35 A Storm of Offense and Defense

Melchior didn’t spare Emilia a single glance; keeping that loathsome smile fixed on me, he issued his demand. In short, he was telling me to force Emilia into the room.

“Ah— hey!”

At the same time, the man dressed as a performer raised his voice in a panic. Looking over, I saw blood seeping from Teera’s neck. Emilia let out a sharp, hitching breath.

The man instantly pulled back his knife, moved his restraining arm to her neck, and began to throttle her. Teera’s face contorted in pain, but inwardly, I felt a wave of relief. Now Teera couldn’t move. I couldn’t have her deciding to take her own life on the spot so easily. Besides, the sight helped me regain my composure.

“…Emilia-sama. I want to stall for time until the knights arrive. Please pretend to resist and silently shake your head,” I whispered into her ear.

Emilia looked up at me with a pale face. Even as the blood drained from her features in this tense situation, she tried to convey her confusion through her expression. She was likely bewildered by the relationship between Melchior and myself.

“We are related by blood, but he is an enemy,” I told her curtly.

Her eyes flickered toward Teera for a split second, wavering. I placed a hand on her shoulder to block her view, and Emilia finally gave a stiff shake of her head.

“You should listen to what your guardian knight says, Lady Archduchess. You wouldn’t want to be handled roughly by a Count famous for his cold-bloodedness, would you? There’s no time to spare, for either of us,” Melchior sneered, his voice dripping with dark pleasure.

“Shut up.”

“Quite the thing to say to your brother.”

“You are no brother of mine. No one remains of the Caldia family but myself.”

“Then how do you explain the fact that you and I are mirror images of one another?”

“If your name is not in the family tree, you are either a bastard or a mere look-alike. Even assuming you were a bastard, why would I care about a birth where neither the womb nor the seed is certain?”

I feigned anger and spoke, while my clear mind caught Melchior’s gleeful retorts. It seemed Emilia was the target here, but his true mark was me. His taunting attitude, as if refusing to let even my smallest reaction escape, was proof of that.

During the short break, the knights were conducting a simultaneous sweep of the venue. This corridor was scheduled to be patrolled at the beginning and end of the break. The waiting rooms themselves were not part of the sweep. This side of the corridor was restricted to the Oracles and their associates, so no one else was expected to pass through.

“Hey, don’t forget the objective! I don’t care about your bickering. Let’s have you escort the Lady Archduchess quickly. It’s useless to wait for the knights to return!” the man in the performer’s outfit barked, losing his patience.

As I thought, they had managed to leak that much information. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have attempted such a tightrope operation.

However—there are exceptions to every rule.

For instance, the Knight Commander, having learned of his own daughter’s blunder, coming to meet someone in secret to offer an apology.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a door further down from the waiting room—one connecting to a passage from the back entrance rather than the hall—opening soundlessly. Marquis Schutzeroie peered cautiously into the corridor with his gentle features, and apparently grasped the situation instantly.

Drawing his sword from its scabbard with the sharp agility of a descending eagle, the Marquis stepped into the corridor. His trajectory was aimed at the man holding the hostage.

“Aslan, get Melchior—”

“No, the maid!”

No sooner had he spoken than the Marquis struck the man, who was trying to turn around, sending him flying with a blow to a vital point. Using that momentum, he slashed at Melchior. The man let out a yelp and was slammed against the door of the waiting room. Just before the impact, Aslan reflexively knocked the knife from the man’s hand, pulled Teera away, and caught her.

The sound of clashing blades rang out twice in the blink of an eye. The sword swung by the Marquis was blocked by Melchior’s gauntlet. The tide of battle had turned significantly in our favor, but we had only just recovered Teera. We had to finish off the two staggered enemies and hurry to suppress the waiting room where Latka was presumably held.

“Interference, then…”

“The only interference here is you! Bringing such filthy schemes into the sacred grounds of the Oracle selection!”

“The odds are indeed against us. We shall withdraw for today—”

At that moment, the door to the waiting room slammed open with a bang. Latka tumbled out, her maid’s attire disheveled. An instant later, the hand of a man chasing her reached out.

“Wait, you little brat…!?”

That was as far as he got. Latka nimbly dodged him at the last second, the man’s hand grabbed her veil as it fluttered in the air, Aslan slashed his arm, and the Marquis’s sword point halted the man’s movement.

This was bad—in the abrupt turn of events, both of our armed men had moved at once. That split second of a gap when Marquis Schutzeroie’s gaze shifted.

Melchior tried to turn and flee, seeing his chance—then, he suddenly froze as if turned to ice.

“…Lyra?”

His lips trembled as a shuddering, shaky voice called out a woman’s name. Looking where he was staring, Latka—whose veil and makeup had been stripped away—was glaring up at Melchior. I saw a look of mounting confusion cloud her tea-colored eyes.

“Elise!“

When I barked her name, Latka moved as if jolted. Just a little awkwardly—the powerful kick intended for his flank drifted slightly upward. Melchior managed to wedge his arm in at the last second, protecting his ribs. Then, using the momentum of that kick, he fled like a startled rabbit.

“Wait!!”

Marquis Schutzeroie shouted instinctively, but he didn’t give chase. Seeing our state, he likely prioritized our safety. After a moment of internal conflict, he let out a deep breath.

End of 258