A strange silence settled over the council chamber.

The Saintess—Ophelia’s—return.

It was a subject that had been deliberately avoided until now and was finally brought into the open by a fledgling count who had recently entered the world of central politics.

There was a long silence before the count broke it again.

“Four years of rest should be more than enough, should it not? With the recent surge of monster appearances, the people are already restless. This is the perfect chance to stage her return, and under that pretext, gather donations.”

Convinced of the brilliance of his own idea, the count spoke with such force that spittle flew from his lips.

“Fundraising has always been a part of every subjugation campaign, hasn’t it? With the Saintess at the forefront, donations will undoubtedly increase. If she demonstrates her power again during this campaign, public unrest will subside too. It’s a perfect plan! Don’t you agree, Your Majesty?”

The emperor traced the sharp line of his jaw with his fingers, stealing a glance at Chadwick seated beside him.

Truthfully, there was nothing in the count’s proposal that would harm him.

However, that would only be the case if Ophelia were treated as she always had been: as a convenient shield, summoned when required and dismissed when no longer needed.

The Emperor had often heard rumours that the relationship between the Grand Duke and his Duchess, the Saintess herself, was worse than that of strangers. But how much truth was there in that?

He cast another sidelong glance at Chadwick, searching for his intent.

At last, the silent lips opened.

“Count.”

The word cut through the air like a blade. The Count, who had been ready to press on, faltered under the sharp aura emanating from the person’s black hair and ash-grey eyes.

“You said… bring back the Saintess?”

“Y-yes…”

His voice wavered. Chadwick’s low, toneless reply had robbed him of his certainty.

Those chilling grey eyes.

Unlike the bright colors common among the Empire’s people, his desaturated gaze carried an eerie weight. Looking into them was like staring at a beast — or perhaps something not of this world at all.

A shiver ran up the young count’s spine, causing him to tremble as he forced an awkward smile at Chadwick.

Chadwick’s gaze lingered on him in silence before he took a cigar humidor out of his br*ast pocket. He looked bored.

“It seems you find me and my knights rather untrustworthy.”

“W-what? No, of course not. I only meant—”

“Only meant what?”

Chadwick slowly pressed the cigar filter between his fingers. The faint crackle of paper teased his sharpened ears.

Lighting it, he watched the ember flare before raising his head.

“If not that, then explain how you could utter such words — that we should resort to begging, using the Grand Duchess as an excuse.”

The acrid smoke spread quickly through the council chamber. Chadwick allowed the acrid scent to hold back the murderous fury rising within him as he slowly and deliberately lifted his gaze.

Seeing the fool grinning weakly as though having a head on his shoulders made him a man tightened Chadwick’s grip.

The mahogany armrest beneath his hand split apart, the splinters biting deep into his skin.

The plan was clear: to use the Grand Duchess as a figurehead.

Ophelia El Sheriad.

Despite her title, she did not bear the name Weibrick, and so no one had ever truly regarded her as such. To them, she would always be the Saintess, even after their marriage.

When unrest needed quieting. When blame needed to be shifted from the throne.

How lightly and cheaply the word ‘Saintess’ was tossed about! The thought of it sickened him.

How easy it was to cast someone into the jaws of death.

So easy that one could no longer tell who was human and who was beast.

A bitter smile curved Chadwick’s lips.

“Count. Answer me.”

At last, hearing the weight of Grand Duchess fall from Chadwick’s tongue, the count realized the gravity of his mistake. His face drained of all color.

“Y-Your Grace…”

“Am I, the wielder of the Holy Sword, unworthy of your trust? Or do you despise the House of Weibrick?”

In one swift motion, Chadwick drew the Holy Sword at his hip and slashed across his own palm.

Blood spilled instantly onto the table. He pulled out the splinters of wood that were still embedded in his flesh from the gash, which had cut clean through his black glove. His gaze fixed coldly on the Count.

The sight froze the man where he stood. His face drained of color and his mouth locked shut in terror. When Chadwick moved his hand towards the blade again, it seemed certain that he would end his own life next.

“So desperate for money, are you?”

Chadwick crushed the smouldering cigar between his fingers, never taking his eyes off the count. Then, like a chiselled statue breaking into a cold smile, he curved his lips.

“Then why don’t you try it—begging.”

“W-what…?”

“This empire. This house of Weibrick.”

Chadwick slid the Holy Sword back into its sheath and rose from his seat, towering over the pale count.

“Neither has ever been so damned poor as to beg for coin.”

“…”

“Though perhaps your domain is another matter.”

“…How dare—!”

“So if your purse is so empty that you must live by begging, then try it—stand before the gates of the Grand Ducal House and beg. Who knows? Perhaps the Grand Duchess and I will pity you enough to toss you a coin.”

He regarded the council with the same disdain with which one might regard a wretch in the gutter. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the council chamber.

The heavy sound of his boots echoed across the marble floor. The emperor pressed his palm against his temple and sighed.

“This council must be adjourned.”

They had awoken the silent, curled-up monster.

The emperor looked at the trembling count with an expression that was half pity and half scorn.

⚫ ⚫ ⚫

“My lady, do you truly mean to go?”

Hian’s voice carried quiet worry as he looked at Ophelia.

“Yes. I’ll go and return.”

“But His Grace…”

He won’t welcome me.

Ophelia understood the unspoken meaning behind his words and offered a faint smile.

It had been a day and a half since Chadwick left, and during that time she had wavered, feeling adrift. The memory of him coldly rebuking her was intertwined with the image of the chamber as it had been five years ago, and it tore at her thoughts.

Did he still despise her? Or had he forgiven her at all?

The pendulum in her heart swung between the two, again and again.

Although she knew the balance tipped towards the former, Ophelia could not let go of the latter. People are creatures who can never quite abandon the hope they long for most.

“Still… I think I must go, if I’m to bring this to an end.”

Her voice was barely audible as she gave Hian a small smile.

Ophelia climbed into the carriage bound for the Imperial Palace, leaving Hian’s worried farewell behind her.

The carriage sped on without stopping.

As she gazed blankly at the scenery — neither the north nor wholly unfamiliar — the great gates of the palace came into view sooner than she had realised.

No one dared to hinder a carriage bearing the Weibrick crest. Passing swiftly through, it soon came to a halt.

Ophelia stepped down and let her eyes roam quietly over her surroundings.

A cool breeze swept past, brushing her silver hair as though caressing it gently.

“Ah…”

And there—beyond the current of wind—stood Chadwick.

In a palace glittering with every extravagance, it was he who shone brighter still.

“…Truly, it feels like a wonder.”

In this vast palace, to cross paths with him here without even arranging it—

“To see only you, so clearly before my eyes…”

If this had been the opening scene of a romance novel, it would have felt like destiny. It was just as she had thought on their wedding day, when she first saw him.

But Ophelia knew better now — destiny was a miracle granted only to the chosen few.

Suppressing the ache in her chest, she stepped onto the stone path in the garden, where white blossom was in full bloom.

Or was it merely an illusion, woven from her hopes and the fragments of the past, that made her feel as though she was reflected in his gaze? In those eyes which had always avoided her and remained cold?

“Chadwick.”

Ophelia gathered the strands of her fluttering hair and tucked them behind her ear, then stopped in front of him.

Her heart trembled, but she steadied it as she slowly lifted her gaze to meet his. Looking at him, she forced a smile.

The eyes she had hoped would show understanding were as dry as desert sand.

But she had nowhere left to retreat.

Ophelia fixed her gaze on his indifferent, ash-grey eyes.

“Why are you here.”

Chadwick looked down at her in silence. Then he closed his eyes and spoke in a low voice.

When he asked his question, Ophelia parted her lips, but then closed them again.

What words could she begin with?

Should she ask if he had forgiven her? Or should she tell him that, unless he granted her a divorce, he must look at her, because otherwise she could not go on living?

Her hesitation was reflected in the brilliance of the palace in her eyes.

This was the gathering place of the noblest of the noble. If she were to quarrel with him here, it would tarnish his reputation.

So, Ophelia closed her lips once more and simply looked at him.

Chadwick restlessly brushed at his shirt collar; he already seemed displeased, as if her visit alone had soured his mood.

She wanted to speak with him when he was in a better mood, when they could have a different kind of conversation — one where they both spoke and listened to each other and didn’t just end up in silence. A simple, ordinary conversation.

For now, simply asking for that would have to be enough. If only she had waited, he would surely never have come back to her.

“…I have something to say.”

At her words, Chadwick’s brow faintly creased.

“I believe I already gave you my answer. What more needs to be said?”

“I need this.”

“…”

“There are still so many things I’ve never told you.”

Come to think of it, she had never once laid her heart bare to him.

“There are also things I want to hear from you—so many things…”

She had never really tried to understand him, either.

If she thought of it as the conversation they should have had four years ago, then, yes, it was far too late.

However, if there was still a rope at the edge of the cliff to grasp, one would reach for it, no matter how late it was.

Ophelia resolved to make every last effort she could. So that regret and longing would not haunt her later on.

“So please, come with me… to our home.”

She held out her hand to him.

Her pale fingertips trembled faintly with tension. Perhaps this was the first time since that day that she had reached out to him wholeheartedly.

Chadwick’s gaze lingered on her outstretched hand, then moved on coldly and indifferently as he walked past her.

Only the chill of empty air seeped between her fingers.

Just as she was about to slowly draw her hand back, she pressed her lips tight together.

“Why aren’t you coming?”

His low voice whispered into her ear.

When she turned around, all she could see was his back, which was now closer and less distant, but still unyielding and implacable.

Gripping the hem of her white dress, Ophelia stepped onto the stone path in the rear garden, where white blossom was in bloom, and followed Chadwick.