Klein looked at Ophelia's expressionless face, his mind spinning several times before he realized what she was asking.
This question—how should he put it—was too blunt.
It was so direct that Klein didn't know how to respond for a moment.
His hand instinctively reached for the potion vial in his pocket again, and the moment his fingertips touched the glass wall of the bottle, the chill seemed to travel through his fingers and into his heart.
He coughed once, feeling his throat tighten slightly.
"There is no need," he said, his voice sounding stiffer than intended. "I live on the third floor."
The moment the words left his mouth, Klein suddenly felt the answer had come out too fast.
Too fast, as if the answer had been prepared long ago, or rather, too fast, as if he were escaping something.
Ophelia stared at him, those golden eyes unblinking, as if she were evaluating him by some standard he couldn't understand.
Klein felt completely uncomfortable under her gaze, as if he were being watched by some sort of predatory beast.
He took half a step back, took his hand out of his pocket, and gestured in the air, trying to make his explanation sound more natural: "The third floor is my laboratory; I usually sleep there. Alchemical experiments often require staying up late, and sometimes potion reactions continue until dawn, so... anyway, you stay on the second floor; the space is larger, and the lighting is better."
As he spoke, his voice grew smaller, and the last few words were almost mumbled.
"Oh," Ophelia nodded.
And then there was no follow-up.
The air seemed to freeze.
Klein felt a surge of inexplicable awkwardness rise from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head.
There was less than two meters between him and his new wife, yet it felt as far apart as an entire battlefield.
Both sides seemed to have a tacit understanding that continuing this topic would only lead to more embarrassment.
Klein cleared his throat, waited a few seconds, and seeing she had no intention of speaking further, turned to lift the trunk.
The trunk was at the foot of the stairs, and as he bent down to grab the handle, the heavy weight startled him once again.
He had to use some force to lift it, and the weight pressing on his hand made him wonder—what exactly was inside?
He carried the trunk upstairs, and with every step, a faint metallic clinking sound came from inside.
It was very subtle, but exceptionally clear in the quiet hallway.
A thought flashed through Klein's mind: This couldn't actually be full of weapons, could it?
Halfway up, he couldn't help but look back.
Ophelia was still standing in the hall, her gaze fixed on the fireplace.
The ashes in the fireplace were grayish-white, mixed with several unburnt pieces of charcoal, looking somewhat messy.
She stared at the pile of ashes for a long time, her eyes slightly dazed, as if she were seeing something else through them.
Then she moved her gaze to the window.
The curtains were old, the fabric faded and the edges frayed.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting dappled shadows on the floor.
She watched those shadows, her fingers curling slightly and then relaxing.
Standing on the stairs with the trunk on his shoulder, Klein felt an inexplicable pang of sadness.
This imperial hero currently looked like a child thrown into a strange environment, at a loss yet trying her best to maintain a surface-level calm.
He thought for a moment and spoke again: "I'll make dinner. If you're hungry, the kitchen is at the end of the left hallway; bread and cheese are in the cupboard. The kettle is on the stove, so if you want to boil water... well, just be careful not to burn yourself."
As soon as he said it, he felt the words were redundant—how could a Knightess who could cut down sea monsters on the battlefield not even know how to boil water?
"Alright," Ophelia said.
Her voice was very calm, but Klein always felt something hidden beneath that calm.
Was it exhaustion? Or disappointment? He couldn't say.
Klein continued upward, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell.
He could tell, actually, that Ophelia wasn't ready.
Whether it was being a bride or moving into this place, she wasn't ready.
The way she stood there, though straight as a pine tree, her awkwardness was almost impossible to hide.
It was like an unsheathed sword being forced into an ill-fitting scabbard; no matter how one looked at it, it felt wrong.
Klein put the trunk in the second-floor room, and it made a dull thud as it hit the floor, causing the wooden floorboards to vibrate.
He brushed off the non-existent dust from his hands and surveyed the room.
He had cleaned the room overnight. The sheets were new, and there was a bouquet of flowers on the windowsill.
The flowers were picked from the courtyard yesterday and placed in a clay jar; they had been quite spirited, but now they were a bit wilted.
A few petals drooped, their edges beginning to yellow.
He walked to the window and picked up the flowers to check them.
The stems were already a bit soft; it seemed they wouldn't last much longer.
He hesitated for a moment, thought about it, and then put the flowers back.
Forget it, it was better than nothing.
Footsteps came from downstairs.
They were very light but had a steady rhythm, the interval between each step almost identical, as if carefully trained.
Klein listened to the footsteps reach the stairs, pause for a moment—likely looking at the steps—and then start coming up.
He stepped out of the room and met her in the hallway.
Ophelia looked up at him, those golden eyes flashing in the dim hallway like some nocturnal animal.
Then she said nothing and walked straight into the room.
Klein stood at the door, watching her survey the room.
Her gaze swept across the bed, the wardrobe, and the windowsill, finally landing on the bouquet of flowers.
Her pace faltered for a moment, very briefly—so briefly it was unnoticeable if one didn't look closely.
"That..." Klein spoke up, breaking the silence, "The flowers are a bit wilted. I'll get a fresh bunch tomorrow."
"There is no need," Ophelia said.
She walked to the window and reached out to touch a petal.
The petal was a bit dry, its edge curled, making a faint rustling sound under her fingertip.
Her movement was very light, as if she were touching something fragile.
Klein leaned against the doorframe, his hand in his pocket again.
The potion vial had been warmed by his body temperature until it was slightly hot, the glass surface feeling a bit tacky.
He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what.
Say 'welcome to your new home'? Too fake.
Say 'I hope you can get used to it here'? Too polite.
Say 'we'll get along well'? Even he didn't believe that.
Finally, he just said: "Then I'll head down first. Call me if you need anything. My laboratory is the last room on the third floor; there's a sign on the door that says 'experiment in progress.' If the sign is flipped to the red side, it means I'm doing a dangerous experiment, so it's best not to knock. If it's the green side, you can enter anytime."
He paused and added: "Of course, if there's an emergency, you can knock regardless of the color."
Ophelia didn't turn around, only giving a quiet "Mhm."
Klein pursed his lips and turned to go upstairs.
As he reached the stairs, he couldn't help but look back.
Ophelia was still standing by the window, her back to the door.
The white imperial dress looked exceptionally stark in the dim room, like a cluster of light that didn't belong there.
The sunlight slanted in from the window, plating her in a faint golden glow, making her look unnervingly beautiful.
Her hands hung at her sides, fingers slightly curled, as if she were holding something invisible.
Looking at that posture, a sudden, inexplicable emotion surged in Klein's heart.
It was a defensive stance.
Even standing in her own room, she maintained a posture from which she could draw a sword at any moment.
Klein sighed and went upstairs.
...
Ophelia was a Knightess.
She had been one since the day she first held a sword.
On the battlefield of the West Coast, the shrieks of sea monsters could tear a person's eardrums; the sound was so sharp it felt like countless needles stabbing into the brain simultaneously.
Black tentacles surged up from the seawater, and every strike could smash a person into pulp, blood and seawater mixing until one couldn't be distinguished from the other.
She stood at the front lines, her blade cutting through the seawater and severing tentacles, her golden pupils glowing through the blood mist.
She remembered those days.
She remembered the expressions of every comrade as they fell, remembered the vibration in her arm with every sword swing, remembered that feeling of standing on the edge of life and death while being incredibly clear-headed.
When the Empire needed her, she was there.
Without hesitation, without reservation.
When the Empire no longer needed her—
She stood in the second-floor room, looking out the window at the desolate manor.
The trunk lay open by the bed.
Inside was everything she owned.
A suit of armor.
It was silver-white, with a deep dent on the breastplate left by the claws of a sea monster.
At the time, that claw had almost pierced her chest; if she hadn't turned in time, she wouldn't be standing here now.
The buckles on the spaulders were a bit loose, and she hadn't had time to fix them.
Every time she intended to, a new battle was waiting for her.
Dried blood still remained on the inside of the shoulder guard—her own.
Three months ago, a sea monster's tentacle had crushed her shoulder bone, and blood had seeped into the gaps of the armor.
The wound eventually healed, but the bloodstains could never be washed away.
A longsword.
The scabbard was heavily worn, the leather surface covered in fine scratches, and some parts were worn through, revealing the wood beneath.
The leather wrapped around the hilt was no longer its original color, turned black from sweat and bloodstains, feeling hard to the touch yet fitting her hand perfectly.
There were several small cracks on the blade, left when she used the sword to split open the head of a sea monster in the final battle.
That strike had taken all her strength; the moment the blade bit into the bone, she had heard the sound of metal cracking.
There was still some space in the trunk.
It should have held other things.
Like a change of clothes, or jewelry, or those trinkets girls usually carried.
But she had none of those.
She didn't have those things.
Or rather, she once did, but they were all lost on the battlefield.
She reached into the trunk, her fingertips brushing the cold surface of the armor.
The touch of metal made her feel at ease; it was the sensation she was most familiar with, more real than anyone's embrace.
She gripped the hilt of the sword, her thumb tracing the worn marks.
She remembered every mark; each represented a battle, a reason for surviving.
Wind blew outside the window.
She released the sword, stood up, and walked to the window.
The manor's courtyard was overgrown with weeds, and beyond the wall was a forest, with rolling hills further away.
The sky was very blue, the clouds were very white, and everything was unnervingly quiet.
There was no sea, no battlefield, no shrieks.
There was nothing she needed to protect.
She looked at the quiet scenery, her hands hanging at her sides.
Her fingers curled slightly.
As if she were still holding a sword.
But the sword was not in her hand.
She suddenly felt a bit unaccustomed to it.
Unaccustomed to this silence, unaccustomed to this safety, unaccustomed to the feeling of no one needing her protection.
She had stood on the battlefield for too long, so long that she had forgotten what peace looked like.
Now that peace had come, she didn't know what to do anymore.
The wilted flowers on the windowsill swayed gently in the wind, a few petals falling onto the sill.
Looking at those petals, she suddenly remembered things from a long time ago.
Back then, she was still small, not yet a Knightess, and she would smile happily for a bouquet of flowers.
But that was a very, very long time ago.
So long ago that she had almost forgotten what she looked like when she smiled.
...
Klein was busy.
He had originally intended to finish making that bottle of healing potion today.
The formula had been refined three times, and the materials were all prepared, each weighed to the most precise ratio.
As long as he followed the steps, it would be finished before evening.
But today was special—he had gotten married.
It wasn't some romantic story.
The Empire was wary of the Knightess who had been too fierce in killing sea monsters on the West Coast, yet they didn't want to make things look too ugly, so they sent her to the countryside under the guise of marriage.
Klein was a minor noble with a clean family history and no political ties, making him a perfect fit.
Furthermore, Klein actually felt that this might not be a bad thing for the Knightess.
Judging by her demeanor in the hall, she probably wasn't suited for the convoluted games of the court.
Rather than letting her be used as a tool in the Imperial Capital, it was better for her to live a quiet life in the countryside.
At least, no one here would try to take her life.
The glass rod stirred in the crucible, the pale blue liquid beginning to turn clear, with fine bubbles rising to the surface.
Klein stared at those bubbles, counting the frequency of their bursting, while his mind continued to wander elsewhere.
That trunk.
That heavy trunk.
And the calluses on Ophelia's hands, the scar on the web of her thumb.
And that dazed look in her eyes when she stared at the fireplace.
Klein sighed, turned down the flame, and waited for the potion to cool.
He wasn't actually very good at handling these matters.
He was skilled at mixing various materials in the correct proportions, letting them react as expected, and obtaining the desired results.
But people were not materials.
People had emotions, pasts, and wounds.
And he didn't know how to deal with those things.
The potion had cooled enough, and he carefully bottled it into several small vials.
The vials glowed with a faint blue light under the candlelight, looking quite beautiful.
After finishing this, he looked up and realized the sky outside had already darkened.
The setting sun had dyed the sky orange-red, and the clouds looked as if they were burning, layered across the horizon.
Klein froze for a moment and glanced at the clock on the wall.
It was already past dinner time.
Damn it.
He put down the vials, took off his work gloves, and rubbed his face in frustration.
To leave someone hanging downstairs on the first day of marriage was truly rude.
Even if this marriage was an insult in itself, he at least had to maintain appearances.
He left his third-floor laboratory, keeping his footsteps very light as he went downstairs, for fear of making too much noise.
The second-floor hallway was quiet, unnervingly so.
Ophelia's door was closed, and there was no light coming from the room; it seemed she hadn't even lit a candle.
Klein walked to the door and raised his hand to knock.
No one answered.
He knocked twice more, but there was still no movement.
"Ophelia?" he said through the door, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. "Dinner... uh, I mean, are you hungry? I can make something to eat."
Still silence.
Klein frowned, a slight unease starting to take hold in his heart.
Could something have happened to her?
Or was she angry?
Or... did she not want to see him?
He hesitated for a moment, gripped the handle, and gently pushed the door open.
"I'm coming in, if you—"
He stopped mid-sentence and froze.
The room was empty.
The trunk lay open by the bed.
There was nothing inside.
The wilted flowers were still on the windowsill, having lost a few more petals.
The white imperial dress was neatly folded and placed on the bed.
But she was gone.
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