It was a magnificent performance.
Mariel sighed with affected sadness, rolling her eyes dramatically while secretly observing Calix's expression from beneath her lashes. His face remained as cold and impassive as carved marble.
But the girl had no intention of surrendering.
"My sister looked really, truly sad today. And I wanted so badly to cheer her up. So I took her for a walk in the gardens."
Silence.
"She cried *so much*."
"She cried?" Calix's response was deliberately dry, almost dismissive. "That woman cries too easily."
"But no matter how hard I tried to find out why she was crying, she wouldn't answer me. She just kept saying she'd done something unforgivable—something she could never be forgiven for."
More silence.
Calix ordered himself to ignore the child's transparent speculations. But unbidden, the image surfaced—his wife arriving at his study early that morning to apologize, her sole concern the protection of her sister's well-being. He recalled those eyes darting frantically from side to side, filled with utter helplessness. That slender body trembling like a cornered animal awaiting the killing blow.
Though he tried desperately not to admit it, he had been thinking about everything connected to his wife. He'd inquired about her welfare several times since abandoning her in his study. And he'd come to the greenhouse for the first time in over a year only because he'd been informed she had visited that very afternoon.
"Your Highness! Perhaps you know what's troubling her?"
"No."
Struggling to control the anxiety clawing at his chest, Calix shoved the thoughts aside with brutal efficiency. He reminded himself once again that he shouldn't waste precious time on something—on *someone*—he'd decided held no importance.
However, he found it nearly impossible to maintain that cold detachment while conversing with a child who resembled his wife so profoundly.
"I think it's well past time the young lady returned to bed. I'll summon someone to escort you." Calix spoke with unusual gentleness, attempting to end the conversation diplomatically.
"Of course, Your Highness. But I wanted to ask you something first. May I?"
Sensing that all her previous attempts were failing, the girl decided to be bolder—more direct.
Calix's brow furrowed. A flicker of irritation crossed his handsome features. But Mariel's expression remained so guileless, so innocent, that it seemed cruel to dismiss her with a harsh refusal.
Meanwhile, Mariel silently urged herself forward. _Hold on. You absolutely must say it. After all, that's why you came here._
She drew a deep breath and blurted out:
"I think my sister is in terrible pain. Because her wrists are covered in awful bruises."
At first, Calix couldn't believe his ears. The information was so unexpected, so utterly jarring, that he stood completely frozen. An overwhelming urge seized him—to ask if he'd somehow misheard.
"It looked as though someone had been gripping her tightly for a very long time." The child extended one thin, delicate hand—like a small fern frond—her face filled with genuine concern for her sister.
Calix's handsome, impassive face seemed to crack—as though split by an invisible fissure.
"Do you happen to know what happened to her?"
He found himself unable to answer this worried little girl.
---
## — Midnight —
In the dead of night, the Archduke sat alone in his study.
He'd convinced himself he couldn't sleep due to indigestion. Besides, working through the night often distracted him from unpleasant thoughts. Yet he never procrastinated on official matters—his work ethic was legendary. Despite his best efforts, all the documents scattered across his desk were already in perfect order. He'd reviewed everything meticulously, multiple times, ensuring nothing had been overlooked.
_Damn it._
Finally, Calix rose abruptly from his desk, abandoned his office, and strode down the long, straight corridor. Faint nightlights flickered in the darkened passageways. The castle, removed far from the bustle of the capital city, was plunged into absolute, deathly silence after dark. Shadows danced chaotically on the high, dimly illuminated walls, pursuing their master like silent specters.
"My sister really begged me not to tell anyone about this."
The child's words continued ringing relentlessly in his ears. There was no point in trying not to think about them. Perhaps because of the oppressive silence surrounding him, the girl's voice in his head seemed to grow louder—clearer—with each passing moment.
"It must have caused her so much pain."
There was no one in this castle who would dare touch Asella's body without permission. The maids were no exception. Margot had reported that the Grand Duchess refused assistance even during her baths, insisting on complete privacy.
She hadn't yet had sufficient time to grow accustomed to the castle. She wasn't engaging in strenuous activities. It seemed unlikely she'd injured herself accidentally.
And if that assumption held true, then whoever had caused those marks on her delicate wrist was obvious.
_It was me._
Suddenly, Calix pivoted and began walking swiftly in the opposite direction. His pace quickened with barely suppressed urgency.
"Your Highness?"
The Archduke reached his wife's apartment rapidly. The guards stationed at her door greeted him with respectful bows.
"Her Highness has already retired for the evening, Your Highness."
"It doesn't matter."
The guards, thoroughly familiar with the Archduke's temperament, opened the door without hesitation. There existed no place within the castle where its master could not enter—and the Grand Duchess's chambers were no exception to that rule.
The massive door swung open silently, and Calix stepped inside.
Just yesterday, he'd sworn to himself that he would never set foot in her chambers again. And tonight, he'd already broken that vow. Nevertheless, he harbored no doubts. He moved quickly through the cozy sitting room, reaching the bedroom door in mere moments.
And then his confident footsteps faltered.
For some inexplicable reason, he couldn't bring himself to enter.
Finally, steeling his resolve, he carefully opened the door and slipped inside with silent, measured steps. The bedroom was extraordinarily quiet—not even the sound of her breathing was audible. Unlike the previous night, when bright moonlight had flooded the space, tonight the curtains were drawn tightly shut, plunging the room into near-total darkness. Only a small sconce at the head of the bed cast a soft, gentle glow. If not for the slight rise and fall of the blanket, one might assume the room was entirely unoccupied.
Calix stood perfectly motionless for a long moment, simply observing.
Then he moved carefully toward the bed.
He had a reason, he told himself—a justification that made such intrusive actions defensible.
He hesitated briefly. But the hesitation didn't last.
With extreme care, the man lifted the fabric of her nightgown sleeve—long enough to completely conceal her hand—and pulled it gently back.
A look of profound discomfort crossed his otherwise impassive features.
"Damn." Calix swore under his breath, his voice barely audible.
Dark bruises were clearly visible on that fragile wrist—vivid marks in shades of purple and sickly yellow.
He checked only one wrist. He didn't dare examine the other. There was no need. The evidence was damning enough.
Calix stared down at his own hands, as though seeing them for the first time.
Beautiful hands. Smooth skin unmarred by scars. It was difficult to believe they belonged to a man who never released his grip on a sword—a warrior who had taken countless lives. These hands were stained with the blood of so many enemies it seemed impossible they could ever be truly clean.
Sometimes he hated these hands. Found them vile. Ugly.
And with these very hands, he had threatened his own wife. Hurt her.
Simply because she'd refused to share his bed.
His gaze returned to that injured wrist. It was so terribly thin—so delicate it seemed likely to snap with the application of even slight force.
He suddenly remembered the woman's pained groans as he'd squeezed her arms in his anger.
_Just for your own carnal desire?_
Calix swallowed hard against the wave of self-loathing rising in his throat. He didn't want to believe it. But the truth was undeniable.
He had been so thoroughly blinded by rage that he'd injured a frightened, defenseless woman. He had insulted his wife—a woman who couldn't even speak properly in her terror, who could only cry helplessly.
_How could I do this?_
_To my own wife, who cannot defend herself—not with strength, not with status, not with anything._
_What is this if not cruelty? If not shameful cowardice?_
He suddenly felt utterly disgusted with himself. The revulsion was so intense, so overwhelming, he could scarcely endure it.
"I'm sorry. Please... please give me another chance."
_A wife's duty._
Despite the fact that no one had sought her consent for this marriage, Asella had come to him of her own volition that morning. She had apologized—*begged*—for his forgiveness. She had pleaded with him to grant her another opportunity.
Calix's gaze drifted to his sleeping wife's face.
Her features were drawn, appearing even more fragile than usual. Her closed eyelids were swollen from prolonged crying. Her lips had been bitten so severely it was difficult to find an unblemished spot. Without the carefully applied cosmetics she'd worn that morning, her face lacked all color—the beautiful peach flush of her cheeks, the glossy brightness of her lips, all absent. Instead, he saw only extreme pallor.
Only now did he truly understand that what she'd told him this morning had been the absolute truth.
When he'd dismissed her so coldly, so cruelly that night, she had likely never slept. She had cried until morning arrived.
His wife possessed a nervous habit of biting her lip whenever anxiety or fear consumed her.
_I think that's why..._
What had that morning's effort cost her? The careful application of makeup, the selection of her dress, the summoning of courage to face him?
In a situation where she'd felt compelled to offer herself for the night, she had clearly tried to present her best appearance.
And what response had she received?
_What did I say to the woman who'd barely mustered the courage to speak to me?_
She'd been forced to apologize to the person who bore the true blame for this entire catastrophic situation.
Calix regarded Asella with an expression of profound complexity—guilt, regret, and something deeper he couldn't yet name warring across his features.
Looking at that haggard, exhausted face, he felt a sudden, sharp prick in the region of his heart—as though it were being pierced repeatedly with a fine needle.
Alongside the overwhelming sense of guilt, an unfamiliar emotion arose in his chest—something he'd never experienced before.
Without removing his gaze from her face, he quietly drew a chair closer and settled himself beside his wife's bed.
_What if she's fallen ill?_
She was so small. So fragile. At first glance, she simply appeared slender—delicately built. But that wasn't accurate. She was clearly exhausted to the point of collapse, her body worn dangerously thin. It wouldn't be surprising if she'd grown sick from the accumulated anxieties and burdens that had befallen her in recent weeks.
Without conscious thought, Calix reached out and gently touched Asella's forehead, checking for fever.
_This is serious. We need to summon a physician immediately._
"My sister really begged me not to tell anyone about this."
Calix paused, Mariel's earnest words echoing in his memory. He also recalled Asella's panic on the day Anthony had struck her—how terrified she'd been when she realized everyone would see her face. Only after a veil had been brought did she finally calm.
Even if he summoned the finest doctor in the entire duchy, she would burn with humiliation at being forced to display her bruises to a stranger.
Having considered this, Calix immediately dismissed the notion of calling for medical assistance.
_If only you would permit me to remain near you, Asella._
As though it were the most precious treasure in existence, Calix carefully grasped that slender, injured wrist. His large, warm hands moved with extraordinary gentleness, caressing the bruised area with feather-light touches.
If anyone who knew the Grand Duke well had witnessed him in that moment, they would have been utterly shocked by such a tender gesture.
"No..." The girl suddenly moaned weakly.
He glanced nervously at her face, fearing she might have awakened. But her eyes remained tightly closed. It seemed she'd simply murmured something in her sleep.
Just as Calix was about to settle back into his chair...
Asella began to tremble violently.
"It's not true... I didn't... I didn't do anything... I swear..."
"Asella?"
The voice emerging from those small lips was saturated with raw horror.
Calix grew alarmed and called her name again, more urgently. But he remained unable to wake his wife, who seemed trapped within the grip of a terrible nightmare.
"...hurts!"
"Does it hurt? Are you in pain? Where?" His voice had grown frantic.
"Don't hit me... please don't..."
His breath caught.
Fragmentary phrases continued emerging through broken sobs and anguished groans. A single tear rolled like a spark down her pallid cheek.
Calix reached out, intending to grasp Asella by the shoulder in hopes of rousing her from the nightmare's grip. But the instant he made contact with her body, the girl began shaking uncontrollably—violently, as though seized by convulsions.
"Ah! Father... please... it *hurts*..."
"Damn it. She's dreaming about that bastard." Calix hissed the words through clenched teeth, fury and helplessness warring within him.
The nightmare intensified. He watched her knuckles turn bone-white as they clutched desperately at the sheets. She must be experiencing something absolutely horrific. He needed to wake her—immediately.
"Asella!"
But his intervention only worsened her condition. The woman began thrashing wildly, like a wounded bird struggling against invisible bonds.
"It hurts... it *hurts*! Please... let go..."
Calix jerked his hand back as though he'd been burned.
As he did, her frantic words from their wedding night flashed vividly through his mind:
"Let go... let go! *No!*"
"Don't touch my body!"
A face drained of all color—as pale as chalk. It had looked exactly the same then as it did now.
_So that's what it was._
The realization struck his consciousness with the force of a lightning bolt. The man froze completely, paralyzed by sudden, terrible understanding.
A scene so horrifying materialized before his mind's eye that a violent shiver ran down this cold-blooded warrior's spine.
"God."
Everything that had transpired that night suddenly made perfect, devastating sense.
"What have I done?"
"No... it wasn't... it wasn't..."
Acting on pure instinct, Calix gathered Asella into his arms and held her tightly against his chest.
"You're not guilty of anything. Do you hear me? You've done nothing wrong."
Asella screamed again—a sound of pure terror—but Calix refused to release his protective grip.
She was covered in cold perspiration. So thoroughly soaked that even the fabric of her nightgown had grown damp. Through the thin material, he could feel her back—flesh stretched taut over bone, with almost nothing in between. Her heart pounded wildly with fear and overwhelming tension, the frantic rhythm echoing painfully against his own chest.
"...please..."
That voice—so broken, so saturated with tears—pierced him to his very core, making him tremble.
He had witnessed countless wounds and unimaginable suffering on countless battlefields. But this particular brand of defenseless, vulnerable pain was utterly foreign to him. Strange. Unbearable.
One thing, however, was absolutely certain: he could not abandon her to face this alone.
Calix pressed his lips gently to the back of Asella's neck and began rocking her with infinite care, the way one might comfort a terrified child.
"It's over now. It's all over," he whispered against her skin, his voice rough with emotion. "No one can hurt you anymore. Your sister will be safe. There's nothing left to fear. I promise you."
Calix repeated the same reassurances over and over, like a sacred litany. The hand that stroked her trembling back moved with incredible gentleness—a tenderness he hadn't known he possessed.
Gradually, her heartbeat began to slow, falling into rhythm with his own steady pulse. Her body, too, began to relax incrementally—though it still twitched nervously from time to time, remnants of the nightmare still clinging to her consciousness.
And then, finally, Asella grew completely still. She sank into what appeared to be deep, genuinely restful sleep.
He continued holding this small woman in his arms for a long time afterward, listening attentively to her quiet, even breathing. Only when he was absolutely certain she had found peace did he carefully rise and gently lay her back upon the bed.
He tucked the blanket around her with meticulous attention, tenderly covering her fragile shoulders. Afterward, he remained beside the bed, simply gazing down at his sleeping wife.
The silver lashes framing her thin eyelids were still damp with tears.
The man's long fingers reached out, carefully brushing away the moisture trickling toward the corners of her closed eyes. A multitude of complex emotions flickered across his striking features—guilt, tenderness, protectiveness, and something else he couldn't yet define.
Something that felt dangerously close to devotion.