After that argument, her father more or less loosened his control over her.
Perhaps he was completely disappointed… but he showed no sign of compromise.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t still have a maid keeping watch behind her.
Ophelia paused at the corner of the corridor.
Turn around here, and it would be her old room.
Turning the handle, the lock opened easily, and everything before her eyes remained unchanged.
The bed was tiny, but she had been small back then, too.
Before bed, in the candlelight, her mother would always urge her to drink her warm milk, then lie beside her and read her a storybook.
Mother always loved reading those clichéd tales of knights rescuing princesses, again and again, as if she never tired of them.
Sometimes she would ask her mother, why did the knight always go through so much hardship to defeat the Demon King and save the princess trapped in the castle? Mother would always smile and say, maybe it’s because of love.
She’d ask what love was, and her mother would say the knight risked everything just to meet the princess—that was love.
Ophelia’s fingertips brushed over the piano draped in its cover; beneath the heavy satin, the strings sounded stiff and out of tune.
She had hated practicing piano since childhood, but her father always forced her, even making her mother keep watch to ensure she practiced properly.
Her mother would always sit behind her, wipe away the tears at the corners of her eyes, kiss her cheek, and say that when she grew up, she would be her first audience.
Whenever she heard that, she’d stop crying.
Even when her fingers hurt, she was willing to keep playing.
Sometimes her mother would get a sudden urge to play a line or two herself—she was clumsy, always hitting the wrong keys.
The familiar melody would fly from Ophelia’s fingertips as notes, yet it was so raw and out of tune that she couldn’t recognize it anymore.
In her memories, the candle always flickered; now, the candle was out.
There was always hot milk by her bedside; now, no one cooked it for her.
The piano, once played by big and little hands together, was now as stiff and hoarse as an old loom, its clattering unable to form a melody—and she never played again.
She only kept the habit of drinking a cup of warm milk before bed.
Mother once said that drinking milk would help her grow tall, tall as Mother herself, so she could protect her sooner.
But now she was already taller than her mother.
That cup of warm milk was like a long thread connecting her to the past, hidden in the light.
Only by tugging on it now and then could she feel its weight, keeping her from forgetting.
She tried lying down on that little bed; it was so cramped she couldn’t stretch out her legs. The bed had shrunk; she was no longer a child.
No one would ever read her a story again, and she’d never get to meet her first audience.
“Miss Ophelia, it’s time for dinner.”
The maid’s voice rang at the door, piercing Ophelia’s reverie.
“I know.”
She replied coldly, her tears freezing as they fell.
Before she left, her gaze lingered beneath the bed for a long time.
“Miss Ophelia.”
Ophelia forced a bitter smile; as she turned her face, the tears froze over.
“It’s nothing. Let’s go.”
Anna forced herself not to cry out.
The figure in the heavy formal gown before her was, without a doubt, the Ophelia she’d been dreaming of day and night.
She hadn’t been idle these days. Aside from receiving special training from Yegor, she’d spent all her time observing this fortress.
She tried to recall every memory buried under dust. She searched the cliff walls for every potential handhold, studied the guards’ shifts atop the walls.
She wrapped herself in snow and ice, using the cold as a disguise, and slipped into Neuschwanstein during the dinner hour—when the defenses were at their weakest.
She had come for one thing.
Her sword was broken, but there was another Hero’s Sword hidden here.
She was even prepared to cause a commotion to get it.
Watching as Ophelia and the maid’s footsteps faded at the end of the corridor, Anna, like a nimble cat, slipped silently out of the shadows.
She gently turned the doorknob and entered the room where Ophelia had paused on purpose.
Most likely… this had been her childhood room. The furnishings were all small and delicate, many in styles children would like.
A neat row of storybooks lined the bookshelf. Anna read the names on the spines one by one; almost all were love stories about knights and princesses.
She’d grown up with these stories… No wonder, at their first meeting, Ophelia had devoured her completely.
On the other side, facing the bed, stood a quiet piano. The cover’s dust showed several new fingerprints.
Sheet music sat in the center, unopened for a long time; inside were several hand-written pieces.
Anna carefully read those neat notes—a melody both familiar and strange echoed in her heart.
“The stars in the sky don’t speak.”
She couldn’t help but sing, in a language not of this world, a song carved deep in her soul, also not of this world.
She clamped her hand over her mouth, not letting even a whisper escape.
No mistake, there could be no mistake—the only one who could have written this music here was that person.
She turned the sheet music page by page; those new yet yellowed pages bore strokes that did not belong to this world.
Those lines formed a picture; the true meaning lay hidden within it.
“Mommy loves you.”
Anna’s fingers gripped the yellowed pages, her knuckles white from the force.
A surge of emotion boiled within her chest like molten lava, desperate to erupt but held firmly down.
That picture was a conversation across time and space, one only Anna and she could understand.
Unfortunately, Ophelia probably never understood it.
The one who comprehended its meaning was her, Anastasia.
Senior Cecilia, please rest assured.
There will be someone to stay by her side for you; someone will continue to love her for you.
Anna swore this in her heart to that senior she’d never met.
Then, she walked to the only place in the room where something could be hidden—under the bed.
She lifted the dusty covers. There, encased within the intersecting bed slats, wrapped in oiled paper, was a slender object.
It was unmistakably a sword—a holy sword that had once belonged to the Hero of the Sword.
Anna, through the oil paper, felt as if she resonated with it.
It was a faint, gentle call, like a mother coaxing her restless child to sleep.
The moment Anna’s hand touched the hilt, a warmth like a mother’s palm cradled her heart.
She fell without warning, so quickly her heart didn’t have time to react.
The holy sword accepted her without resistance.
In that instant, the hero who had fallen beneath the Demon King’s castle was reborn.
She had a sword again, and in exchange, she owed a promise.
Anna would finish the story of the knight rescuing the princess in that person’s stead, watch over her as she finished her bedtime milk, stay by her side when she awoke, listen to her play piano, and be her audience.
Anna would stay by her side forever, not just as her sword…
But as her beloved.
Anna had finally, once again, affirmed her heart and her resolve.
It was only love, never regret. To love through all hardships; to love, and conquer all hardships.