Now then, let’s go back to the joint wedding ceremony that took place not so long ago. That wedding had been a grand event that brought together all the power and resources of Arcana, and naturally, people of culture from every region had gathered to attend. What they saw before their eyes were the many gifts sent from the kingdom of Magyan—and it was their splendor that struck them most deeply.
The people who were supposed to be impressed—the foreign dignitaries—were in fact far less astonished than the nation’s own citizens; those well-bred men and women could only think, “How magnificent this is!”
Carpets, garments, goldwork—those who bought such goods to decorate their homes or to wear, thought no more than, “Ah, that’s lovely,” or perhaps, “I should buy one of those myself.”
But the ones who actually created such works—or those who understood how difficult they were to make—felt something entirely different.
Displayed before them were the gifts the kingdom of Magyan had sent with all its pride on the line. Confronted with those flawless works, they could not imagine themselves ever producing their like. If a client were to ask them to make something “in the Magyan style,” they were certain it would end up as nothing more than a cheap imitation to fool the untrained eye.
It was foolish, of course, to speak of culture in terms of superiority or inferiority—yet they could not help but feel a deep sense of defeat. The artisans and critics who’d gathered from all over the kingdom of Arcana felt themselves bested by a faraway land they had barely even heard of: the kingdom of Magyan.
One might say that, in their own quiet way, these foreign craftsmen were repaying the humiliation their kingdom had suffered when Magyan’s spirit-possessed warrior was defeated.
Yet, not everyone was left trembling in shame. Many clothing artisans, deeply moved by the Magyan bridal attire worn by Douve and Happine, found themselves thinking, I want to make something like that myself.
They burned the image of the two brides’ wedding gowns into their memories and brought sketches back to their own workshops, determined to recreate them. But it was no use. They could imitate the design and surface appearance, but the materials themselves were entirely different.
Of course, the first obstacle was the fabric—it simply couldn’t be obtained. Even if they managed to procure something somewhat similar, the results were far too different from the images seared into their minds. Having seen the very best with their own eyes, they could no longer call anything so inferior a “finished work.”
And yet, traveling all the way to Magyan was impossible for ordinary people. The bolts of cloth that had been gifted to Arcana were already stored away as national treasures, sealed within the royal archives.
Even artisans who served the four great noble houses—or indeed, those directly under the king’s command—were not permitted to put scissors to such cloth.
Everyone understood that perfectly well. Still, they wanted that fabric.
It wasn’t that they wished to wear it themselves, nor to sell it to someone else. They simply wanted to create something of their own using the finest fabric in the world. Precisely because they were master craftsmen, that creative urge burned within them all the stronger. And so, they began searching for any way to make it happen.
Perhaps they could travel with the Magyan delegation when it returned home. Or perhaps they could visit the family of one of the magi stationed in Magyan as an instructor. In any case, they were relentless—desperate to find some way, any way, to form a connection to Magyan.
Then a certain piece of information drew their attention. It was said that Sansui Shirokuro and the Silver Demon Style user, Ran, had each been personally gifted the finest of Magyan fabrics. Moreover, Sansui himself was soon to be married.
This information wasn’t secret—far from it. It had been officially announced by Sepaeda—another display of the special treatment afforded to the man known as the Young Blademaster—and anyone who looked into it could easily confirm it.
From there, the rest was simply prediction.
Since Sansui had been gifted such fabric, he would surely wish to use it for his bride’s gown. But the tailors serving the Wynne family alone wouldn’t meet his standards. So naturally, he would turn to his connections and commission Sepaeda for the task. And the Sepaeda family was known for its creed of competition. Surely, they reasoned, Sepaeda would at least have the master artisans of the capital compete against one another.
With that hope-tinged speculation in their hearts, the nation’s finest craftsmen made their way to Sepaeda. When they arrived and saw the official notice issued by Douve, they realized their prediction had been correct. The artisans gathered in Sepaeda at that time had, in effect, earned the right to step into the ring of competition.
In other words, though Douve had merely issued a public notice within the city, the result was that it was seen by the greatest artisans from across the entire kingdom.
Sansui, dressed in formal attire, Blois, wearing the elegant gown of a noblewoman and holding little Fanne in her arms, and Lain, in her usual plain fashion: the Shirokuro family walked stiffly down the corridors of the Sepaeda main estate.
Up until now, they had merely served as Douve’s attendants, and thus no one had ever addressed them directly. But now, they were the talk of the kingdom—perhaps even more so than Douve herself. Ever since they’d entered the castle town, they had been subjected to strange, feverish gazes. And within the mansion, the attendants and guards could be seen whispering among themselves whenever the family passed by.
Enduring the weight of all those stares, the family entered Lady Douve’s chambers, where the newlyweds—Douve and Tahlan—were waiting.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Blois, Lain? And nice to meet you, little Fanne.”
“What an adorable child, Lord Sansui. Lady Blois, might I hold her as well?”
The two of them, as one would expect, greeted the family with perfect normalcy. Yet the Shirokuro family found it hard to respond in kind. They were thoroughly bewildered—and wanted very much to talk about why.
“O-Oh, my lady, this is Fanne. My lord, if you’d like, please hold her for a moment.”
Even so, the family had served as attendants for so long that they all managed to keep their composure. They were bewildered and bursting to speak their minds, yet they somehow maintained the proper order of things.
“My, my...how strange,” Douve said. “I feel like she resembles Lain. Even without a blood tie, you really are sisters, aren’t you?”
“Ah, such refined features. She truly looks like a young Lain,” Tahlan agreed. “But of course, she also takes after Lady Blois. She’ll grow up quickly, I’m sure, and look even more like her mother.”
For Douve, it was unusual—praise without a trace of irony. Normally so sharp-tongued, it appeared she was incapable of hauteur before a baby. Tahlan, ever kind and considerate, naturally joined in the compliments. He gently stroked the infant in his arms as though she were his own child.