Meanwhile, Andrew had returned home. He stood silently by Hillen's bedside, watching her weak, labored breathing.
"Brother... what are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
That was a lie.
Andrew's mind was consumed with thoughts of Callius and Chloe. He had begged so desperately at the memorial service—humiliated himself before the entire kingdom—and still Callius had refused to give even a single drop of blood to save Hillen.
Shouldn't he be able to do at least that much? Instead of just refusing, shouldn't he show some sincerity? He could at least try! Why? Why wouldn't he even attempt it?
Andrew felt utterly rejected by the man he had sworn to serve.
Callius had abandoned him.
'Is it enough for the Princess to live? Does Hillen's life not matter?'
Andrew's breathing grew rapid with anger and resentment.
"Hillen is dying too. What did he say? Take a vacation and look after her? There's no hope, so he wants me to just watch over her as she dies? What the hell?"
The more he dwelled on it, the sharper and deeper his negative thoughts became. Like thorny vines, they wound around his heart and mind, choking out reason.
Andrew didn't realize that negative thoughts possess a surprising life force. If you keep planting them in your mind, before you know it, their roots will strangle everything else.
He became increasingly obsessed with his own spiral of resentment—blind, deaf, and eventually paralyzed to rational thought.
"Our mother's death was because of Saint Ilya. Hillen's inability to recover is because my lord turned away from her."
Lost in his resentment toward others, Andrew couldn't stand it anymore. He suddenly rose from his chair.
"Where are you going, brother?"
Hillen held out her hand weakly, as if begging him not to leave.
But Andrew turned away without seeing her outstretched hand.
"I'll be back in a bit."
"Where are you—"
"Just for a moment. I'll return soon."
At Andrew's sharp tone, Hillen closed her mouth with a bitter expression. Her outstretched hand fell limply back to the bed.
Just as Andrew was about to leave the house, abandoning Hillen to her suffering, the front door suddenly opened.
His father, Basto, staggered into the house—clearly drunk—right in Andrew's path.
"Where did you wander off to, leaving your sick sister alone?"
Andrew glared at Basto with undisguised contempt.
"I went to the memorial service. Did you even remember there was one today?"
"Ah... the sacrifice. Right. I heard people talking about it."
"All the people of Ronheim gathered to witness it, but the drunkards at Father's favorite tavern were probably still drinking at that hour."
Basto listened to his son's sarcasm without reply. He stood at the door, mechanically shaking snow from his boots.
Andrew raised his voice, frustration boiling over.
"While Father was drinking—not caring whether Hillen lived or died—I went there clutching at straws! Hoping that maybe, just maybe, I could save her! I went and begged the Prince in front of everyone! I pleaded with him to save Hillen!"
Silence.
"But I was rejected! They turned me away outright. They said Hillen's illness wasn't something that could be cured with a sacrifice, or some such thing."
More silence.
After dusting off his boots, Basto staggered over to a kitchen chair and collapsed into it with a heavy sigh.
Andrew glared at his father—this pathetic, broken man who had nothing to say—with eyes full of hatred.
"Do you have anything to say, Father?"
No response.
"You have nothing to say? Nothing at all?"
Only after Andrew shouted did Basto finally open his lips.
"...What could I possibly say?"
A strong smell of distilled liquor wafted from him as he muttered those defeated words.
Andrew stamped his feet in frustration.
Then, suddenly, he remembered what Sernia had told him in the dungeon.
"Your father said at first that no matter how desperate he was to save his wife, he couldn't do something like that."
"I heard your father later regretted refusing Empress Kavala's offer and sought her out again."
"But it was already too late. If your father had changed his mind just a little sooner, your mother might be alive and well today."
An incompetent, pathetic father.
A man who had not only betrayed Ronheim but also failed to protect his own family.
A disgusting excuse for a human being.
"I look just like my father."
Andrew trembled at the realization.
'No. I don't resemble anyone like that. I'm different. I am!'
From Hillen's room came the sound of quiet sobbing.
It seemed she had heard him shouting at their father.
Andrew kicked open the front door, leaving Hillen's crying behind him.
'At least I'll protect Hillen. I won't fail her like Father failed Mother.'
The place he headed was Ronheim Castle.
To be precise—the underground prison where Sernia was being held.
The knights of Ronheim were excellent warriors—strong, disciplined, and fiercely loyal. But they had one trait that was both their greatest strength and their most dangerous weakness.
They trusted each other absolutely.
This deep camaraderie meant they could hardly suspect their own comrades. It was a bond forged through shared hardship and unwavering loyalty to the crown.
But it also created a blind spot.
It wasn't difficult for Andrew—a trusted knight himself—to find Sernia and arrange a private meeting with her, even though it wasn't his assigned shift or post.
He gripped the bars of her cell, his knuckles white.
Sernia looked up at him with a pale, gaunt face—but her eyes gleamed with something dark and knowing.
"What should I do?"
* * *
At the same time, Callius and I arrived back at the castle.
We immediately washed the blood from our bodies and gathered in his office to talk about what had happened.
Callius checked my condition by making a small cut on the back of my hand—just as he had done for Hillen earlier.
'I just learned he can read information contained in someone's blood that way.'
It was truly remarkable.
A person with divine power could transfer the life force of an offering to another person through sacrifice. But Callius could do so much more—he could read a person's condition, their ailments, even hidden curses, all through a single drop of blood.
"The power of the curse has definitely been greatly weakened."
"Really? I feel so much healthier already."
We looked at each other and smiled—genuine relief washing over both of us.
"Callius."
"Yes?"
"I have so many questions I want to ask today. Is it all right if I ask them all?"
"Of course."
"There are really, really a lot. Is that still okay?"
"Is this your second question already?"
"Oh! That's not—I didn't mean—"
Callius chuckled softly at my flustered reaction.
I saw him laugh and couldn't help but burst out laughing along with him.
'I don't even know why I'm laughing so hard. We didn't say anything particularly funny.'
'Other people might think we look strange.'
I forced myself to compose my expression and asked my first real question.
"Today's ceremony was truly amazing and wonderful. I never imagined something like that could happen. But why were the people cheering so loudly?"
It had been far more than simple enthusiasm. The crowd's reaction went beyond national pride or cultural appreciation.
'It felt like I was being accepted into Ronheim in an instant—like I became "one of them" in a single moment.'
The atmosphere couldn't be explained away as mere patriotic fervor.
Callius nodded with an expression of approval.
"It must be because all the people witnessed the miracle that happened to you, Chloe."
"Miracle...?"
Callius explained what had occurred before I went to the altar—the story of how the offering had moved on its own toward me.
Apparently, a massive crowd had gathered just to witness that astonishing sight.
"It's an incredible story. Hard to believe."
I suddenly wanted to ask where this clever and precious offering had come from. I was curious about its true identity.
But since Callius had steered the conversation in a different direction, I couldn't press the question. So I simply listened to his story instead.
"Miraculous events like this have happened in Ronheim before. It occurred when my mother, Saint Ilya, first appeared in this kingdom."
It was the first time I had heard Callius speak of his mother directly.
Meanwhile, Granada's head chef Latina had often told me stories about Saint Ilya. The people of Ronheim still seemed very proud of her—and they missed her deeply.
Callius spoke of his mother with calm reverence.
"My mother, like you, was a foreigner. My father told me she seemed to have fallen from the sky. She appeared out of nowhere, all alone."
"Oh..."
"It was midwinter when Mother appeared in Ronheim. But with every step she took on the frozen ground, the snow melted and flowers bloomed in her footprints."
It was a beautiful story—like something from a fairy tale I might have heard in my mother's arms when I was very young.
"My mother never told anyone where she came from or how she ended up in Ronheim. She only occasionally said that she was 'the one who returned.'"
"If she returned... where did she come from?"
"Well, I still can't fully understand what she meant because she never explained it in detail. She was someone who often spoke of things that were difficult to comprehend. Like Lhasa."
"Is that a characteristic of priests?"
"Perhaps so."
Callius smiled faintly at my question. Then he continued.
'I am a person who has returned...'
I turned the phrase over in my mind a few times before returning my attention to Callius.
"The people simply assumed she was a guardian of Ronheim—sent by the gods, appearing out of nowhere to protect this land."
He looked at me with soft, affectionate eyes.
"Today, the people will recall the memories of that day when they look at you."
The meaning in his gaze was unmistakable.
I opened my eyes wide and shook my head quickly.
"So they really think I'm their guardian? I'm not that remarkable! I'm just—"
Callius reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering for just a moment.
"Chloe freed her people from starvation. You saved countless lives that would have perished in the winter."
"It didn't start with such noble intentions..."
What I had done wasn't driven by divine will or anything so grand.
I had simply wanted to take what belonged to Andrea. I wanted to make Kavala weep tears of blood.
"It was for you, Callius. Because you love Ronheim. Because you love your people."
Callius's eyes widened slightly. Then he smiled—soft and warm.
"Why did that move you?"
"Well... you're a good person. A good king..."
"And?"
"And... I don't know. I just wanted to do something nice for you. I wanted you to be happy. I wanted to see you smile..."
I trailed off, suddenly aware of how my words sounded.
"Because I... I like seeing you smile..."
'Doesn't this sound like a confession?!'
The moment I realized it, my face burned as if it had caught fire.
Callius's smile deepened—warm and brilliant.
"Then... is it better now?"
My honest answer would have been yes.
'Just looking at Callius's smile makes me feel better. It's like looking at a beautiful flower.'
'He's so handsome... His smiling mouth, the way his eyes crinkle when he's happy—it's all so lovely to look at...'
'But I can never say this out loud! I'd die of embarrassment!'
I fanned my face with my hand and looked around the room desperately.
"Isn't it a bit warm in here? Don't you think it's too hot?"
Oh my gods. It was hot.
I—who had been so cold I'd nearly frozen to death—was now complaining about the heat.
'This is all his fault for smiling like that.'
Callius simply watched me with that same gentle, knowing smile.
And somehow, despite everything—despite the miracle at the memorial, despite Andrew's desperation, despite the darkness lurking in Ronheim's dungeons—
In this moment, I felt completely, utterly safe.
---