Juliet's thoughts raced with mounting anxiety.
*If the Marquis of Guinness's estate falls under Imperial control, recovering the treasures will become nearly impossible.*
*They said the chest was kept in the Marquis's private chambers...*
There—in that very secret office where he hoarded his most prized possessions.
The Dalton couple, with whom Juliet had spoken the previous evening, had assured her the jewels were hidden there.
Only the Marquis himself knew how to access that place.
Almost no one knew.
*Almost.*
Except Juliet.
Yes. She knew exactly how to open the secret room.
*On the left edge of the library bookshelf, third shelf from the top, there's a green book. Pull it sideways, and a hidden passage reveals itself.*
*It was there that the Marquis collected his most valuable—and most dangerous—finds.*
Juliet knew that room intimately. She had been locked there too many times, just as she had been confined to the punishment room. The Marquis, obsessed with secrets, had hidden things there that no one was ever meant to see.
"Lennox... where is His Grace?" she asked, anxiety threading through her voice.
"He left around midnight. He hasn't been seen since."
"Where did he go?"
"We don't know."
Juliet tried to find the Duke, but the servants gently intercepted her.
Soon, the maids led her to the bath.
After sinking into the steaming water, Juliet finally reached a decision.
*First, recover your senses. Wait for Lennox to return. Then speak with him about the secret room in the Marquis's mansion.*
But the day dragged on... and the Duke still did not appear.
Juliet dozed off—whether from exhaustion or the sedative warmth of the bath, she couldn't say.
When she opened her eyes, darkness had fallen outside.
"Lennox?" she called, rising from the bed.
In the dim shadows of the bedroom, a man's silhouette stood near the window.
"Your Grace... what are you doing there?"
Juliet approached slowly—and immediately grew wary.
Despite the cold season, his hair was soaked, as though he had just doused himself with water.
And the smell...
*Blood.*
Juliet's nose wrinkled involuntarily. A subtle but unmistakable metallic scent clung to him.
"Are you injured?"
"No."
Having asked, she smiled bitterly. *It would have been more appropriate to ask whose blood it was—not whether he was wounded.*
Sensing that Lennox was somehow... *different*, she said quietly:
"Your Grace..."
"What?"
"I... didn't say anything strange yesterday?"
All day, anxiety had gnawed at her. *What if, in her drunken state, she had told him everything?*
But instead of answering, the Duke asked his own question.
"May I hold you?"
"No."
She pulled back sharply.
"What did I say?" she repeated.
"Juliet..."
She tensed.
*Could it be that he had glimpsed another fragment of her past—like that night at the temple ruins?*
*Especially... memories of the Marquis of Guinness.*
*She didn't want that.*
*No pity. No reproach. No understanding in his gaze...*
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all?"
"Yes."
Juliet narrowed her eyes. He was lying. She could feel it.
"Lennox..."
"What?"
She suddenly realized where he must have gone.
"Have you... already killed the Marquis of Guinness?"
"No." His voice was level, calm—but crimson fire burned in his eyes. "Not yet."
Juliet exhaled with relief.
"That's good."
"Is there a reason he should remain alive?"
Juliet hesitated.
"He doesn't need to die... yet."
*He was needed alive—at least until they found the treasure, until they understood how he had acquired it.*
She glanced at Lennox warily, afraid he might interpret her words as defending the criminal.
"I only mean to say—"
"Yes," he answered, unexpectedly simple.
Such easy compliance made her uneasy.
"Are you certain you're all right?"
She stepped closer. Only now did she notice he was completely soaked—drenched to the skin.
"Why were you just standing there in the rain?"
"You can't bear the smell of blood."
*What?*
*He had doused himself with water so she wouldn't have to smell it?*
The gesture seemed both absurd and achingly tender.
"Oh, for heaven's sake..." Juliet muttered, frowning.
"You should have at least covered yourself with a blanket..."
"Juliet."
But before she could drape the blanket over his shoulders, Lennox reached out and gently touched her fingertips.
"May I kiss you?"
It sounded strange.
*The Lennox Carlisle she knew was not one to ask questions. He could be tender, even obsessive. He could care for her as though she were a fragile treasure.*
*But he had always seemed like the type who would leave—easily, without regret—the moment he grew bored.*
*He never asked. Never sought consent.*
*But now, in that look, in that voice... something had changed.*
And, feeling everything inside her shift, Juliet nodded.
"Yes."
But stranger still was what he did next.
Instead of kissing her lips, as she had expected, Lennox slowly—tremblingly, as though touching fragile glass—pressed his lips to the tips of her fingers.
And then he quietly leaned his forehead against her shoulder.
They stood by the window in the half-darkness of the room, and the gesture sent a faint shiver down Juliet's spine.
"Your Grace... what's wrong?" she asked softly, placing her hand on his shoulder.
"It's nothing," he whispered. His fingers trembled slightly as they slid down to the small of her back. "Nothing happened."
But he couldn't tell her the truth.
*Never.*
*I could never tell Juliet what I saw.*
---
## — The Dungeon —
Meanwhile, in the damp prison cell, the Marquis of Guinness regained consciousness.
Awareness returned with a sharp jolt—from the cold, unforgiving stone floor.
"Duke of Carlisle... that *monster*..." he croaked.
He no longer remembered how many times he had lost consciousness.
In a lifetime of power and arrogance, he had never been subjected to such humiliation.
The Marquis of Guinness belonged to that vile breed of man who found pleasure in the suffering of others. He had tortured, tormented, and broken countless people—but the moment pain touched *him*, he instantly transformed into a pathetic, whimpering wretch.
"Who dared... who *dared* to treat me like an animal?"
He didn't even remember his crimes. He simply trembled with impotent rage.
*Leave him alive.*
Such had been the Duke of Carlisle's command.
And perhaps that was the cruelest thing of all.
The Duke had no intention of granting death.
The soldiers and servants under his command beat the Marquis for hours at a time. Surprisingly, they also set his broken bones and bandaged his wounds. They treated him... almost humanely.
But then everything would begin again.
After several such cycles, the Marquis of Guinness began to pray for death.
And as if that weren't enough, fear gnawed at him: *What if that spiritual entity—the one from the rumors—came to visit him?*
He had heard about Archbishop Solon. They said the man could not die, no matter how much he suffered—all because of some cursed mistake.
*The curse...*
The Marquis knew nothing for certain. He didn't know what the spirit could truly do.
He had only heard whispers: *those who were absorbed by the entity lost themselves entirely.*
"Damn it... look what I've become..." he cursed under his breath.
But he did not abandon hope.
He wasn't merely an aristocrat—he was the most powerful magnate in the South. He couldn't fall like this.
*The Duke of Carlisle spared me.*
*Perhaps he intends to bring me to court.*
*This naive young man knows something... but clearly not everything.*
The Marquis clung to the possibility of release.
He had bribed everyone he could reach.
He believed he could exact revenge—if only he waited for the right moment.
"Wait... as soon as I get out of here... I..."
***Tap.***
***Tap.***
***Tap.***
The sound of footsteps made him tremble.
"Who... who's there?!" he screamed hoarsely, pressing himself against the wall.
The shadow was approaching.
---