The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the measured steps of the woman who had rushed in earlier. Now composed, she approached with a practiced grace, her uniform pristine despite the urgency in her movements.
She stopped a few feet from the bed and curtsied with mechanical precision.
"I am Clara Prynne, Your Grace," she stated, her voice crisp, professional—unyielding. "Your personal lady-in-waiting. I have been tending to you ever since you arrived in Arzest Domain, two years ago."
Elysia blinked, her head still spinning. The name stirred nothing in her mind. Two years?
Clara continued without hesitation, her posture perfectly upright. "Allow me to brief on how you ended up here, from three years ago."
"You lost consciousness shortly after the terrorist attack that claimed the lives of the royal family of—" she hesitated for half a breath, her gaze flickering just slightly, "—your homeland."
The words landed like a physical blow.
Elysia's breath hitched.
No.
Clara's tone did not soften. There was no unnecessary comfort, no hesitation. "Your mother, father, and all immediate members of the royal bloodline were declared dead in the incident. You were the only known survivor."
The world narrowed. Her chest tightened, her fingers clutching the sheets.
Her family. Everyone she knew. Gone.
She had not been particularly close to them, but that didn't matter now, did it? Because now there was nothing. No chance for reconciliation, no distance to close. Just a cold, hollow absence where they once were.
Clara's voice remained unwavering. "The attack took place during your brother's marriage ceremony, at the Grand Cathedral."
Her composure lapsed for a moment.
The wedding.
Her brother's wedding.
She hadn't been there.
Why?
"You were in the palace gardens when it happened," Clara continued. "Alone with His Grace, the Grand Duke of Arzest."
The weight of those words settled over her. Away from the tragedy. Isolated. While her family was being slaughtered, she had been somewhere else, unaware, with a person who she's not worthy to attend to.
"The Grand Duke in question here is the current one Alric Rihett Arzest , not the Late Wyatt Nolan Arzest."
Alric Rihett Arzest, a name mentioned as the anomaly of the Magic society. How can she have forgotten meeting him?
Why was she alone with him?
A clandestine meeting, with no purpose, no gain—what reason could there have been?
Clara pressed on. "By the time you and the Grand Duke arrived at the scene, the terrorists had already completed their objective."
The world felt like it was closing in.
"You saw the aftermath."
Elysia felt sick.
Clara's delivery was clinical, each word sharpened with precision. "The Grand Duke immediately subdued the attackers, immobilizing them single-handedly and surrendering them to security forces."
Elysia clenched her fists. "He stopped them all... alone?"
"Yes," Clara said simply.
That, at least, didn't surprise her.
Elysia couldn't recall much, but one thing was certain.
"Grand Duke Alric Rihett Arzest is the strongest swordsman known to exist in Eldrasil."
She didn't even realize she had spoken aloud until the words left her mouth. "A combatant who can perform both magic and alchemy while expressing immense Aura—a feat that even the greatest figures recorded in history could never accomplish."
Clara gave a small nod, but her expression remained impassive. "That is correct."
Elysia wondered whether Clara was some advanced Automaton.
The weight of that knowledge settled over Elysia. Even without her memories, the certainty of Alric's strength was undeniable.
Clara continued in her usual, efficient manner. "Following your recovery, you joined the Arzest Magic Engineer Committee. You have served for two years and now hold a significant position within it."
Elysia blinked. "...I did?"
"Yes. Your contributions were deemed invaluable."
She should have felt proud. Instead, all she felt was disconnected from the person Clara described.
Then Clara exhaled slightly and adjusted the cuffs of her uniform. "Everything I have told you is based on official reports and His Grace's aide, Baron Fitzroy."
A flicker of hesitation followed.
It lasted only a second—so brief that it would have been unnoticeable to anyone else.
But Elysia noticed.
Clara quickly regained her usual composure.
Then, she fixed Elysia with an unwavering stare.
"The man you pushed down," she stated, her voice void of any amusement, "is that same man, Alric Arzest, and he is your husband."
Elysia felt the air leave her lungs.
Alric.
A name she now knew, yet a man who remained a stranger.
Had that been why they were alone together that day? Had his presence once been familiar—comforting, even—before time and lost memories had turned it into something foreign?
The same man whose touch had felt foreign. The same man whose presence had sent her into panic.
She had shoved him away. As if he were a stranger.
Clara did not wait for her to process it. She pressed forward.
"You were wed on the 13th of January, year 1364, at precisely 11:21 AM."
She barely hesitated before adding, "It has been two months and twelve days since then."
Elysia froze.
The exact date. The exact time. And now, the exact length of time since then.
Something about that struck her differently. As if it were a fixed point in time, immovable, unshaken by the erasure of her past.
The weight of it settled over her like a cold shroud.
A knock at the door interrupted the storm in her mind.
Clara turned, her back straightening as several maids entered. They moved quickly, setting down trays of tea and fresh linens, their movements careful and measured.
Elysia barely had the energy to observe them, but what caught her attention was the sudden, near-palpable shift in Clara's demeanor.
She didn't become unkind—no, it was something more subtle, yet unmistakable. A meticulous, critical edge settled into her gaze.
"The sheets should be changed every morning before sunrise," Clara stated, her tone cool. "Not once the Lady is already awake."
The nearest maid flinched slightly but nodded quickly. "Y-Yes, Miss Clara."
Clara's eyes flicked toward another maid adjusting the tea set. "The porcelain cups should be warmed beforehand. Serving cold tea is unacceptable."
"Yes, Miss Clara," the girl mumbled, hurriedly correcting her mistake.
The air in the room grew heavier. Not a single movement escaped Clara's sharp gaze.
Elysia, watching this unfold, realized with sudden clarity—this woman was relentless. A perfectionist to the highest degree.
Clara Prynne was not cruel, nor was she needlessly harsh. But she demanded excellence.
The maids moved with quiet urgency, clearly well-accustomed to this scrutiny. Elysia found herself wondering if she had once been as used to it as they were.
When the last adjustment was made and the maids filed out, Clara finally turned her attention back to her.
"I understand this is a great deal of information to process," she said, the crispness of her voice softening just a fraction. "However, I deemed it necessary for you to be aware of the facts as they are."
The facts.
Elysia swallowed the lump in her throat.
The world she had woken up to was foreign, but the truth of it was undeniable.
She had lost everything.
She had once loved the man she could no longer remember.
And now, she was left with nothing but Clara's unwavering certainty—and the echoes of a past she could no longer reach.
Yet, as Elysia had listened to Clara speak to her, there was a difference—a softness, a quiet ease that the maids never received.
She was still precise, still unwavering, yet with Elysia, the edges of her words lacked the same sharpness.
Not a mistress addressing a servant, nor a noble issuing commands— but something else. Something closer.
----------
The room was steeped in warmth, the kind that seeped into the bones and settled deep, familiar yet foreign. Sunlight filtered through the ornate curtains, casting golden patterns across the plush bedding. The still air carried the faintest trace of sandalwood and something else—something distinctly him.
It was close to afternoon when Elysia stirred.
Or rather—she didn't.
She remained perfectly still, her breaths slow and measured, her mind caught between the haze of sleep and waking reality. Her body felt lighter than it should, her senses sharper. Yet she kept her eyes shut, waiting, listening.
A weight—gentle, careful—rested against her right hand.
Warmth.
Not the fleeting warmth of an idle touch, nor the careless heat of a passing stranger. This was steady, deliberate—an unspoken anchor.
Her breath caught, an unfamiliar tightness curling in her chest.
A warmth even her mother had never shared.
Elysia's lashes fluttered, curiosity overriding caution as she dared to peek through half-lidded eyes.
And then—she saw him.
The afternoon glow bathed him in gold, turning raven-black locks into strands of liquid night, glistening with a celestial sheen—a star-strewn sky caught in motion. His gaze, a piercing shade of violet, was intense even in rest, the dark void of his pupils like an abyss that swallowed the light.
His features were sculpted with impossible precision—a soldier's discipline, an aristocrat's refinement, a deity's unfair blessing. Every plane and edge of his face was sharp, regal, yet softened by the way the sunlight kissed his sun-kissed skin.
A figure of unshakable strength, honed through war and willpower. Broad shoulders framed by a tailored black shirt, lean yet built with a body ratio that any knight would forsake their oaths to attain. A presence that commanded gravity itself.
For a fleeting moment, Elysia forgot herself.
She simply stared.
There was no other word for it—she drank him in, her mind sluggish in trying to process that something, someone, this perfect, otherworldly being was sitting beside her, holding her hand.
And he noticed.
Alric stilled.
A shift. A subtle tightening of his jaw, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.
Then, with the grace of a man who had long since mastered restraint, he let go.
The absence of his warmth was immediate, a loss that struck deeper than it should have.
"...My apologies." His voice was low, rich, carefully measured, yet laced with something she couldn't place.
Elysia, still lost in the moment, didn't answer.
Because for the first time since waking in this unfamiliar world, she realized why her heartbeat felt so loud.
And it had nothing to do with fear.
Elysia's gaze flickered downward.
A sleek, elegant ring rested on his hand—unassuming, yet unmistakable.
The band was smooth, crafted with a precision that made it appear almost too perfect, as though it had been shaped not just by a jeweler's hand, but by something far more deliberate. At its center, a single stone gleamed, its halves divided between deep Amethyst and rich Spinel.
It was simple, yet profound.
Her breath hitched.
Her own hand lay still upon the sheets, fingers barely curled—yet the same ring adorned her own finger.
A slow, uneasy realization settled in her chest.
This man.
Alric.
The name finally held shape in her mind, but not in her memories.
She wanted to reach for something—some feeling, some recollection—that should have surfaced at the sight of that ring. A name should have brought with it warmth, familiarity, belonging.
It brought none of these things.
Only the vague, hollow sensation of something just out of reach.
Her fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into her palm as if to ground herself.
Elysia did not remember him.
And yet—he had been holding her hand just moments ago.
The weight of that touch lingered, phantom warmth against her skin.
Her pulse quickened.
This was the man she had awoken beside.
The man she had shoved away in a panic.
The man she had humiliated.
How was she supposed to speak to him?
Where did she even begin?
Elysia opened her mouth, but no words came.
Silence thickened, stretching between them like an unspoken barrier.
And then, Alric spoke first.
"Are you feeling better?"
His voice was measured, composed, carrying the same kind of restraint she had heard in the voices of seasoned commanders—men who had learned to conceal their wounds before their soldiers.
Yet beneath that carefully controlled formality, there was something else.
Something she couldn't name.
Elysia exhaled softly. "I am fine, Your Grace."
The words left her lips instinctively, the title slipping out as naturally as it would when addressing any noble of high standing.
But as soon as she said it, she felt the shift.
A faint tightening of his jaw.
The barest flicker of something in his gaze.
Disappointment.
Pain.
Alric looked at her for a fraction too long, as if waiting for her to correct herself.
She didn't.
She couldn't.
She knew his name, but not the bond they shared—nor how she was meant to carry herself before him.
A beat passed before he exhaled, the movement so slight it might have gone unnoticed. His hands, resting on his lap, flexed almost imperceptibly before stilling once more.
"Count Æther has briefed me on your condition," he said, his voice even, though the weight behind it had changed. "He believes you are suffering from amnesia of an unknown origin."
A pause.
Elysia's fingers twitched.
Something about that didn't sit right with her.
It wasn't that she distrusted the diagnosis—but could Count Æther truly not know the cause?
Her instincts whispered otherwise.
The Count had left her unsettled from the moment he entered the room, his calculating gaze and eerie stillness setting off alarms in her mind.
Her hunch told her that he knew more than he had let on.
Still, she swallowed her doubt for now.
There was another matter pressing at her more urgently—the man before her.
Alric.
He knew her. That much was obvious.
He knew her not in the way that Clara did, not as a Lady-in-Waiting might know her mistress.
But in the way someone knew a person so intimately, so deeply, that even the smallest change did not go unnoticed.
A flicker of something —longing, sorrow, restraint —shadowed his gaze before he spoke again.
"You may ask me anything," he said at last, while handing her a glass of water.
His voice remained as composed as ever, but this time, there was something almost... tentative beneath it.
A hesitance. She gulped down the water and pondered.
A fragility that did not belong on a man who carried himself like an unshakable force.
"As I assume there were things you wished to ask Clara, but could not."
Elysia stilled.
He was right.
She had questions. Far too many.
And yet...
For the first time in her life, she was afraid of the answers.
# - #