Sikakama sat on the velvet sofa, facing Sir Aldric. His office was spacious and neatly arranged, the walls lined with a tall bookcase filled from end to end. To the side, near a large window, stood a heavy wooden desk where sunlight poured in, lighting the papers scattered across its surface.
"Sir, would it be possible for you to help me find work near Pendralice?" she asked.
"Everyone else has left, and I was the only one remaining. Time passed, and I haven't received a single invitation."
Sir Aldric, listening carefully, mentioned that he had an old friend living in Alderwyne, a quiet district not far from Pendralice—barely twenty minutes away. This meant she could reach the city whenever she wished. His friend could also offer her a temporary home, so she wouldn't have to worry about where to stay until she decided what to do next.
Sikakama leaned against the cold glass of the train window, resting the side of her head against it as she tried to recall that face from her dream one last time. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels filled the carriage, her thoughts drifting—hazy and confused. The train was heading to Alderwyne, where Sir Aldric had found her a job.
The train groaned as it slowed. The station came into view, and with a small jump, she leapt onto the platform. Her boots touched the ground lightly, feeling the faint pulse beneath them.
Sikakama clutched her travel bag in one hand and stepped away from the platform, boots tapping lightly against the ground. Alderwyne lay just southwest of Pendralice, stretching as a green refuge not far from the capital. Barely twenty miles away—about thirty to forty kilometers—it felt like another world, quiet and open compared to the restless pulse of the city.
Alderwyne was calm and elegant. The fields stretched wide and green, and small, tidy roads wound between quiet villages. The houses looked old yet carefully tended, with flowers by their doors and ivy climbing their walls. Everything felt peaceful—like a place where life moved slowly and politely.
It was easy to forget how close Pendralice was. The stillness here felt almost deliberate—everything neat, proper, and serene, as if even the wind had good manners. And with that calm came her purpose: she was on her way to meet the man Sir Aldric had sent her to.
A sharp crack echoed across the quiet Alderwyne Hills, the rifle's shot startling the birds and rolling over the gentle slopes.
The image of a white dove reflected in her eye as it fell from above, landing stiffly on the ground. Before her, Corin sat on his horse, holding his hunting rifle, his eyes tracking the bird carefully.
Corin was handsome and elegant, dressed in hunting clothes: a classic woolen hat, a short tweed jacket, and tight riding pants that fit over his tall leather boots. His leather gloves held the rifle with confidence, while his polished hair and sharp features caught the sunlight as he rode the horse.
Hunting was still a popular pastime among many people, especially the wealthy. Most hunts targeted animals like foxes, for the sheer thrill of the chase, as well as deer and birds. It was seen as an enjoyable activity — the thrill of chasing an animal through the forest with a rifle, the prey struggling to escape while the hunter pursued it. Was this truly how humans found their amusement?
Or perhaps it satisfied a deeper human instinct: the sense of dominance, knowing that a frightened creature could have its life taken at any moment or be set free again. It fed humanity's craving for absolute power, the feeling that they controlled the world around them, ruling over the strongest beings in this world.
Corin was the leader of a unit in Alderwyne, under the emblem of a bird—a cuckoo—proudly displayed on their badge, responsible for keeping the county safe and organized. His unit had a direct connection with the higher administration in Pendralice and coordinated with other units not directly affiliated with the city police, ensuring order and communication across the suburbs.
He looked at her and said :
"It will be difficult, since you are a girl… but because you come from Sir Aldric, I will give you a chance. Prove your skill, and I will accept you."
One of his knights stepped forward. The challenge was simple: whoever acted first would win. Sikakama stood her ground. As he approached, she dodged him quickly with a light, swift movement and seized his hand, surprising Corin—his expression shifting in astonishment. She pushed his foot to make him stumble and twisted his arm behind his back.
Corin placed his hand under his chin, studying her for a moment, then nodded.
"Very well… I will accept you."
The wide, detached building stood with quiet refinement, its wooden-framed windows catching the sunlight. Above the door, a curved glass arch welcomed visitors with a warm glow.
Corin's house was large, elegant, and beautiful—so much so that Sikakama paused for a moment, staring in quiet awe. A neat garden surrounded it, with red and white roses blooming along the edges.
Inside, the reception hall was warm and inviting. A large Persian rug stretched across polished wooden floors, and leather chairs arranged along the walls offered both comfort and a sense of stately elegance.
"Is that really okay?" Sikakama asked, a hint of hesitation in her voice.
"Of course," Corin replied with a warm smile. "I have plenty of empty rooms, so taking one won't be a problem at all. In fact, I'm glad to have a companion again—it's been a long time since I had someone around, living alone as I do."
Corin walked in front, while Sikakama followed behind. Along the walls hung photographs that clearly revealed his bond with Sir Aldric—a connection that went beyond ordinary friendship, almost like brotherhood. The images showed the time they had spent together and the deep trust and respect between them.
Sikakama's eyes fell on medals displayed in glass frames—honors for service, bravery, and years spent protecting the district. It was said that Mr. Corin had also served in the army during a harsh war. When had this war taken place? Perhaps fifteen or seventeen years ago.
They arrived at the wooden door leading to Sikakama's bedroom. Corin gestured with a polite smile.
"This will be yours. You can take some rest after your journey."
Sikakama stepped into the room, her eyes widening. The space was spacious and beautiful, the furniture carefully arranged, sunlight pouring through the windows and bathing everything in a warm glow.
Sikakama made a polite bow and said, "Thank you," toward Corin, who was ascending the stairs.
Halfway up the stairs, still holding his rifle in both hands, Corin paused. His posture was relaxed but alert. "Don't worry about being formal—you've come on the recommendation of a friend, so make yourself comfortable," he said warmly, a gentle smile softening his words.
She moved to the bathroom and sank into the bathtub, water and rose petals swirling around her, the warmth easing the tension from her journey. Later, she collapsed onto the soft, inviting bed, wrapping herself in the smooth blanket. A small smile crossed her lips as she whispered, "Living in a place like this isn't so bad."
It was clear that while the house could impress, it existed mostly as a private sanctuary for a man who had long grown accustomed to his own company.
As Sikakama wandered through the house, she thought to herself, "Corin's house is so large… and almost entirely empty. There aren't any servants around. Maybe he enjoys solitude… perhaps it's something he's grown used to with age."
Corin's house carried the quiet dignity of a manor. The ground floor opened into spacious formal rooms: a drawing room for receiving visitors, a dining hall where long polished tables reflected the glow of chandeliers, and even a music room whose grand piano stood like a silent witness to forgotten gatherings. The kitchen and servants' quarters lay tucked away in the basement, their work hidden from the refined silence above.
The first floor held the master's private domain. Sikakama's room was prepared there, across from Corin's own chambers. Nearby, his study was lined with tall bookshelves. The upper floors were mostly abandoned, their rooms locked and silent, echoing the hush of the house.
When Sikakama descended toward the kitchen, she noticed an abundance of fresh vegetables—far more than one person living alone would need. On a nearby wooden cutting board lay a freshly caught pigeon, its feathers still ruffled, waiting to be prepared.
"Does he like to eat pigeons?" she muttered to herself.
She waited for her first order from Corin, but it didn't excite her. All he asked was a simple tour of the area, and everything went smoothly. She took in the orderly rows of detached houses, each with its neatly tended garden and flowering hedges. The scent of roses and freshly cut grass mingled with the gentle breeze, and the air was calm, carrying only the soft rustle of leaves and grass as she sat quietly, observing the landscape around her—a refreshing contrast to the crowded streets of the city center.
During her stay, Sikakama noticed the maid, who followed a regular schedule. She arrived early in the morning, around six, before Corin woke up, to prepare breakfast and tidy the house.
Around midday, she prepared lunch and cleaned up afterward. In the afternoon, she made tea and set a light snack, as was customary. In the evening, she set the dinner table, cooked if needed, and washed the dishes once Corin had finished eating. By around eight o'clock, having completed her tasks, she quietly left.
Strangely, she was a deaf woman—had Corin hired her out of compassion, Sikakama wondered.
How could she hear her master's calls, or even the ringing of a bell? Yet, somehow, she always knew exactly when Corin needed her. It was as if she had memorized every detail of his daily routine: when he liked to eat, when he preferred his tea, and every little preference, as though she had served him for years and knew him better than anyone else.
Corin seemed alone in his large house, Sikakama thought, wondering if he ever felt lonely. Yet here he was, outside, surrounded by children, fully engaged with them. A tall wooden post stood in the center, like a mini gymnastic apparatus, and the children eagerly tried to practice flips over it. Corin was ready to catch any child who slipped, his hands steady and attentive. The children laughed and shouted, completely absorbed in the fun.
"Look at her!" one child shouted, pointing toward Sikakama.
Snapped out of her thoughts, Sikakama turned. Another child, eyes wide with excitement, called out, "Can you flip like Sir Corin?"
With a confident smile, Sikakama stepped forward. She climbed the post carefully, the children watching her every move. Leaning back, she executed several backward flips in succession, each one smooth and precise. The children's mouths dropped in amazement.
As she neared the end, Corin prepared to catch her—but Sikakama let go, spinning gracefully through the air above him and landing lightly on the ground, arms outstretched.
The children erupted into cheers, gathering around her, their eyes shining with admiration.
"I want to learn flips like you!" shouted one child, while another clapped excitedly.
Corin smiled, watching them, his expression soft yet full of pride. The children's joy seemed to make the vast outdoor space feel lively and warm.
The children gathered around Mr. Corin, begging him to tell them one of his adventures from the war. One boy declared with childish confidence:
"If I had been grown back then, I would've joined and defeated all the enemies!"
Corin laughed and patted his head, saying:
"But little one, you weren't even born then. And war isn't a game. War is dreadful… it devours everything."
Silence fell for a moment. The children looked at him with eyes wide open to a world they had yet to understand, while Sikakama sat beside them, listening intently, as though his words had planted something deep within her.