The Primordial Witch Takes a Stroll Through the Royal Capital
A continent ruled by swords and magic. The human royal capital, Artemis, is protected from external threats by a guardian contract with witches. Witches cannot be killed by humans or other races—only by fellow witches. But the First Witch, Theresia, is the exception: no witch she created can harm her.
Sierra, the White Witch, is twenty years old. She chose to side with humanity, a stubborn and unyielding guardian. One night, sensing an unfathomable presence approaching the capital, Sierra goes
The Primordial Witch Takes a Stroll Through the Royal Capital - Mother's Memory
The morning mist still wrapped the village in a vague, soft outline.
The dirt paths, the ridges between the fields, the low roofs of the houses—all of it lay beyond a white film. The air was cold, damp enough to cling to the skin. Each breath came out white and clouded, vanishing in an instant.
Beneath an old tree at the edge of the square, Shiera stood alone, breathing in the morning air.
Her long silver hair was still tied back in a single tail. She had drawn the collar of her white coat together and stood perfectly still. On her back, she carried the holy sword Luminous. The blade, still in its sheath, seemed to sink into an even deeper white in the chilled morning air.
(I should leave this village.)
Since last night, only those words had repeated in her mind.
(Even if I stay here, nothing will change.)
(Even if I leave, nothing will change.)
(And still—there is no longer any reason for me to be here.)
Shiera exhaled slowly. Her white breath dissolved into the morning mist and disappeared.
――――
"Arche really is such a devoted daughter, isn't she?"
The voice came unexpectedly.
Near the well in the square, several village women were drawing water and talking. Shiera didn't turn her face toward them. She simply listened to the words drifting over, without really trying to.
"She really is. She's always talking about her mother. I heard from someone who's lived in this village a long time that she's been like that since she was small."
"That girl treasures everything her mother gave her. Just the other day, she was holding a cracked teacup with such a sad look on her face."
"Oh, that teacup. I heard it got fixed? That's wonderful."
"Her mother repaired it for her, apparently. Isn't that amazing—her mother, I mean."
"Arche really does love her mother, doesn't she?"
The women's voices were bright and lively.
There wasn't a shred of malice in them.
Just ordinary well-side gossip. A casual slice of village life.
Shiera kept her back against the old tree trunk and closed her eyes.
(Her mother.)
(Things her mother gave her.)
(Arche, who loves her mother.)
Deep in her chest, something cold sank slowly downward.
(I have no memory of my mother.)
Theresia was the creator of all witches. Shiera, too, was one of the witches born from Theresia. She understood that in principle. But in Shiera's memories, there was not a single moment when Theresia had existed as a "mother."
From the time she first became aware of the world, Shiera had been alone.
Days spent swinging a sword as the White Witch, as the one who protected the royal capital of Artemis. She wore the silver ring passed down through generations of White Witches on the ring finger of her left hand, draped a white coat over her shoulders, carried Luminous on her back, and cut down outside enemies.
That was everything Shiera was.
(How does Theresia see me?)
(Has she ever looked at me as a daughter?)
(Probably not.)
(To that woman, I am nothing more than one of her amusing toys.)
The villagers' laughter still drifted over from beyond the morning mist.
"Come to think of it, that relative's child—they say she looks exactly like Arche's mother."
"Really? That tiny, cute little girl is Arche's mother?"
"I suppose that's how witch bloodlines work. Even if someone looks like a child, they've lived many years."
"Shh—that's not something you say too loudly. It's rude to Arche."
"Oh, you're right, sorry, sorry."
The women lowered their voices and laughed together.
Shiera pushed herself off the tree trunk.
She couldn't bear to listen to this conversation any longer.
――――
Shortly before noon.
Once the sun rose and the morning mist cleared, the village was wrapped in its usual gentle atmosphere. The autumn sunlight was white, and the wind carried the scent of dry earth.
Shiera walked aimlessly along the street in front of the inn.
Slowly, through the village.
Past the field ridges, between the small houses, her feet carrying her toward the square with the well.
(What am I doing?)
(There's no reason for me to be here anymore.)
(And yet my feet won't turn toward the village exit.)
Shiera bit her lip.
As she neared the square, she heard children's voices.
"Arche, Arche! Look, look at this flower!"
"Oh, what a pretty flower. Where did it bloom?"
"By the stream past the fields! There were so many!"
"I see. Even in autumn, that spot gets good sun, so some flowers are still hanging on."
Shiera stopped walking.
Arche was at the well.
A woman with dull flaxen hair tied back in a single tail, wearing a faded, unbleached dress. Around her, five or six village children clustered.
"Arche, have you dug up the potatoes yet?"
"No, not yet. How about we all dig them together next week?"
"Yay! Potato digging!"
"Digging with you is so much fun, Arche!"
The children clung innocently to Arche's sleeves and hem.
Arche gently patted each of their heads in turn.
"Fufu. You're all so full of energy."
Her face was different from the smile she'd shown Shiera when she first came to this village and poured her tea—and different again from the smile she'd worn when she clung to Theresia.
(That woman is loved in this village.)
(By the villagers, by the children, and by Theresia too.)
(Around that woman, there is always something warm.)
Shiera pressed herself into the shadows at the edge of the square.
She was reminded, once again, that she stood outside this scene.
――――
That was when it happened.
On the opposite side of the square, beneath the old tree, Shiera noticed a small figure.
Theresia.
Brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Large brown eyes. The face of an ordinary girl you could find anywhere. And yet, in the space where she stood, the air was strangely still, as if time had stopped.
Theresia was watching Arche and the children at the well, intently, from a distance.
A smile played at her lips.
A soft, warm smile, as though she cherished that scene from the bottom of her heart.
(Theresia is smiling.)
Shiera's eyes followed the direction of that smile.
(That smile is meant for Arche and the children.)
(It is not meant for me.)
(Never for me.)
Something deep in her chest grew cold and heavy.
Theresia hadn't noticed that Shiera was there. Or perhaps she had noticed and simply didn't care. Either way, it amounted to the same thing.
In Theresia's world, Shiera had never been included from the start.
――――
Mid-afternoon.
When the sunlight began to slant, Shiera saw that scene again on her way back to the inn.
On a stone at the corner of the square.
Arche sat facing a single child.
"Here, take this. Candy from my mother. If you suck on it, you'll have a sweet, warm dream."
Arche placed a small paper wrapper in the child's hand.
"Really? You can see dreams?"
"That's right. It's special candy. So it's a reward for being a good girl today."
"Thank you, Arche!"
The child clutched the paper wrapper carefully with both hands.
Arche gently wrapped her own hands around those small fingers.
"My mother used to give me this candy all the time when I was little. When I cried, when I fell, when I couldn't sleep at night. Whenever I sucked on it, somehow I'd feel warm inside."
Arche's voice was quiet and calm.
"Is your mother kind?"
The child looked up innocently and asked.
For a moment, Arche's eyes seemed to gaze into the distance. Then she smiled brightly.
"Yes. Very."
That single word.
That one, single word.
Pierced deep, deep into the center of Shiera's chest.
(Yes. Very.)
(Arche said that.)
(Her mother is very kind.)
(As if it were the most natural thing in the world, without a moment's hesitation.)
Shiera stood frozen in place.
Her fingertips were cold.
(I have)
(never thought of Theresia as my mother.)
(Could never think of her that way.)
(Had no right to.)
To Arche, a mother was someone who gave her candy, patted her head, and repaired her teacup.
To Shiera, Theresia was someone she could point a sword at and not leave a single scratch on.
Born from the same creator.
Both supposed to be "daughters."
Where did this difference come from?
(I know.)
(It's because Theresia doesn't see me as a daughter.)
(The only one she sees as a daughter is Arche.)
(I was outside that woman's world from the very beginning.)
Shiera reached for Luminous on her back.
Through the sheath, the cold feel of the blade traveled to her palm.
(Even so.)
(Even so, I am the White Witch.)
(I cannot set down my sword.)
(If I set it down, I become nothing at all.)
Her fingertips trembled.
――――
Dusk.
The sky slowly dyed orange from the west. The roofs of the village houses cast long shadows on the ground.
A small room on the second floor of the inn.
Shiera had spread her belongings across the floor.
A spare white coat. A hand towel. A small drawstring bag. A few tools for the road.
(I will leave this village.)
(This time, for real.)
Shiera laid out her belongings one by one on the cloth.
Her hands were shaking.
(Why are they shaking?)
(I am leaving of my own will.)
(I am not running away.)
(I am leaving because I am certain that nothing will change if I stay.)
She told herself this.
The more she told herself, the more her fingertips trembled.
Shiera picked up Luminous.
The holy sword, still in its sheath. The blade imbued with light-attribute magic, passed down through generations of White Witches.
She gripped the hilt with both hands.
So tightly that her knuckles went white.
(Luminous.)
(You could not reach Theresia.)
(Is it because I am weak?)
(Or was it never meant to reach her from the start?)
Her fingers gripping the sword were white.
The blood had drained from them.
(No tears come.)
(I don't even know if this is sadness or frustration.)
(I can only hear the sound of my own way of being, crumbling.)
The room was silent.
From outside, the laughter of villagers drifted in from far away.
The sounds of preparing supper. Voices calling children home. The lowing of cattle.
All of them warm, everyday sounds.
Shiera listened to them alone.
(The sounds of this village are too far away for me.)
――――
Night.
The moon had risen white above the village.
Shiera left her room at the inn.
(I should go see Theresia one last time.)
(No—there's no need to go see her.)
(I just want to look at that woman's face.)
(So I can decide where I will go from here.)
Moonlight cast a pale blue glow on the dirt path.
Shiera walked through the village, killing the sound of her footsteps.
Toward Arche's house.
Theresia and Lorde were staying at Arche's house.
There was a small garden in front of the house.
On the stone edge of that garden, two figures sat side by side.
Shiera stopped.
Beneath the moonlight.
Theresia and Arche.
A small body and a slender one, sitting close together as if leaning into each other.
Arche rested her head on Theresia's shoulder.
"Mother, the moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?"
"It is. The moon here feels a little whiter than the moon in the royal capital."
"Really? Did you look at the moon in the capital too, Mother?"
"Yes. A few times, while I was out walking. But it's been a long time since I've watched it like this, slowly."
"It's been a long time for me too—watching the moon like this with you."
"Yes. How many years has it been? Since you came to this village, we haven't been able to meet at all."
"...Mother, I missed you."
"I missed you too, Arche."
Theresia gently stroked Arche's head.
Arche nestled her head deeper into Theresia's shoulder.
The moonlight illuminated their silhouettes in a pale, gentle blue.
Shiera watched that scene from the shadows, motionless.
(That is the time of a mother and daughter.)
(A place I can never enter.)
(Something I can never have.)
Shiera reached for Luminous on her back.
She gripped the hilt.
(Will I draw the sword?)
(Here, now?)
(Will I cut between those two?)
Her fingers tightened.
Inside the sheath, the blade made a faint soun
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