17

Lizelotte’s slender fingers rested along the stem as she swirled the bowl, letting the wine breathe.

Since she was drinking from morning, Lizelotte had chosen a light-bodied red.

Rather than savoring the flavor, she took the mild, low-tannin, low-acid wine into her mouth like a rinse, washing away the heavy residue of meat.

“Why are you asking about Marquis Brandy’s movements, Lizelotte-sama? I don’t know if it’s related, but Marquis Brandy will be attending the castle after midday today.”

“The details?”

“I’ve only heard it described as an offering of a holy relic.”

“I see,” Lizelotte said, and she understood the morning’s commotion to a certain extent.

If Kansas was moving on this, then sorcerer Ains was unquestionably involved. And with the nature of black flames and a holy relic layered together, what that implied was—

“Then the sorcerer who wielded those black flames is likely no longer in this world. Making a fuss is pointless.”

The wine in her mouth broke down the lingering grease of the meat.

“It seems His Majesty the King would like to ask you something regarding this matter, Lizelotte-sama.”

“…Is Wenceslav telling me to come to him again? Perhaps I need to re-train him properly, once and for all.”

“…”

Mireine could not say anything. To agree with Lizelotte would mean slighting the king of the Santia Kingdom. But if she denied Lizelotte’s words, then—even if Lizelotte would not cross a line over something so small—the frequency of harassment aimed at Mireine would surely increase.

“Summon Wenceslav here, Mireine. Bring Haral along as well.”

Lizelotte tossed the brusque order at Mireine, who stood silently at attention.

At that moment, someone knocked on the door leading to the hallway.

“I’m coming in.”

The door opened without waiting for Lizelotte’s reply.

Mireine immediately became wary. Even if one knocked, one must wait for permission—Lizelotte’s permission—before entering.

And yet someone had opened it, rudely.

“Who is it!? Do you realize this is Lizelotte-sama’s room!?”

Mireine hardened her tone, a faint killing intent seeping through—but the instant she saw who had entered, her face went pale.

“Ah, forgive me, forgive me. But I assumed that if it were Lizelotte, she would tell me to come to her in person.”

The one who appeared was an old man whose piercing gaze remained keen, a presence that inspired awe in those who looked upon him—King Wenceslav.

“Y-Your Majesty! I’m terribly sorry! I didn’t realize it was you, and I spoke so—”

Wenceslav lifted a hand to stop Mireine, calming her.

“It’s fine. You merely carried out your duty. If anything, your quick response deserves praise.”

“I-It is far more praise than I deserve!”

Mireine bowed deeply once, then took her place beside Lizelotte.

“Oh? Wenceslav. Coming here of your own accord before I even told you to—how commendable.”

Wenceslav sat down in a chair facing Lizelotte, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I’d rather not hear your nagging from morning onward. My body moved on its own. Did you use some kind of sorcery on me, Lizelotte?”

Lizelotte snorted at his banter and reached for her bread.

“W-W… good morning, Lizelotte-sama.”

Haral entered behind Wenceslav, then froze in flustered panic at the sight of Lizelotte in her nightgown.

When she stayed silent, Lizelotte was a peerless beauty—and her alluring nightgown was poison to the eyes of a young man of Haral’s age.

“Oh? What’s the matter, Haral? Your face is turning red.”

“N-No, I—”

Lizelotte leaned forward slightly, wearing a sly grin like the one she used when tormenting Mireine.

With that movement, a lock of hair slipped down from her shoulder.

That single lock fell, and the faint sound of it brushing her thin nightgown teased Haral’s ears—flushing even the ears of the pure-hearted youth.

“Haral. Have you reached the age where you’re becoming curious about a woman’s body? If your first is me, you’ll have a hard time after that, you know?”

Lizelotte whispered in a damp, sultry tone wholly out of place for a fresh morning.

“…Lizelotte, stop joking. I’m not giving my son to an overage witch like you.”

Wenceslav shrugged, glancing at Lizelotte as she wet her lips with a healthy-colored tongue.

“Hey, Wenceslav. Do you want to die?”

“Ooh, scary, scary. Women who’ve gone around menopause multiple times are terrifying.”

“Hmph. You’ve really learned to talk back. And you’ve even become fearless. How very reassuring—honestly.”

Lizelotte let out a breath, then flicked her eyes toward Mireine.

Mireine moved to set a wineglass before Wenceslav, but he stopped her with a hand gesture; she placed a glass and a water pitcher instead. She did the same for Haral, then returned to stand quietly behind Lizelotte.

“I heard about the morning’s commotion from Mireine just now. What is it you want to ask?”

Lizelotte tore off a bite-sized piece of bread, spread a thin layer of butter, and tossed it into her mouth.

“The black flames that were witnessed—were they sorcery, not magic?”

“Almost certainly.”

Lizelotte answered so bluntly that Wenceslav fell silent in thought.

But Lizelotte understood: Wenceslav no longer needed to think at all.

“Rest easy. The sorcerer who used black flames is no longer in this world. Unless a new sorcerer is born, it won’t happen again.”

“How can you be so sure, Lizelotte-sama?”

Haral paused mid-motion, having been about to pour water from the pitcher into his glass.

“Wenceslav… have I taught Haral a little about this? Sorcerers always have a ‘Restriction.’ And black flames—‘black flame’ sorcery—has been famous since long ago.”

Though there were minor differences, even the Restriction was well known, Lizelotte said, speaking with distant eyes.

“Black flame sorcery is, among sorceries, an especially human kind of sorcery. I’ve seen many of them—and I’ve seen many of them die.”

“So you’re saying this one touched a ‘Restriction’ as well?”

At Wenceslav’s serious question, Lizelotte nodded—then had Mireine leave the room before beginning to explain her inference.