The Good Witch of The Lake

All this time, her grandmother had been protecting her, in more ways than one—be it when Roze became too bashful and hide behind her hem or from this grim reality…

"I pity every single one of you who finds immense joy in someone else's death."

As she stands there, frozen, a sharp voice reaches her ears. Immediately, a single tear falls down—followed by another and another…

The voice comes from the man who is sitting at the table right beside those loud customers. The man's face is ruthless, and also downright intimidating, leaving no room for anyone to doubt his seriousness.

"S-shopkeeper—! The bill, please—!" "Y-yeah, me too—!!"

With the men shouting left and right, the shop owner is about to fall down in confusion.

However, one of them carelessly approaches him. It's the one who said her grandmother's death was a good thing.

"Hey, for your information, the one who died is a w-i-t-c-h y'know?"

"So what? Witches are people too, aren't they?"

Seemingly threatening at first, the customer now has an embarrassed expression, as if that's the first time he has thought of such possibility.

"Has the witch done anything bad to you?"

"Well, no…"

"Rather, who's the bad one here? Is it her—or a certain someone who's grateful because of another's death? She's known for being a good witch. The least someone like you could do, is pray for her."

The man leaves his chair, still directing his piercing stare at the customer. As he stands, his cloak flutters behind him.

The man passes Roze who's still standing outside the store.

In that instance, she catches the man's eyes—a deep blue, like the shadow of winter.

She's fumbling, trying to say thank you—or anything, to the man.

But the man thinks nothing of her, who dresses just like the other townsfolk, and keeps walking straight ahead.

Now that she thinks about it, that habit was introduced by her grandmother, too. Wearing a black robe in the city would make it blatantly obvious she's a witch.

Only a black handkerchief can be seen on her person. She wraps it around her head, as a sign of mourning. To the other passerby, she looks nothing out of the usual.

The man continues to walk, and when Roze turns toward the store once again, two men are shouting;

"Oi!! Harij!!"

"Hey, please wait for me, Azm-dono!!"

They stand up and it's revealed that they are all wearing the same crimson cloaks—

—that customer's expression instantly turns in to fear.

"Th-they are knights!!"

"P-please forgive us!! We don't mean to anger all of you!"

"'Azm'—! Isn't that the alias of the reigning Lord Hazlan—!?"

There's an uproar in the shop, now—not that Roze pays it any attention.

She continues to stare at Harij's back. The cloak he's wearing reveals the color crimson underneath.

"Harij Azm…" As she mutters his name, her heart tightens.

That day, Roze fell in love—

—a one-sided love.