After parting ways with Brentian, Granada summoned all the Ronheim maids who had been present during Chloe's clothing selection.
The servants arrived expecting a routine meeting—but froze when they saw Granada's expression.
"You called for us, ma'am?"
Granada's voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Where do you think you're going to spread such shameful gossip?!"
The maids didn't ask what gossip she meant. They didn't bother denying anything.
They knew better. Trying to dodge responsibility when Granada was truly angry would only make things infinitely worse.
A genuinely furious Granada was a force of nature—terrifying enough that the servants immediately bowed their heads in contrition.
"We're sorry."
"It was a slip of the tongue. We didn't mean—"
"A slip of the tongue?!"
Granada's eyes blazed.
"Whatever my lady chooses to spend money on is none of your concern. Financial matters belong to Steward Mainz—that's why he holds his position. Or do you think Mainz is so incompetent that he'd allow the household to go bankrupt over a single purchase?"
"No! Of course not—"
"Fools. Every one of you represents Prince Callius's household. When you misbehave, you disgrace his reputation. As long as I draw breath, I will not tolerate such disrespect."
"We were wrong! We'll be more careful!"
The loyal servants flushed with genuine shame, realizing the weight of their careless words.
"I hadn't thought of it that way. I was short-sighted."
"I didn't mean any harm. I was just... worried. I'm embarrassed now."
Seeing their sincere remorse, Granada's expression softened slightly.
"Good. Remember this lesson. The Prince works tirelessly for all of us. Don't ever forget that."
While Granada was reinforcing discipline among the staff, I sat by my chamber window sipping warm tea.
The maids were busy adjusting the merchant's garments to fit me properly, leaving me wonderfully alone for a rare moment.
It was far too cold to actually open the window—the chill would have been unbearable—but I loved the view nonetheless.
Arental's palace had been built low and sprawling, surrounded by vast, manicured grounds. From my windows there, I'd seen nothing but carefully cultivated gardens stretching to distant walls.
But Ronheim Castle stood like a fortress perched on high ground, commanding the territory below.
From here, I could see everything—the houses clustered around the castle, the winding streets, even individual people moving through the alleys.
It was endlessly fascinating.
I found myself studying the layout of the town, watching residents go about their daily routines, observing the rhythm of life in Ronheim.
Then something caught my attention.
One particular street was unusually crowded—people pressing together, moving in one direction as if drawn by something magnetic.
I squinted, leaning closer to the cold glass.
At the center of the crowd, I spotted two figures on horseback.
Callius. And Sir Hawick.
Even from this distance—even though I couldn't make out their faces clearly—I recognized them instantly.
Especially Callius.
How strange. He stands out no matter where he is, no matter how many people surround him.
I watched, transfixed, as the scene unfolded below.
The people of Ronheim clearly adored their lord.
As Callius rode slowly through the crowd, residents pressed forward—placing roughly woven flower garlands around his neck, pressing small cloth bags of goods into his hands, offering him ripe apples and other humble gifts.
Someone reached over the heads of others just to shake his hand.
Callius stubbornly tried to refuse the offerings—I could see him shaking his head, attempting to hand things back—but the people were relentless in their affection.
They wanted to give him something. To feed him. To show their gratitude in whatever small way they could.
The procession moved at a crawl, Callius and Hawick nearly buried beneath flowers and gifts and reaching hands.
Even from this distance, I could see Callius's smile—warm and genuine despite his obvious embarrassment at the attention.
That smile did something strange to my chest.
I set down my teacup and rested my chin on the windowsill, completely absorbed in watching him.
What's so fascinating about this? Why can't I look away?
Then Callius glanced toward the castle.
For a heartbeat, I could have sworn our eyes met.
I jerked back from the window as if I'd been caught doing something illicit.
No. Impossible. He's probably just looking at the castle itself. Or the sky. There's no way he can actually see me from that far away—
"Who's he waving at, I wonder? Could it be... you?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Callius had raised his arm and was waving cheerfully in my direction—his smile even brighter than before.
I stood frozen, utterly confused.
Why would he...? How could he possibly...?
"He's waving at you, my lady."
Lamia's voice came from directly behind me.
"Gods! Lamia! You have to make noise when you approach people!"
"You were so absorbed in watching your husband that you didn't notice when I called your name."
She'd changed from calling Callius "the Marquis" to "your husband" with remarkable speed.
"You... you called me?"
"Three times."
"That can't be—"
Lamia narrowed her eyes with an infuriatingly knowing expression.
"Mm-hmm. Sure."
My face felt inexplicably warm despite how cold the rest of me was.
I reached out and lightly swatted Lamia's shoulder.
"Where do you learn such mischievous habits?"
"Hehehehe."
She just shrugged, grinning wickedly. Her laughter grew louder.
"You should wave back quickly. If you keep standing there like that, your husband's arm is going to fall off."
I glanced back out the window.
Callius was still waving.
Thoroughly embarrassed now, I protested weakly:
"It might not even be for me. We're so far away—how could he possibly see me?"
"My lady, you can see him, can't you? So why wouldn't he be able to see you? Northerners have excellent eyesight. I'm sure he can see your face turning bright red right now."
"Absolutely not!"
I covered both cheeks with my hands.
Lamia circled around me, holding her stomach and laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
Left with no other choice, I finally raised my hand and waved back.
Callius's smile grew even wider—as if he'd been genuinely waiting for my response. He lowered his waving arm, clearly satisfied.
"What...?"
I muttered to myself, flustered beyond reason.
Why make such a fuss about waving? And now everyone down there is looking this way—
Sure enough, the crowd around Callius had started glancing up toward the castle, curious about who had captured their lord's attention.
Mortified, I quickly ducked behind the curtain.
But Lamia wouldn't let it go. She kept teasing me relentlessly until I finally forgot all dignity and chased her around the room.
"You're impossible! Why are you so annoying?!"
"Errelli, colelli~! Hahahaha!"
We ran in circles—me pursuing, Lamia dodging with surprising agility—both of us half-laughing despite ourselves.
I'm not usually like this. Why do I act so... recklessly around Lamia?
It was utterly undignified.
Thank the gods none of the other maids are here to witness this.
Of course, Granada chose that exact moment to enter the room.
She caught Lamia mid-dodge and delivered a thorough scolding to both of us.
...Well. That's what I get for losing my composure.
It was around noon when Callius returned to the castle after his brief inspection of the territory.
Mainz met him immediately, leading him to a secluded chamber deep within the castle's private wings.
"I've brought the sorcerer you requested. He's apparently quite renowned among the nomadic tribes."
The man Mainz had summoned was middle-aged and peculiar in appearance.
Strange tattoos covered his hands and forearms in intricate, spiraling patterns. He was balding and heavyset, with hunched shoulders that made him appear shorter than he actually was.
In one hand, he carried a wooden staff carved with serpent designs—clearly ceremonial rather than functional.
Thin gold ornaments dangled from his clothing, clinking softly with every movement.
When he saw Callius, the sorcerer bowed with exaggerated elegance—so theatrical it bordered on mockery.
"Why would the son of a Saint summon someone as lowly as myself?"
The sorcerer's reference to the "Saint" was deliberate.
Priests and sorcerers might seem similar to the uninformed, but they were fundamentally different beings.
Priests conveyed divine will and performed miracles through sacrifice and faith. Sorcerers manipulated mystical forces for personal gain and weren't above using others as tools or sacrifices.
Where priests gave of themselves to help many, sorcerers took from others to benefit themselves.
Callius had never dealt with sorcerers before—had actively avoided them, in fact.
But this time, he had no choice.
"I summoned you because I need information about curses. Curses fall within your domain."
The sorcerer's eyes gleamed with interest.
"A lord who inherited the blood of Saints could never be cursed himself. So... who is it? Who bears this curse you speak of?"
"Is there a way to determine that without being told directly?"
The sorcerer smiled—a slippery, unpleasant expression.
"Impossible, I'm afraid. I would need to examine the afflicted person directly. A single drop of their blood might suffice, but even then..."
He was fishing for information. Trying to satisfy his curiosity.
If he were truly as skilled as he claimed, he could have identified the curse's nature from a single drop of blood without needing to see Chloe at all.
But obtaining Chloe's blood without her knowledge was impossible.
And I can't let her know about the curse. Not yet. Not until I find a way to break it.
Anxiety fed curses. Made them stronger. More insidious.
The last thing Chloe needed was to live in fear of something she couldn't control.
Callius's hand moved to the sword at his waist.
The blade slid free with a whisper of steel—well-maintained, razor-sharp, gleaming even in the dim light.
He rested it against the sorcerer's throat with practiced ease.
"If you speak carelessly about this matter—if you reveal what we discuss here to anyone—I will not let you walk away alive."
The sorcerer didn't flinch. He simply raised both hands in a lazy gesture of surrender, his staff still gripped casually in one palm.
"I wonder... is there any real danger of that?"
His tone suggested he found the threat almost... amusing.
But Callius's eyes remained cold and unwavering.
"Test me and find out."
The sorcerer's smile faded slightly.
"Very well, my lord. You have my discretion. Now... tell me about this curse."
Callius lowered the blade but didn't sheath it.
And as he began describing the dark magic woven around his wife—magic she didn't even know existed—his jaw tightened with grim determination.
I will find a way to break this. Whatever it takes.
Even if it means bargaining with darkness itself.
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