---
*They say she slapped them so hard the sound echoed across the mountain.*
Gerald turned the report over in his mind, letting it distract him from the pain still throbbing behind his eyes.
*That slip of a girl—thin as a reed, fragile as spun glass—somehow struck hard enough to leave marks?*
Unexpected.
In his presence, she'd always behaved like a frightened rabbit. Trembling hands. Hiccupping when startled. Covering her mouth to stifle screams.
Yet she never truly flinched. Never fled. Spoke her mind even when her voice shook.
*Afraid, but not broken. Timid, but not weak.*
An unusual combination.
*"I'll put you to sleep."*
Her words surfaced unbidden—that absurd declaration, delivered with desperate sincerity.
When *had* he last slept?
Gerald searched his memory and found only fog. Days blurred into nights blurred into endless hours of pain. Two weeks? Three? The distinction had lost meaning.
Even with a body stronger than ordinary men, even with senses sharper than any blade—he was still human.
A human being who could not survive without rest.
Since losing his sight, every waking moment had become a battle. His remaining senses raged against their confinement, demanding attention, screaming for release. Controlling them required concentration that left nothing for sleep.
Eventually, inevitably, his body would simply... stop.
He would collapse where he stood. Lose consciousness for half a day, sometimes less. Then wake to the same agony, the same struggle, the same endless cycle.
*Is there any point in continuing like this?*
He'd asked himself that question more than once.
*Perhaps death would be easier.*
*Perhaps oblivion would bring peace.*
But the answer was always the same: *No*.
If he died without an heir, the ducal house would fall within months. The Emperor's faction and the aristocratic opposition would tear it apart like wolves fighting over a carcass. Everything his family had built—everything they'd protected for generations—would crumble to dust.
*Marriage, then?*
The thought brought a bitter twist to his lips.
His hypersensitivity had made human contact unbearable long before the accident. A casual touch felt like a brand. An embrace was torture. The very idea of sharing his life—his bed—with another person had become laughable.
He'd planned to pass the inheritance to his sister's children eventually. But she had only one son, and the empire's laws didn't recognize female heirs. Another boy was needed.
Gerald allowed himself a dark smile.
*Which will happen first: losing my mind to this pain, or my sister producing another son?*
The odds weren't encouraging.
---
## — The Library —
Marin clutched two promising volumes to her chest—both selected for their remarkably tedious subject matter—and continued her exploration of the shelves.
She darted from section to section, scanning titles, searching for anything that might help.
Her feet carried her to a collection of natural science publications, and she paused.
*I'm no miracle herbalist. I can't identify healing roots at a glance like some storybook heroine.*
She was perfectly ordinary—aside from memories of another life that sometimes felt more like a fever dream than reality. All she had to rely on was what she'd read in the novel.
Fortunately, she remembered the name of the herb that would eventually heal the Duke's eyes.
Unfortunately, she had no idea what it looked like.
Marin pulled a thick volume on herbalism from the shelf and began flipping through its pages. The work was exquisitely detailed—names, illustrations, and properties arranged with scholarly precision.
"Mandrelson, Mandrelson..."
She murmured the word like an incantation, her eyes racing across the botanical drawings.
"Why do you need Mandrelson?"
Marin nearly dropped the book.
Zero had materialized beside her without a sound, his silver head tilted curiously upward.
"I—well—it's just—"
She slammed the volume shut and tucked it behind her back with entirely unconvincing casualness.
Zero's lake-blue eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Why the interest? It's only a common weed."
"A *weed*?"
Her voice pitched higher than intended.
"Yes. You won't find it in that book." He gestured dismissively. "Mandrelson isn't classified as medicinal."
"But you—you're the author of this text, aren't you, Mr. Zero?"
Alarmed, Marin glanced at the cover. The author field displayed simply: **0**.
"That's my signature." Zero puffed his small chest with pride. "I wrote the definitive reference."
"That's... extraordinary."
"I know." His dimples deepened. "I'm actually quite brilliant."
*Adorable. He's absolutely adorable.*
Marin caught herself and mentally slapped her own wrist.
*Stop. He's actually a grown man. Several decades old, if the novel is accurate. Get a hold of yourself.*
"So Mandrelson isn't medicinal?"
"Correct. It's an ordinary herb—grows everywhere like weeds."
Marin struggled to keep her expression neutral as hope flickered in her chest.
*Grows everywhere. Maybe I can find it easily.*
"What does it look like?"
"One moment."
Zero stretched onto his tiptoes and pulled a substantial tome from an upper shelf. He wobbled slightly under its weight, but waved off Marin's attempt to help.
"Here."
He laid the book open on a reading stand and pointed to an illustration.
Marin stared.
The plant depicted looked almost exactly like a dandelion from her previous life. Small yellow flower. Long stem. Leaves gathered at the base and spreading outward like a fan.
A flower she'd seen a thousand times. A flower she'd walked past without ever knowing its name.
"So *this* is Mandrelson?" She couldn't keep the wonder from her voice. "And it truly has no medicinal applications?"
"The flowers have a pleasant scent—cool, like mint." Zero shrugged. "Otherwise, nothing special."
"I see..."
Disappointment settled heavy in her stomach.
*So no one in this world knows its true properties. Only the heroine discovers that—and she won't appear for months, maybe longer.*
*Which means there's no shortcut. No intermediary. Only me... and I can't do anything.*
Zero, apparently pleased with his impromptu lecture, returned the heavy volume to its shelf.
Marin's gaze followed the book automatically—and caught the title.
**Poisons of Nature**
Her throat constricted.
"*Poison*?"
"Oh, yes." Zero's childlike voice remained cheerful, oblivious to her distress. "Mandrelson contains toxic compounds. That's why it's catalogued there. At best, ingestion causes severe stomach cramps."
The words hit Marin like a physical blow.
She swayed slightly.
"I see..."
*Poison.*
*The miracle herb is poisonous.*
*Giving it to the Duke wouldn't be a kindness—it would be attempted assassination.*
No matter how small the dose, no matter how pure her intentions, slipping poison to the Duke of Vines would earn her a one-way trip to the executioner's block.
"Are you unwell?"
Zero peered up at her, worry creasing his small features. She'd gone pale as fresh snow.
"I'm fine." The lie tasted like ash. "I should go."
"Come back again!"
He waved enthusiastically, both arms swinging.
"Of course."
Marin managed a weak wave in return and turned toward the exit, her borrowed books clutched to her chest like armor.
---
The corridor stretched before her, endless and mocking.
Marin walked with heavy steps, her face drawn tight with frustration.
*In the novel, the heroine gives Mandrelson juice to the Duke. His sight returns. A miracle cure.*
She'd been so sure. If she could just find the herb, she'd thought—maybe she couldn't heal him completely, but surely a tiny amount would ease his suffering. A small gift. A way to repay his kindness without disrupting the plot.
*But it's poison.*
Common dandelion grass, growing in every field and roadside, beautiful in its simplicity—and deadly.
Even mild poisoning would be poisoning. Even stomach cramps would be harm. And if the Duke's enhanced senses detected anything wrong with what she gave him...
*The chopping block. That's where I'd end up.*
"So this is what a real heroine means."
The words escaped her in a bitter whisper.
The protagonist in the novel somehow neutralized the toxins. Somehow transformed poison into medicine. Somehow saved the day with knowledge Marin didn't possess and couldn't replicate.
*I'm not her. I can't do what she does.*
She felt genuine sympathy for the Duke—watching him suffer, knowing he couldn't sleep, understanding the agony his heightened senses inflicted on him daily. But sympathy wasn't worth dying for.
"Just wait a little longer, Your Grace."
Marin squeezed her eyes shut against the sting of frustrated tears.
"The real heroine will find you soon enough."
---
## — The Office —
"His Grace won't be receiving reports today."
Olive's voice was carefully neutral, but shadows lurked beneath his pleasant expression.
"Is he sleeping?"
She already knew the answer. Still, she had to ask.
Olive shook his head. His smile had gone bitter around the edges.
Marin pressed her palms together, knuckles whitening.
*Another day of suffering. Another day without rest.*
"Since this is your first day after relocating," Olive continued, "you should leave early. Go settle in. Spend time with your mother."
"Thank you for your consideration." She hesitated. "May I read the books I borrowed before I go?"
"Of course. Take your time."
Marin bid him farewell and slipped out of the office.
---
The sun hadn't yet set.
Golden light streamed through the corridor windows, warm and welcoming. But the opposite side of the hallway...
Black curtains swallowed everything. Darkness pooled like spilled ink, dense and impenetrable.
Marin stopped at the precise border between light and shadow.
"It's like a warning," she whispered to herself. "'Turn back. Don't enter.'"
But humans were contrary creatures. Warnings only made forbidden things more tempting.
She took a single step into the darkness.
The black corridor stretched ahead—long, bottomless, leading toward the Duke's private study. Toward the man who couldn't sleep. Toward the monster she'd promised to help.
"I'm sorry."
The apology escaped before she could stop it.
*If Mandrelson weren't poisonous, I would have helped you. I would have tried.*
She hugged her books tighter, as if they could offer comfort.
*But I can't risk the executioner's blade. Not even for you.*
She was turning to retreat into the light when—
*Click.*
The office door swung open behind her.
Marin flinched and scrambled backward, practically leaping across the shadow-line into the illuminated section of the corridor.
Olive emerged, glanced around, and spotted her immediately.
"Miss Marin." He approached with quick strides. "You haven't left yet."
Her face flushed crimson—the heat of guilt flooding her cheeks as though she'd been caught doing something shameful.
"I was just... I was about to..."
"His Grace requests your presence." Olive's expression betrayed nothing. "Immediately."
---