Martha

Klein led the Sage through the front hall and into the guest hall.

Raymond was already there.

The tea set was laid out, with three cups—the extra one had been added at some point without Klein noticing. He glanced at it; the cup was positioned perfectly, the distance between it and the other two exact to the millimeter.

As expected of Raymond.

Raymond had never met the Sage. However, Klein had mentioned her after returning from the west coast—black robe, hood, likely female. The attire of the person before him matched the description perfectly.

He offered a bow, so standard it was beyond reproach, and then stepped to the side.

His gaze lingered on the Sage for a fleeting moment—the kind of rapid appraisal unique to those who had seen far too much. Then he withdrew his eyes, returning to his state as a silent sentinel.

“Please, sit.” Klein pointed toward the sofa.

The Sage sat down.

Her movements were a bit stiff, her back held very straight, and her hands were placed neatly on her knees. The fabric of her black robe spread across the sofa, creating a subtle sense of discordance against the pale gray cushion—like a person unaccustomed to being a guest trying their best to act like a proper one.

It was Martha who came to pour the tea.

To Klein’s surprise, she actually didn't cause any trouble today. When she brought the teacup before the Sage, her hand was so steady there wasn't a single unnecessary tremor; the surface of the tea didn't even show a ripple.

It seemed she truly could be reliable when it mattered. Even if it was only occasionally.

However, Klein noticed that Martha’s pace was a bit faster as she retreated. Once she reached the doorway of the guest hall, she stole a glance back at the Sage. Her eyes held neither awe nor nervousness, but rather a simple curiosity: “Why is this person wrapped up so tightly in the middle of summer?”

Then she slipped away with a speed that suggested “I didn't see a thing.”

Well, she wasn't that reliable after all.

Klein picked up his tea and took a sip.

The Sage did the same.

Her way of drinking tea was interesting—she didn't remove her hood, merely tilting her head slightly to bring the rim of the cup into the shadows beneath it.

Her movements were careful and completely silent.

It was as if she feared that making any unnecessary noise would disturb someone.

When the cup was set back down, the rim was clean, without even a trace of moisture left behind.

Klein’s gaze lingered on that cup for a moment longer.

Neither of them spoke.

The steam from the teapot rose slowly, turning into a thin white mist in the afternoon light. Outside the window, the cicadas in the low shrubs chirped a few times before falling silent again.

The atmosphere was a bit strange.

It wasn't the kind of strangeness born of hostility, but rather the kind where both people had things to say, yet neither wanted to speak first.

Klein drank tea. The Sage drank tea. Raymond stood in the corner, as unmoving as a clock.

This silence reminded Klein of his childhood, of the “old friends” his father would occasionally bring home. Those people would sit in this very guest hall, across from his father, sometimes saying nothing at all, just drinking tea.

It was only later that Klein understood that kind of silence wasn't about having nothing to say; it was about not needing to say it.

But the silence between him and the Sage was different.

She seemed to have a great deal she wanted to say, yet she simply didn't know which sentence to start with.

Footsteps echoed from the stairs.

Klein looked up as Ophelia came down from the second floor.

She had changed her clothes. Instead of the loose home outfit she had been wearing by the window, she wore a sharp, dark blue outer robe with the collar neatly fastened—it wasn't overly formal, but it was clear she had put effort into her appearance.

Klein glanced at her.

Ophelia rarely wore such clothes at home.

Her changing into this outfit indicated that she viewed the Sage as a guest who deserved to be taken seriously.

Or rather, she cared about this guest.

The Sage’s gaze fell upon Ophelia.

She stared.

From the moment Ophelia stepped off the last stair, through her walk across the guest hall, to the moment she pulled out a chair and sat down—the Sage’s eyes never left her for a second.

The way she watched was strange.

It wasn't wariness, nor scrutiny, nor curiosity.

It was a quiet, earnest... gaze.

As if she were looking at something precious, fearing that if she looked away for even a moment, it would be too late.

Of course, through the black robe, Klein couldn't actually see the Sage’s eyes.

He merely noticed the Sage’s fingers on her knees tighten slightly and then slowly relax.

Ophelia, however, felt that gaze.

She did not avoid it—with her instincts as a knight, she felt no malice in that look. She only paused for the briefest of moments, as if confirming something, before sitting down with her usual composure.

She picked up the tea Raymond had poured at some point, took a sip, and set it down.

Then she looked at the Sage.

“Your Excellency Sage.”

“Mm.”

“You have come to attend the wedding?”

Ophelia’s tone was flat. Klein knew that with her hearing, she could have easily heard the conversation at the door from the second-floor window, but she still asked again.

This was her habit. She would not skip the things that needed to be confirmed in person.

The Sage nodded.

The hood moved slightly as her voice came from beneath it. “Is the wedding tomorrow?”

“Mm,” Klein replied.

“I was afraid that arriving suddenly would cause trouble.” The Sage’s voice paused. “So I came a day early.”

She was quite considerate, Klein thought.

“Then you will be staying here tonight?” Klein asked.

The Sage’s fingers moved on her knees.

“...Is that not allowed?”

The “Is that not allowed?” was spoken very softly.

Her cold voice curled slightly at the end.

Klein looked at Ophelia.

Ophelia showed no sign of objection. She even gave a slight nod—the movement was small, but Klein saw it.

“We’ll just have a guest room prepared.” After saying this, Klein looked back at the Sage. “Do you want to go for a walk? Sitting inside is quite boring.”

The Sage straightened up, seemingly very interested in the suggestion.

“May I see this place?”

When she asked this, something rather out of place mixed into her cold voice.

If Klein had to give it a name—

Expectation.

Like a child who had been granted permission to enter a special place.

“The manor isn't large; there isn't much to see, and... it’s not very convenient right now,” Klein said. “But if you don’t mind, Ophelia and I can take you around later.”

The Sage only then realized her mistake.

The manor was currently being prepared for a wedding. As a guest, wanting to tour the place at this time was indeed inappropriate.

“No, there is no need to trouble you... Just let... that Martha from earlier show me around.”

“Martha”?

How strange...

Nonetheless, Klein called out toward the door, “Martha.”

A flurry of hurried footsteps sounded outside—then stopped for a second—before the footsteps started again, this time at a much slower pace, intentionally so.

Klein nearly laughed.

Martha walked in, her expression held in a serious mask.

Her chin was tilted slightly up, her hands behind her back, as if she were imitating Raymond’s posture—though the imitation was a poor one.

“Master.”

“Take our guest for a walk around the town,” Klein said. “Just don’t go too far.”

“Understood.” Martha nodded vigorously, her earnestness making one want to laugh.

The Sage stood up.

The hem of her black robe brushed against the floor without making a sound. She nodded to Klein, then paused for a moment toward Ophelia.

That moment was so short Klein almost missed it.

But Ophelia noticed. Her hand holding the teacup faltered for an instant, yet she said nothing.

The Sage withdrew her gaze and turned to follow Martha.

Martha was already waiting at the door, one hand gripping the frame as she poked half her head in. Her mouth opened and closed—likely wanting to say something but holding it back.

Once the Sage reached her, she let go of the doorframe and led the way with a light step.

“Your Excellency Sage, do you always wear this outfit? Isn't it hot? Let me tell you, our summers here are much more stifling than in the royal capital—”

The Sage didn't respond.

Martha didn't mind, continuing on her own. “There isn't actually much to see in town, just one street. But the bakery owner is quite skilled; I’ll bring you a couple of rolls later—”

“...Okay.”

Martha blinked, then laughed. “Hey, you’re actually quite easy to talk to.”

The voices of the two drifted through the corridor, one chattering away while the other occasionally dropped a word or two. Martha’s laughter rang out every few seconds, interspersed with the Sage’s muffled responses.

Klein listened for a while.

A strange pairing, yet surprisingly not discordant.

The sound of footsteps and laughter gradually faded, finally cut off by the light click of the courtyard gate closing.

The guest hall suddenly grew quiet.

Klein set down his teacup and looked at Ophelia.

Ophelia happened to be looking at him as well.

“What do you think?” Klein asked.

Ophelia didn't answer immediately. Her right hand rested on the armrest, her index finger tapping it lightly.

“I don’t know.”

She paused for a beat.

“I only feel that she... feels unexpectedly familiar.”

“And she seems...”

Ophelia hesitated, seemingly unable to find the right adjective.

“Seems exceptionally young?” Klein added.

“Mm.” Ophelia nodded.

The continent was not lacking in long-lived species, and even among short-lived humans, there were individuals who achieved longevity through strength or potions.

This legendary All-Knowing, All-Powerful Sage had already existed at the dawn of the empire’s founding.

Perhaps... she was just young at heart?

Silence returned to the guest hall. From outside the window came the faint, indistinct sound of Martha’s voice in the distance.

Klein fell into deep thought.

He remembered the night he first met the Sage at Silver Scale Harbor on the west coast.

The elemental magic she had used while walking on the sea, the way she commanded it, the way she communicated with the elements...

It was far too familiar.

At the time, he had thought the Sage’s skill was simply so high that she could easily replicate his magic just by looking at it.

So, the question was: who exactly was this Sage, whose casting habits were so remarkably similar to his own?