"No need to be so nervous," Klein said, keeping his tone as light as possible. "It is safe here."
Ophelia glanced at him, a flicker of confusion in her golden eyes.
"I am not nervous," she said calmly. "This is a habit."
Klein opened his mouth to speak but simply nodded in the end.
Before long, two servings of roasted meat were brought out along with some bread. The meat was still steaming, grease glistening on the surface, and the scent of spices mingled with the char of the wood fire.
The barmaid set the plates down, gave Ophelia an extra glance, and turned to leave.
Ophelia looked at the cutlery on the table and paused.
She lifted her hand, her fingertips hovering above the knife's handle before pulling back slightly, her movements light as if she were confirming something.
Klein had already picked up his knife and fork to start cutting the meat; only then did she reach out to remove her gauntlets.
The metal buckles made faint clicking sounds. Click, click.
She removed the gauntlet from her right hand and placed it at the edge of the table, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she were disassembling a precision instrument. Then she removed the left one, just as slowly and carefully.
With the gauntlets off, her hands were revealed.
This was the second—or perhaps third—time Klein had looked at those hands. Her fingers were slender and the joints well-defined, but there were thin calluses on her knuckles, marks left by repeated friction. There were a few shallow scars on the back of her hands; they had healed, but their shapes were still visible—some looked like they were from a blade, others like punctures from something sharp.
They were not the hands a girl was expected to have.
Klein stared at the scars for a few seconds before looking away.
Ophelia picked up the cutlery.
The knife paused in her hand, her grip somewhat stiff as if she weren't used to this way of holding things. She adjusted the angle and cut down.
The angle was a bit off, and her fork didn't have a firm grip. The meat slid across the plate, nearly falling off.
She stopped.
Klein chewed his bread and glanced at her, saying nothing. He knew it was best not to point it out; that would only make her more embarrassed.
Ophelia adjusted her angle and tried again.
This time, the cut was steady. The blade followed the grain, and with one stroke, the meat was cleanly separated. But her movements were still stiff, lacking the fluid grace of everyday dining. It was as if she were executing a training exercise—precise and efficient, but devoid of any sense of life.
She put the meat in her mouth, her chewing rhythmic and even.
Klein swallowed his bread and took a sip of water. "How does it taste?"
"Very good," Ophelia said.
"Really?" Klein cut another piece of meat. "I think today's roast is a bit tough. It's not as tender as the last few times."
Ophelia paused, looking at the meat on her plate. Her chewing slowed for a moment, and then she looked at Klein.
"I do not know much about such things," she said seriously, there being not a hint of a joke in her golden pupils.
"Know much about what?" Klein asked.
"The taste of food," she said, her tone as flat as if she were stating an objective fact. "As long as it sates my hunger, it is enough. Whether it is tender or tough makes no difference to me."
Klein was stunned.
He remembered what she had said earlier—in the army, sometimes they only ate once a day, or had only two pieces of hard bread in three days.
In that environment, there likely wasn't much opportunity to be picky about taste. Being able to eat their fill was already the best-case scenario.
"You can be picky now," Klein said, putting down his cutlery and looking at her. "You aren't in the army anymore, and you aren't on the west coast. You'll have plenty of time to savor things from now on."
Ophelia didn't answer, simply continuing to cut her meat.
She grew more proficient with the cutlery. Although she was still somewhat clumsy, she no longer let the meat slide around. Klein noticed that she adjusted her angle and strength with every cut as if she were figuring out the most efficient method—if the first cut was slightly off, she would correct it on the second; if the fork wasn't steady, she would change its position the next time.
This was likely the learning capacity of a genius knight.
Still, she clearly wasn't used to these things.
Klein took a sip of wheat juice and watched Ophelia cutting her meat with such focus. He suddenly found it a bit funny, yet also felt a pang of pity.
This knightess, who could slaughter sea monsters on the west coast, was currently struggling with a piece of roasted meat. And looking at her serious expression, it was as if she weren't facing a meal, but a monster that needed to be killed with precision.
"What did you use to eat?" Klein asked, his tone as natural as possible.
Ophelia looked up. "Military rations."
"Only rations?"
"Yes." She nodded. "Sometimes hard bread, sometimes jerky. When stationed on the sea cliffs and supplies ran low, we would eat things from the sea."
"Things from the sea?" Klein frowned. "Sea monsters?"
"No," Ophelia shook her head. "Seaweed and some shellfish. The meat of sea monsters is inedible; their blood is toxic."
Klein clicked his tongue. "That sounds miserable."
Ophelia shook her head, her expression remaining calm. "It was not miserable. I could eat my fill. And those things were nutritious enough to maintain my strength."
Klein looked at her, wanting to say something, but in the end, he only sighed. "You don't have to settle for that anymore."
Ophelia said nothing, lowering her head to continue cutting.
They ate in silence. The noise in the tavern gradually grew louder as people began playing drinking games and discussing tomorrow's market. The fire in the fireplace burned brighter, the heat making the air shimmer.
Klein watched her focused expression, thought for a moment, and then called out toward the bar: "Another cup of ale, and... do you have any desserts right now?"
The barmaid was wiping a glass and looked up. "We have apple pie, fresh out of the oven, and honey pudding."
"Then I'll take a serving of apple pie," Klein said, then looked at Ophelia. "Do you want to try some? I hear the apple pie here is from the owner's family recipe. Many people come specifically for it."
Ophelia looked up, confusion flickering in her golden eyes.
"No," she said, her tone still calm. "I have had enough."
"Why?" Klein asked.
"I am not used to it."
Klein's fork stopped mid-air. "Not used to what?"
"Those things." Ophelia put the last piece of meat into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and then looked at Klein. "Ale, desserts... these unnecessary things."
Klein was taken aback and put down his fork. "Have you never had ale?"
"I have," Ophelia said. "But I do not like it. Alcohol affects one's judgment. A knight should remain clear-headed at all times. On the battlefield, even a second of sluggishness can be fatal."
Klein opened his mouth to say "You aren't on a battlefield now," but the words caught in his throat.
He looked at Ophelia—at her upright posture, at her hand resting near the hilt of her sword, at those eyes that remained constantly alert.
She was indeed no longer on the battlefield, but the battlefield was still in her heart.
"What about desserts?" Klein asked, his tone softening.
Ophelia remained silent for a few seconds.
Her gaze fell on the table, her fingers tapping the edge lightly—an unconscious movement, as if she were remembering something.
"I have rarely eaten them," she said, her voice a bit lower than before. "I had some once when I was a child, in the capital. It was after the knighting ceremony; someone gave me a box of pastries."
"Was it good?" Klein asked.
Ophelia looked up at him, a complex emotion flashing through her golden eyes.
"I do not remember," she said. "It was too long ago. And..." she paused, "I do not like things that are too sweet. They are cloying."
Klein looked at her and suddenly realized something.
This knightess had likely never had a real "rest." From the day she picked up a sword, her life had been nothing but training, fighting, and missions. Things that ordinary people took for granted—delicious food, desserts, leisure time—were all "unnecessary" to her.
She had trained herself into a blade: sharp, efficient, and reliable, but she had also lost so many things.
Klein opened his mouth to speak but simply shook his head helplessly.
The barmaid brought the ale and the apple pie, setting them on the table. The apple pie was still steaming, the scent of cinnamon wafting out and mixing with the sweet aroma of caramel, filling the table with a sense of warmth. The crust was baked to a golden brown, the edges slightly curled, and the apple filling was visible inside—translucent and crystalline, like amber.
Klein pushed the plate toward Ophelia. "Try it. Just one bite."
Ophelia looked at the pie but didn't move.
Her gaze lingered on the golden surface for a few seconds before shifting away.
Klein took a sip of ale and set the cup down. "What's wrong? You really don't like sweets?"
"It is not needed," Ophelia said. Her tone was still calm, but Klein heard something else in it—a hint of resistance, or perhaps unease. "I am already full."
Klein looked at her.
The knightess's appetite was much smaller than he had imagined. She had only eaten most of the roast, leaving the rest on her plate, and had only eaten a small piece of bread. Given her height and training intensity, this amount of food was likely barely enough to maintain her basic energy.
"You can still eat a bit even if you're full," Klein said, his tone carrying a hint of helplessness. "Think of it as... a post-meal dessert. You've never properly eaten this before, so trying it now won't hurt."
Ophelia's fingers tapped lightly on the table, click, click, as if she were thinking.
Then she reached out and picked up a fork.
Her movements were slow and hesitant, as if she were doing something that required great courage.
She cut off a small piece, a very small piece, about the size of a fingernail. The fork lingered on the pie for a moment before she brought that tiny bit to her mouth.
Her movements were slow and cautious, as if she were tasting something that might be poisonous.
Klein watched her, not rushing her. He picked up his cup of ale and pretended to drink casually, but his eyes were observing her expression from the corners.
Ophelia chewed, her brow furrowing slightly.
Klein's heart tightened—did she really dislike it?
But in the next second, her brow smoothed out.
A flash of surprise crossed her golden eyes, as if she had encountered something beyond her expectations.
Her chewing slowed down, every movement deliberate, as if she were confirming the taste.
Then she swallowed.
"How is it?" Klein set down his glass, trying to sound as natural as possible. "Is it too sweet?"
Ophelia looked at the remaining pie on the plate and remained silent for several seconds.
"It is... better than I imagined," she said softly, almost as if talking to herself.
Klein breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. "Right? I told you the apple pie here is good. They use local apples; the balance of sweet and sour is just right, and it's not too cloying."
Ophelia said nothing and cut another small piece.
This time she cut it a bit larger, though she was still cautious. Her fork was steady, without any trembling, but the speed at which she brought it to her mouth was still slow.
She ate with intense focus, chewing every bite thoroughly as if she were trying to memorize the taste.
Klein drank his ale and watched Ophelia eat the entire piece of pie bit by bit.
She ate slowly, every piece cut small, but she indeed finished the whole thing. Only a few crumbs and a few drops of caramel remained on the plate, glinting like amber under the light.
The plate was empty, and Ophelia put down her fork.
She brushed her fingers lightly against the table, as if wiping away any lingering sweetness, and then looked at Klein.
"Thank you," she said.
Klein was taken aback.
This was the first time Ophelia had said "thank you" to him.
It wasn't a perfunctory politeness, but a genuine expression of gratitude. He could see it in her eyes—there was a hint of softness in those golden pupils, like water melting beneath a layer of ice.
"You're welcome," Klein said, scratching his head. "It was just a piece of pie."
He stood up to pay the bill, pulling a few copper coins from his pocket and placing them on the bar.
The barmaid took the money, counted it, and looked up at him. "Your wife... she is quite special."
Klein paused and then nodded. "She is indeed."
"A veteran?" the barmaid asked.
"Yes, she just returned from the west coast."
The barmaid let out an 'oh,' a flicker of understanding in her eyes. "That explains it." She handed Klein his change. "You should take good care of her. People who return from the battlefield are... different."
Klein took the coins and nodded.
He turned back to the table and saw that Ophelia had already put on her gauntlets, picked up her sword, and stood up.
The buckles clicked into place. She flexed her fingers to make sure the gauntlets weren't loose and then looked at Klein.
"We can leave now," she said.
The fire in the fireplace was still burning, and the tavern was gradually filling up, the voices growing louder. Someone was singing, horribly out of tune, but the atmosphere was lively.
The two walked out of the tavern. The night wind blew past, carrying the scent of grass and wood, along with the aroma of distant wheat fields.
The moon had risen higher, and the shadows on the cobblestone road had grown shorter. Stars had also come out, twinkling one by one in the night sky.
Klein walked beside Ophelia, the night wind fluttering his clothes and carrying a faint scent of potions.
They walked side by side, their footsteps exceptionally clear in the quiet night—the metallic sound of armor, the sound of boots on cobblestones, and the rustle of the wind through the leaves.
After walking for a while, Klein suddenly spoke. "We can come back more often in the future."
Ophelia looked at the road ahead, her pace steady.
The moonlight shone on her profile, outlining her features—her straight nose, her firmly set lips, and those eyes that always remained alert.
"Okay," she said softly, her voice almost carried away by the wind.
But Klein heard it.
He looked at the road ahead, the corners of his mouth curving slightly upward.
The moonlight shone on the cobblestones, stretching their shadows long—one tall, one slightly shorter, walking side by side.
The cry of an owl came from the distance, long and clear.
The night was deep, but the road was still long.
Rate on N.U.
