How much time had passed since that night we left the Moonlit Garden? Milena Valentia stood facing the mirror in the morning light. A private room in the girls' dormitory. Her reflection appeared in an oval mirror set atop a white porcelain washstand—dressed in formal attire. An indigo dress, the official color of House Valentia, draped with a thin cape over her shoulders. Her short black hair absorbed the morning light and gleamed with luster, while her deep brown eyes gazed back at her own reflection with quiet composure. She hid her left wrist beneath her sleeve. The intricate rose-patterned magical seal—the innate mark of her magical power that determined which schools of magic she could wield—disappeared beneath the fabric of her uniform. (Today is a ceremonial venue. A place of politics.) Milena told herself this quietly, facing the mirror. The Thorn War's one-hundred-twentieth anniversary memorial ceremony. A hundred and twenty years ago, the royal twins had sparked a civil war over the succession rights to rose-patterned magic—a historical catastrophe that lasted three years and devastated the northern territories. This official state event was held under royal patronage to commemorate that tragedy. As a constituent member of the Five Flower Council, House Valentia's attendance was practically mandatory. With her father in poor health this season, Milena had been arranged to attend as his proxy. So her reason for attending was clear. Politically. Rationally. (That's all it is.) Yet something mixed into that calculation like a grain of sand. The pale blue phosphorescence of the Moonlit Garden. The canopy of rose vines. And— "Milena." The echo of that voice trembled in the depths of her ears again. A voice that called only her name, without surname or honorific. Yulius Vanders—the Second Prince—his terse, low voice. The reflection in the mirror faltered for just a beat. Milena suppressed it immediately. She adjusted the angle of her brows. Closed her lips. (I haven't sorted through this. But today, there's a possibility we'll meet again at the ceremony—I only need to keep that in mind.) Milena turned from the mirror and pushed open the door. ＊ The venue for the Thorn War's one-hundred-twentieth anniversary ceremony was set in the south garden of Elfine Palace—a plaza adjoining the stone structure known as the Great Hall of White Roses. The early autumn air was clear, yet it carried a sharp, biting cold. Dry autumn dust had accumulated in the joints of the stone pavement, and white rose-shaped stone pillars stood at regular intervals across the plaza, where nobility in formal dress had gathered with solemn composure. The hems of the women's dresses swayed in the wind, and the gold threads of the men's knight's formal wear reflected the sunlight. Milena positioned herself at the periphery of the crowd. The outer edges offered better sight lines for observing the attendees' movements than the center. Which houses stood alongside which factions. Who greeted whom, and who avoided whom. The map of high society was constantly shifting, and public occasions like ceremonies made those changes glaringly apparent. Members of the Royal Rose Guard—Guardia Rosarium, an elite corps with five hundred years of history protecting the royal family—stood at equal intervals at the four corners of the plaza and at the building's entrances. They wore practical armor rather than formal dress. Even in ceremonial settings, security was real. The opening bell rang. The First Prince, standing in for the king, delivered a brief address, and High Priest Johan Cleeve chanted a memorial prayer based on the Flower Crown faith. A prayer for the soldiers who had fallen in the northern wastelands a hundred and twenty years ago. The Thorn War—the northern region that had been the main theater of that civil war, the "Ashen Thorn Wastes," still bore magical contamination today, with only gray thorns flourishing in that barren land. Milena listened quietly, but her inner thoughts ran a different course. (Yulius mentioned this ceremony on the night in the Moonlit Garden. "Will you attend?"—as a political confirmation, it was too natural. So was there another intention, or perhaps—) The analysis of intent remained incomplete. The address ended, and the attendees began dispersing into the garden. The public portion of the ceremony's first half had concluded, and the memorial time—walking around the Great Hall of White Roses and laying flowers for the war dead—had begun. ＊ The North Corridor was a stone-paved passage that ran along the outer wall of the Great Hall. Along the corridor's walls, memorial stone tablets engraved with the names of war dead from successive generations were arranged in rows. Attendees stopped before them and placed small white rose branches. A quiet, heavy atmosphere hung in the air. Milena had stepped out of the procession and stood beside a stone pillar in the North Corridor. She thought more clearly alone. In crowds, the gazes and presences of others were too numerous, making it difficult to concentrate on her own thoughts. The pillar's shadow obscured her adequately from view while still allowing her to survey the entire plaza. The autumn wind passed through. A few petals from the white rose branches scattered across the stone pavement. "House Valentia always stands at the edge like that, doesn't it?" The voice came from behind. Milena turned slowly. Standing there was Isabella Fernia. Her jet-black wavy long hair swayed in the wind. Eyes as transparent and cold as ice gazed directly at Milena. Her formal deep green dress was well-tailored, and her left hand—the position where the obsidian-bright rose-patterned magical seal resided—was covered by a glove. Twenty-two years old. The young lady of House Fernia. Known in the academy as a skilled practitioner of rose-patterned magic. In social settings, she was someone with whom Milena exchanged conversation behind a polite mask. But today's Isabella wore no such mask. Or rather, the mask was there. But beneath it, a quiet yet profound hostility seeped through. "Choosing a place with good observation lines isn't necessarily a bad habit, I think." Milena responded in an even tone. She would not meet provocation with provocation. That was the most efficient defense. Isabella smiled. Only her lips moved. "Indeed. Observation. House Valentia was always observing. A hundred and twenty years ago as well." Something in Milena stopped. She took a breath to measure the weight of those words. The Thorn War was being brought up now. In this place. Before memorial stone tablets engraved in this very location. "Regarding House Valentia's position during the Thorn War, multiple interpretations exist based on historical records." Her voice did not waver. But internally, she was rapidly assembling what Isabella was trying to say. Isabella slowly approached the stone pillar and looked at one of the memorial tablets. Her fingertip lightly traced one of the engraved names. "My grandfather's name is not engraved on this stone tablet." Her voice was low and quiet. "Are you aware that House Fernia was connected to the knight corps? During the Thorn War a hundred and twenty years ago—that civil war between the royal twins—members of House Fernia were dispatched north as knights of the Eastern faction. And they never returned. Their deaths were not officially processed as war casualties. That's why there's no name on this tablet." Milena remained motionless. (House Fernia's historical wound—it's not merely a political context. It's the source of personal resentment.) Isabella's blue eyes returned to Milena. What lay in the depths of those eyes was not simple hatred. It was the shape of a deep wound—an emotion accumulated over decades in the body of someone who had carried the weight of history. "Which side was House Valentia on during that war?" The question was quiet. But it carried an indelible weight, like the engraved letters on the tablet. "According to House Valentia's records, we maintained a mediating position, keeping distance from both sides." "Mediation." Isabella repeated the word. In a voice without inflection. "One could also say that by not taking either side, you prolonged the war. Mediation is like that. It's also the act of waiting until one side loses." The words for a rebuttal came immediately. But Milena did not speak them. She judged, before thinking, whether it was the right action in this moment to directly counter those words. Isabella's words were not a political argument. They were the voice of personal resentment born from a hundred-year-old wound. To throw political logic at that would be to trample on her pain. (This depth of resentment—I must not forget that it comes not from simple hostility, but from historical wounds.) "I have no right to speak about the pain that House Fernia's people have endured." The words were brief. Not an apology, but not a denial either. Simply a statement of acknowledgment. Isabella's expression wavered for just a moment. Barely a moment. The edge of her brow moved slightly. Whether that tremor meant surprise, anger, or the reaction to receiving something unexpected—Milena could not read it completely. In the next instant, something moved at the edge of Milena's vision. A distant corridor. Between the white rose stone pillars, pale silver hair appeared. Yulius Vanders. Formal attire in deep navy. Even in dress uniform, he wore a sword at his side. The rose-shaped earring on his left ear reflected the morning light faintly. He was looking at her. Their eyes met. A quiet crossing that lasted less than a second. Something in Milena's chest beat once, one extra time. Yulius looked away first. He turned forward as if nothing had happened and walked toward another attendee. Milena sensed Isabella following her gaze. But Yulius was already gone, leaving only the white rose stone pillars standing in a row. A silence fell between the two women. "...That's all for today." Isabella said only that and turned her dress's hem. As she left, her back was perfectly straight. The angle of her spine conveyed the intention not to show weakness. Milena watched her back in silence until she disappeared into the crowd. ＊ In the latter half of the ceremony, a figure approached a stone bench at the edge of the garden. When Milena recognized the person, something in her body tensed automatically. Not emotion, but something closer to survival instinct—sharp vigilance. Garaion Tres—commander of the Royal Rose Guard, thirty-five years old. Dark chestnut short hair with faint silver mixed in. Deep amber eyes held the sharpness of accumulated experience and duty. His frame of one hundred ninety centimeters carried an imposing presence even in formal dress, and an old scar running along his right arm—barely visible through the gap in his sleeve—spoke of the weight of years he had lived. As commander of the knight corps, he held the authority to attend the Five Flower Council as an observer. In other words, this man stood at the center of politics. "Miss Valentia." His voice was low and stern. "Might I have a moment?" The question's form was polite, but the tone left no room for choice. Milena nodded quietly. Garaion stood beside her. He did not sit on the bench. Standing side by side, looking out at the garden, he lowered his voice. "Your attendance at today's ceremony as House Valentia's proxy. It's unusual for the duke's daughter to come alone." "My father is in poor health. I judged myself the appropriate proxy." "I see." A brief response. But the pause after that "I see" was measuring something. Milena sensed it. "Recently, several matters concerning the young lady of House Valentia have reached my ears from various quarters." The words maintained a respectful form. But the content— "The quality of House Valentia'