The footsteps upon thin ice

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At last, Mascy returned home from the Emperor’s presence.

His heart still cannot catch up, his thoughts remain unformed.

At the entrance, his wife greeted him with concern in her eyes.

Having been summoned early in the morning by the Imperial household and not returning until midday, Viore too had grown increasingly uneasy.

“Spica… Spica is…”

Startled by the pallor and utter exhaustion on Mascy’s face, the lady still managed to catch the dry whisper he had uttered.

“Spica has not returned yet… I wonder where she could have gone… There are letters piling up for her since the engagement ceremony.”

The lady murmurs, her voice edged with disbelief.

Perhaps, just a short while ago—yes, even yesterday—Mascy might have nodded in agreement. But not now. Not with the state he is in.

“Bee… where was that girl’s room?”

The lady hesitates, unable to answer.

“Now that you mention it… I cannot recall which room I assigned her… Maasa, please, tell me—where was the room Spica used to occupy?”

Maasa, the head maid, lowers her head, her expression uneasy.

“Madam, you never granted Spica-sama a room of her own. When she returned, she used the green guest chamber to the west…”

The couple fell silent. It could not be. She had raised their daughter with great affection. To deny her a room of her own—such a foolish notion was unthinkable.

The two moved toward the green guest chamber.

It was merely a guest chamber, empty of any sign that someone had lived there. No garments in the closet, no jewels upon the built-in dresser.

Only a stack of letters, all received after Stella’s betrothal, piled upon the desk by the window—testimony that Spica had once been there.

The lady stood stunned.

Why…

She asked herself a question no one could answer.

The answer was simple.

The lady had never given Spica a room.

But that truth was one she could not admit.

“What is this… Why did you give that girl such a guest chamber…?”

Mascy asked, but Biore could not answer. She could only stare, dazed, at the room.

The steward hesitated, as though reluctant to speak to the two, yet with resolve, he addressed them.

“Miss Spica did not use this chamber in her final days.”

Upon hearing those words, both exhaled in relief. They looked at each other, reassured—yes, they could not have possibly treated her so coldly, so distantly, as strangers, not their own kin.

“Webber, show them the way.”

The aged steward clenched his lips and bowed. He knew he would wound his lord, yet he could not remain silent. He could not forget the girl’s sorrow, the one he had watched over since her tender years.

“This way, my lady.”

The steward began to walk, quietly.

Midway, Cain joined them.

He appeared to have come down from his chamber on the upper floor.

The boy frowned, puzzled—his father, who had fled the house in haste, now headed where?

“What is it, Father? Mother?”

Her expression bore the marks of ill health, a sourness seeping through her features. Yet the displeasure was not solely from her condition—she likely resented that her pregnant wife could not return to her family home.

She had been turned away again and again: *The Emmental family cannot afford to return their daughter and grandchild now.*

“Spica’s room—the one she used last—is our destination. Will you come with me?”

“Yes… I shall accompany you.”

Thus, led by the steward, they advanced toward the farthest reaches of the estate. The area was so distant from their living quarters that it seemed almost foreign, as if such a place had never existed within the house.

Is this truly it…? Doubt crept in—her parents and elder brother could not possibly be involved in such matters. Perhaps the steward had grown too old, too forgetful. At that moment, the steward descended the steps into the semi-basement.

Mascy recalls it. Cain too… though Viola does not seem to recognize it, the room had once been discovered during childhood explorations of the manor—the punishment chamber.

The steward unlocks the wooden latch and says, “This way, Your Grace.”

Even in daylight, the air is dim and slightly damp, yet not dusty—cool and still.

Inside, only a worn bed folded neatly, a wooden desk set, and nothing else—a narrow room stripped of all ornamentation.

A meager offering: the school uniform of a girl and a familiar-looking dress hang on a stone wall hook.

In the far corner, a basin and a covered bucket sit side by side—hardly befitting a noble lady’s quarters. If anything, a maid would be given a more decent room…

All fall silent.

Yet, regretfully, the faint traces of human presence lingered here—more palpable than in the previous reception chamber—piercing the heart with quiet sorrow.

On the desk, the letter caught her eye. Without using the paper knife, she lifted it, withdrew the contents, and began to read.

To the beloved family of Emmental,

To my father-in-law, my mother-in-law, my three elder brothers, and to my true sister, Stella—this is my final gift.

I thank you from the bottom of my heart for raising and cherishing me, Spica, until I turned eighteen.

The time I spent as part of your family is a treasure beyond measure to me.

Though it pains me deeply, I have nothing to repay the kindness and love bestowed upon me by all of you—except myself.

Therefore, I humbly ask to repay your grace through my own will.

First, to my father-in-law, the current head of the household, and to my elder brother Cain, the heir apparent,

I wish to accept the role of the Virgin of the Barrier.

Though it is presumptuous, I would like to aid you both, who have lamented the weakening of the current head’s strength.

Next, to my mother-in-law.

Since you praised them, I have designed a few dresses and jewels especially for you. You may not like them, but I would be pleased if you remembered them when the time comes to have more made. Also, the blend of tea for you has been delivered to the head cook and the head maid, Maasa. Please drink it when unwell.

To my elder brother Alex,

I offer you my magic eyes. Forgive my delay in giving them to you sooner. From now on, you will see the world through my sight, and you will not be alone.

To my elder brother Fret,

Fret Elder Brother, ever kind to my clumsy work, I shall give you the tassel for your sword and my Sacred Stone.

Lastly,

Stella Elder Sister,

You are my true family. I return to you, Elder Sister, the real family I never truly possessed. Forgive me, truly, I am sorry.

Spica von Emmental

The letter bore smudges of tears in scattered places, carrying a sorrow so deep it tightened the chest. And the finality of the word "Elder" replacing father, mother, elder brother—Spica’s resolve to sever ties was unmistakable, a shock like being cast away by her beloved daughter.

When the lady finished reading the letter, she collapsed onto the cold floor with a dull thud.

“Lies… lies… this cannot be… impossible… it’s a lie…”

Cain, seeing his mother’s unnatural state, picked up the letter that had fallen from her hand and read it as well.

Shock shuddered through him, his face a mask of disbelief, torn between what to believe…

The words he murmured were, once again, the same as his mother’s…

Without hesitation, Cain handed the letter to his father and began searching the desk for anything else left behind.

The drawer, stiff with age, resisted at first, but yielded under force, spilling its contents onto the floor.

Design sketches scattered from the sketchbook, their binding loose; the blue tassel adorned with a Sacred Stone bounced once against the stone floor with a quiet, sharp click.

Nothing else remained.

And yet, that was everything.

All that Spica had left behind was contained within.

As his father read the letter, tears welled, and he looked upward, murmuring, “Indeed… indeed it must be so…”

Above him, the ceiling—unfamiliar, alien—reflected back.

The thought that this was the world his beloved daughter had seen filled him with dread.

“Who could have brought Spica to such a place…”

The butler answered the whisper with cruel precision.

"Sir, it is."

Mascy's eyes widened.

"Wha…? Me… You're saying I drove Spica here?"

A flicker of anger in his voice, yet the butler stood cold, driving the blade of truth deep.

"Yes. After her confinement ended, my lady continued to stay here, saying this was the room she had been given."

"Why… Why wasn't I told?! If I had known… If I had known this place… this was… this was…"

Mascy raged. Yet he could not blame the butler further. For he remembered—clearly—this room had been his own doing. He had, after all, forced her here once.

How could it have come to this… knowing, as he did, what this place truly was…

Regret, penitence, fury—words could not name the torment that clawed at their hearts, overwhelming them all.

"Summon Spica’s… that girl’s personal maid. Now. I shall make you confess why you have remained silent…"

The lady, her eyes bloodshot, fixed her gaze upon the waiting head maid, Maasa, who faltered and floundered—

"Madam… I do apologize, but I recall no personal maid assigned to Miss Spica. After my daughter was designated to serve Lady Stella, no successor was appointed…"

The lady’s expression slackened, as though comprehension could not catch up.

"Why did you not tell me…?"

It was unclear to whom this question was directed.

Maasa, feeling herself questioned, answered with anguish:

"Because I pitied Lady Stella… I let Miss Spica be overlooked."

Maasa felt guilt toward the abducted Stella. The weight of what might have been, had she stood firm that day, had turned guilt into a deep, unshakable reverence for Stella.

A sharp, dry crack split the air.

The sound of the lady striking Maasa’s cheek…

“Spica and Stella are both precious daughters to me! How could you—”

She wept, breaking apart—but Maasa would not allow it.

“Even you, Madam, have always favored Lady Stella… And who else, pray, was it who denied Spica a maid? You yourself, Madam.”

The truth was undeniable.

True, yet sharp as a blade no one could bear to sheathe.

Furious, the lady raised her hand again to strike Maasa, but was stopped by her son.

"Mother, please calm yourself. Doing this now will solve nothing. If Maasa speaks the truth, then this very room—our actions, our choices—mean we have committed an unforgivable error… and there is nothing we can do to undo it now…"

It was ironic that one’s aptitude for leadership should be revealed in such a manner.

The lady finally understood, here and now, the hidden meaning behind the words spoken at recent tea gatherings…

"Emmental is safe, isn’t it? Truly, the real daughter, Lady Stella, is beyond envy. Lady Spica, too, seems to be managing her studies at the academy all on her own."

Read between the lines:

"When the true one returns, the false will be discarded. We’d rather not even keep her around, wouldn’t we?"

"Ahhhh…‼︎‼︎‼︎"

A scream echoed through the half-basement.

None of them had meant it to happen like this.

"Stella… if anyone knows, it's Stella! She knows how deeply I love Spica!"

Mascy gently averts his gaze from his wife.

That is impossible...

You! Why! Why has Spica become the Virgin of the Barrier? It’s because of us! Stella must know well the bonds of our family—she must have said something…

First, calm yourself… The reason is… let us move to another place.

Such a place... is not suited for words like these...

The unnatural demeanor of Mascy pressed upon them all, compelling their movement…

No one spoke until they reached Mascy’s office.

Only the quiet rustle of fabric and footsteps echoed in the stillness.

Even after entering the room, all mouths remained heavy.

A letter placed on the desk, design sketches gathered together, and a tassel—all held in still silence as they were gazed upon.

It was Mascy who broke the heavy, heavy silence.

Where should I begin...

Today, they had been summoned to the Imperial Palace not to celebrate Spica’s great deeds… but to announce the sentencing of Stella.

““Huh?””

The current lady of the house and the heir-to-be voiced their confusion plainly, unable to comprehend.

Spica’s matter—well, that was understandable.

But what was this about Stella…?

Both stared, puzzled, waiting for the head of the household to continue.

“Stella has been captured as a rebel. Yet, because Spica has achieved unparalleled feats as the Virgin of the Barrier, our household has been granted a pardon—no one else shall bear the punishment for her crime.”

“Impossible! Just what has Stella done, I ask you?”

The lady, her irritation clear, rose to her feet—only to be gently restrained by Mascy.

She did not know, but the gesture was identical to one her daughter Stella often made…

“The divine… power not meant for mortals has been wielded against the royal bloodline, it is said. That has already been proven by the imperial house, and no dissent is permitted. To speak against it would be to invite the extinction of our family…”

If she could, she would help. Yet that would mean the ruin of her household.

Those gathered here bear the weight of Emmental—and the burden of its future.

No one in this room was unaware of that truth. Yet Mascy spoke it aloud, perhaps to remind himself of it once more.

“Father was not surprised by the letter just now because he already knew of Spica…”

Mascy nodded, “Ah, yes,” and the air in the room grew heavier still.

This house had always had its center—the two beloved daughters. The despair of losing both at once—no one could comprehend such a loss.

And yet, a guest arrives, bearing news.

Though the arrival of a man of low standing should have been repelled at the proper moment, Mascy and the others invited him into the room heavy with oppressive sorrow.

It was nothing more than the prologue to their long, endless regret.