The moment the man set the spoon down, Chronosa flinched, her shoulders jerking at the memory of that morning. The savory aroma stung her nose, and her empty stomach let out a loud rumble.

But what was harder to endure than this wretched hunger was the rising heat consuming her body.

Flit—

A butterfly, having forgotten the season, glided gently through the air.

Her body, tormented by the heat of the rut, chased only instinct. All reason cried out—I want, I desire, hurry, fill me quickly…

And among all things, the man before her was one her endless instincts found most tempting. Even if her heart did not want him, her body did.

Until this tormenting, burning desire came to an end, it would continue to scream the same words.

It would drive her to betray her nation, her kin, to throw herself away for this damned man, this enemy of her people, this butcher.

Chronosa stared blankly at the bowl of porridge.

Starving had been her chosen method after every other attempt was blocked, but even hunger had its limits.

Absurd as it was, she now realized there was even a way to force food down someone’s throat.

Only now did Chronosa understand.

She finally gave up on this meaningless resistance. Betraying her father’s command was better than betraying her people.

‘Yes. So at the very least—this much, just this much—you can win.’

She snatched the spoon and scooped the porridge into her mouth. Her stomach screamed in relief at the first proper food it had tasted in ages.

Before long, Chronosa emptied the entire bowl clean.

Her starving body quickly responded to the nourishment. Regaining some of her strength in an instant, Chronosa boldly raised the empty bowl.

— Satisfied?

“Good. At least you’re not throwing up like you did this morning.”

— That time, I gagged because your scent was revolting.

Anankeus, half-ignoring Chronosa’s blunt remark, stood up.

“Now, prepare yourself.”

— For what?

“His Holiness has summoned you.”

— So what.

There was no doubt—within those indifferent crimson eyes, emotion was unmistakably clear. A voice she thought she’d never hear again came, laced with apathy.

— Perihelion summoned me, and I’m supposed to just go meet him?

An attitude beyond tolerance.

For a moment, even Anankeus seriously considered it. Should he just cut off the neck of this insolent woman and report that she had starved to death?

But then—

‘If I kill her… can I truly say I won’t regret it?’

Anankeus clenched both fists tightly, trying to suppress the surge of nameless emotion rising within him. Only then could he barely speak with restraint.

“Do not dare speak His Holiness’s name so lightly. He is not someone you, of all people, have the right to address so freely.”

— And you?

Though the warning was sharp as a blade, the audacious woman didn’t blink as she replied.

— Do you address the Demon King with proper formality?

“……”

Anankeus was momentarily at a loss for words. Unconsciously, he shut his mouth.

Of course, among the Holy Clan, there was no one who referred to Demon King Aphelion with due respect. They usually called him: That filthy wretch of a leader, that useless little brat, or the lowest of the low… Naturally, those were the mildest expressions.

Talata called Demon King Aphelion a man more dimwitted than a dog. In that light, calling him by name might actually be considered dignified.

“…Regardless.”

Losing in logic, Anankeus quickly changed the subject.

“You have no choice in the matter. I’ll have clothes and bathwater brought for you.”

And with that, Anankeus fled the room, almost in haste.

Creak, creak…

Only the poorly shut door kept opening and closing repeatedly.

Chronosa stared at the spot where the man had stood. She slowly closed and opened her eyes.

The white ceiling above her twisted and blurred.

‘Perihelion summoned me,’ huh.

She instinctively reached out and wrapped her hand around her aching ankle. This lingering pain, a gift from the long, brutal war, would never fade, its throb echoed like thunder through her entire body.

And yet, there was one meaningless “what if” she couldn’t help but imagine.

If only her ankle had remained intact!

Would Baal have had to make that futile sacrifice?

Could they have escaped Gulgalta safely?

Would she have avoided being captured by the Holy Nation altogether?

Would she never have met that accursed man?

Chronosa gazed blankly up at the empty air, filled with drifting white dust, where that damned man had stood. Without realising it, he murmured—

— I want… to have it.

She reached out and closed her fingers around the void.

This was the instinct of someone stuck in a rut.

The mere craving for something so exalted yet so unattainable.

The searing heat of his lips, the warmth pressed between her thighs. It was enough to drive her mad.

She forgot that she was of demon blood. She ignored the fact that he belonged to the sacred race.

She turned a blind eye to the truth that this man was her people’s enemy—

—the one who had slaughtered countless citizens of her homeland.

She wanted to throw herself into his arms and forget everything. But she bit her lip, clenched her fists, and resisted the urge to succumb to that tormenting instinct.

It was a feeling she never wanted to experience again. Soon, her enslaved kin from the Holy Nation appeared with clean clothes and bathwater.

Their faces were set in grim determination and their eyes were dull. But there was nothing Chronosa, weak as she was, could do for them.

They were her pitiful relatives who had forgotten how to resist.

All she could do was comply, strip off her dust-covered clothes, and step into the makeshift bath so they wouldn’t have to work twice.

Hot water soaking her entire body in the dead of winter was, in itself, a luxury. But it brought no joy.

“Die with honor.”

Her father’s command echoed around her ears as the familiar hands of her enslaved attendants washed her body.

Chronosa let out a bitter laugh. Just how long would she have to continue this sacrifice that no one else knew of? Harboring a lonely agony no one could ever understand.

Even so, she knew what she must do, meet with the nanny who would understand the true meaning of that order, and plan for what comes next.

For herself, for her nanny, for her father, for Belphegor, and for the Demon Realm Arcadia and its people.

How long had she been soaking in the water?

Then—

She heard the door open again.

Chronosa assumed it was that damned man and didn’t bother turning her head.

But instead, a voice she had never heard before spoke up.

“Hello, miss.”

Startled, Chronosa flinched and whipped her head around. Water splashed in every direction.

A man with vivid blue hair, someone she had never seen before, was now leaning casually against the door.

The demon attendants who had been bathing her bowed their heads toward him.

“I’ve missed you. So very much.”

The man, so seductively eerie it gave her goosebumps, curved his lips into a serpent-like smile. It was a smile that sent a chill racing down Chronosa’s spine in more ways than one.

“Anankeus, and even Talata—neither of them give me many chances, you know? I figured if not now, I might never get to see you.”

He waved his hand nonchalantly.

“Go on, keep doing what you were doing.”

At his casual gesture, her kin raised their heads and resumed washing Chronosa’s hair as if nothing had happened.

The man stepped closer to Chronosa and leaned against the edge of the makeshift tub. His greedy golden gaze licked over the pale body submerged in water.

“You’re burning up. You smell so sweet.”

Those sultry golden eyes softened with amusement. He grabbed a strand of Chronosa’s wet black hair and brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply.

“Mmm… what should I do? You’re exactly my type.”

The man gave a chilling grin and made a bold suggestion.

“Why don’t you come to my temple? I’ll treat you the best I can.”

At those words, Chronosa roughly guessed the identity of this man, one of the twelve high priests of Arvoos.

But before his words could even settle—

Bang!

A thunderous crash rang out. The door, flung open once again, creaked pitifully on its hinges as it swayed.

“O heavens, oh sky above…”

A woman’s voice—calling out the man’s priestly title—drifted in as her pink hair fluttered beautifully behind her.

The man frowned slightly at the sight of her.

“Our lovely High Sky, Aether.”

Talata’s voice was deceptively sweet.

Like lightning, she rushed forward and positioned herself directly in front of Aether, her fierce golden eyes gleaming.

“What did you just say?”

“…Talata?”

Caught off guard by her unexpected arrival, Aether, high priest serving the god of the heavens, responded a beat too late.

“Why… are you here?”

“That’s what I should be asking you. And what—what did I just say? Did my words not sound like actual words to you?”

Aether didn’t answer. She was asking despite knowing full well what he’d said.

Among the high priests, Talata was notoriously known as the mad dog, dealing with her was nothing but a drain on one’s energy.

Talata’s expression twisted mercilessly. She let out an incredulous scoff.

Then came the venom-laced words, sharp and all too familiar.

“You really lose your damn mind every time a woman in rut passes by, don’t you? What’s the matter—do Father’s orders sound like nothing more than a stray dog barking to those worthless ears of yours?”