Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Anna didn't say a word. This was what Madam Navarre feared the most: Once her eldest daughter showed this demeanor, it meant her mind was made up. And once her eldest daughter's mind was made up, nothing could change it. She was a stubborn girl; her soft exterior and resilient interior—at this moment—became the biggest problem. "Is it worth it? You are still so young; is it worth it?" "You have given him all your heart, precisely because you spent too little time together. You are in love with the man you imagine, not with who he really is. The real him would disappoint you, disgust you—do you understand? You'll meet someone much better!" "It's just a man; not one hundred, not ten thousand men are worth a woman giving up herself!" The silent Anna suddenly spoke up, "What about you and dad?" Madam Navarre's breath hitched, "Your father and I are exceptions. And we got married! And we had you lot! And your father would never let me go to the monastery!" "I do it willingly." "You silly girl!" No longer composed and elegant, Madam Navarre raised her arm in a high gesture, struggling greatly yet still reluctant to bring it down: "Why are you so foolish?" From Anna's face, Madam Navarre could always see the shadow of her late husband. Madam Navarre, holding her daughter's hand, nearly pleaded: "Mom won't force you to get engaged anymore, not in a hurry to find you a husband, it's all up to you. You don't need to become a nun, you don't need to do it this way." Tears slid down the corners of Anna's eyes, "I just want to pray for him forever." Tear by tear fell from her chin, landing on the blood-stained letter in her hand. She read every word, her hands caressing each letter. This wasn't actually a letter but a diary Winters Montagne wrote to his lover. In the diary, it was as if nothing had happened: The wasteland is cold, the sky is blue, I miss you a lot. But from these simple and monotonous records, she saw his handwriting tremble; she smelled the burnt scent on the letter. The diary's owner gradually shifted from first person to third person, describing everything from an observer's perspective. His mind grew more and more detached, and his wording became increasingly cold, as if he had lost all feeling. Anna felt as though she was touching the soul of Winters Montagne across time and space, seeing him curled up, knees to chest, weeping in the endless darkness. "When he died, was it peaceful?" Anna wanted to know the answer, "Is he in heaven?" "Because he is gone, he will always be at his best," Anna sobbed, "If I also forget him, then that best part of him will completely vanish." Madam Navarre felt a sharp pain in her chest; the reason could no longer be made clear. She leaned back in the chair, her face pale, pleading weakly, "Anna, mom's heart is not good, don't stress mom like this, okay? Cool down first, and we can decide slowly later, okay? My heart really hurts right now." Anna lowered her head in agony. Madam Navarre grew more anxious; if the guilt couldn't break her daughter, then she was truly out of options. "Mom! Stop pressuring sister!" Catherine rushed into the bedroom and took Anna into her arms, "Sister wants to stay at the monastery for a few days, let her stay for a few days. I will accompany her!" Catherine then pleaded with her sister, "If you want to go to the monastery, go, but don't rush into taking vows, okay? Let's stay there for a while, shall we?" Anna nodded lightly. Ladies and mistresses temporarily staying at a convent was a common occurrence. They could pray with the nuns without taking lifelong vows. The crisis was temporarily averted. "Alright, go ahead," Madam Navarre's tense spirits relaxed. She thought resentfully, "My daughter, my exceptional daughter, should be the one making men lose their minds over her; how did it become the opposite?" At this thought, Madam Navarre said indignantly, "Let alone the fact that the young man is dead, even if he were alive, I would not allow you to marry him!"