She imagined Shiayar in his youth: the black-haired, black-eyed boy at the table, under dim candlelight, holding a feather pen worn to a nub, sketching fantastical mechanical creations, as splendid as a starry galaxy. Through spring warmth, summer days, autumn sun, and winter nights, for a year, then two, he slowly grew up in this simple hunter's cabin before appearing before her.
Isadella extended her pale fingers and lit the candle, the flickering flame reflected in her crimson eyes.
"How fortunate," she murmured.
Luckily, I extended an invitation to him that day to become a Swordbearer. Luckily, on the day I drew the Sword in the Stone, I was able to meet him again in another identity. Luckily, the endless wait of a thousand years in the Imaginary Zone hadn't turned into an illusory bubble but had welcomed a true miracle.
「...」
