At that faint flicker of joy, the hand resting on Chronosa’s face slowly slipped away.

The ointment he had applied to her lips left a deep green smear along her pale chin.

Her flushed, swollen face was fully exposed under the dim light. Still expressionless—
which only made her look more pitiful.

“…That’s a relief.”

A deep shadow fell across one side of Anankeus’s face.

“I don’t feel like seeking another’s warmth right now either.”

That, at least, was the truth.

Murmuring quietly, Anankeus asked himself again.

Why was this?

Even when it was someone like Talata—who felt more like family than anything romantic—throwing herself at him, this would’ve been one of those moments he might have actually considered turning back.

But the thought didn’t even cross his mind.
The only thing that came to him was the warmth of this woman.

This lingering scent, those crimson eyes that screamed she was of another race, her small hands—he wanted all of it, madly.

He wanted, desired, and longed to possess her entirely—never letting go.

A desire he himself could not understand. A hunger that should not be allowed.

And yet, the woman who stirred such inexplicable emotions within him still gazed at him with that same blank stare.

As if nothing had happened.

Her excessive composure made him ask, almost without thinking—

“Are you really all right?”

—Should I not be all right?

“Not necessarily… I just mean—aren’t you in pain from the injuries? Don’t you feel wronged about what happened today? Things like that.”

—Even if I said it hurts or that I feel wronged, is there a reason to show it?

—It’s not like anything would change.

If Chronosa could speak, what kind of voice would deliver those words?

He couldn’t begin to imagine.

He could only vaguely guess that it would be just as dry and hollow as her expression.

Chronosa faintly furrowed her brows.

With a graceful motion, she ran her hand through her hair, which was a tangled mess.

—You turned my hair into this mess, and that man went and yanked a handful out.

—Really, you’re all just too much.

“……”

If he were to interpret that quiet remark another way, it meant she had no complaints.

Not about being struck out of nowhere.
Not about nearly being violated.

As if none of it had happened at all.

“…Is that composure just a mask you wear—as the Princess of Belphegor?”

—A mask?

Chronosa’s swollen lips moved slowly.

—I just don’t want to pretend to be pitiful, to act fragile, in front of people like you.

The way her lips moved revealed a deep-rooted distrust. And yet, in that moment, the man before her simply wanted to reach out and touch those pitifully swollen lips.

To offer warmth, to speak gently, and pour sweet, comforting lies into her ears.

Until she nodded at his words. Until she finally opened her heart, placed her small hands upon his shoulders, and stepped willingly into his arms.

But instead,

“Don’t get hurt.”

He voiced the truest feeling he had buried deep in his chest—right here, in this moment.

His golden gaze brushed against her swollen cheek.
Delicate and steady, it slipped downward to her split lip.

“Don’t get wounded. And…”

Anankeus swallowed unconsciously.
His voice trembled as he continued.

“…Don’t die.”

—…

For the first time, something stirred in Chronosa’s crimson eyes, eyes that had always been emotionless as she gazed at him.

Their hands met. A large hand, warm and steady, overlapped hers—nearly the same temperature.

“Don’t ever forget this. Even if hardship comes crashing down and tries to break you—even if it’s already shattered you time and again—the most precious thing you have… is still yourself.”

—You…

Chronosa’s lips parted. The words, which would have come easily at any other time, suddenly wouldn’t leave her mouth.

‘Who are you to me, really?’

You’re not family. Not someone I share blood with.
Not a lover whispering sweet nothings.

Just a male—one I’ve instinctively branded as my enemy for as long as I can remember.
No more, no less.

And yet—why.

Why is it that…

—Who are you to say something like that?

To say words no one has ever said to me before.
To carry emotions no one else ever gave me.

It was the first time. For everything.

It was the first time someone had insisted on keeping Chronosa alive, even though she had always leaned towards death rather than life.

It was the first time someone had told her not to die, even though she was already one foot in the underworld.

Even before time was turned back, nobody had ever said, ‘Don’t die.’ They were only afraid that she might die when they weren’t looking or suddenly disappear and leave them behind.

In truth, she should have died before Nergal was captured.

There were countless opportunities for her to die, such as at the hands of Beroi.

But she didn’t.

Because—
“Don’t die.”

—It’s because of those words of yours.

Even though the death of Protogenoi Chronosa would never be a complete death.
Even if she didn’t fully understand why—she just… wanted to live.

“On the surface, I’m your master.”

Anankeus answered with deliberate coldness, but his eyes lingered quietly on her.

That black hair, now little more than a mess of rags.
Her swollen, bruised face.
Those red eyes, now visibly shaken.

And those slit pupils—feline-like—declaring her as unmistakably not of his kind.

His eternal enemy.
The one he’d vowed to destroy before his god.

And yet—what was it, truly?

At least, in that moment earlier…

He hadn’t thought about consequences, or the Holy Sovereign standing nearby, or the fact that she was his enemy.
He’d even forgotten his own position.

In that moment, he had simply been a man who wanted to grab this woman and run.

“Here, at the very least—you belong to me. So from now on…”

Anankeus’s voice dropped low, almost threatening.

“…I will not permit even the smallest scratch on you.”

Their tightly clasped fingers wove together—one joint at a time. Such a trivial act, and yet, it felt more secretive than anything else in the world.

“Don’t leave my side. In this place, I’m the only one allowed to touch you.”

Murmuring softly, Anankeus lowered his lips to her split mouth and kissed her gently.

As always, the woman did not resist.
Not the hand stroking her hair, not the warmth that embraced her.
None of it.

***

The Holy Sovereign’s chambers, deep within the Hall of the Void.

Talata had followed Perihelion the moment the Divine Assembly ended.

Now standing before him, her lips trembled—something rare for her.

Her mind was in turmoil. She didn’t know where to begin, what to say, how to say it, or even whether what she was doing was the right thing.

Among the High Priests, Talata was the closest to Anankeus.
Even if he might not think so, she did.

Which was why she was certain she had seen what the others hadn’t.

So not as the daughter of Perihelion, but as a High Priest of Saint Arvoos, as the Lord of the Great Crag and the first servant of the sea god, she was compelled by instinct to report this danger.

“Your Holiness.”

A tone unlike her usual self. Speaking not as a daughter, but as a subject—as a High Priest. And in response, Perihelion gave her the proper respect.

“Yes, Great Crag?”

“There’s… something strange about those two.”

It was the only phrase she could settle on. There was no other way to describe what she had witnessed. Still smiling like a man behind a mask, Perihelion responded lightly,

“Those two? You’ll need to be clearer than that. Who do you mean?”

“The War Champion… and the daughter of Belphegor.”

“Ah, that.”

Under the soft moonlight, Perihelion’s lips curled into a slow, sticky smile. He answered with perfect calm, as if it were nothing of consequence at all.

“Anankeus is in rut, after all. It can’t be helped.”

“…What?”

“I gave him the daughter of Belphegor knowing full well.”

Yes—Perihelion had clearly assigned her to Anankeus with full knowledge that his rut season was approaching.

Just as Anankeus had said, with Enyo’s position vacant and a female in rut nearby exuding that intoxicating scent, it would have been impossible to resist acting on it.

Finally, Perihelion dropped his mask and confronted his daughter without pretence.

The warm, gentle image of the ideal father was gone.

Though he addressed her directly, his tone was no longer kind.

“Talata, my daughter.”

“Yes, Father.”

“When I die, Anankeus will succeed me.”

When those solemn words were spoken, the silence of the deep sea echoed through the Hall of the Void like a distant roar. It was a statement that was too shocking to process at once.

Talata repeated the words in her mind.

‘Anankeus will succeed him.’

Which meant—

“The God of the Void has given a divine oracle. He is to be chosen as the next Holy Sovereign.

But.”

In the ensuing silence, only Talata’s pupils moved. They widened until they seemed to fill the void.

“Anyone destined for such a position must be tested—tried, to prove their worth.”

“……”

“The god is testing that child. To see whether he succumbs to the temptation of a demon or whether he stands firm in his place.”