“To settle sins—ha—truly fitting—” The Mountain Wind Knight laughed, somewhere between helpless and impressed. “Truly fitting for the man who could snap me in half.”

A calm wind skimmed the lake like a pale hand. The quiet sky hung heavy like a lid. Lance only watched the water, as if reading an inked scroll. Mountain Wind kept teasing, tossing words like pebbles.

“You even turn down a lady with style. That’s no small trick.” The gentle wind kept combing the surface like silk. Lance held his silence like a sealed letter. A slab of drift ice slid across the blue like a mute boat. Mountain Wind picked it up and bit in with a crunch.

“Sweet. In the Doran Kingdom, even wild ice tastes of honey?” Lance picked another shard and bit. No taste, only cold stone. “You playing me?” He crushed the ice; shards rang like glass. He cast the shards back with a leftover ember, both hissing on the lake.

Faced with the irritated young knight, the swordsman only smiled, warm as a small fire in snow. “I worried you’d keep that stone face, keep smoldering forever—” “Punishing yourself for a sin that isn’t yours. Doesn’t that feel stupid?”

Mountain Wind lived by quick justice, clear as a mountain stream. Rarely did he speak with the weight of a proverb. Fulin knew why he said it, like a lantern behind fog.

“No need to comfort me,” Lance said, voice flat as winter ash. “I’m not comforting you,” Mountain Wind sighed, eyes old as weathered rock. He weighed the ice in his palm. “The ice in Doran really is sweet.”

“Isn’t Mephis ice the same?” “Not the same.” Mountain Wind’s breath fogged like a fading cloud. Gray sky let fall white ice-flowers again, drifting like lost letters. He watched the snowfall, and his gaze walked backward.

He was a boy again, under a heaven of falling ice blossoms. A floe drifted to shore like a white plate. The hungry sword-boy picked it up to fill his belly. “It tasted cold and bitter,” Mountain Wind narrated, a ghost under his words. “Bitter?” Lance frowned, puzzlement flitting like a fish.

“Yeah. It reeked of gun-smoke.” A cannon-sized arcane shell fell like a black star. Boom—after the blast, the sword-boy lay barely breathing, a rag in the mud. Still hungry, he crawled forward like a blind worm, only to bite the ice again.

The past blew by like smoke in wind. The calm breeze soothed everything like a soft hand. The young swordsman ate the ice like an apple, crunch by crunch, then decided, “Anyway, Doran’s ice carries no bitterness.”

“So that makes it sweet?” “Maybe.” Mountain Wind changed tack like a hawk. “Lance, what now? Frost’s got ideas about your maid.” “Whatever,” Lance almost bent the railing flat. “I’m not letting go of Yuna, no matter what.”

“I know that.” Mountain Wind’s lazy eyes sharpened, like a blade catching sun. “Need me to do something? I’m a man under censure anyway—” Lance turned, startled, like a deer hearing a bowstring. He studied Mountain Wind’s serious look, the look he only wore when someone needed cutting.

“Klein, what do you mean?” Lance’s guard rose like a drawn shield. “Nothing.” Mountain Wind set a hand on Lance’s shoulder, light as falling ash. “I’ve caused you plenty of trouble, haven’t I?”

“The matter with the Vanilla Duke—” “And the little misunderstanding just now—” “Bottom line.” “My life’s already forfeit. I don’t mind offering it to the Heavenly Spirit Empire in a more… dramatic way.”

Lance read the script behind those words like a hunter reading tracks. He asked again, careful as walking on ice, “Anything, you say?” The breeze stopped on a knife-edge. Mountain Wind raised his sheathed blade to the sky like a vow.

“Yeah. I’m no mage, but I can do a gardener’s work.” Toward the pressed-down gray sky, he drew the blade inch by inch, steel whispering like rain. “I can pluck the flower before killing the pests. I can kill the pests before trimming the flower. Or cut both at once.”

Lance nodded, thoughtful as a monk. “Not bad. That gardener might suit farm work.” Mountain Wind slid the blade home and laughed, open as the horizon. “Right? I’m a great gardener.”

Lance grinned too, teasing along. “A fine gardener—just can’t plant a flower.” They both burst into laughter, voices like bells over water.

Mountain Wind’s eyes went steady again. His tone grew careful, and he asked Lance straight on, “Well? Do we take this job or not?” A hard wind howled; the lake heaved in bands like coiling dragons. It should have built into a storm. Yet it cut off like a severed string.

“Forget it. A yard looks better with flowers left standing.” Mountain Wind’s mouth twitched, displeased. “You shouldn’t be soft. It’ll hurt you for life.” “And the wind tells me you can’t erase the Rose’s sin—”

“That’s something rooted deep. Unless the trunk dries to dust, the twist will keep growing.” Lance waved a hand like pushing curtains. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Why not?!” Mountain Wind snapped, storm bright in his eyes. Lance bent, picked an ice blossom off the lake like a white petal. “Don’t you want to keep tasting sweet ice?”

“Lance, what do you mean? I can’t wash off my guilt—” “You don’t have to.” Lance flicked the chip into Klein’s chest like a playful pebble. “Just cut away what’s binding you.”

Fear flickered in Mountain Wind; he stepped back like a spooked horse. “You’re the man who could break me! With that knightly code of yours—!” “To someone like me, you’re too blinding!” “How could I let that flame be snuffed out!”

He roared and turned away, a gale with boots. If this young knight wouldn’t make the call, he’d go end it himself.

He was almost out the villa when a voice called, “Wait.” If Lance meant to stop him, Mountain Wind wouldn’t have paused. But it wasn’t Lance. The voice was lilting and sweet, like a flute over snowmelt.

What kind of beauty carried such a song? Mountain Wind turned, curious as a cat. Of course, the girl was beautiful enough to topple a city, a lily in winter.

He drifted toward her, lost, like a moth to a lantern— “I can guard chivalry. I can guard those who believe in true chivalry. I can guard their peaceful dreams.” “Will you let me guard your peaceful dreams?”

A silver-haired, red-eyed girl smiled at him, sunrise on frost. Mountain Wind went blank, a man unmoored. He had mocked that wish before, hard as flint.

Because he knew— To the starving and freezing. To the uprooted and wandering. To soldiers bone-tired and saddle-sore. To souls split by pain—

A peaceful dream… such a wish was too beautiful for this world. He remembered: all heroic spirits, after death, have Valkyries to soothe their wounds. They are beautiful and pure as angels. They hold only a gentle wish in their hearts.

We live through a thousand hardships for one thing only: a peaceful place to sleep.

He looked at the girl before him, whose beauty begged the word sacred. His strength left his legs, and he knelt. “Are you a Valkyrie?” he asked, devout as a pilgrim.

But the Valkyrie refused the name. She answered with a lilting, playful note, “I’m no Valkyrie. I’m the Blazing Fire Knight.”

…

“Master, is that really okay?” “Nothing to worry about. Class is starting.” Lance strode toward the teaching block, Yuna trotting behind like a bright ribbon.

Today, Lance had to report to Battle Magic, Class One. The room sat on the third floor, far right, of a vast Gothic building. Outside, Maple City was a blaze of color, a sea of leaves fit for daydreaming.

“But, Master, aren’t we here to attend class?” “You just listen.” “Understood.”

Yuna became the perfect upperclassman school belle in a blink. She drew her spell textbook with elegant hands and previewed with a demure posture.

Lance spoiled the view by perching on the window, eyes on the flower-sea beyond. For several reasons, his reputation among apprentices was rotten. The class wanted to give him a very special welcome, but—

Neither of them introduced themselves. They walked in like nothing happened. The supposed delinquent even had his beautiful maid attend class for him, while he stared at the scenery like a tragic poet.

What kind of pampered young lord was this? Nearly the whole of Class One stared, stupefied.

Shock aside, Battle Magic, Class One weren’t fragile bookworms. They were hot-blooded youths bent on serving Doran. They wouldn’t ignore this kind of decay.

A clutch of gentlemanly bruisers surrounded Lance like a closing ring. “Blazing Fire Knight?” the fiercest asked, voice like a drum.

“You calling me?” The voice didn’t come from the windowed young lord. It came from the classroom door.

The apprentices turned, surprised as birds. The Blazing Fire Knight stood at the threshold in person. So the window-gazer had only been a phantom.

“That was a Level-2 spell, Still Image. It’s sharp, but in the end it’s no more than a mirage.” As Lance finished, the windowed young lord unraveled to breeze and was gone.

They’d been played. Almost everyone thought that. Still Image wasn’t hard for them. With a little caution, these top students could have seen through it easy.

So they were angry, thinking this fool used parlor tricks to look fierce. But—

“If I’d used that moment to hit you, what would you be thinking now?” It was a fair question. Someone shot back, “This is a magic academy. If you attack us with spells, you’d be committing a felony!”

Lance wagged a finger, playful as a cat. “Wrong. I can be a wanted man. Felonies don’t scare the wanted.”

At first they didn’t get it. Then—

“You’re combat mages. Later you’ll either join the Mages’ Association as secret police, or go to the front to serve the realm. The scum you’ll stain your hands with—won’t they be wanted men?”

It wasn’t entirely accurate, but the point landed like a hammer. They sighed and let it sit. That didn’t mean Lance was blameless.

The class prefect stepped forward. Her rope braids were violet as a field of irises. Her face was clean and pretty, yet she wore prim round frames.

She knew Lance. She planted her fists on her hips before him. “Lance Morrison, I don’t know what back door you used to get in, but this is the Royal Magic Academy. My father is the Blazing Sun Knight—you’d better behave.”

Apprentices traded looks. Battle Magic always had more men than women. Every female apprentice was rare as a phoenix feather. This prefect had goddess-tier looks—

How was she tangled with this Mubay City punk? A horde of hot-bloods readied themselves to play white knight, but—

“So, it’s been over half a year. Your father hasn’t written?” Lance sounded like a rogue.

It sounded like he was insulting Layne. The prefect rushed to say, “My father is Mubay City’s hero!” But her voice got smaller and smaller, and more and more hurt. “He cares for all of Mubay. For his people. For me he—”

As she spoke, the school goddess shed tears like dew. Right then, Lance placed a gift box of tulips into her hands, carefully packed as a spring garden.

“Happy birthday.”