How much time had passed since leaving the Library Tower "The Rose of Wisdom"? Milena Valentia had returned to her room in the girls' dormitory and sat at her desk, unfolding a creased slip of paper. Each time the candlelight flickered, a single line of text rose and fell within the glow. "What you are calculating is not me, but your own fear, is it not?" Elegant penmanship. No signature. How many times had Milena read those characters? She reached to open her organization notebook. But before the blank page, her pencil stopped. She had meant to write a rebuttal. The words lined up in her mind. "Calculation is not fear but rational judgment." "Actions driven by emotion lead to ruin." "Distance is a survival strategy." The words arranged themselves perfectly, yet they would not descend to paper. They fell into the void instead. (This is wrong. This is...) Milena set down her pencil. Her fingertips had grown slightly cold. Beyond the window lay deep night, and not a sound came from the dormitory corridors. The problem was not that rebuttal words failed to emerge. The problem was that each time she tried to form them, they slid past something inside her without touching it. Like striking a polished glass wall from within—the moment she realized it was not someone else striking it, but herself, that strange sensation returned. The White Rose Oath—a system where noble daughters of ducal rank or higher lost their territorial management rights if they failed to secure a royal-approved betrothal by age eighteen—had less than a year remaining. Calculations had to be precise. Emotion had to be eliminated. These were words she had repeated since her transmigration. Yet tonight, with each repetition, the words grew thinner. She could not sleep. When the candle had burned halfway down, Milena rose. She folded the slip of paper and tucked it between notebook pages, then draped her outer coat across her shoulders. The rose-patterned magical seal—a mark of innate magical power whose form determined which schools of magic one could use—intricately tangled around her left wrist showed faintly in the candlelight, layered over her nightwear. Data collection, she told herself. Three weeks until the Harvest Rose Ball. There were still documents to research. The Moonlit Garden—a magical botanical garden within the Royal Tirian Academy grounds where flowers glowed at night—had a small shelf for document storage that served as a precursor to the reading tower. Even after closing, if she spoke to the caretaker... no, she did not want to call out in the dead of night. That meant passing through the garden during its restricted hours, which violated regulations. Milena considered for one second. Then she opened the door. The corridor was silent. The other noble daughters had long since fallen asleep. Her footsteps on the stone floor sounded unnaturally loud. She knew it was a violation of rules. She gave herself calculated justifications, while dimly aware that something else mixed beneath those justifications. She wanted to escape—from the pressure of thought, from those written words, from the hollow refutations that echoed in her room. Milena stopped thinking and moved her feet. 　　　　＊ When she entered the Moonlit Garden, there was light first. The petals of the magical plants glowed pale blue. That light was unlike moonlight or candlelight—quiet, cold, yet with an organic tremor to it. Faint phosphorescence illuminated the stone pavement, and the rose vines clinging to the stone walls on both sides formed a canopy overhead, making the corridor look like the entrance to another world. The cool night air of late autumn brushed her cheek. The faint sweetness of flower petals mingled with the cold air. Milena advanced deeper, cradling her research drafts. At the edge of the stone pavement, a few dried petals lay scattered. Deep crimson ones, white ones. She walked carefully to avoid stepping on them—trampling roses was considered an insult in this country—and at a point where the corridor curved slightly, Milena stopped. There was a figure ahead. Walking toward her from the opposite direction. Tall. Silver hair caught the pale blue phosphorescence, glowing faintly. Milena's recognition caught up a beat too late. Julius Vanders. The Second Prince. He wore no sword. Not the formal attire he displayed at official royal functions, but merely private night clothes—a dark blue coat, unadorned black shoes. Only the rose-shaped earring on his left ear caught the phosphorescence and gleamed softly. He too had come here without telling anyone. That fact transmitted itself through the air before words could. The two recognized each other and fell silent. Not surprise. Not welcome. Yet not pure wariness either. A strange, quiet sense of inevitability—as though one of them had always been destined to come here, that kind of sensation. Milena tried to analyze it immediately, but could not. Instead, she assessed the corridor's width. Narrow. The rose vines jutting from both walls left barely enough space for two shoulders. Any attempt to pass would necessarily brush against the vines. Trying to secure a retreat by turning back would mean turning her back to him. Moving forward would close the distance. Her feet stopped. Before the calculation could complete, her body went still. The fact of being in a restricted area of the academy at night spread between them without words. Violating the same prohibition on the same night, telling no one—that silent complicity gave the silence an odd weight. Julius did not move either. Only his blue eyes watched Milena. In the pale blue phosphorescence without flame or moon, the color of those eyes seemed to hold a different quality. Dark, yet thin. Emotion unreadable. Yet impossible to look away from. Silence accumulated. Ten seconds? Thirty? Time lost its sense in that stillness. Night wind passed from afar, rustling the rose vines slightly. A single petal fell to the stone pavement. Soundlessly. "Milena." His voice was low. Quiet and direct. Not a question. Not a command. Simply a calling. Not by surname or title, but by name alone. Nothing more, nothing less—the act itself of speaking a name. In that moment, something moved deep within Milena's chest. Quietly. But certainly. Her heart beat an extra pulse, and heat rose to her throat. Milena tried to "observe this calmly"—and could not. The part of her trying to observe was already unable to stand outside the thing being observed. (This is... a residual resonance of rose-patterned magic. Magical sensation is temporarily interfering. That is all.) The words appeared in her mind. But tonight again, they fell into the void. She tried to look away. Instead, for one second, she found herself staring at his outline. Silver hair outlined by phosphorescence. Neatly trimmed short hair. A long neck. A face that should have been expressionless seemed somehow softer in its contours in the night light—the moment she noticed this, Milena looked down. At the bundle of documents she held. That was when she realized. The documents were tilting. The strength in her arms had weakened without her noticing. Her attention had scattered—her own attention. The moment she recognized this fact, the edge of the paper bundle caught on a rose vine. Several sheets shifted, beginning to fall. Julius moved. Without hesitation, instantly. He bent to free the paper caught on the vine, catching one sheet as it slipped. In that motion, because of the corridor's narrowness, his fingers brushed the back of Milena's hand. It was a moment. A contact that could not be distinguished as accident or intention, yet carried unmistakable warmth. It was cold—fingers cold as stone grazed the skin on the back of her hand. But beneath that coldness lay definite body heat. The warmth of a living human. Milena's breath caught. Her lungs stopped moving for one beat. The distance between them was barely a candle's length. His breath seemed almost within reach. The fact of being at a distance where body heat could be felt became, for the first time, a physical reality impressed upon her senses. She felt her cheeks grow warm. She did not want to think about what color her face was now. "...Thank you." Her voice emerged. Half a tone lower than usual. She noticed this about herself. Voice tone could change. Uncalculated responses could emerge from the body—she knew this. But recognizing it herself was happening for the first time tonight. Her alert level spiked. It resembled fear, but was not fear. She tried to name that "something that resembles fear but is not fear"—and could not. The very failure to name it brought Milena her greatest disturbance. Julius returned the papers while, for just a moment, letting his gaze fall on Milena's left shoulder. The place where the rose-patterned magical seal dwelt—hidden by her coat sleeve, yet his gaze fell there as though he knew its location. There was something searching in the depths of those cold blue eyes. Milena did not miss that gaze, but before she could analyze it, he looked up. "The Thorn War's hundred-twentieth anniversary commemorative ceremony." Brief. Abrupt. The Thorn War—a civil conflict a hundred twenty years ago between twin heirs of the royal family over succession rights to rose-patterned magic, lasting three years and laying waste to the northern territories, a historical event—its commemorative ceremony would soon be held in the royal capital Elfine. The Five Flower Council—a legislative advisory body composed of the heads of the five great ducal houses—would attend. It was an official state function of the kingdom. "Will you attend?" A political question? Another intent? His words were too direct to read. House Valentia was a constituent member of the Five Flower Council—Milena's attendance itself was not unusual. But why, here, now, did he ask this? The analysis did not complete. "I plan to attend as the ducal house's representative." She steadied her voice. This time, it was not half a tone lower. Julius nodded. That was all. No additional words, no further questions. He turned on his heel and began walking—not back the way he came, but forward down the corridor. His back was composed. Without hesitation. He disappeared into the night's phosphorescence without looking back. The rose vines trembled slightly in the wake of his passage. Milena did not move. In the corridor alone, only pale blue light filled the space quietly. Another petal fell to the stone pavement. This time a white one—not deep crimson, not the faded brown of ending, but pure white. It caught the phosphorescence, glowing translucently. Milena looked up at the ceiling. Beyond the rose vines covering her head, she could see stars. True to the Moonlit Garden's name, the night sky's moon shone through gaps in the vines. "Milena." That voice calling only her name lingered in her ears. Not the echo of the voice itself, but the afterimage of that sensation—the feeling of something moving within her the moment she was called. A thorn seemed lodged in her chest, yet the sensation was not quite pain. Pulling it out would wound her, but leaving it caused an itch—that strange, peculiar feeling. (The mask held. Only my voice dropped half a tone; everything else was perfect. The calculation did not crumble. Only for that one instant—when my name was called, only for that one instant—) Milena continued the thought in her chest, then stopped. "For that one instant, my composure melted"—she could not summon words to deny that fact tonight. The single line remaining in the library tower's margins settled quietly into place. The oath to "abandon emotion"—she remembered the night she made it. Had it been the night right after her transmigration, or earlier—in her previous life, in a solitude she could show no one? Either way, she had made that oath because she was afraid. Fear of loss.