Episode 4 — Rosen
“Shall I make you my empress?”
Oberon was ten when he said that.
Barhel looked at him with a “not again?” expression — but the words didn’t sound like a joke.
If it had been any other boy, any other age — any other person — she might have laughed it off.
“No.”
So Barhel refused without hesitation.
Oberon pouted, lips curving in mock disappointment.
“You’re rejecting a proposal from the future emperor?”
“If you’re serious, then I hate it even more.”
“Then what do you want to be?”
“Rich, maybe. When you become emperor, I’ll be rich.”
For two ten-year-olds, the talk was too far ahead of its time — more fantasy than future.
But Barhel was firm.
Her lavender hair fell loosely over her shoulders. Each time she tucked it back, the bruises on her face and neck became visible.
Oberon stared at them silently.
“So this means ‘run,’ ‘hit,’ and ‘ride,’ right?”
“Right. Now put a subject in front — carriage, sword, horse.”
“That’s hard.”
“You can do it.”
Barhel frowned but gripped the twig tightly. She muttered under her breath as she scratched words into the dirt again and again.
Carriage. Horse. Sword. Barhel. Oberon.
“Why does your name look so messy when you write it?”
“You got a problem with my handwriting?”
Barhel swung the twig at him like a sword, but Oberon dodged it easily, tapping her wrist so she dropped it.
“Hey!”
“See?”
Oberon picked up the twig again and wrote beneath what Barhel had written.
It looked similar, but not quite.
“That doesn’t say ‘Barhel.’”
“You catch on fast.”
“Don’t treat me like a fool. What does it mean?”
“It means fool.”
“You jerk!”
Their playful voices carried through the air — until a shadow slowly stretched across them.
Barhel froze mid-motion and looked up wide-eyed.
“It means Rosen, doesn’t it?”
“Prianne…”
“You’re here, Mother.”
Golden waves of hair shimmered even in the shade — Prianne, beautiful as ever.
She gently took the twig from Oberon’s hand.
Barhel sighed in relief to see the shadow belonged to her.
“Now, this is Barhel.”
Prianne moved the twig gracefully, like a brush.
“And this is Rosen.”
“What does Rosen mean?”
Prianne crouched down between the children, studying Barhel’s face — still bruised in fading greens and purples.
Too many wounds for such a small face.
She carefully tucked Barhel’s hair behind her ear.
“It means flame.”
“Flame? Why’d you write that?”
Barhel leaned forward, looking at Oberon.
He met her gaze — and smiled.
“Because when I look at you… you’re just like a flame.”
“Get out! I don’t need you!”
Crash!
The table overturned, and chairs splintered to pieces.
Barhel narrowly dodged the flying debris and ran out of the house.
“…So annoying.”
She wiped her face — her hand came away streaked with blood.
Hearing footsteps near the front door, she darted into the bushes without looking back.
“Where are you… hic… Barhel! Come out! Leaving like your mother, huh?!”
The man slurred and stumbled back inside.
“…Barhel.”
Hidden in the bushes, she whispered her own name. Then she lifted her gaze.
Not far away, a house glowed warmly in the dark — Oberon and Prianne’s home.
Barhel stared at it as if entranced.
Crash!
“Aah!”
Noise erupted from her own home again. Probably her drunk father falling over, or breaking something — maybe even hurting himself.
Even then, Barhel always went to help.
Even when she was beaten.
Because he was her father.
The light in their window flickered.
‘When I look at you… you’re just like a flame.’
“…Flame.”
Barhel stepped out from the brush.
Her feet moved toward the light — toward Oberon’s home.
Even as she passed her own, the flickering bulb dimmed… and then went dark.
Now only the distant house — warm and bright — shone ahead of her.
‘Then what do you want to be?’
The question echoed in her head.
And at that moment, she finally knew the answer.
Knock, knock.
Thud, thud.
Soft knocks on the lower part of the door.
Soon, the door opened — revealing Prianne and Oberon.
“…Barhel?”
“Rosen.”
“…”
“It’s Rosen.”
Her ashen eyes flickered like fire.
Oberon looked at them — speechless.
Prianne opened the door wide.
But Rosen didn’t move.
“Oberon,” she said.
“I want to become a knight.”
“…”
“A knight strong enough to protect myself — and to protect you and Prianne.”
“If a woman becomes a knight, she either dies… or gets eaten alive. There’s no third way.”
A month later, Prianne brought a knight to meet them — a middle-aged man missing one arm.
He said nothing to Oberon, but rejected Rosen instantly.
“You…!”
Rosen clenched her fist, but Oberon stopped her before she could swing.
“When I become emperor, I plan to have her as the knight guarding my side.”
The knight’s expression changed slightly — not disbelief, but recognition.
“I trust you’ll train us with that in mind.”
The knight sighed deeply.
“Like mother, like son… Prianne’s blood indeed.”
He tapped Rosen’s head lightly with his stick.
“Why’d you hit me!”
“Listen, kid. If you really want to be a knight, and your reason is to protect them — I’ll take you.”
He pressed the stick into the ground with a thud.
“But the moment I accept you, your life isn’t yours anymore. You’ll dedicate it fully to them — that’s what a knight does.
Can you do that?”
His tone was dead serious.
Rosen met his gaze and nodded.
“I’ve already sworn it.”
“…”
“I want to protect them — and myself.”
Then she knelt before him without hesitation.
Oberon startled and almost reached out to stop her.
“Please, take me as your disciple.”
“…Please, take us both as your disciples.”
Both knelt, side by side.
The knight looked at them long and hard — then stood.
“Fine.”
Their faces lit up with joy.
“Then let’s start right now.”
“What?”
“This village is great for running. Five laps — the slower one runs three more.”
“Wait, that’s not fair— hey, Rosen!”
Before he could finish, Rosen shot off like an arrow.
Oberon followed, shouting, disappearing into the distance.
“Quick little devils,”
the knight muttered, scratching his nose.
Prianne approached, smiling softly.
“They’re eager already.”
“Do I really have to train that girl too?”
He asked, unimpressed.
Prianne’s gentle smile didn’t waver.
“Barhel — no, Rosen — only has us now.”
“What about her parents?”
“…”
“Ah… poor child.”
“Some deaths are blessings.”
Her tone grew quiet, her eyes distant.
The knight studied her face, then sat again.
“My duty is to protect you and the prince. Nothing beyond that.”
“I know. And I’m grateful — more than words can say.”
“Losing an arm means nothing.”
He turned his head. The two children were dragging their feet back toward them, exhausted.
Whack!
He slammed his stick to the ground.
“You call that running? Move!”
“Yes, sir!”
They sprinted again, small figures against the sunlight.
Watching them, Prianne and the knight both smiled quietly.
Lante sat beside his mother, holding her hand.
He had grown tall — nearly an adult.
“…Barhel.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think my mother was happy… when she gave birth to me?”
“Of course.”
His hands were now rough, scarred.
Rosen’s were worse — calloused from endless training.
“You said the neighbors will handle the funeral?”
“Yeah.”
“Then let’s go. We’re being summoned. This war will be our last as border guards — the Master’s joining too.”
“…”
“When the Master speaks, we obey. Always have.”
Lante rose — calm, eyes dry.
Rosen stared at him silently.
After he stepped outside, she reached into her pocket.
A folded handkerchief — Prianne’s gift.
‘Before war, a wife gives her husband a handkerchief, praying for his safe return. That’s an old Kastan tradition.’
She unfolded it gently, covering Prianne’s still face.
“…Sleep well, Prianne.”
Then she kissed Prianne’s hand, placed it neatly atop the other, and walked outside.
Lante and their old Master were waiting.
“Let’s go.”
At his word, the three left — leaving behind the one who would never wake again.
They set out for war.
Rosen knelt in the blood-soaked mud, cradling the fallen knight’s body.
He was still, eyes open — a spear driven through his chest.
“Rosen! Get a grip!”
“Kill the woman first!”
lante, still on horseback, struggled to fend off the enemy.
“…Master.”
“Barhel!”
At Lante’s shout, Rosen’s dull eyes sharpened.
She seized her sword again.
The knight’s lifeless gaze still lingered — she closed his eyes gently before standing.
The war wasn’t over yet.
“Focus!”
“…Sorry.”
Was it blood or tears running down her face? She couldn’t tell.
Only one thing was certain —
Even amid loss, they had to survive.
Only then could they mourn.
Slash!
“Aagh!”
“That woman—!”
“Aaaah!”
The soldiers around them fell like wheat before a scythe.
Their comrades could only watch in shock — not at their skill, but their faces.
The two of them — Rosen and Lante — had lost all expression.
Drenched in blood, tears, or both,
their faces grew paler,
and paler still,
with every swing of the blade.
