“Go.”

With a curt command, Calles sheathed his sword, and Viscount Douglas disappeared without a word, abandoning his wife on the spot.

Calle’s adjutant, who had been standing nearby, shaking his head in exasperation, stepped forward and reprimanded him.

“He’s still a noble, sir. That warning was far too severe.”

Calles slid his sword fully into its scabbard and cast a sideways glance at Tilda’s guard, who stood there looking visibly uncomfortable.

“You can’t reason with beasts, and you—why did you get involved in this mess?”

The guard flinched at the sudden question. Caught off guard, he stammered as he pointed awkwardly toward the carriage.

“M-my lady… She ordered me to step in.”

Calles gave a short nod, his tone shifting.

“A fine mistress you serve.”

He said, his gaze drifting toward the carriage.

Clatter.

The door creaked open, and Tilda stepped out.

A slow smile tugged at Calles’s lips.

“Well, well.”

He placed a hand over his chest and bowed his head with a touch of reverence.

“I never would have guessed that the noble soul who came to the aid of the helpless would turn out to be Lady Nokilla herself!”

Unlike Calles, whose radiant smile shone like sunlight, Tilda couldn’t smooth the furrow in her brow. All she could think was that today was truly cursed.

As if receiving divorce papers from her husband weren’t enough, fate had seen fit to throw her into the path of the one man she least wanted to see.

Without a word, Tilda brushed past Calles and made her way to her guard. She snatched the blue diamond ring from his hand.

“You failed to carry out my orders properly. You’re not worthy of this ring.”

She then turned to the viscountess—Douglas’s wife—who was still trembling on the ground, and offered the ring to her instead.

“This should be enough to start a new life somewhere on your own.”

The woman stared at her in stunned silence before quietly accepting the ring.

With that, Tilda turned back to Calles at last.

“You’ve rescued a poor woman. I’m sure the goddess Vallinea will bless you for it.”

She said in a flat, detached tone, offering him a perfunctory nod. Nevertheless, Calles smiled, looking as charming as ever and seemingly unbothered.

“Saving a lady was more than enough to rekindle my faith—no need for extra blessings.”

“Right.”

“But if my lady wishes to reward my efforts, I wouldn’t dream of turning it down.”

In the face of his teasing, Tilda could barely manage to smooth out her frown.

“Didn’t you just say a moment ago that you didn’t act in hopes of receiving a reward?”

“I didn’t, but a good negotiator doesn’t turn down an opportunity when it falls into his lap.”

He seized the moment with practiced ease, his words slipping out effortlessly.

Tilda’s brow furrowed even more.

‘This—this is exactly why I didn’t want to run into him.’

Calles was one of the most powerful wielders of divine energy in the entire empire. He had endured ten grueling years of priestly training, including his time at the seminary, and had risen through the ranks by merit alone—eventually being appointed High Priest.

He had no noble blood, no powerful patrons, no influential lineage to speak of. Yet through sheer talent, discipline, and effort, he not only claimed one of the temple’s highest honors, but also made a name for himself in both swordsmanship and imperial politics.

A High Priest of his stature was equal in status to a duke.

If her grandfather—the Pope of Vallinea—were asked to name the most indispensable figure in the empire, he wouldn’t hesitate to point to the man standing in front of her now.

And yet, Tilda had never been able to bring herself to like Calles.

It was his demeanor that unsettled her.

Priests were meant to be reserved—calm, modest, disciplined. That was the time-honored virtue of the old temples.

In that respect, Calles was practically a heretic.

Aside from his neatly worn robes and his silver hair, nothing about him resembled a priest. His words were blunt, his tone irreverent—often bordering on rude, even arrogant.

But more than anything, there was one unshakable rule: The priests of the goddess were expected to remain unmarried.

The sole exception was the Pope of Vallinea, who was allowed to marry and continue the sacred lineage.

Any priest who broke that vow… would lose their divine power completely.

‘And yet this man…’
Somehow, to Tilda, his eyes always seemed to gleam with something dangerous. Not just lust—but something deeper. A heat that could scorch if touched. A hunger that stirred thoughts better left buried, all with just a single glance.

In short, he felt lewd.

But if Calles truly were that kind of man, he would’ve long been stripped of his divine power—and his title as High Priest.
Tilda knew that better than anyone. Logically, she couldn’t refute it.

And yet, every time she saw him, an instinctive sense of danger prickled at her skin. A warning, as if her very soul whispered: Stay away.

Of course, it wasn’t just instinct that caused her to keep her guard up. She and Calles simply did not get along. This was particularly evident during temple council meetings, where Tilda, as the heir to House Vallinea, often found herself in disagreement with him. Their views clashed like fire and ice, reason and recklessness.

Sometimes, it even felt like he opposed her on purpose—testing her, pushing her, waiting to see if she’d break.

But no matter how cold or cutting her words were, Calles never seemed shaken. He would just rest his chin on his hand, that maddening smile tugging at his lips, as if amused by it all.

It was that very smile that pulled her out of her thoughts.

“That ring you gave the woman—wasn’t it your wedding ring?”

At the mention of wedding, Tilda’s voice dropped, icy and sharp.

“I don’t believe I owe you an answer.”

Calles smiled, unfazed.

“Then let your answer be my reward—for saving her.”

He always knew how to strike where it hurt the most.

Faced with such a pointed question, Tilda couldn’t stop her expression from hardening.

“If it’s a reward you want, I’ll ask my grandfather to officially commend you for your good deed today.”

But rather than be offended, Calles let out a short laugh.

“Hah. You really don’t leave the slightest opening, do you?”

“Is there any reason I should?”

At that, the amusement slipped from his face. He met her gaze and answered quietly,
“No. None at all.”

“Then I’ll be on my way.”

Tilda turned without another word. Behind her, Calles placed a hand over his chest and offered a parting bow.

“May the Holy Flame of the Goddess be with you.”

It was only in moments like this—at the very end—that he ever looked like a true priest.

***

By the time Tilda arrived at the Belmont ducal estate—her mother’s ancestral home—weariness had settled deep into her bones.

Officially, her name was registered under House Vallinea. The proper course would’ve been to return to the papal residence, where her grandfather lived.

But she didn’t.

Her heart was far too heavy to go back there.

She couldn’t bring herself to face the look she’d receive if she returned to her maternal grandfather—the man who had always treated her as if she were invisible—and told him she had nowhere else to go after being cast aside in a divorce.

Just the thought of it made setting foot in the Papal Palace unbearable, even though her grandfather wasn’t even there at the moment—he was away on a diplomatic visit to another continent.

That same shame and fear had led her to the Belmont ducal estate instead—her father’s former home. But even this place no longer truly belonged to her. Her biological father had passed away in an accident just a year ago, and calling it “her family home” now felt like a hollow lie.

“Did you hear? Lady Tilda’s getting divorced.”

The words reached her ears unfiltered.

Maids out in the courtyard were chattering freely as they hung laundry, unaware that Tilda was inside the estate, close enough to hear every word.

“So it’s finally happening?”

“That’s what the rumors say. It’s kind of sad, though. I mean, what did it matter that her mother was from the holy Vallinea line and her father was the Duke of Belmont? In the end, she’s left with nothing.”

“Seriously. She’s worse off than we are. Where’s she even supposed to go now? You think she’ll come back here?”

“She can try, but it won’t be easy. The Belmont title passed to Lady Aklaire after the duke died. What claim does Lady Tilda even have anymore?”

Tilda leaned her head against the window of her old room, her chin resting lightly on her hand as she listened in silence.

Their idle gossip, tossed around like it was about some faraway stranger, struck painfully close to the truth.

They were right—her circumstances were more precarious than theirs. And they were right again—she had no rightful claim to stay in this estate anymore.

The title, the land, the home she had once known—it all now belonged to Aklaire, her former stepmother.

“It’s Lady Aklaire who’s in a tough spot now. Still, if Lady Tilda wanted to return to the estate, I don’t think she’d turn her away. She’s always been kind to everyone.”

Aklaire—Tilda’s stepmother—was only five years her senior.

After Tilda’s birth mother died in a tragic accident, her father had fallen into a deep, consuming depression. For a while, he was barely more than a shell of a man—haunting back alleys, drowning himself in drink.

Then one day, on his way home, the carriage he was riding in caught fire.

It was Aklaire who had thrown herself into the flames to save him and the coachman.

She managed to pull them both out alive, but not without cost—her right arm had been severely burned, the skin melted beyond repair. It took years of treatment for her to recover, and even then, the wounds never fully healed. Her right thumbnail never grew back.

That missing nail became something of a badge of honor.

People admired her—a young, beautiful woman who had risked her life without hesitation. They praised her bravery, her selflessness.

Tilda’s father was no exception.

Overwhelmed by gratitude and inspired by her courage, he said that he had fallen in love with her at first sight. Despite the fact that she was barely older than his own daughter, he married her.

From that point on, Aklaire quickly took control of the ducal household.

Later, when the family found itself in crisis, it was Aklaire who suggested that Tilda should marry into the Windsor family.

It was also Aklaire who encouraged Tilda to relinquish her position as heir to the Vallinea line for the sake of her late mother’s legacy. Out of concern for its future.

Since her father had no siblings, Tilda knew that if she gave up her inheritance rights, the Belmont title and estate would pass to her stepmother.

And yet—she didn’t refuse.

She accepted it as a form of atonement.