***

“Aigo, aigo, aigo…”

It was as if someone had died; once again, Beroe was in tears today. Her eyes, swollen from crying, showed no sign of recovering.

“What’s happened to this lovely face…?”

By morning, the redness from the previous day had given way to a blue bruise. An ugly scab had formed on her split lip.

To Beroe, Protogenoi Chronosa had always been a princess raised with the utmost care. The sight of her precious girl like this left her speechless, breathless, stunned.

“She ruined her beautiful hair, and now even her face… Aigo, aigo… How am I supposed to live with this grief and anger?”

Beroe, overwhelmed with frustration, beat her chest with her fists. She had tried her best, combing Chronosa’s hair with as much care as she could muster, but yesterday had been better. Back then, it only looked as if a rat had chewed it. Now, it looked like the rat had gnawed the roots clean out, leaving them dangling.

Even the hair at the back—at least that had been left untouched before—was now patchy and ruined. She’d need to trim it properly for it to be even remotely presentable, but they wouldn’t allow her any scissors, so all she could do was weep in despair.

And now, half of her pretty face was bruised, too. It was enough to drive anyone mad. Unable to contain herself, Beroe spat out harsh curses.

“That damned b*stard! If he took you to such a vile place, the least he could do is take responsibility!”

—“She’s just a wet nurse. What hope can you have for someone from the royal bloodline?”

Still, Beroe clung to Chronosa, who continued to look at the world with the same stubborn indifference.

Fat tears, thick as chicken droppings, rolled down from Beroe’s red eyes.

“Doesn’t this make you angry, my lady? Doesn’t it hurt you?”

She had been raised so tenderly. Surely, she’d never been struck by anyone before. This must have been a new kind of pain for Chronosa as well.

But Chronosa, staring at Beroe with a dazed, dreamlike gaze as always, replied in her usual, indifferent tone.

“…I’m not sure.”

“If you’re in pain, say it hurts. If it’s hard, say it’s hard. If you’re suffering, say you’re suffering… Why won’t you say anything at all?”

Not a single thing.

Her lips, now marked with an ugly scab, moved just as they always did. As ever, her soundless words cut straight through Beroe’s heart.

—”It doesn’t hurt as much as when I came back.”

“….”

In front of Chronosa, Beroe always felt like a sinner. She parted her lips to speak, recalling just how sensitive her lady had been in the moment she first returned to the past.

After repeating it several times, she finally understood the reason for that sensitivity: it was her way of screaming with her whole body against unbearable pain. Instead of saying she was hurting, Chronosa would express her suffering through petulant gestures and sharp, biting words.

—”But even that moment…”

Chronosa’s lips kept moving, the empty sound of her breath full of futility.

—”Even then, it didn’t hurt as much as when His Majesty the Grand Sovereign left me like this.”

No matter how dearly she had been raised, her father’s love had been so cruel it could hardly be called love at all.

Beroe’s grief-stricken gaze trembled. An unexplainable chill swept over her, a bead of cold sweat rolling down her spine.

Sometimes, when Chronosa spoke like that, Beroe was overcome with an endless, lingering sorrow accompanied by a quiet, unsettling unease.

It was as if Chronosa’s words were sincere yet not at all.

In those moments, the gentle, childlike young lady seemed to transform into something else entirely… something far more dangerous. The difference was subtle, almost impossible to define yet impossible to ignore.

The way she spoke of pain was completely devoid of emotion and utterly dry. Her empty, unfeeling gaze made it even more unsettling.

Had she simply grown accustomed to pain?

Had she dulled herself to it, day after day, little by little?

And yet—

Why did it always feel as though she was merely imitating the emotions of others?

No, that was a foolish thought. It was probably just a disorienting illusion born of Beroe’s guilt.

Still, no matter how many times she felt it, she could never grow used to it.

Swallowing her discomfort, Beroe forced herself to change the subject and finally spoke.

“…The people of Zion sent these for you.”

Beroe quietly began to pull out the things she had hidden under her worn skirt—handkerchiefs sewn from rough cloth, herbs that hadn’t even been properly ground, and other such things. Daily necessities, most likely crafted out of desperation for their own survival.

They were humble things, but every one of them was filled with genuine care for the person they were meant for.

Chronosa reached out and gently touched one of the coarse handkerchiefs.

—”What should I do? There’s nothing I can do for them anymore.”

“We’re not doing this because we expect anything in return. You’re the one who saved their lives, my lady. So when they heard what happened yesterday, they got angry and cried on my behalf…”

—”…I’m sorry.”

A quiet sigh escaped from Chronosa’s faintly curved lips.

It was clear that they were treating her humiliation as if it were their own.

Humans had always been like that.

Social class was originally created so that a small group at the top could rule and protect the many below. Over time, however, it twisted into something else entirely: a chain that binds the powerless and allows those above to exploit those below.

And yet, even now, when those at the top no longer protect but only take advantage, people still choose to share in their disgrace.

They bear the humiliation of their so-called protectors as if it were their own.

—”Because I’m a powerless princess.”

“My lady, none of this is your fault. That damned b*stard is to blame! He won’t take responsibility for anything! That so-called high priest! Why’d he have to take you to a place like that for nothing…!”

—”When I stand before Grand Sovereign Belphegor, I’m nothing but Protogenoi Chronosa.”

Beroe looked into Chronosa’s eyes for a moment, wondering why her lady seemed so strange. Before long, she realized what it was.

“My lady.”

—”Yes?”

“Why do you keep siding with that damned man lately?”

—”I’m not taking his side. I’m just facing reality.”

At that, her refined lady merely curled her lips into a gentle smile—one filled with bitter self-mockery.

—”Perihelion spelled it out for me yesterday. I’m just a slave, too. His property.”

“My lady…”

—”That’s all there is to it. At least, until I return to the Demon Kingdom.”

There was only one way to go back. That wry smile faded to a faint, resigned one.

—”But even if I do go back, there’s no way everyone else who longs for home can go with me. At best, perhaps only the Gulgaltha people can.”

The blue bruise, stamped across her face like a brand, stood out starkly.

—”It will be as if nothing ever happened.”

…That’s right. Not everyone remembers the time that was turned back.

Beroe found that endlessly sorrowful. Among those who knew her, Chronosa might be called a silent strategist, but that wasn’t her true worth.

It was the countless, unspoken sacrifices she had made. The quiet price paid to protect Belphegor. The path of the princess was nothing but one of solemn devotion.

—”For my nanny and me, it will become nothing more than a fleeting dream. A dream of a future that will never come.”

In the end, Beroe let her head fall, shoulders drooping. Tears dripped steadily to the floor.

Even then, Chronosa gently patted Beroe’s back. When Beroe finally wiped her tears away, she met Chronosa’s gaze and forced a smile.

“Who do you think is the one who really needs comforting right now?”

—”I’m all right.”

“You always say that, my lady…”

But she knew it wasn’t true. No matter how strange or worn down her lady had become—however damaged in some invisible way—she couldn’t possibly be all right.

That day too, Beroe entered the room in tears and left in tears. Her eyes were so swollen, she could hardly lift her eyelids.

She closed the door and, just as she managed to force herself to take a step forward, a quiet but commanding voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Stay right there.”

It was calm, but carried undeniable authority, the same feeling she got whenever she received orders from Grand Sovereign Belphegor. Except this voice, so detestable…

Beroe slowly turned. There he was, leaning idly against the wall beside the door—a man she’d never once found agreeable.

Silver hair, bright enough to pierce the darkness, tumbled in disarray. His cold, severe features suited his rank perfectly. Those golden eyes, deep and heavy, regarded Beroe with silent scrutiny.

A single suspicion flashed through Beroe’s mind.
Could that wretched b*stard have overheard everything she’d just said to her lady?

Of course, he wouldn’t have been able to hear Chronosa’s voice, so it would have sounded like she was simply talking to herself. Even so, as she recalled the string of curses she’d muttered—‘that damned b*stard, that mutt’—her knees nearly buckled from dread.

“You.”

At that curt address, Beroe flinched, inwardly saying her last farewell to Chronosa.

‘My beloved lady,
This faithless servant goes ahead.
Please, don’t grieve for me.
Don’t cry.
And whatever power you possess, don’t waste it on someone as small as me.’

Of all people, it had to be that wretched man she ran into.