The girl's face lit up with delight. Paying no heed to the solemn setting, she hitched up her skirt and ran toward Shichen.
The pale-yellow dress swished lightly; high heels tapped across the carpet. Her neatly combed hair flashed gold, crimson eyes smiled into little crescents, and the curve of her lips showed a mischievous little fang.
"Felt, long time no see," Shichen called the transformed girl by name.
"Long time no see, Onii-san!" Felt skidded to a stop before him, fidgeting with a shy stiffness.
Shichen smiled, crouched a little, and reached out to ruffle her hair.
"How've you been?"
"F-fine… It's just that this Reinhard guy's kind of a pain—he's making me learn all kinds of random stuff." Felt pursed her lips and answered softly.
Her demure poise was worlds apart from the image she'd cut back in the fence-goods den.
"Is that so? He's doing it for your sake. Hang in there," Shichen said, gently encouraging her.
"Mhm…" Felt's small face flushed and she nodded.
Anyone could see she treated Shichen differently—but no one here seemed inclined to care.
"Felt-sama," Reinhard called to her then, his tone notably respectful.
"Reinhard, what did you drag me here for? If I hadn't run into Onii-san I'd be chewing you out! And you even made me wear this fussy getup!"
Facing Reinhard, Felt's attitude was all prickles—the exact opposite of the little-girl sweetness she'd shown Shichen. Once she'd lived in the slums, clothed in filthy rags, dull gold hair and a vicious glare. Now her gown gleamed; she could pass for a highborn young lady. And the glow she cast wasn't the same kind as Emilia's and the others'.
"Felt, this dress really suits you. Be a little nicer to Reinhard—he's looking out for you," Shichen said, stroking that shining gold hair.
"Eh? I—if Onii-san says so, fine… Reinhard, explain."
"Yes, ma'am."
Reinhard returned Shichen a grateful smile, then turned solemn.
"Felt-sama, if you would come this way."
Felt glanced back at Shichen before she walked over. "What do you want me to do?"
"Please take this."
From his breast Reinhard drew a dragon badge and offered it to her.
Felt took it—and the inlaid gem burst into a pure white radiance.
"What's with this stone? Why's it shining?" Felt blurted.
"Because Felt-sama has been acknowledged by the Dragon," Reinhard replied.
"Acknowledged? For what?"
"The Dragon Stone recognizes Felt-sama as a priestess candidate. Since the Dragon has accepted her participation, we can deem this royal selection truly begun," Marcos cut in, hand to his chest as he bowed.
Reinhard followed suit; the entire body of royal knights mirrored them. They had labored long to find the fifth candidate at last.
Felt stood there, bemused, then cast a pleading look toward Shichen. Seeing him smile and nod, she relaxed. With the Onii-san who'd saved her life here, nothing could go wrong—and he had said she'd one day have a way to help the people of the slums. She didn't yet fully trust Reinhard, but when it came to Shichen, she trusted absolutely.
"Pardon me—may I say a word?" A man stepped from the ranks of civil officials: a stooped, middle-aged fellow with dark circles under his eyes. Stroking his beard, he spoke coolly.
"What is it?" Marcos asked.
"In this ceremony to choose a king, the Royal Knights, led by the Royal Guard, have worked beyond reproach. Without you, the situation could never have been ordered so swiftly."
"You flatter us…"
"However! Much as I dislike saying this—though we follow the inscriptions of the Dragon Chronicle—might there be some issues with the personnel?" The man cut Marcos off, pointed.
"What do you mean?"
"Everyone's overly focused on the priestess qualification and forgetting the key point: the crown. That has been far too lightly regarded!"
Arrogance sharpened his tone; behind him the bureaucrats chimed in at once.
"Indeed! Indeed!"
Satisfaction flickered across his face. "The covenant with the Dragon is paramount—tied to the very survival of the Pro-Dragon Kingdom. Lose it and the nation collapses. But to exalt the covenant while slighting the people—that flips ends and means!"
"You imply our order, in devoting itself to finding priestesses, chose the wrong object of fealty?" Marcos' voice went icy.
"Well… p-put that way, perhaps not exactly—but that is the gist." Cowed by Marcos' stare, he still pressed on.
The hall tightened. Knights' faces hardened at the slight. They had poured their hearts out for this task; to see it dismissed so glibly… The civil officials, unafraid of martial displeasure, piled on.
"A priestess and a king—does she grasp what it means to rule?"
"Pretty faces can't hide one's nature forever; it shows in bearing."
"Lacking character, poor education—how can such a one be acclaimed as sovereign?"
"Ma~ ma~ what's the fuss? Wouldn't that just make for a lively, 'colorful' contest?" Roswaal joked.
"Roswaal-sama, kindly be silent!"
Their barbs were aimed chiefly at Felt, but spattered others besides. Emilia kept quiet, biting her lip against the splash. She couldn't help a glance toward Shichen—only to find him smiling at her. That smile steadied her; her worries hushed.
Shichen, however, was not unmoved. They were clearly picking at Felt. The instant it shifted toward Emilia, he would act. These men had sat in high seats too long; they'd forgotten fear.
"Order." Miklotov's single word snapped the hall silent. He surveyed Felt through narrowed eyes, then exhaled.
"Ricard-sama's concern is understood. Then let us briefly review each candidate's background… Will that suffice?"
"Reasonable. Fitness should be judged from there first."
"Sir Reinhard, would you recount how you found her?" Ricard asked.
"Yes."
Reinhard knelt on one knee in the deepest bow and spoke. "Approximately one month ago, in the lower quarter of the capital—the slums—I discovered and protected Felt-sama. Certain factors drew my attention to her; thus I discovered her identity. I then brought her to my home and confirmed she bore the priestess's qualification."
Naturally he omitted that Felt had been a thief—or that it was Shichen who had pointed her out. There was no need. No one here cared for the truth of that, only for other, lesser things.
"An orphan from the slums?! Are you serious, Sir Reinhard? In the ceremony to choose the one who will bear Lugunica's future, you present an orphan? What do you take the throne for?!" Ricard exploded.
Reinhard, still kneeling, didn't flinch.
Ricard turned his fire on Miklotov. "Miklotov-sama, we must reconsider. To grant the throne on the say-so of a shining bauble—no! It should be awarded only to one fit for the crown. You cannot simply—"
"Ricard-sama, aren't you getting a bit worked up?" Roswaal drawled.
"Mockery, Roswaal-sama? Your stance beggars belief! Not only I—most of the court thinks the same. We turned a blind eye in these extraordinary times, but enough: it's one thing for the Astreas to put forward an orphan; it's quite another for you to back a half-demon as queen, this folly of—"
Hummmmm—
He didn't finish. The air crushed downward again. All but a handful bowed, gasping; Ricard was smashed flat, blood spurting from his mouth. Realizing his peril, he tried to plead—but with a wet pop, like a bursting bladder, he blew apart into a mist of blood.
Everyone forgot to breathe.