They said to wait just a moment, but it's taking quite a while...
I sat restlessly in my chambers, waiting for the maids to finish adjusting my new garments.
Then someone knocked on the door.
"May I come in for a moment?"
Callius's voice.
I jumped up from my chair so abruptly I nearly knocked it over.
Lamia—who had been warming herself luxuriously by my fireplace (something the maids' quarters apparently lacked)—sprang into action with excessive enthusiasm.
"Just a moment! Please wait!"
She rushed over and began fussing with my appearance—smoothing nonexistent wrinkles, adjusting my hair.
Then, without waiting for my permission, she swept to the door and opened it with a flourish.
"Please, come in, my lord! Her Ladyship has been eagerly awaiting you."
When did I—?!
My mouth fell open at Lamia's shameless lie.
But as Callius strode into the room, I quickly schooled my expression into something appropriately serene.
"Is something the matter, Callius?"
"Are you busy at the moment?"
"Not at all."
"Good. I've brought a physician to check on you."
"A physician? Why? Do I seem unwell?"
"No, but you've just completed an arduous journey in harsh conditions. Sometimes illness sets in without one realizing. I wanted to be certain you're truly well."
"I see..."
I thought about the miserable, sleepless night I'd spent shivering beneath inadequate blankets.
Could I actually be ill without knowing it?
The possibility that my suffering might have a medical cause—rather than just being poor adjustment to the climate—made me greet the physician with genuine relief.
The man who entered wore a pristine cloak that covered him from shoulders to ankles. Long gloves extended past his elbows—so long they seemed almost comical.
Both the cloak and gloves appeared slightly too large, as if borrowed from someone else.
He bowed to me with exaggerated grace.
"Examine the Marchioness carefully. I want to know if anything at all is wrong with her health."
"Yes, my lord. I shall do my utmost."
The physician knelt before me with surprising fluidity.
"Please extend your wrist, my lady."
Isn't he going to remove his gloves first?
It seemed odd to check someone's pulse while wearing such thick gloves, but perhaps he was simply exceptionally skilled.
I obediently offered my wrist.
He took it gently in his gloved hands, fingers pressing carefully against the pulse point.
The moment his touch made contact—even through the fabric—a strange, visceral chill shot through my body.
Goosebumps erupted across my skin.
...What?
I looked at the man more carefully.
He was smiling.
Not a warm, professional smile. Something else. Something that made my skin crawl.
What is this feeling?
An inexplicable sense of wrongness settled over me—heavy and oppressive despite the fact that he'd done nothing overtly threatening.
I kept my posture straight and my expression neutral, determined not to show my discomfort.
"Well? Is there a problem?"
The physician shook his head, still wearing that unsettling smile.
"Fortunately, my lady is in excellent health. You simply need to eat a bit more heartily. Keep your strength up."
At the words "eat more," both Callius and Lamia nodded in perfect synchronization.
I pulled my wrist away from the physician's grasp as soon as it was polite to do so.
I'm healthy... That's good, I suppose.
I'd been about to mention my sleepless, freezing night—but the words died in my throat.
My inexplicable aversion to this man wouldn't fade.
Perhaps the cold was just... unusually severe last night. I'll have to believe I'm truly fine.
After dismissing the "physician" from Chloe's chambers, Callius met with the sorcerer again in secret.
The man shed his borrowed cloak and oversized gloves with visible relief—as if the respectable disguise had been physically uncomfortable.
He returned instantly to his gaudy, jangling appearance: gold ornaments clinking, tattoos exposed, serpent-carved staff gripped casually in one hand.
His expression was alight with barely contained excitement.
"Your lady wife bears a truly magnificent curse! Extraordinary work! The sorcerer who crafted it must be formidably powerful. I would dearly love to meet them."
Callius regarded him with cold distaste.
"How do I break it?"
The sorcerer's smile widened.
"I'm afraid I cannot break it. To shatter a curse of this magnitude, you would need someone significantly more powerful than the original caster—or the caster themselves would have to die."
In other words: he was admitting he was weaker than whoever had cursed Chloe.
"A more powerful sorcerer..."
Callius muttered the words, mind already racing through possibilities.
The sorcerer leaned forward with the eager helpfulness of a merchant offering a particularly lucrative deal.
"There are many ways for a sorcerer to increase their power, my lord. But there is one method that is both the most certain and the fastest."
"...?"
"Consuming the resentment of others."
He laughed—a wet, unpleasant sound.
"Hehehehe! In my entire life, I have never encountered traces of a sorcerer who grew so powerful by harvesting such vast quantities of resentment. Truly remarkable!"
"Resentment?"
"The most potent resentment comes from wrongful death, of course. Murder. Betrayal. Souls denied peace."
"I cannot say with absolute certainty, but... it's highly probable that this sorcerer killed many people to gain such strength. If they achieved this level of power in a short time? Then it's virtually guaranteed."
The sorcerer's eyes gleamed with macabre fascination.
"I am desperately curious to know who it is."
Callius's suspicion crystallized into near-certainty.
Kavala.
It was common knowledge that Empress Kavala practiced dark magic—though in Arental, such practitioners preferred the term "warlock" to "sorcerer."
The distinction was purely political.
In Ronheim, sorcerers were tolerated—consulted even—but never allowed to rise above their station. People sought their services but would never permit them true power or prestige.
Kavala had been obsessed with reshaping that image. With presenting herself as elegant, refined, noble—worthy of standing beside an Emperor.
The first thing she'd done upon becoming Empress was rename herself. "Warlock" sounded so much more sophisticated than "sorcerer."
But what have you been doing, Kavala? How many did you kill to gain this power?
Callius's fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white.
The sorcerer, oblivious to—or perhaps deliberately ignoring—Callius's mounting rage, continued with mock sympathy:
"A sorcerer more powerful than this one would be a mass murderer, my lord. Even if such a person exists, I doubt they would reveal themselves to someone of your... holy lineage."
He paused, then added with theatrical melancholy:
"Your beautiful lady will die soon. Oh, what a tragedy. What a waste."
Then he extended his palm expectantly—the universal gesture of someone who'd completed their work and now demanded payment.
Callius asked one final question through gritted teeth.
"Isn't there any other way?"
The sorcerer shrugged with exaggerated indifference.
"The time we agreed upon with your steward has passed, my lord. I've fulfilled my end of the bargain. Please provide the payment you promised."
Callius stood motionless, eyes boring into the man with barely restrained fury.
The sorcerer sighed dramatically.
"...It's not as though there's no way at all."
"What?"
"But it will cost extra."
Of course. More money for more information.
"You said moments ago there were only two ways to break the curse. Are you going back on your word now?"
Callius's voice was dangerously soft.
Many sorcerers were skilled liars and manipulators. When your profession involved bending mystical forces to your will and caring only for personal gain, such talents developed naturally.
"You misunderstand, my lord. I never said there was a way to break the curse. I said there might be a way to slightly mask its power—to extend your lady's life."
There it was. The classic bait-and-switch.
Callius had been about to simply pay the agreed sum and dismiss the charlatan.
But hearing that Chloe's time was running out—that desperation clawed at his chest despite knowing the sorcerer was deliberately stoking his anxiety.
He's manipulating me. I know he's manipulating me. This is what they do—prey on fear, dangle hope just out of reach, guide the desperate wherever they want them to go...
But knowing the tactic didn't make it any less effective when it was Chloe's life at stake.
The sorcerer, sensing Callius's internal struggle, twisted the knife deeper.
"If you don't require my advice, I'll take my leave now. I'll collect my payment from your steward. Just know..."
He paused at the door, hand on the knob.
"...your lady's time is running out."
And with that, he began to walk away.
Callius closed his eyes.
Drew in a slow breath.
"I didn't want to resort to this."
The sorcerer—who had been ostentatiously opening the door—perked up immediately.
"Pardon?"
In the next instant, his body flew backward through the air.
CRASH!
He sailed clean through the window opposite the door—glass shattering, wooden frame splintering.
"WHAT—?!"
Before the sorcerer could even process what had happened, Callius was there—one hand clamped around his throat like an iron vice.
He lifted the man's entire body with a single arm, showing no strain whatsoever despite the sorcerer's frantic struggling.
"How dare you try to trade with my wife's life?"
Callius's voice was colder than the winter wind howling through the broken window.
"M-my lord! Wait—please—!"
The sorcerer's face flushed deep red as blood flow to his brain was cut off. His hands scrabbled uselessly at Callius's immovable grip.
"*Cough!* Your Excellency—!"
But Callius's hand might as well have been carved from stone. It didn't budge a fraction of an inch.
"You—you're the Saint's son—!"
The appeal to his holy lineage—the desperate hope that someone descended from such righteousness wouldn't resort to violence.
Callius's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I am the Saint's son, yes. I am also the lord of this territory. And I am a husband with a sacred duty to protect my wife."
His eyes held the predatory focus of a wolf who'd found a threat to his mate.
"Now then. Let me ask the questions. Will you die with your mouth shut? Or will you speak after losing an arm?"
"*Gack!* W-wrong! I was wrong—!"
"Oh? And if you want to leave with all your limbs intact..."
Callius's grip tightened fractionally.
"...that will cost extra. Is that acceptable?"
The sorcerer's own words, thrown back at him with lethal intent.
"*Hkkk!* Yes! Yes! Anything—I'll tell you everything—!"
Callius held him there a moment longer—just long enough to ensure the lesson had been thoroughly learned.
Then he dropped him.
The sorcerer collapsed in a gasping heap, clutching his throat and drawing in desperate, wheezing breaths.
"Speak."
Callius loomed over him, silhouetted against the broken window like an avenging angel.
"Tell me how to save my wife. And if you lie to me again..."
He didn't need to finish the threat.
The sorcerer understood perfectly.
And as the winter wind howled through shattered glass and the sorcerer began to speak—voice hoarse, words tumbling out in terrified haste—Callius listened with the focused intensity of a man who would tear down the heavens themselves if that's what it took.
No price was too high. No method too dark.Not when it came to saving her.
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