The orange glow of the setting sun spilled through the tall windows of the lecture hall, painting the room in warm hues. The professor stood at the front, speaking with calm gravity. His voice carried through the quiet hall. "A dream," he said, "is what gives you the drive to move forward in life. Without it, a person becomes hollow… a shell with no purpose."
Sikakama sat among the students, resting her chin on her folded elbows atop the table, listening with rare attentiveness.The professor's words seemed to settle deep inside her, as if touching something she had long carried in silence.
"Tell me," he began slowly, "what is you are dream?"
A murmur rose among the students. Some shifted in their seats, others stared blankly, unprepared for the question.
"my dream," one cadet finally answered, "is to become a knight."
The professor gave a faint smile.
"Is it? Or is that merely a path chosen for you?"
"What does he mean? Everyone joined this school to become knights," Sikakama said.
"Not me," Edward replied, a smirk on his face as he lifted his chin.
"You all sit here, but is that truly what you dreamed of as children? Or is it what was expected of you? Isn't there even one person who regrets being in this seat?"
The hall went silent.
He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back.
"A dream," he continued, "is not the same as duty. Duty is given to you. A dream… is born within you. But I ask you this—do you know which is which in your own lives? Did you choose your dream, or did it choose you?"
His eyes swept across the room, piercing.
"Think carefully. Is your so-called dream nothing but an echo of your past? A response to fear? Do you claim it—not because you love it—but because you wish to escape weakness, poverty, or shame?
Is a dream truly a choice—or is it shaped by the life you've lived? Did you embrace it because it is what you truly want? Or because you believed it would save you from something you could not bear? Before you declare that something is your dream, ask yourself first: was it chosen by your will… or carved into you by your experiences?"
A low tension rippled through the room. Several cadets lowered their eyes.
Encouraged by the professor's words, the students began to stir. One by one, they raised their hands, voices filled with conviction as they declared their true dreams—far from the paths dictated for them. A painter spoke of exhibiting his work in grand galleries; the professor nodded, pointing to him and waiting for the next confession. A writer announced his wish to publish his stories; again, the professor acknowledged him with a gesture, eyes scanning the room for the next brave voice. Another dreamed of traveling the world, and the same ritual followed. Excitement spread like wildfire; each declaration gave courage to the next, the professor silently guiding the chain of confessions.
Meanwhile, Sikakama leaned on the table, hands squared in front of her, her face cradled between them, lost in thought as she watched the unfolding courage around her.
If these were truly their dreams, then what are they doing here?
Later, as the two walked together, Sikakama turned to Edward, her eyes sharp with curiosity.
"So, what about you? What's your dream?"
Edward's reply was immediate, almost dismissive.
"Dreams are childish things. People cling to them when they're too weak to face reality."
She frowned, not letting him slip away with that answer.
"That can't be true. Everyone has at least one thing they've longed for—one thing they wished to achieve. Are you saying you have none?"
He was silent for a long moment, his jaw tightening. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter.
"…Music. I suppose I've always leaned toward it. But it was never more than a childish fancy."
If you think about it, Edward — who came from a noble and wealthy family — never really took school seriously.
He wasn't good at fighting, nor did he train with any real effort. Most of the time, he looked like he didn't care at all.
And since he didn't have any special skills either… why did he choose to join the Knight Academy instead of any other school?
Surely, there are many prestigious schools made especially for nobles like him.
Sikakama couldn't help but wonder — there had to be a reason.
While walking through the corridors, Sikakama heard the rapping of claws on wood. She followed the sound and found the crow striking at a slightly ajar door in an abandoned passage, her eyes widening as she opened it.
Edward walked a few steps behind Sikakama.
"This isn't where we're supposed to be," he muttered.
"Come, I'll show you something."
The hallway was dim, dust drifting lazily in the shafts of light that crept through the cracked windows. Sikakama's footsteps were soft, deliberate, almost feline as she pushed open the creaking door of an old room.
Inside, time had stopped. Broken chairs, cracked mirrors, and shelves stacked with objects long abandoned filled the space. The air smelled of moth-eaten fabric and forgotten days.
Edward stood at the threshold, his sharp eyes sweeping the space with wary caution. Meanwhile, Sikakama dropped to her knees before an old chest, pulling free a worn leather case. She placed it on the floor, her lips curving in a mischievous smile.
"Ta-da," she said, flipping it open.
Inside lay a violin, nestled in faded velvet.
Edward's breath caught for the briefest moment, though he quickly masked it.
Unbothered, Sikakama reached out and plucked one of the strings. The sound came out awkward, screeching and graceless.
Edward stiffened, finally stepping inside.
"Don't touch it like that!" he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. He moved closer, eyes blazing. "Haven't you ever seen a violin before?"
Sikakama tilted her head, unconcerned. "You speak as if you know much about it."
He froze for a heartbeat, then turned his gaze away. "Don't meddle with things that aren't yours." His tone was clipped, colder than before.
Without another word, he left, his footsteps retreating down the hall.
Sikakama's eyes lingered on the violin, sensing the weight of something unspoken in his reaction.
She tapped her pen on the paper, which was meant to be a blueprint for her future. The sheet lay blank, and with each tap, a tiny ink dot appeared, as if she sank deeper into thought.
At the front, an elderly professor with a sharp voice and piercing eyes scrutinized a student's writing. Her glasses, held by a thin silver chain, perched delicately on her nose. "This is not a vision for your future," she snapped, her tone cold and unyielding. "You are meant to build a life along the path you are to follow, not chase childish fantasies."
Some students shifted uncomfortably, while one timidly tried to defend his work. The professor sneered, cutting him down effortlessly.
Sikakama's eyes narrowed. She could not stay silent. "But the other professor told us that dreams give a person the drive to live, and without them, one becomes hollow," she said firmly.
"Dreams… they do not exist. You are old enough to know better. One must focus on the real world, not chase illusions."
Her words came out as if they were undeniable truths, leaving no room for reply or dissent.
Without hesitation, Sikakama climbed onto the long table, standing tall despite the gasps around her.
"Miss Sikakama, what are you doing?" the professor demanded, her voice icy, frozen with authority.
"This is not true," Sikakama replied, her voice ringing clear and steady. She gestured to the students.
"He wants to be a painter… and he wants to one day display his paintings in an exhibition."
Then she pointed to another student.
"And you… didn't you want to be a writer? You write every day about your life, yet you claim you only joined this school because your father is a knight. Isn't that right?"
A ripple of quiet smiles passed through the classroom, the students reacting to her boldness.
Then she turned to Edward, pointing toward him.
"And he… though weak in combat, always complaining about the sun, and seeming indifferent, he has a sensitive heart and loves music."
Her gaze lingered on him, unwavering.
"Isn't that true?"
A hush fell over the room; everyone—even the professor—waited for an answer. But Edward's eyes dropped to the ground, his hand nervously fidgeting. He did not have the courage to speak, nor to admit it. Silence stretched on for a moment.
"You're a coward!" Sikakama's voice rang out sharply, directed at Edward.
He froze, jaw tight, eyes flashing with shame and frustration as Sikakama called him a coward.
The professor's gaze sharpened, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Disobedience will have consequences, Miss Sikakama," she warned, her tone icy.
Sikakama, however, repeated her accusation, louder this time.
"Edward, you're a coward! And all of you are cowards!" She gestured toward the entire class.
The professor's sharp interruptions cut through, each warning clashing with Sikakama's voice, creating a chaotic rhythm that filled the classroom.
The class erupted into murmurs and gasps; the students shifted uneasily along the long benches. For a brief moment, the room lost its calm, a storm of voices and tension swirling before the professor finally restored order.
Edward wondered as he walked down the corridor, "How can you still be smiling after that?" He had seen the teacher scolding her through the window.
The act concluded with reprimand from the professor, yet there was no hint of regret or shame in Sikakama's expression.
They say that everyone has a predetermined path to follow, and that dreams remain just dreams. As a person grows older, they begin to realize the absurdity of some of their past dreams— but is it simply because they lacked the ability to achieve them, or because they have understood that there are things in life far more important than mere dreams?
Sikakama seemed distracted during the training, and Sir Aldric noticed. She asked him quietly, "What would you do if someone refused to admit something they truly cared about?"
Sir Aldric replied with a smile, "Do not judge a person too quickly. Everyone has their reasons. Once you understand the reason, you can better anticipate and guide their actions."
Later that evening, a sound slipped through the stillness of the corridors. A note—fragile, trembling, yet piercing enough to silence the world around it. Sikakama stopped in her tracks, listening.
The melody drew her back to the forbidden room. She moved like a shadow, pushing the door ajar just enough to slip inside.
There he was. Edward.
He stood alone at the center of the room, violin raised beneath his chin, eyes shut. His fingers danced across the strings with a desperate precision, every movement spilling both restraint and release. The bow glided, trembling at times, soaring at others, coaxing out a melody that clawed its way into the silence.
It wasn't just music. It was a confession.
The notes bled into the air, bittersweet and raw—like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, like hope and grief woven into one thread. The sound carried weight, as though the strings themselves bore chains he longed to break. It was the kind of melody that pierced the chest, a song that whispered of freedom yet tasted of captivity.
Sikakama stood behind him, her breath caught. He wasn't playing for anyone. At that moment, Edward didn't even exist in this world. He was somewhere else—standing at the edge of it, his soul stretched between despair and longing.
In his mind, the music painted images he could never speak aloud.
A boy in a stiff uniform, shoulders squared, lips pressed shut. Behind him stood two figures: a mother draped in jewels and silk, faceless yet suffocating in elegance; a father in a tailored suit, rigid and imposing. Their outlines loomed, blurred yet undeniable, pulling invisible strings that bound his limbs.
He had walked all his life along their narrow path, a puppet carved into obedience. No laughter of children, no reckless dreams, no mistakes of youth. Just a schedule. Just rules. Just silence.
For Edward, music had always been the only thing that freed him, if only for a little while. Here, with his older sister by his side, they had learned to play the violin under the guidance of an old man with weary eyes and hands marked by decades of practice.
Edward remembered the teacher's patient voice, guiding his thin fingers across the strings, and the rare warmth of encouragement in a household where warmth was forbidden. That teacher had been the only one to tell him that his music mattered. But then death came, leaving Edward with silence once more.
It was his older sister who filled the void, her defiance a beacon. They had promised each other that one day they would perform together on a grand stage. But her passion grew stronger with each passing day, as did her rebellious streak.
Edward watched from the shadows as she stood in the family's grand hall, violin in hand. She had been late for yet another family meeting, choosing music over obedience. His father's palm struck her cheek, sharp and merciless.
"Enough of this nonsense!" his father barked.
But she did not cry. She clutched her violin tighter, the mark of a slap burning red across her cheek, her eyes ablaze with rebellion. That night, she left their house forever, disappearing into the dark streets. It was the first act of rebellion Edward had ever witnessed—her refusal to bow. She never returned.
Edward, left alone in the cold prison of his home once more, abandoned the violin, choosing instead to be the "obedient son." His parents' smiles of approval were his only reward, yet each note left unplayed left a hollow echo in his chest.
The memory of her courage, her music, and that vanished freedom lingered, a bittersweet thread woven into the silence that enveloped his youth.
Am I not allowed to dream?
The violin answered for him. Its voice rose, trembling, breaking, and soaring again. He wasn't a puppet here. In these fleeting moments, he was the bow, the string, the sound that refused to be silenced.
Now, as he played, their shadows rose behind him: his sister and his teacher, ghostly figures swaying with violins of their own. They mirrored his melody, bowing in rhythm, their notes weaving with his, stronger together.
The room around him began to shift. Sikakama blinked as the walls dissolved into an endless expanse of blue, the air shimmering with a strange luminescence. Silver snowflakes drifted from above, soft and weightless, melting the dust and shadows. The atmosphere itself sang of freedom, vast and unbound.
For Edward, it was as though chains had fallen away. For Sikakama, it felt like stepping into another world.
He was not Edward—the heir, nor Edward—the disciplined son. He was simply a melody unbound—like a bird set free, like wind rushing across an open sea.
A feeling hovered on the fine line between loss and serenity, between pain and acceptance.
For the first time in his life, he was truly alive.
And Sikakama saw it all.
"Wasn't it you who said we shouldn't meddle with things that aren't ours?" her voice broke the silence at last.
Edward startled, lowering the violin.
"Your playing… it's beautiful," she added softly.
He avoided her eyes, setting the instrument aside.
"Aren't you going to take it with you?" she pressed.
"It isn't mine," he replied curtly.
"But no one else uses it. Wouldn't it be a waste to leave it here, forgotten?"
"It's just an instrument."
"Even things can feel lonely," Sikakama said, brushing her hand gently along the polished wood. "It would be happier with a new owner than buried in silence."
Something flickered in Edward's gaze—a shift, subtle yet
They sat on the grass by the riverbank, watching the water flow. For once, Edward's rigid posture softened as he spoke.
"When I was a child, they used to take me to the theatre. I got caught up in the music. It made me feel… free. But my parents never cared. To them, it was a distraction, a weakness."
His eyes dropped to the ground, the memory bitter. "Music class was the only place I felt at peace. The only time I could breathe. My older sister dreamed of becoming a violinist, and we promised each other that one day we would play together in our own performance. But my father refused. She left the family to chase that dream. My mother was devastated… so I gave up playing, so they wouldn't lose another child. I was the cowardly brother."
His voice trembling—wounded, as if the words themselves cut through him.
Sikakama looked at him with steady calm. "Then play," she said simply.
He turned to her, startled by the directness of her words.
"It's your life," she continued. "If playing makes you feel free, then play. I don't understand why humans make things so complicated—if you love something, just do it. You don't want to grow old and end up just watching life pass you by. Your parents have already lived their lives; they owe you nothing."
For a heartbeat, Edward just stared at her, uncertain, as though her words had carved a crack in the walls he had built around himself.
For a fleeting moment, a cold breeze blew, ruffling their hair, and Edward saw her reflection in Sikakama's smile—before he knew it, tears were slipping down his face.
Sikakama fell onto her back, laughing.
"Just imagine the teacher's face—disobedience has consequences!" she exclaimed.
Edward landed on his back beside her, laughing too, and lifted the edge of his sleeve to wipe away a tear.
When he returned to his room, the violin lay there as if waiting for him. He picked it up, fingers trembling slightly, and let the first notes escape into the quiet, filling the room with a fragile, unspoken freedom.
Meanwhile, in her own chamber, Sikakama perched on the window ledge, staring into the fading light. In her hand rested a blank sheet of paper—she hadn't written a single word.
From across the hall, Edward's violin drifted through the air, fragile yet alive. As the melody rose, she crumpled the paper in her fist and let it slip from the window, watching it fall in silence.
It was almost ironic, guiding others to discover what they truly desired while wandering in uncertainty, unsure of what was wanted most. Every piece of advice given, every path suggested, was never applied to oneself. Understanding others seemed easier than understanding oneself—yet the irony gnawed quietly, a reminder that even the strongest guides can be lost in their own maze.