The Excellent Character of Prince Rochefort, Known Only Through Social Gossip, Was Not Particularly Effective in Matters of Love
"As a commander, he possesses outstanding character."
Yet this fact only solidified his reputation as a good man, not suitable husband material. In the Lux Court—which teemed with trashy scoundrels—even this modest virtue secured him a special position. Mia now vaguely understood why so many noble ladies yearned to brush against his cloak whenever he returned to the capital after lengthy campaigns. For Mia, who had never viewed herself as a "marriageable noble lady" nor considered the second son of a political rival as a spouse, this phenomenon felt utterly foreign.
"It’s alright, Etienne."
Mia gently pushed his hand away. Even that single gesture was excessive kindness toward such a nuisance. It would be better framed as repayment for the entertainment he’d provided or the minimal courtesy owed to a superior. Regardless, it served as a convenient excuse requiring no deeper scrutiny.
"It’s not even a painful wound. It’s incomparable to what you’ve endured on battlefields. There’s no need for such alarm."
He couldn’t possibly be reacting this intensely out of ignorance. Thus, even his concern must be performative—a display Etienne had no obligation to maintain. Since Mia had returned to this world with the mission to protect him, why should he, oblivious to everything, fret over her well-being? An indifferent light flickered at her fingertips, followed by a cascade of crimson over the already bloodied stain.
"Wait, Mia!"
Etienne seized her wrist in a frantic attempt to halt her. Mia twisted free with effortless grace. Despite her subtle rejection, the Legion Commander froze, unwilling to press further.
If he were serious, a single command would suffice. Pathetic, Mia thought, her criticism bordering on malice. Yet this wasn’t Etienne’s failing—it was her inherent flaw. What else could a battlefield deserter do but sacrifice herself for her subordinates? To that question, Mia had only one feeble justification: This time will be different.
"As you see, it’s already treated. And Etienne—while I appreciate your concern, I’d prefer you refrain from such interference hereafter."
Ah, that expression again. Mia refused to label the emotion flooding his face. No plausible reason existed for him to harbor such feelings toward her, so whatever she perceived must be illusory.
"It’s not about the treatment, Mia."
His grave voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.
"Then what?"
She prodded, impatient.
After a measured breath, he continued: "You treat your body as disposable. I’ve noticed."
"You say that as if it’s remarkable."
"Even now—after falling ill every time you use even a bit of divine power, how could you consider treating your wounds directly?"
Silence hung like a blade. Etienne found it more unnerving than any retort, yet pressed on: "As Legion Commander, monitoring my officers’ health is my duty. If you won’t care for yourself—"
"If you’re Legion Commander," Mia interjected, her voice glacial, "shouldn’t you understand better than anyone?"
"What do you—"
"Where are the soldiers who don’t treat themselves as disposable on battlefields? Do wars favor those who hoard their strength? You know better than most how subordinates bleed when commanders shirk combat."
"Mia."
"The more I’m harmed, the safer you become. Shouldn’t you rejoice? Why that face?"
Had she acted like some war-ignorant lady—or a green recruit questioning orders—Etienne might’ve rebutted. But her logic was flawless. Worse, she’d articulated a truth every general grappled with: A commander using troops as fodder is unfit—yet no war is won without sacrifice.
Still, no soldier accepts being expendable. Yet Mia seemed preternaturally calm, as though indifferent to his regard—no, as if she deserved such disregard.
This was wrong.
A gentle tug pulled him into a seat. Etienne stared blankly as Mia wrestled down her own discomfort. Letting this overprotective commander seize control would lead nowhere pleasant.
"Did you go out just to suffer this?" he finally rasped, accusation outweighing inquiry.
"Of course not. I had purpose. Wait a little longer—you’ll see."
She dismissed his unspoken protests about how long and what exactly.
Fortunately, "a little longer" proved brief. As Mia turned away, thunderous knocking shook the guestroom door.
Knock any harder, and the floor below will hear, she mused. Etienne, wide-eyed, vanished from her periphery.
"Anyone there?!" A boy’s shrill voice pierced through the doorframe. "A gentleman seeks both of you! He wants to buy all the horses currently held by Grenier—at triple the market price!"
Mia locked eyes with Etienne. No words passed between them, but her triumphant glare said everything.
See? she mouthed.
He nodded slowly. However she’d orchestrated this, one truth was clear: Mia had engineered a grand scheme.
"So what now?" he asked, feigning solemnity. The subtext—Your will shall be done—hung unspoken.
"Decline."
Her refusal, issued without hearing details or greeting the messenger, couldn’t have been clearer. Etienne withdrew his attention—an act unbecoming of the Empire’s First Holy Legion Commander, more akin to a dog currying favor.
Yet he trusted her judgment. Raven wasn’t some backwater—reports showed ample horses available locally. Approaching Grenier-branded sellers implied two scenarios: competitors had already bought out other stock, or the buyer needed beasts capable of hauling heavy loads over vast distances without rest.
And when nobles paid triple prices en masse?
They’ve sensed war’s approach.
Etienne, veteran of countless campaigns, understood how war rattled markets—and saw no reason to oppose Mia’s gambit.
