At first, I was told I was the only one who interacted casually with Louis.
When we first began serving at court, we were barely more than children. Unsurprisingly, the scrutiny was harsh. The adults around us loomed like dark walls.
I gravitated to Louis. Though magic and swordsmanship were different paths, that didn't matter to me back then. Every lunch break, I'd search for him in quiet corners to share meals.
I thought I was the only one by his side.
I realized my mistake over five years ago—around age twelve. I spotted him crossing the fountain plaza as I searched for him, but this time, he approached me.
Him initiating contact? Unheard of. Was this some test?
"Claire, perfect timing."
"Wh-what is it?"
"I need a favor."
His stiff expression was clearly masking embarrassment. After years together, I could read him easily. But why would he feel awkward? What kind of request would make Louis blush?
In adolescence, our height difference became stark. I noticed how others gazed at his growing radiance with improper interest. Still, I believed I remained his exception. I clung to hope, mistaking his rare bashfulness for something meant only for me.
"I want to buy something, but going alone feels… uncertain. Would you accompany me?"
"T-together? Shopping?"
"If it's not too much trouble."
"I'll go!"
I nodded vigorously. This had to be that scenario—the kind where close friends deepen bonds.
He matched my pace as we walked, though his strides were naturally confident. Annoyed, I sped up, but he kept up effortlessly. Defeat mingled with giddiness. Even trivial exchanges felt charged.
In the crowd, his grip on my wrist burned.
The destination was a clothing store catering to women. Modest fabrics, unpretentious displays—a shop for commoners, yet warm in its simplicity.
"Ah, sorry. I held your hand like you were my sister."
"S-sister? Don't worry."
My wrist felt cold when he let go. The word "sister" churned up bitter emptiness.
He doesn't see me as a woman.
I stared at my calloused hands—knights' pride etched into every scar. No regrets, yet…
"I'm clueless about women's fashion. Help me choose?"
"For whom?"
"…Family."
Family ? He'd never mentioned siblings beyond his sister. Distant relatives, perhaps?
"What style?"
"Someone older than me. Calm demeanor… around 18 to 20."
"Age-appropriate, then."
"Let's say yes."
Odd. Louis, who deemed clothes "functional," now fixated on someone else's attire.
"You barely care about your own clothes. Is this… a gift for someone special?"
I hated myself for asking—for self-inflicted wounds.
"Nothing formal. She… fades without bold colors."
I shouldn't have come.
His tender smile—once reserved for me—now belonged to another. He pointed at dresses, seeking my opinion for her.
Stop hoping. Stop imagining.
Had I not deluded myself, I'd have spared this ugliness.
---
The Request
With a permit application in hand, I entered the Chief Sorcerer's office.
"Come in," Louis called before I knocked. He compared documents on the sofa, eyes sharp.
"The permits?"
"…Yes."
He knew it was me without looking. Once, I'd asked why.
"I've memorized your footsteps. You used to ambush me constantly."
My younger self chased him, tackling him with chatter.
He remembers trivial things.
I sat opposite him as he reviewed the paperwork.
"The Rail River… No transport arrays near the campsite." He summoned a map. Annoying, but magic wasn't my domain.
Blue dots marked existing arrays—none useful for emergencies.
"We'll need new ones."
"Agreed. Can your mages spare time?"
"Two workaholics. They'll welcome a distraction."
"But their workload—"
"Four all-nighters in a row. They're starting to resemble ghouls."
Louis sighed. Despite his pragmatic exterior, he cared.
"Collapse now, and research halts. This is tactical."
"Fine. We'll cover costs."
"Permits go to all 47 rookies."
He joked, "No misuse, please."
"Restraint's for losers."
"Pointless effort wastes time."
We clashed—his pragmatism against my idealism. Yet our friction felt comforting.
As I turned to leave, he ruffled my hair.
"I'll deliver the permits myself. Wait for me."
The gesture lingered. My request would soon vanish into his desk—neatly filed, utterly impersonal.