The Orphan Crown

The Moonrise Trials

Following the urgent message from Thomas, the Crozier estate plunged that very night into a clockwork rhythm of tense, methodical preparation.

On the highest floor, the lamp in the Duke’s study remained lit continuously. Maps of the territory's defenses lay spread across the wide desk, as troop deployments and outpost garrisons were constantly adjusted to ensure absolute security during the upcoming trials. Eldest Son Johannes personally oversaw the reinforcement of key defensive positions, while simultaneously dispatching an elite unit deep into the sealed perimeter to purge the encroaching magic beasts.

Outside in the courtyard, Rebecca and Lady Catrina worked alongside the priests to fortify the barrier arrays. Spellbound runes glowed brilliant against the dark. Tents for emergency medical care were erected around the trial grounds, while servants and maids hurried past, carrying heavy crates of rations, medicinal herbs, and bandages.

Everyone had their place, their role to play in safeguarding the family.

And Franziska?

She was escorted to the Prayer Hall the sole sanctuary in the entire estate untouched by the frantic air of a battlefield. Here, only the faint scent of incense lingered amidst the cold stone walls.

An elderly priest pressed a cold hand against her wrist, measuring the flow of mana circulating through her veins. He noted the rate at which her wounds knit shut, then meticulously calculated the maximum volume of blood that could be extracted per ritual.

He did not ask if it hurt, nor did he bother to glance at her pale, hollow face.

To him, Franziska was merely a vessel to be calibrated.

"How many healing sessions can you sustain in a single day?"

The priest spoke in a dry, raspy voice, his quill hovering above the parchment.

Franziska stared blankly into the void. Silence stretched long between the soft crackle of the burning candles. After a moment, she whispered softly:

"If I am granted rest between each... roughly three times."

"And if the Young Lady requires more?"

Franziska lowered her head, gazing down at her hands, her fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"Then... I will try my best."

The priest’s brows knitted instantly. His quill halted, leaving a dull, smudged blotch of ink upon the page.

"There is no 'try' here," he chided coldly. "We require precise numbers to map out our schedule. Your mana is a resource, not something to be estimated."

Franziska faltered. Her lips trembled slightly, but she knew no words to defend herself.

She knew full well her body was nearing its absolute limit. Yet she also knew that in this place, her limits had never been a priority.

"Five times. Record it as five."

A deep, aloof voice echoed from the heavy oak door.

Franziska turned in surprise.

Johannes stood there, though how long he had been watching was impossible to tell. His tall silhouette cast a long shadow under the candlelight, obscuring a portion of the room's illumination.

She looked at him, her eyes instinctively searching for a flicker of emotion—even if it were merely pity.

Yet Johannes did not meet her gaze.

His eyes remained fixed on the priest's ledger, cold and calculating, devoid of the gentle warmth he reserved exclusively for Rebecca.

"Rene will not be able to maintain a stable condition if she is healed only three times a day," he continued smoothly, his tone as detached as if he were discussing military rations for his soldiers. "Prepare the finest restorative tonics. At all costs, ensure she remains conscious enough to perform it five times daily."

The priest nodded, his quill scratching hastily across the page.

Franziska slowly withdrew her hands, concealing them within her long, oversized sleeves. She said nothing more.

For she realized that in Johannes's eyes, those five times were not the threshold of a human being's endurance.

They were simply a necessary price to pay.

From that day forth, Franziska ceased her hesitation and gave up searching for any lingering traces of affection. She simply went through the motions prescribed for her: training, attending the Prayer Hall, healing Rebecca, and resting just enough for her body to recover.

During those days, the Duke visited her once while she was alone in the Prayer Hall.

Lady Catrina dropped by often as well, bringing fresh fruit and pastries baked in the main kitchen sweets with flavors Franziska held dear.

After the Lady departed, Franziska would sit staring at the treats for a long time before taking a tentative bite.

The familiar taste brought a fleeting sense of comfort. Yet, at the same time, it made her realize she was no different from a fawn trapped in a barren desert.

A mere sliver of care, a small gesture of kindness no matter the motive behind its offering was enough to make her fragile heart swell with warmth.