“Goodness, my lady. On a day like this, you really must wear something over your shoulders.”

“But the breeze feels wonderful today, Mary. I want to stay just a little longer.”

“My lady, honestly…”

Among the many remarkable and dazzling members of her family, the quiet, ordinary young lady of House Peyton had one cherished joy: watching the sunset.

In the fading light, her mother’s coral-gold hair would glow scarlet and her eyes, bright like the dawn — the symbol of House Peyton — would reflect the setting sun.

Once again, Ariadne stood in the western garden, where the view was best, gazing at the sky with a fluttering heart.

“You’ve only just recovered from your cold, my lady.”

“I know. That’s why I brought a shawl.”

“This won’t be enough…”

Ariadne Peyton was neither exceptional nor flawed in any particular way, but her one regrettable weakness was that her body was terribly fragile.

After giving birth to three robust sons, the Marchioness’s health naturally deteriorated. Her beloved daughter, who had barely survived the ten months she spent in that delicate womb, had inherited the same frailty.

She was raised with such care that she seemed as fragile as a feather in the wind, and would catch colds whenever a strong gust swept past.

“Then, my lady, will you stay here for a moment? I should go fetch you a coat.”

“All right. I’ll stay right here. I won’t go anywhere.”

Ariadne nodded.

Her dawn-colored eyes shimmered brightly, it was nearly the hour when the world would blush red.

Mary, who knew this young lady better than anyone, let out a helpless laugh.

“Yes, my lady. I’ll be right back!”

Determined not to leave her fragile charge alone for long, Mary hurried away.

Ariadne sat alone with her usual faint smile. She unfolded the shawl she had brought with her, carefully laid it on the ground, and settled down with her knees drawn up.

Ariadne loved sunsets.

She loved the way a subtle change in color would gradually spread until it illuminated the entire landscape, a beautiful and inevitable process.

She loved watching something she, a tiny, insignificant person, could never create herself.

Even someone as small as her felt, in the presence of a sunset like this, as though she could achieve anything.

So every evening, she came here alone to gather a little courage.

Today was meant to be no different.

Ariadne gazed at the sky, her heart fluttering with quiet excitement, when she heard the soft rustling of grass behind her.

“Mary, is that you? Isn’t the sky beautiful today?”

No one ever came here at this time of day except herself, so Ariadne continued talking without turning around. Her voice was bright with excitement.

She chatted about how the sky looked a little different today, as though a fairy had cast a spell on it. She wondered if it would be just as beautiful tomorrow.

After a while, when Mary still hadn’t answered, Ariadne finally found this odd and turned her head.

“Mary! Why aren’t you answe—”

“…”

Ariadne came face-to-face with someone she had never seen before, someone she instinctively knew she would never forget for as long as she lived.

***

He looked as if a piece of the night sky had been brought down to earth.

His hair, the color of the predawn sky, fluttered in the breeze. His eyes, like the light of morning, were so striking that he seemed more like a painting than a person.

Dressed in what appeared to be a finely tailored uniform, he resembled the valiant prince from an Orpheo Sonnet poem.

The noble prince who, despite every trial and hardship, loved only her.

The kind of prince who might tell someone as insignificant as she believed herself to be that she was perfectly fine, and then hold her close.

Ariadne stared at him in a daze, unable to speak for a long moment.

— until a sudden gust of wind snapped her back to reality.

Oh no! She hadn’t greeted him yet!

“You seem… lost…”

But the words that came out were not a proper greeting.

They were clumsy and confused, the kind of foolish remark you’d expect from Ariadne Peyton.

The moment she heard them, her face flushed with embarrassment, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from him.

As the sun set, his hair slowly turned red in the fading light, like the night sky.

Like the sunset itself.

She couldn’t possibly look away.

She knew how ridiculous she must seem, staring so openly, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from that color.

It felt comforting and soothing, like solace and a distant ideal made real.

“Yes, I was looking for a way out. But now, I’m starting to think getting lost was fortunate.”

That gentle voice, paired with the illusion that the colors she loved had taken human form —

Ariadne had no idea how she was supposed to look away or steady her breathing.

Part of her simply wished time would stop.

“Wh-where were you heading…? I-I could show you the way.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I believe I’ve just found it myself.”

He answered her gentle, awkward voice with a polite smile. That smile was so warm that Ariadne swallowed hard without thinking.

Then she followed his gaze—quiet, distant—as he looked toward something beyond.

“…The sunset is beautiful, isn’t it?”

It sent an inexplicable thrill through her.

No—excitement.

The thrill of knowing he was looking at the same beloved view she was. And then came his soft, agreeing voice.

“I can’t deny it’s a truly beautiful place.”

“It—it’s my favorite spot. The sunset is always so beautiful here.”

“I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

“No! Not at all. M-my mother always said… good things should be shared… so…”

She gave another clumsy response, but he didn’t laugh.

When she glanced at him, she saw that he was simply admiring the view.

He wasn’t mocking her or seeming unsettled by her awkwardness.

He was simply looking at the sunset, the same one that bathed her in its warm light.

His soft eyes, like the moment just before sunrise, made her want to fall into them.

They made her want to lean into someone whose presence felt twice as large as her own.

“Um… maybe… maybe we could… meet again sometime?”

She didn’t know who he was, what kind of person he was or why he had come there.

But she fell in love with him at first sight.

***

From that day onwards, Ariadne Peyton fell ill, suffering from what the doctors formally described as a malady of the heart.

They called it heart sickness, but it was really nothing more than lovesickness.

She remembered his deep-blue hair fluttering in the wind, his gentle voice smiling at her, his morning-light eyes meeting hers, and the vivid crimson glow of the sunset lighting up his beautiful profile.

Whenever she thought of him, heat rushed through her entire body.

He was the first person, aside from her family, to wait for her without irritation, even when she was clumsy.

He was the first not to laugh at the strange, awkward words that slipped from her lips.

As though he understood her completely, he gave her his name before he left: Kieron. Kieron Ambrose.

Although Ariadne rarely attended social gatherings due to her timid nature and her family’s fierce protectiveness, she had long heard of Kieron and his striking beauty and unmatched skill.

The Sword of the Empire was the legendary commander who swept across battlefields like a storm.

He was said to have divine features and a gentle voice, blessings from the gods. His natural brilliance made him one of the Empire’s most sought-after prospective husbands.

But to someone ordinary like Ariadne Peyton, someone as plain and unremarkable as her…

It was only natural that she had fallen ill.

To dare feel affection for someone so extraordinary!

Even worse, he was said to be promised — albeit informally — to Princess Lorelei, a woman celebrated for her beauty and intelligence.

How could she ever tell someone like him that she wanted to see him again?

It had been a mistake, a foolish lapse of judgement.

Yet she regretted it, missed him, and felt ashamed all at once.

The single line he had left her with — his gentle smile as he promised to send her a letter — tugged at her heartstrings, leaving her trapped in longing.

Nevertheless, Ariadne struggled desperately to forget him until, at last, her body simply gave out.

But even so, she couldn’t possibly harbor feelings for someone who was already tied to another woman.

Ariadne Peyton understood the importance of propriety.

Although she was not particularly clever, she approached every situation carefully, always striving to be polite.

But that was only how she saw herself.

To her family, who adored her to the point of madness, it was a different matter entirely.

Regardless of how she truly felt, the entire Peyton household was thrown into turmoil when her fever refused to break.

Ariadne was their beloved youngest child and their only daughter.

She was the miracle born to a marquis and marchioness who had endured pregnancy after pregnancy, yearning for a girl.

Her three older brothers — men whose talents were matched only by their notorious tempers — rolled up their sleeves at the slightest sign of Ariadne’s distress, their faces softening into the gentlest expressions imaginable.

Although she was the center of her family’s affection, Ariadne realized from an early age that she was different from them and had always been the fragile thorn lodged in their hearts.

For generations, the head of the family had served as Minister of Foreign Affairs.

The Marchioness was once a highly powerful priestess and was admired throughout the Holy Empire.

The eldest son was the youngest commander in the history of the Imperial Knights.

The second brother controlled every major financial artery of the Empire.

The third brother followed their father into diplomacy, handling challenging foreign affairs with ease.

And then there was Ariadne.

Unlike her brothers, Ariadne had no particular talent for swordsmanship or languages, nor could she instantly grasp politics or finance like they could.

She had always watched them quietly from a step behind.

As though none of their brilliance had anything to do with her.

As though she had never truly belonged among them.

Watching her suffer in silence was unbearable for this family, who cherished their daughter so dearly that they believed she would not be harmed even if she were under their very noses.

Now, as their fragile child burned with fever, the Marquis was ready to spend a fortune to cure her.

“Raymond! Pierre! D*mn it—why are the doctors and priests all so useless?!”

“Father, Mother has gone to summon the High Priest!”

“His Majesty has sent medicinal herbs said to be good for fever. And this is a blessed bead said to contain the grace of the gods…”

“Enough! For the love of god—bring someone, anyone, who can cure my daughter!”

Every day, the Marquis fought his own battle.

The whole family took it in turns to watch over Ariadne, whose fever fluctuated.

Priests and physicians repeatedly examined her, only to leave feeling helpless and defeated.

Day after day, the manor echoed with earnest prayers and quiet, desperate sobbing.

Despite muttering feverish nonsense several times a day, Ariadne could not stop thinking about Kieron Ambrose.

Her family, unaware of the cause, could not bring themselves to let her go either.

When Kieron himself arrived at House Peyton instead of sending the promised letter and Margaret brought him to the young lady’s sickroom as a last-ditch attempt, remembering the delirious words Ariadne had spoken the day she collapsed — that she had met her destiny — and when Ariadne began to recover simply at the sound of his voice, with her entire family starting to call him a savior; when her father, after a long struggle, persuaded the reluctant Kieron to agree to the marriage…

Perhaps that was why.

No — it had to be.

It had to be the result of Ariadne Peyton’s foolish actions, a girl who loved him so deeply that she fell ill with longing.

Only by believing that could she cling to the slightest shred of peace in her heart.