted. Now she has no regrets. Even I, her father, am envious of the love she bears my son.”
The Emperor laughs heartily, a bold, unbridled sound.
Mascy offers a vague, uncertain smile, unable to grasp the meaning.
Then, as if dismissing the jest, the Emperor’s laughter ceases. His gaze settles upon Mascy, sharp and unyielding.
“By the maiden’s wish, your daughter’s betrothal to my third son is annulled. And your eldest daughter has been revealed as a great sinner. Thus, publicly, it shall be declared that your daughter died of illness. This is the Imperial decree.
The Emmental family, by law, should have all relatives within three degrees of kinship executed. However, considering her status as the maiden’s kin, clemency is granted. Is there any objection?”
A chill, utterly devoid of the earlier warmth, pierces Mascy.
Yet Mascy, still bewildered, presses on.
“Please, Your Majesty! What has my daughter done? And what is this talk of petition and pardon…?”
"Have you truly descended into such foolishness? Well, this too is surely the work of one who dares to claim your daughter as kin…"
And from the emperor’s lips, Mascy hears the details unfold.
She wanted to scream that it was a lie… no, perhaps she had already screamed.
It could not be true… such a thing could not exist.
Her thoughts, her mind, her heart rejected the truth.
Yet the truth remained unchanged.
The eldest daughter, Stella, had used the divine gift granted by the gods as a common practice toward high nobles.
A gift not of enchantment or illusion, but of a different, divine principle.
So difficult to resist that it had been officially designated by the imperial family as “the power to guide thought.”
It was said that Stella was born with the ability to align her own thoughts with those of another, altering and fixing them in place.
And she had used this power even upon members of the royal family.
A grave crime of treason against the state, and an act of insolence toward the royal bloodline.
Then, like a final blow, Mascy added to the emperor’s words.
The nation’s peril was averted by her other daughter—and she continues to safeguard the realm even now. Hands have been extended to the people who once trembled in fear beyond the barrier. I made a mistake in judgment. It grieves me that I did not choose her to be taken into the imperial family… yet it is because of that very choice that we stand here today. A special exception born of her devotion and her great deeds. I shall not expose the guilt of your daughter.
The emperor’s expression was no longer that of a ruler, but that of a father who shared the same child.
Only then did Mascy finally understand.
It was Spica…
The Virgin of the Barrier had been Spica all along.