In a certain place, there was a fiend. A fiend with two legs and two arms that stood just over two meters tall. Relatively speaking, it would probably be considered small. Green and tan scales formed a speckled pattern on its torso, and white feathers grew from its limbs. But the skin of its palms was moist, like that of an amphibian. On its back were great black birds’ wings, and strangely enough, between them sprouted a single, swan-like wing. Its chest featured a large, amphibian mouth. The bizarre creature looked like a jumbled mix of a number of different animals. Its face was incredibly long and thin, just like that of a lizard. It sat on a tiny wooden chair.
“I don’t qüite understand,” said the other present.
“You don’t?” The fiend held a book in its hands. The plain, cloth-bound tome, a collection of plays by a celebrated playwright, was decorated with gold thread. The creature turned a page with a finger. “Oh, Prince Wiesel, curse them! Curse those beautiful blue eyes! Curse the mother and father who gave them to you, and all of me, as I am reflected in them!” In the script, a spy had infiltrated the palace in order to poison the king of a hostile nation, only to fall in love with the prince.
“I wonder why the protagonist yells that?” the fiend pondered. “Only moments before, she had been speaking of love. This is nothing more than a string of letters, yet it raises endless mysteries for me. The power of love is fearsome indeed.”
“With all due respect, pérhaps this is not the time for such pàstimes. The Braves of the Six Flowers draw near.”
“Heh-heh-heh, fair enough. I’ll part with this fantastical love story for now and head out to face true love.” The fiend put the book down and plucked a large fig from the table. “Once, the Evil God lost, due to the Saint of the Single Flower’s love.” The creature bit into the fig, chewed, and swallowed. “We were defeated twice by the Braves of the Six Flowers, by the power of love that supported them. But for this third battle, I think things will be different. Oh, third generation of the Braves, love will be your downfall.”
Rising from the table, the fiend—Tgurneu—looked up and quietly smiled.
Fifteen minutes later, Adlet’s party reached the top of the hill. Just as Mora had said, from this spot, they wouldn’t have to worry about a surprise attack. Even if enemies did show up, the party could ready a counteroffensive while their attackers were busy climbing the hill. Presently, there was no sign of any fiends in the valley around them or in the sky above.
Adlet breathed a sigh of relief, lowered the iron box from his back, removed his leather armor, and checked his wounds. Between Mora’s medicine and Rolonia’s treatment, the wounds were mostly closed. By nightfall, he would probably be fully recovered.
“Ya kneow, we ain’t even done nothin’, but I’m still beat,” said Hans.
Adlet felt the same. It wasn’t just the anticipation of an attack that set him on edge. Various anxieties weighed on him.
The fiends had yet to show themselves, and the seventh wasn’t revealing his or her identity, but it was more than that. Fremy was emitting a dangerously bloodthirsty aura, Chamo could go out of control at any time, Rolonia was endlessly confused and scared—his own allies gave him plenty to be uneasy about. And most of all, Adlet was worried about a particular member of the group.
“Are you okay, Goldof?” he asked the other man. Goldof didn’t answer. He just sat there, eyes hollow, lips pressed in a thin line, his expression stiff. The knight hadn’t said a single word, neither when Rolonia had appeared, nor as they made their way through the Howling Vilelands. All he did was watch the sky as if his mind was elsewhere.
It was understandable. The princess he loved had betrayed him—not only ridiculing, but discarded him. It wasn’t difficult to surmise how he must have felt. And not even a day had passed since the revelation of her treachery, so it would be unreasonable to simply tell him to get over it. Though Goldof was a lauded, gifted knight, he was still just sixteen years old.
“Goldof, maybe it’s pointless to tell you this, but c’mon, snap out of it,” said Adlet. Of course Goldof didn’t reply. It was like he hadn’t even heard.
“Just go on and forget about her,” said Hans. “Just think ameowt what it’ll be like once we get back. You can just sit on your handsome, blue-blooded ass, and the ladies’ll flock right to ya.”
Goldof didn’t even react.
“You were that in love with Nashetania?”
“Probably ’cause she had a pretty face, personality aside. And from the glimpse I got, her rack is pretty meeeow, too.”
“…I don’t think that’s the issue here.” Adlet sighed, then quietly pulled a needle from a pouch at his waist. Without making a sound, he threw it at Goldof’s face.
“!” Goldof grabbed the projectile between two fingers and hurled it back at Adlet. Still looking at the ground, he hadn’t so much as glanced up.
“Looks like even with a broken heart, he hasn’t lost the strength to fight. He’s quite the guy.” Adlet smiled, but Goldof was still expressionless.
Then Mora beckoned to Adlet. He approached to hear what she had to say. “Adlet,” she began, “the seventh is most likely Goldof. Should we not do something?”
“I’m suspicious of him, but we don’t know for sure.”
“At this point, I cannot imagine it could be anyone but. It’s not me, not Rolonia, not you. Hans and Chamo brought down Nashetania, so it couldn’t be them. If Fremy were the seventh, there would be no reason for her to have saved you. There is no possibility other than Goldof.”
“Mora, stop it,” Adlet insisted
