TRFS 13

Chapter : 13

Receiving that gaze head-on, Reginald felt a strange pressure, and Cleora’s lips slowly curled upward.

“Your eyes look a lot like your great-grandfather’s.”

“Great-… excuse me?”

“He might’ve been scatterbrained, but when it came to protecting the family, no one could beat him.”

“……”

What is she talking about? Why bring up my great-grandfather out of nowhere…?

“What does that have to do wi—”

“I like it.”

Cleora cut off Reginald’s slow reply with a sharp smile and rose from her seat.

“You said you were going to investigate, right? Ask me whatever you need. I’ll answer everything.”

“……”

“Of course, before that…”

Cleora handed Reginald the ledger she’d been holding, smiling brightly.

“Could you bring me the person who wrote this ledger? I have something to say.”

A chill ran down his spine.

Reginald shuddered for a moment at Cleora’s smile.

It was just a smile—so why was it so terrifying?

He swallowed hard and nodded as calmly as he could.

“Understood.”

Of course, it was an absurd request—no, an order—but the thought never even crossed his mind.

All he could think was that he must obey.

“Oh, and one more thing…”

As Reginald turned to leave, her voice called him back.

He slowly turned his head, and Cleora smiled sweetly at him.

“Call some people for me, will you?”

“Which… people?”

Cleora spoke softly toward the puzzled Reginald.

“The slaves.”

After Reginald left to fetch the treasurer, Cleora stood alone, staring blankly out the window.

The scenery here was neither familiar nor welcome.

She had hidden here after her mother died, exhausted by grief, avoiding the eyes of others.

Seventy years had passed, yet to Cleora, she’d visited this place only two years ago.

Still bearing the pain and scars of war, Cleora found this small keep uncomfortable and burdensome.

The memory of sitting deep inside the fortress and crying endlessly still felt raw.

The despair and agony of losing her entire family and heading back to the battlefield alone—no one could possibly understand that sorrow.

Two years ago, Cleora had buried those emotions here.

Keleagos.

Cleora clenched her lips and raised her chin.

When she’d first arrived, the question she asked most was how she was alive; second was why she had fallen into the future. And now, the third question—after giving up on the other answers.

Why send me seventy years ahead?

Seventy years—that number gnawed at her.

If time could be crossed, then why seventy? Why not a hundred years, or two hundred?

Maybe it was a coincidence. But if Keleagos had schemed something, that number had meaning.

Was it to prove that everything I sacrificed—every battle I fought—was worthless?

Cleora exhaled a frustrated sigh.

“Excuse me.”

A soft voice spoke beside her. Cleora turned and saw white cloth filling her vision.

“Are you unwell?”

The white cloth was speaking.

Cleora tilted her head up.

A maid—significantly taller than the others.

Looking to be in her mid-twenties, older than the rest.

“If you are ill, I’ll call a physician.”

Cold, dignified tone—more noble lady than servant.

Cleora stared at her, head tilted.

Who is she?

A familiar face—she was sure she had never seen her before, and yet someone came to mind. Cleora studied her a long moment, then spoke.

“Your name?”

“Seris.”

“Surname?”

“Qualrto.”

Seris Qualrto. The given name was ordinary, but the surname was anything but.

It was not a name used anywhere in the Empire or neighboring lands.

Cleora muttered “Qualrto…” then her eyes widened.

“Alzas Qualrto?”

“…You know my grandfather?”

Cleora sprang to her feet in surprise.

Even accounting for Cleora’s not-yet-grown height, the difference between them was striking—at least a head taller.

“Your grandfather? That Alzas Qualrto got married?”

“Pardon? Oh… yes…”

Seris blinked at the strange reaction.

Ignoring her, Cleora burst into genuine laughter.

The maids exchanged glances, and Seris frowned slightly.

Catching their expressions, Cleora shook her head lightly.

“Sorry. It’s just… unbelievable news.”

“Is my grandfather’s marriage unbelievable?”

“Of course it is.”

The man who proudly called himself a lover of men—who was he?

None other than Alzas, this girl’s grandfather.

The Qualrto family were foreigners from across the Empire’s far border, following the ancestors of Eisenbold to settle here.

Their trademark: towering height and overwhelming physical strength.

Alzas had often joined Cleora on campaign.

“Is Alzas still alive?”

“He passed away five years ago. But you knew my grandfather?”

“Of course I—”

Cleora stopped mid-sentence, excitement dying instantly.

Seris was staring at her with deeply suspicious eyes.

Cleora coughed awkwardly and forced a smile.

“It’s not important. Anyway—why is a Qualrto descendant working as a maid?”

Their height and strength made them perfect for wielding swords.

Alzas had been a knight, and his parents before him.

His descendants should naturally become knights—so why a maid?

Cleora tilted her head. Seris hesitated.

Under that odd stare, Seris sighed quietly and offered her wrist.

A scar stretched from wrist to elbow.

“Ten years ago I was injured and had surgery. The tendon snapped. The physicians said I would never hold a sword again. So…”

“You can’t wield a sword over a torn tendon?”

“Excuse me? Ah… yes…”

Seris frowned.

Calling her deepest wound just a tendon?

She glared at Cleora, who remained fixated on the scar.

Slowly, Cleora lifted her gaze.

She studied Seris’s eyes.

Tall and well-built, like Alzas. Even without training for ten years, she clearly kept herself strong.

A waste.

The Qualrto were an exceptional knightly family.

Even among the elite of Eisenbold, they stood unmatched.

And now, surrounded by incompetents—having a Qualrto would make a difference.

Cleora licked her lips, thinking for a moment, then spoke.

“I’ll ask one thing.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“If I can make you hold a sword again… what will you give me?”

“…Pardon?”

Seris’s expression instantly shifted.

It was absurd, but the question stunned her.

“What are you saying?”

“Exactly what I said. If I fix this—what will you do for me?”

“Well…”

What would she give to wield a sword again?

There was no need to say it.

For Seris, born and raised a knight, the day she couldn’t grip a blade was the day she died.

For ten years she had lived as if dead. And now, her heart pounded wildly at a child’s impossible promise.

“Th-that…”

“Ah, there you are.”

Just as Seris bit her lip to answer, the door burst open and a servant rushed in.

“We’ve prepared everything. They request your presence.”

“Oh? All right.”

Cleora glanced at Seris, then turned away.

“Think it over. I don’t lie.”

“……”

“I’ll hear your answer tonight. I hope it satisfies me.”

Seris lightly touched her own arm and stared at Cleora’s retreating back.

Small, fragile build—arms that had never held a sword.

Yet somehow, Cleora looked enormous.

Child. You must bear a broad back. Even a small and fragile back can carry the weight of everyone. I hope you inherit his back—his back that carried nobodies and gave all of himself for them…

Her grandfather Alzas often told stories about Cleora.

Stories that by now were like fairy tales or legends.

Whenever he spoke of Cleora, Seris listened in awe, as though hearing an epic.

Remembering the coarse hand that used to pat her head, Seris bit her lip tightly.