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Intermission: The Daffodil Cup

Standing in the corridor connecting the duke’s manor to the library, Vladimir gazed out at the gardens.
The flower of Jurmagna is the daffodil. From the end of winter through spring, the garden is magnificent—filled with countless varieties of daffodil blooming all at once, their pure fragrance drifting through the air. In one section, their colors form the ducal family’s crest; in another, the imperial flag. Many rare species grow here, found nowhere else.
But now, only the green leaves thrived. The garden existed solely to prepare the daffodil for the day the Imperial Family would visit. During other seasons, there was little to see beyond the fountain.
And the garden was quiet. There was no birdsong, no hum of insects. Birds seldom pecked at the daffodil leaves, and insects hardly touched them.

Because the daffodil is poisonous.
Every part of it—the flower, the leaves, the bulb—contains poison. The bulbs are especially deadly. Eaten, they can kill a person.

There exists a legend regarding the daffodil in the Empire.
It was said that the spirit of the daffodil was once a beautiful woman. When her lover abandoned her for another, she offered him a golden cup, wishing to share one last drink together. But that cup was in truth the yellow corona at the flower’s center—and the two died together, poisoned by the daffodil.
Thus, while the flower signifies unwavering love, it is considered ominous to give daffodil to one’s beloved—a flower of steadfast, but fatal, love.

Turning away from the garden, Vladimir glanced northward.
This time of year, the gardens of Jurnova must be beautiful indeed.

.

Vladimir first met Aleksei in the shadow of the Imperial Palace staircase.
He had been brought there to serve as playmate to the young prince. But when his father spotted an acquaintance, he told Vladimir to find the prince himself—and left him behind.
He knew he only had to ask someone for directions. Yet what made him sad was the realization that to his father, he mattered so little. Back then, he believed it was his own fault—for having been born a son his father didn’t want. Feeling abandoned, he hid behind the staircase and cried.

*“What’s wrong?”*

A voice spoke to him, and he froze, frightened of being found. But it was a child’s voice.
A boy with light blue hair and eyes, a few years older, with a strikingly beautiful face. Vladimir remembered being stunned by the brilliance in those blue eyes—he had never seen anything so vivid before.

*“I’m Aleksei Jurnova. And you?”*
*“I’m… Vladimir Jurmagna.”*
*“Vladimir. If you’re from Magna, you must’ve come to visit Lord Mikhail. Why are you hiding here?”*

The boy’s commanding tone left Vladimir speechless. He knew that saying he’d been abandoned by his father would bring shame on his family.

*“It’s my first time here.”*

He finally said. Aleksei seemed to take that as meaning he was lost.

*“Lord Mikhail is that way.”*

Aleksei turned to go, but Vladimir, still tearful, hesitated to leave the shadow of the stairs.
Aleksei looked back at him, studying him carefully.

*“Am I scary?”*
*“Huh?”*
*“People sometimes say I’m scary, or harsh. That my eyes have a hateful color. If you don’t like me, I’ll fetch someone else.”*

Vladimir would later learn well who had said such things to him.
But at that moment, he simply stared into Aleksei’s eyes for a while, and then, recalling a line, recited it aloud:

*“In the mountain lake that mirrors only the sky’s blue,*
*“—The temple lies sunken beneath.*
*”—Its waters, clear and pale,*
*”—Gleam beneath the sun like blades of light.”

Aleksei blinked in surprise.

*“What’s that?”*
*“It’s a poem from the Astra Empire era—by the travel poet Torres. It’s about an ancient temple he found in the mountains of the gods. Your eyes reminded me of it. Pale blue, shining like a sword. I think your eyes are beautiful—so beautiful a poet would write of them.”*

Aleksei smiled, slightly embarrassed.

*“I don’t want to be written into a poem. But, thanks. You’re amazing, being able to say that so easily. If you don’t mind me, I can take you to Lord Mikhail.”*

Then he smoothly extended his hand and took Vladimir’s.
Vladimir widened his eyes. It was the first time anyone had ever touched him like that.
He should have pulled away—he had been raised to do so.
But at that moment, looking into the eyes that shone like a sword, at the boy’s gentle smile, he timidly squeezed back.
As Aleksei led him from the shadow of the stairs, Vladimir’s courage faltered, and tears welled up again.

*“You’re a crybaby, aren’t you?”*

Aleksei teased him—but his voice was kind.

.

—A mountain lake that reflects only the sky’s blue.
Even back then, when they were still so young, Aleksei carried an air of distant, severe solitude, like that lake—so much so that children their age often kept their distance.
But to those he let into his heart, he was endlessly kind.
When they grew closer and began visiting each other’s homes, Aleksei would always take Vladimir by the hand when showing him the rose gardens—to keep him from getting lost. Though Vladimir hadn’t actually been lost the first time they met, he never told him so. Because Aleksei only ever offered that hand to him. And that made him—so very happy.

.

…Each time he remembers, Vladimir’s chest aches, heavy as lead.
It was a time when he could still cry, still laugh. Days now far, far away.
Seven years ago, when he was nine, as he drifted between life and death, he whispered his unreachable apologies until his voice gave out. He had cried until no tears remained—and since then, had never cried again.
How deeply must Aleksei have been hurt by his sudden change in attitude?
But Vladimir could no longer act as though nothing had happened.

.

—Letting out a heavy sigh, Vladimir turned his gaze back to the garden.
In the days when Jurmagna was still prosperous, they used to replant all the flowers after the daffodil season ended. But now, Magna no longer has the luxury for such things.
Perhaps it was their own prosperity that became their downfall. The successive heads of the house had little interest in expanding farmland, increasing yields, or even in domestic affairs at all—they devoted themselves instead to martial arts and scholarship. This was in stark contrast to the Jurnova family, who, despite having resources but little farmland in the early days, worked tirelessly across generations to reclaim new lands.
Compared to the founding era, the income of the Duchy of Jurmagna has not actually decreased. However, their expenditures have grown disproportionately large.
The ideals of their founder, Pavel, were lofty. Given the circumstances at the time of the kingdom’s founding, the family precept—*“Serve the Empire through military strength and strategy”*—must have seemed perfectly reasonable. But times change. And adapting to those changing times was something Jurmagna failed to do.

Both the Knight Order and the Astra Research Institute are now nothing but nests of vested interests. Major positions are inherited regardless of ability, and they collude with contractors, squandering enormous sums of money. Though they spend their days in internal power struggles, they unite in the face of outside threats, fiercely resisting every attempt at reform and managing to survive unchanged.
Vladimir’s father, Georgiy, is supported by the Knight Order precisely because he has no intention of pursuing reform or downsizing.
It isn’t that the Knight Order and the Research Institute lack people of conscience. But those who appear soon exhaust themselves against the walls and leave in defeat.

*“Jurmagna is a giant—a misshapen giant with a swollen head and fists. It drags along its distorted body, barely crawling forward—and doesn’t even realize it.”*

Anatoli Mardov once said. Anatoli, born of a cadet branch of the Magna family, was a capable Astra researcher, yet he could not turn a blind eye to the rampant corruption. He fought against it—and was cast out.

*“When your time comes, Lord Vladimir, will you reform Jurmagna?”*

To that, Vladimir had shaken his head.
Anatoli must have taken that gesture to mean he had no intention to reform—or perhaps that he had already accepted that such reform was impossible.

But Anatoli never knew: that such a time would never come.

.

The garden basked in the May sunlight. Vladimir thought to himself—

When will the House of Jurmagna fall?
And when will I, Vladimir Jurmagna…die?