Chapter 3: The Paladin Who Begged for Comfort from a Boy Too Young
I stood in the hushed glow of the Healing Sanctum, the cool stone floor of the Grand Cathedral of Akadonia pressing against my soles through thin slippers while the faint scent of herbal salves and lingering incense wrapped around me like a second skin. The knight lying on the narrow restoration bed had to be high-ranking; the elaborate sigils hammered into her half-removed plate armor caught the candlelight and practically announced her status, the way someone might casually set down a key to an extravagant carriage at a tavern table. The sheer weight of that display made my stomach twist with familiar discomfort, but I reminded myself this was hardly the first time a warrior had looked at me like I was something rare and fragile dropped into their path.
"Excuse me, devotee? Might I ask your name…?"
My voice came out soft and high, the way it always did. "Lirian. Just Lirian."
She shifted slightly, the leather straps of her remaining armor creaking. "Lirian, then… the weather today has been rather pleasant, hasn't it?"
I kept my fingers hovering just above the shallow gash along her abdomen, golden light already flickering at my fingertips as I prepared the incantation. "I'll need quiet for the healing chant, if you don't mind."
"Ah, of course. My apologies."
She fell silent at once, but I could feel her eyes on me, heavy with that same mixture of curiosity and something sharper I had learned not to name aloud. She was a paladin, no question about it, and one who carried herself like the battlefield still clung to her bones.
"Paladin?"
"Yes, Lirian?"
The address had already slid from the formal "devotee" to my given name, quick as a blade finding its sheath. I kept my tone even. "If wounds like this happen again, please come straight to the sanctum. Timely healing keeps scars from setting in. You understand that, yes?"
"Of course I do!"
"Hmm."
For someone who claimed to know better, her body told a different story. Dozens of old scars, some thin and silvery, others thick and puckered, crisscrossed her torso and arms like a map of every fight she had survived. Even allowing for the brutal life of a knight sworn to the Holy See, the sheer number felt excessive, almost careless. Her bold, unapologetic expression as she met my gaze only made the irritation sharper.
The moment my fingertips brushed the warm skin just below her ribs, her abdominal muscles snapped tight beneath them like iron bands. My finger bounced back as if it had met a shield wall. The sudden flex sent a ridiculous old memory flickering through my head—those absurd tales from my previous life about gym fanatics who treated their bodies like weapons.
"Oh! Forgive me," she blurted, cheeks coloring. "I didn't mean to react like that."
"It's… all right." I kept my voice steady even as heat crept up my own neck. "Your abs really are impressive. Perfectly defined."
She scratched at the back of her neck, eyes darting anywhere but my face. "Heh. Guess they caught your attention."
The earlier stiff courtesy had cracked, replaced by something almost shy. She was clearly unused to speaking with anyone outside the training yard, let alone someone like me. Her gaze kept sliding back to my hands, my face, the way my white hair fell across my shoulders, and the attention made my skin prickle with a strange blend of flattery and unease.
"Wow… they really are solid," I murmured, letting my fingers trace the ridged muscle again, more carefully this time. The contrast hit me like a slap. Where her body was honed and powerful, mine felt small, almost delicate by comparison—petite frame, narrow shoulders, the sort of androgynous softness that made people call me cute instead of strong. I wanted what she had. I wanted to look in a mirror and see that same unyielding strength staring back at me. Instead I was stuck with the body I had been born into, the one that made me a living rarity in a world starving for men.
"Paladin?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think someone like me could ever build a physique like yours? Something… impressive?"
Her answer started bright. "Absolutely, of course you—" Then her eyes flicked over my slender build, and the words died. The easy warmth between us shattered into awkward silence.
She was the type who couldn't lie, then. I felt my cheeks heat and puffed them out in silent protest.
"Everyone possesses their own unique appeal," she tried, voice faltering. "Perhaps… finding strength in other qualities rather than raw physique…"
I said nothing, just let the quiet stretch until she winced.
"I'm sorry. That came out badly."
The truth of my birth-given limits sat heavy in my chest, the same way it always did. No amount of training could widen my shoulders or thicken my frame the way hers had been forged. Her words felt like a quiet sentence handed down, and I swallowed the sting.
She cleared her throat, clearly desperate to shift the subject. "Still… I never expected to find a man working in a place like this. Not in the sanctum of the Grand Cathedral, away from any monastery or noble estate. It's… astonishing."
I offered a small nod. "I suppose it would be."
Her face had gone pale with embarrassment, but the topic hung there anyway. Everyone knew the world's cruel imbalance—males born so rarely that they were guarded like sacred treasures, hoarded by the powerful while the rest of society simply learned to do without. The reasons had been lost to old wars and forgotten curses, but the result was simple: one man could change the atmosphere of an entire room just by existing in it.
"So, Lirian," she continued, voice softening with something like reverence, "I truly respect you. The way you take on the grueling work here, your genuine devotion, and that healing skill of yours… it's remarkable."
I blinked. "Why do you say that?"
"Receiving your magic, I can feel how much effort you must pour into every spell. You work harder than most, don't you?"
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. Praise always landed differently when it came from someone who had seen real battle. My mana was weaker than average; I had always needed to train twice as hard just to keep up. Hearing someone acknowledge that effort loosened a knot I hadn't realized was there.
"And besides," she added, eyes brightening, "your adorable features have eased my weary heart more than any potion could. Honestly… you're exactly my type. I'd love the chance to know you better—"
"Ah, that's… a little overwhelming."
"No, no! I was only joking. Just a joke." She waved her hands quickly, face flushing darker. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Forgive me."
The sudden backpedaling made her look like a massive hound caught chewing something it shouldn't have, ears drooping, tail tucked. The tension in the air dissolved as quickly as it had formed. She watched my expression closely, then spoke again, more serious this time.
"Lirian… if it wouldn't be too presumptuous… I would like to receive some comfort from you."
Comfort. The word landed with unexpected weight. She had taken my hand at some point without my noticing, her callused palm warm and steady, the posture of a knight who knew exactly how to command respect.
"What sort of comfort do you mean?" I asked carefully.
"If you would allow it, I'll wait until your duties here are finished."
I stole a quick glance at her—cool, handsome features, the lean power of her body, those sharply defined abs that still drew my envious gaze. She reminded me of the kind of older sister who spent every spare hour in the training fields, confident and athletic. For a heartbeat the idea of a proper outing flickered through my mind, but reality pressed in fast.
"Paladin… could you lean in for a moment? I need to whisper something."
"Oh! Yes, of course!"
I kept my voice low. "I'd like to help… but there's something you should know."
She swallowed visibly, anticipation and nerves warring across her face. If she had possessed a tail, it would have been thrashing with excitement.
"I'm still a minor," I told her gently. "Dating or… anything of that nature with someone underage is strictly forbidden. It's one of the protections in place for men like me."
She stared at me as though I had spoken in another language. "Lirian? You're joking, right?"
"Hehe… no, it's true."
"But you work here in the healing ward—"
"I'm only volunteering today."
She dragged a hand down her face and let out a long, disappointed sigh that seemed to carry the weight of every missed opportunity in her life. "Haa… I thought I might finally receive proper consolation from the Church after so long…"
"Is something troubling you?" I asked, tilting my head. "I could still offer comfort, if you'd like."
She nearly jumped off the bed. "What?! No, that's not— Lirian, do you even understand what that word implies in this context?"
I blinked innocently. The only image that came to mind was something far more private, but I wasn't about to say it aloud. "A knee pillow, maybe?"
"Haa… forget I said anything."
"Or perhaps stroking your hair?"
"You little rascal!"
The familiar script played out exactly as it always did. I had pushed the line again, and her hand shot out to pinch my cheek between strong fingers.
"M-my apologies…" I mumbled around the grip.
"Haa… no wonder you looked so young. I should have realized."
"Ow… that hurts… let go…"
"Hmph!"
She finally released me, blowing out an exasperated breath, and I rubbed the sore spot with a quiet grumble.
"Too bad," I said lightly. "You really should pay closer attention to appearances next time."
"Haa… this cheeky brat again…"
"Ah… s-sorry."
My hands came together automatically in a polite clasp, eyes lowered in the well-practiced posture of deference. When she lifted her hand once more I braced for another pinch, tasting the familiar helplessness that came from knowing my mouth had run ahead of my better judgment.
"…Big sis."
"…Hm?"
I perched on the edge of the narrow bed and patted my lap twice, the soft fabric of my robes shifting under my palm.
"Don't you need comfort?"
"Ah, no, that's not the kind I—"
"If you don't want it, that's fine."
She cleared her throat, cheeks still pink. "…Ahem. Then… just a little."
Hesitantly, the tall paladin lowered her head until it rested on my thighs. The weight of her was surprising—solid, warm, the faint scent of steel and sweat and something like sun-warmed leather rising from her hair. I slid my fingers through the strands, slow and gentle, offering the same lap pillow I usually gave Vespera when she needed to unwind after long hours in the papal chambers. Her face flushed deeper as she realized the position she had accepted, but she stayed still, breathing evening out.
"Stay put," I told her softly.
"U-uh… okay."
"You've carried a heavy burden for a long time, haven't you?"
"It's… not that bad."
I kept stroking, letting the motion soothe us both while I murmured quiet reassurances about the endless duty of Akadonia's paladins, the endless defense of the realm, the toll it took even on the strongest. It wasn't difficult. This much tenderness cost me nothing.
Yet a small doubt flickered in the back of my mind—is this truly the comfort she wanted?—but I pushed it aside. The simple kindness seemed to help.
"By the way, Paladin, what is your exact rank?"
"…Paladin."
"Wow… that must come with quite the stipend."
"…You rascal. Talking nonsense again."
My body tensed for another cheek pinch, but it never came. Instead she let out a low chuckle that vibrated against my leg.
"Hehe… do you give your juniors a hard time? Call them out for drills, maybe kick their shins when they slack off?"
"A… little?"
"Heh. Just as I thought."
Old memories from my previous life surfaced unbidden—harsh hierarchies, pointless cruelty disguised as discipline—and I felt a quiet pang of sympathy for whoever trained under her. No matter the world, some things never changed.
"Haa… this little brat…"
"Bleh."
We stayed like that for a while longer, the sanctum quiet except for the soft rustle of my fingers in her hair and the occasional murmur of conversation. The tension had melted into something light and unexpectedly pleasant, and for once the weight of being the only man in the room felt less like a cage and more like a simple, shared moment between two people who had both seen too much of the world's sharper edges.