Callius burst from the prayer room and ran.
His stride was purposeful, urgent—driven by a revelation that had ignited something fierce in his chest.
Brentian, encountering him in the hallway, seized what seemed like a perfect opportunity. He thrust a stack of documents into Callius's hands, eager to finally discuss matters that had been piling up for days.
But Callius brushed past without even glancing at the papers.
"Brentian, I'll prepare the sacrifice. Have Mainz ready the altar. When the time comes, bring Chloe out."
"What? A sudden ritual? What are you—"
Brentian stood frozen, confusion written plainly across his face.
A ritual? The kind that hadn't been performed since Saint Ilya's death?
But Callius was already gone, disappearing down the corridor before Brentian could demand an explanation.
All Callius could think about—all that mattered in this moment—was freeing Chloe from Kavala's curse as quickly as possible.
I need a sacrifice.
A sacrifice that will give Chloe—who is dying—the overflowing life force she needs to survive.
At the same time, in another corner of Ronheim Castle, Andrew was just as desperate about Hillen as Callius was about Chloe.
"Hillen was very sick last night. She told me not to tell you, Andrew—she didn't want you to worry..."
That was the report Leviche—Karl's younger sister, who often nursed Hillen—had delivered to him first thing that morning.
"I think you should take the day off and go see her. Definitely."
Leviche's expression had been unusually grave, her eyes filled with a kind of unspoken urgency that made Andrew's stomach twist.
The old, familiar dread rose up inside him—the terror from his childhood.
The fear that Hillen might be dead when I return home.
This time, it felt like that nightmare might finally come true.
I have to go to her. Right now.
But even as the thought formed, Andrew kept his mouth shut. He didn't mention taking leave to Captain Howick.
Because more than the need to rush to Hillen's side, he felt something else.
Fear. Paralyzing, suffocating fear that made him want to turn away.
Now, all Andrew had left in this world were his father and Hillen.
It had been years since he'd acknowledged his father as family. So really, Hillen was his only blood relative—the only person who mattered.
And that was precisely why he was so terrified.
Captain Howick, oblivious to Andrew's internal turmoil, called out to him.
"You're on duty today, Andrew. You know that, right?"
"Huh? What duty?"
"Watching over the sinner in the basement."
"Ah..."
For some time now, the knights had been taking turns keeping watch over Sernia—Kavala's spy, locked away in the dungeons.
It was simple work: make sure she had no contact with anyone from Kavala. Make sure she didn't escape.
I should ask for leave...
But the words wouldn't come.
Andrew trudged toward the dungeon, dragging his feet, unable to voice what he desperately needed to say.
The dungeon was bitterly cold.
Even for Andrew—who had spent his entire life in Ronheim and was accustomed to harsh winters—the chill down here was unpleasant. Oppressive.
Perhaps it was the dampness in the air that made it worse.
Another maid, Lina, who had been demoted to laundry duty for her role in the recent chaos, envied Sernia. "At least she doesn't have to scrub linens until her hands bleed," Lina had said bitterly.
But if Lina actually set foot in this freezing, lightless pit, her opinion would change immediately.
"It's my turn, Rudney."
"Oh, thank the gods. I'm alive again."
Rudney, a fellow knight who had been watching Sernia all night, sighed in exhaustion.
"I'm going to take the hottest bath of my life. Thanks, Andrew."
"Yeah. Go."
Andrew answered listlessly and sat down in the chair Rudney had just vacated.
Madam Chloe had said the watch would only last for a certain period—but she'd fallen ill before clarifying how long that would be.
As her condition worsened, the shifts grew longer and longer, stretching without any clear end in sight.
Andrew sighed deeply, thinking of Hillen, and then glanced toward Sernia.
A small candle hung above Andrew's head, providing just enough light to pierce the darkness.
Sernia crouched inside her cage. The only comfort she had was a worn, foul-smelling blanket spread on the cold stone floor.
The shadow of the stone wall obscured her face from the neck up, but when Andrew looked more closely, he startled.
She was staring directly at him with a menacing, calculating gaze.
"Gods—"
The surprise embarrassed him, which immediately morphed into irritation.
"What are you looking at?"
"I know you."
Sernia moved closer to the iron bars, her voice oddly conversational.
She was so weak from malnourishment that she couldn't even stand properly. Chef Latina had been ruthlessly stingy, insisting she had "no food to waste on sinners." Sernia received only one potato a day.
Andrew's annoyance flared.
He slammed his fist against the iron bars.
"You witch—where do you think you're going with your nonsense? Turn around. Now."
"Do you have a sick sister?"
"...!"
Andrew froze.
But he quickly recovered, shouting threateningly.
"How long have you been snooping around, gathering information? You're disgusting."
Even though he knew it was foolish to engage with a prisoner, Andrew couldn't help but feel rage bubbling up when Hillen was mentioned.
It seemed that while working as a spy under Chloe's nose, Sernia had been wandering around Ronheim Castle, investigating countless people.
She'd gathered all kinds of information—leverage, secrets, weaknesses.
She even investigated Hillen.
The realization astonished him. Sernia's thoroughness was chilling.
Sernia looked up at Andrew—who was cursing and seething—without a trace of fear. Her sharp eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
"I know how to cure your little sister."
"Stop talking nonsense. Open your mouth one more time, and I'll rip out every strand of hair on your head."
Even as he tightened his grip on the bars, Sernia didn't stop.
She believed she would die soon anyway—either from starvation or disease, locked away in this dungeon.
She had nothing left to fear.
"Would you like to make a deal with me? I'll heal your sister, and you'll tell me how to use the Holy Grail."
"...What?"
Andrew's expression turned grim at the mention of the Holy Grail.
"As rumored, Kavala possesses the Holy Grail."
Andrew spat at Sernia, his disgust plain.
"Why the hell should I tell someone like you anything?"
Sernia slowly wiped the spittle from her face.
Tears welled in her eyes.
"I have a sick sister, too. I risked my life coming to Ronheim to save her. Do you think I'm doing this because I want to?"
The tears that had been gathering finally spilled over, soaking her gaunt cheeks.
"I don't mind dying! As long as I can save my little sister..."
Andrew's rage faltered slightly at those words.
Even though he suspected Sernia might be lying, he couldn't stop her from speaking—not when he thought of Hillen, sick and suffering.
"..."
"Empress Kavala promised that if I could just discover the truth about the Holy Grail, she would use it to save my sister. Please..."
Sernia looked up at Andrew with desperate, pleading eyes.
"I'll somehow convince the Empress to spare your sister's life too. Please—just tell me how to use it."
"...Bullshit."
"You can't reclaim the Holy Grail anyway. Don't you know that? Ronheim's forces can't attack Arental."
"..."
"The Marquis will never recover the Holy Grail. If that's the case, wouldn't it be more practical for you to offer information to Empress Kavala in exchange for your sister's life?"
Andrew glared at Sernia.
"Maybe so."
Sernia's expression brightened at those words, hope flickering in her eyes.
But Andrew added firmly:
"But I can't join hands with the witch who brought Ronheim to this state—just to save my sister."
As he said the words, Andrew felt a strange, inexplicable anger rising inside him.
He was furious at Sernia for trying to manipulate him like this. He was ashamed of himself for listening to her every word, for even considering what she said.
He was filled with rage at himself for listening to the schemes of a Southerner—especially a spy from Kavala.
But the most frustrating part?
For a moment, I thought her words made sense.
Andrew, unable to bear the surge of self-loathing and anger, kicked and punched the iron bars Sernia was gripping.
"Now, if you say one more word—"
Sernia cut him off.
"You look just like your father."
"...What?"
Sernia's eyes gleamed with something dark and knowing.
"I heard your father said something very similar about your mother."
Andrew felt a chill run down his spine.
The words struck him like a physical blow—cold, precise, cruel.
No...
History was repeating itself.
Two brothers, separated by blood and fate.
Two dying sisters, loved beyond reason.
Two impossible choices—and only one will break the cycle.
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