---
Marin blinked rapidly at the contract.
The words remained stubbornly unchanged.
She rubbed her eyes with both fists, hard enough to see spots. Pushed the document away to arm's length. Pulled it back. Read the clause again.
> *For each occasion upon which His Grace the Duke successfully falls asleep under the employee's care, additional compensation of one (1) gold coin shall be provided.*
Still there. Still real.
"You... truly intend to include this?"
"Yes."
*Dear God. Money is literally falling from the sky.*
Marin set the contract down and shook her head so vigorously that her vision blurred.
"No. I can't accept this."
Olive's eyebrows rose slightly.
"Yesterday I already took one gold in advance—that was our agreement. And now you've given my mother and me shelter in accommodations far grander than we deserve." She pressed her palm flat against the desk, as if physically pushing back the offer. "If I take this on top of everything else, I'll lose whatever remains of my conscience."
*She who grasps for too much loses everything.*
The old proverb echoed in her mind like a warning bell.
But Olive merely smiled—a crooked, knowing expression that held none of his usual warmth—and slid the contract back toward her.
"Miss Marin. There's something you don't know."
She waited, suddenly uneasy.
"His Grace the Duke hasn't slept in two weeks." Olive's voice had gone flat. "Or rather—that's the last report I received. The actual duration may be longer."
It was the darkest expression she'd seen on his face since they'd met.
"*Two weeks?*"
Marin stared at him, certain she'd misheard. He met her gaze steadily and nodded once—slow, deliberate, confirming the nightmare.
Their recent conversations crashed through her memory with new meaning. Olive's worry about insomnia had seemed excessive at the time, almost melodramatic compared to the literal blood crusted on the Duke's ear.
Now she understood.
*A man who hasn't slept in two weeks. A man whose heightened senses turn every sound into agony. No wonder he stabbed his own eardrum—he must have been desperate for any relief at all.*
"If His Grace can achieve even a few hours of rest," Olive continued, "we would gladly pay not one gold, but a hundred. Shall I amend the contract accordingly?"
"No!" The refusal burst from her before she could moderate her tone. "One gold is more than generous. Besides—this matter was already settled between His Grace and myself."
*Greed leads nowhere good.*
She repeated it like a mantra, trying to anchor herself.
She hadn't realized things were this dire. The novel had never mentioned anything about chronic insomnia—only the blindness, the sensitivity, the general deterioration of the Duke's condition before the heroine arrived.
*How was he supposed to function as ruler of the western territories if he couldn't even sleep?*
"This is His Grace's direct order," Olive said quietly.
"...Very well." Marin's shoulders sagged in surrender. "Then one gold it is."
She could see the concern written across Olive's features—and knew her own face likely mirrored it.
"We don't have excessive expectations," he said gently. "Please don't feel obligated to succeed where others have failed."
"Ah." She tried to laugh; it came out hollow. "That's exactly what's weighing on me. Speaking of which—may I visit the library during my break?"
"The library? Whatever for?"
"To select books for reading aloud to His Grace. Something suitably boring, ideally." She attempted a smile. "Are there any genres His Grace finds particularly dull? That would be *tremendously* helpful."
Hope flickered in her chest.
"His Grace listens to everything with equal interest."
Olive's gentle smile shattered that hope into a thousand pieces.
"I see..."
Marin answered lifelessly, swallowing the sigh that threatened to escape.
*The more boring the book, the faster you fall asleep. But if nothing bores him...*
She was going to have to get creative.
---
## — The Library —
Following the hand-drawn map Olive had sketched for her, Marin navigated the castle's winding corridors.
She got lost twice, backtracked three times, and finally—after what felt like an hour of wandering—found herself before an ancient door carved with an elaborate relief of the sun.
The moment she pushed it open, the scent of books washed over her like a wave.
Paper and leather. Dust and age. The particular perfume of knowledge accumulated over centuries.
The Duke's study had been spacious enough. This library was *cathedral*.
Shelves rose three stories high, packed so densely with volumes that not an inch of wood showed between spines. Rolling ladders stood at intervals, ready to carry scholars to the upper reaches. Afternoon light filtered through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like golden snow.
Marin inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with that beloved scent.
"Happiness," she breathed.
"Why?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
A small figure had materialized beside her, clutching a tome nearly as large as himself. He stared up at her with eyes the deep blue of mountain lakes, set in a face of porcelain perfection. His hair gleamed silver-white, like threads spun from moonlight. His features were delicate—a neat nose, rosebud lips, the faint suggestion of dimples.
*He looks like an ice elf from a fairy tale.*
"Who are you?" Marin bent slightly to meet his gaze. The boy barely reached her waist.
"And who are *you*?"
"Me?" She blinked, surprised by the reversal. "You're asking me?"
"Yes." A smile bloomed across his face, revealing those dimples in full. "You."
"I'm Marin."
"Ah! So *you're* Miss Marin." He shifted the massive book to one arm and extended his free hand with surprisingly adult formality. "I am Zero."
*Zero.*
The name triggered an avalanche of recognition.
*The alchemist. The one from the novel.*
He supposedly had a potion that could temporarily restore youth—apparently he'd drunk some recently. But beneath that childlike exterior lived a man decades older, with centuries' worth of accumulated knowledge and a reputation for distrusting everyone he met.
Marin hesitated for only a moment before deciding that, regardless of his current appearance, she would address him appropriately.
"Mr. Zero—do you know me?"
"Olive mentioned you." His smile widened. "Though I must say, you certainly know how to keep people waiting."
His small palm remained extended. Marin quickly placed her hand in his.
"My apologies. It's a pleasure to meet you."
She expected a handshake. Instead, Zero lifted her hand and pressed his lips briefly to her knuckles, then looked up to meet her eyes.
"You're strange."
"I am?"
"Yes."
"In what way?"
"I appear to be a child." He tilted his head, silver hair catching the light. "Yet you still address me formally."
"Ah—but I'm common-born. It would be improper to—"
"You're not very good at lying."
Heat flooded Marin's cheeks. She turned her head, suddenly fascinated by a nearby shelf.
"It's not a lie."
"If you say so." Zero's tone suggested polite disbelief. "But you still haven't answered my question."
"Which question?"
"When you entered, you said you were happy. Why?"
Marin remembered—her whispered exclamation, spoken to no one, overheard anyway.
"I love books."
The words emerged before she could filter them, raw and honest in a way nothing else she'd said in this castle had been.
"Being surrounded by so many of them..." She gestured at the towering shelves, the endless spines, the accumulated wisdom of ages. "It's pure happiness."
Her eyes sparkled. For the first time since arriving at the Duke's household, she'd answered without calculation or caution—simply spoken the truth.
Zero's eyebrows rose fractionally. Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or reassessment.
Then he grinned.
"They say you're exceptionally talented at reading reports aloud. Is that true? How did you discover such a gift?"
"I've loved reading since I was very small. Practice, I suppose." She seized the opportunity to redirect the conversation. "Speaking of which—do I need your permission to browse the collection here?"
"No." Zero waved a dismissive hand. "If you're here, Gerald's already granted access. Feel free to explore. If anything confuses you, just ask."
The offer was delivered with childlike simplicity—but coming from Zero, it carried weight.
*He's supposed to be paranoid. Mistrustful. The novel described him testing everyone who crossed his path, pretending innocence while probing for weakness.*
*And he's notoriously territorial about his spaces. The library might as well be his kingdom.*
Yet here he stood, welcoming her without reservation.
*For whatever reason... he seems to like me.*
"Thank you," Marin said, genuinely touched. "I appreciate your kindness."
Zero smiled again—those dimples deepening—and wandered off between the shelves, his enormous book tucked under one arm like a beloved pet.
---
## — The Duke's Study —
For the first time in months, Butler Sebas entered the Duke's private study.
The man who had once commanded battalions of knights, who had charged into battle against monsters without flinching, now seemed diminished. His usually impeccable posture had curved into something approaching a bow before he'd even reached his master's presence.
"Speak."
At the Duke's command, Sebas inclined his head and began whispering to Olive, who stood nearby.
Gerald's eyes—hidden behind their silk bandage—narrowed.
"Butler. Address me directly."
Sebas winced. "If I speak at normal volume, Your Grace, the noise will be... excessive."
"Butler."
Ice crystallized in that single word.
Sebas's mouth opened immediately.
"Yes, Your Grace."
In the quietest voice he could manage—barely more than a breath shaped into words—the butler recounted the morning's events. The confrontation at the cottage. The landlords' illegal rent-collecting. The violence against Roenna. Marin's remarkable composure throughout.
Gerald listened in silence.
"Where are those commoners now?"
"In custody, Your Grace."
"Not just them. Everyone who profited from the scheme."
The languid voice had turned cold enough to freeze blood.
Olive and Sebas exchanged glances, their faces gone taut with tension.
"Olive."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Those found guilty will have their property confiscated and face five years of hard labor. Investigate thoroughly. Punish everyone equally."
"Understood."
"And the woman who struck the temporary worker's mother..."
Olive waited.
"She claims ignorance of noble status. Limit her punishment accordingly—ensure she can never use her hands again. No further measures."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The words came automatically, without hesitation. One did not question the Duke's justice.
At Gerald's barely perceptible gesture, both men bowed and withdrew.
---
The door clicked shut.
Silence descended—perfect, absolute, *crushing*.
Gerald loosened the iron grip he'd maintained over his rebelling senses.
The pain arrived instantly.
It had been waiting, coiled just beneath his control like a serpent poised to strike. Now it exploded through his skull, tearing at the inside of his head with claws of white-hot iron. Every nerve screamed. Every thought shattered against the agony.
A thin groan escaped his clenched teeth—
—and pierced his ears like an arrow, the sound of his own voice cutting into his heightened hearing with physical force.
He stifled the next groan, biting down so hard his teeth tore through the soft tissue of his cheek. Blood flooded his mouth. The copper taste triggered immediate nausea, his stomach heaving against the onslaught.
Gerald endured it all without moving.
His face remained carved from stone. His breathing stayed even, despite the screaming of every nerve. He had learned—through months of relentless practice—to wear suffering like a mask.
*Think of something else. Force the mind elsewhere.*
He reached for distraction.
And found himself thinking of her.
The temporary worker. The strange woman who had boldly declared—with a straight face, without apparent irony—that she would put him to sleep.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile. But something close.
*She has no idea what she's promised. No understanding of what she faces.*
And yet...
He found himself almost curious to see her try.
---