***

“Still, don’t you get chills just looking at Lady Tilda?”

“She’s stunning—almost too beautiful. Maybe that’s why she feels so unsettling. I mean, can you believe someone that angelic supposedly caused her own mother’s death?”

The maids weren’t entirely wrong.

It was true—her mother, beloved by all, had died because of her.

Tilda’s eyes, once as clear and calm as a still lake, had dulled over time, clouded like murky water.

She had once been born with an extraordinary gift—divine power of a magnitude never seen before.

Power that could heal wounds and drive away monsters—an ability considered the divine birthright of those who carried Vallinea blood.

But Tilda’s young body had been too weak to handle such overwhelming energy.

Every day, she burned with sacred fever.

It felt like her entire body was on fire—so intense her toes curled involuntarily, her back arched in pain like a withered bow. The agony was relentless.

The only one who could ease that torment… was her mother.

Born of Vallinea blood herself, her mother would lie beside Tilda every night, drawing the divine energy into her own body, absorbing the searing heat to soothe her daughter’s pain.

Because of that, Tilda could sleep without screaming. She could wake each morning and run through the fields like any other child.

To Tilda, her mother was more than just a parent—she was her lifeline.

But then… she died.

“This rare fruit only grows once every ten years. They say that once you’ve tasted it, no other fruit will compare. I’m giving this one to you, just you, because you’re special.”

She had been ten years old that day, out on a casual outing.

After eating the fruit offered by a stranger, Tilda’s divine power erupted uncontrollably that very night.
And her mother, who had tried to absorb that power as she always did, couldn’t endure the force. She died.

People whispered behind her back.

“Tsk tsk, poor child. What a pity.”
“Pity? She drained her own mother’s life.”
“She didn’t know what she was doing. She was just a kid—how could she have known the fruit would trigger her divine power?”
“Maybe… but still…”
“Being young doesn’t mean everything should be forgiven.”

That last line stuck deep in Tilda’s heart and never left.

The fruit was rare, yes—but had she studied theology more diligently, she might have known about it.
And so, she understood the whispers and the blame.
It wasn’t a freak accident. It was a human error, caused by her own ignorance and negligence.

What made it even harder to forgive herself was this—
At her mother’s funeral, the emotion she felt most wasn’t grief.

It was fear.

Even in that moment, she hadn’t fully mourned her mother’s death. Instead, she was terrified the pain would come back—that the sacred fever would return and she would suffer again.

With her mother gone, there was no one left to absorb the divine power that surged through Tilda each night.

The sacred fevers returned with a vengeance, and Tilda began to dread the approach of nightfall.

That fear became a burden she carried for the rest of her life—a guilt that pressed down on her like a crushing weight.

Even though it was her angelic mother who had died because of her, what haunted Tilda most wasn’t the loss.
It was the fact that, in those moments, she had feared her own suffering more.

She despised that part of herself—that selfish, monstrous part.

“At least that cursed divine power is gone now.”

The maids who had been chatting while hanging laundry had slipped away at some point, unnoticed.

In their place, a four-wheeled carriage bearing the Belmont family crest passed through the front gate.

Aklaire had returned.

As she stepped down gracefully from the carriage, the servants lined up to greet her, bowing in perfect unison.

Ever poised, ever charming, Aklaire offered each of them a kind word, greeting them personally as she always did.

She was still young, still strikingly beautiful. And now, with the Belmont title and inheritance in her hands, no one thought of her as a grieving widow anymore.

The truth was, Aklaire had rebuilt the crumbling Belmont estate in her husband’s absence—though that had only been possible because Tilda had married Windsor Nokilla.

But high society didn’t know that.

Aklaire’s reputation only grew, praised as a brave and dignified woman who had endured loss with grace.

This estate no longer held warmth for Tilda.

It wasn’t a home filled with fond memories or nostalgia—just a hollow relic of a life she no longer belonged to.

It was, without a doubt now, Aklaire’s mansion.

The servants followed her lead in everything, and every piece of furniture, every curtain, every polished frame bore her influence. The entire estate had been reshaped by her hand.

And yet, Tilda felt no bitterness.

It was Aklaire who had saved her father’s life. Aklaire who had helped him recover from the devastating loss of his first wife. For that alone, Tilda believed she could endure anything Aklaire chose to do.

‘Once I divorce Windsor… where will I go?’
The question lingered, heavy and unanswered.

Unaware of the storm that was about to upend everything, Tilda could only focus on the immediate concern before her: survival.

***

Aklaire didn’t seek her out right away.

Even after returning from her outing, she waited hours before finally making time to see her.

Tilda spent that time in her old bedroom—though it had long since been turned into a storage space. She hadn’t done anything in particular. She simply sat there, staring into nothing. Time passed quickly, and the sky outside grew dim.

The maids tended to her politely—just enough to avoid offense. Their behavior was a careful balance between their loyalty to Aklaire and their uncertainty toward Tilda.

It was clear: they didn’t want the daughter of a former mistress, a woman now unconnected to this household, lingering where she no longer belonged.

“Tilda.”

The voice came just as the clock struck ten.

Aklaire had finally arrived.

“You must be very busy.”

“Well, I suppose so. Shall we go to the parlor?”

But the room Aklaire led her to wasn’t the grand parlor usually used to receive guests. Instead, it was a small, tucked-away space in a quiet corner of the estate.

Noticing the question in Tilda’s eyes, Aklaire offered a casual explanation.

“The main parlor is under renovation.”

The room was dim and modest, far from the polished splendor Tilda remembered. Aklaire moved with practiced ease—lighting the brazier herself, carefully preparing the tea.

Everything had already been laid out in advance. The teaware, the leaves, the waiting stillness.

As Aklaire poured the tea, the deep red liquid spiraled into the cup, and Tilda’s eyes followed it—
then shifted to Aklaire’s thumb.

The one without a nail.

That bare thumb had always been an anchor to her. A reminder.

There had been times when Tilda questioned Aklaire—this woman who had appeared out of nowhere and, over time, claimed everything: her father, the household, the title.

There were moments when unease stirred in her chest, when she wondered why or how.

But in those moments, she would glance at that thumb.

That missing nail stood for something undeniable—sacrifice. Devotion.

Something that couldn’t be faked.

Aklaire held out the cup of tea, perfectly brewed, with her usual grace.

Tilda accepted it in silence.

“Here.”

But there was only one cup of tea.

“I don’t drink tea in the evening. It keeps me from sleeping.”

Aklaire said with a pleasant smile. Tilda, her throat inexplicably dry in Aklaire’s presence, brought the teacup to her lips and took a sip of the black tea without hesitation.

Even so, it was difficult—awkward, even—to bring up the real reason she had come. But with her divorce from Windsor not yet finalized, she needed somewhere to stay in the meantime.
She had to ask.

“Actually…”

It was Aklaire who spoke first, her lips curling ever so slightly into a faint smile.

“I’m going to remarry Windsor Nokilla.”

Ah—

The words echoed through Tilda’s mind like a distant chime. She blinked slowly, stunned.

The way Aklaire said it—so lightly, so cheerfully—felt completely surreal.

‘Remarry… Windsor?’

Tilda, who was rarely ever caught off guard, found herself truly shaken. Confused. Disoriented.

“…What did you just say?”

Aklaire trembled slightly, as if holding back a laugh, then replied with composure.

“I said Windsor Nokilla is going to remarry me. He told you about the divorce today, didn’t he?”

Tilda couldn’t even summon the strength to be angry. She couldn’t scoff or lash out. The words didn’t feel real. The entire situation felt detached from reality.

“What… what are you talking about…”

“There’s actually more I wanted to tell you tonight.”

Aklaire said softly, her gaze dropping as her slender fingers absentmindedly brushed the thumb without a nail.

The firelight from the brazier danced in her eyes, casting a reddish glow across her irises—as if her very gaze had caught flame.

Crackle. Snap.
The burning wood was the only sound in the room, and the quieter it got, the more the silence pressed in—heavy and suffocating.

Tilda’s thoughts spun wildly.
‘What is she trying to tell me? What is this?’

Then Aklaire finally spoke again.

“You know, don’t you? How people always praised me for this thumb—this one without a nail. That day, I saved not only my husband… but the coachman, too.”

“…”

“I wanted people to remember my great deed for a very, very long time.”

Aklaire lifted her gaze and met Tilda’s eyes directly.

Beneath those soft, delicate lids, her eyes shimmered with a chilling light.

“So every time the nail started to grow back… I tore it out.”

In that moment, Tilda realized—something was very, very wrong.

Was this the source of the unease that had always stirred in her gut when she looked at Aklaire?
That quiet, gnawing instinct she’d ignored again and again?

Hearing her speak so casually about mutilating herself—about ripping out her own nail—sent a deep, involuntary shiver through Tilda’s body.

She was afraid. Far more than she had ever expected to be.

She didn’t even have the space in her mind to ask why Aklaire was suddenly revealing all of this—after keeping it hidden for so long.

“…You’re insane.”

“I am, but do you know why I went that far?”

Tilda narrowed her eyes, trying to hold onto her fury, her composure. But the longer she stared, the more that fire wavered.

Aklaire gave a faint smile—serene, rehearsed, chilling.

“Because if people see me as a saint… they’ll never suspect what I’ve done.”

A terrible premonition swept over Tilda like a storm, and with it came the unmistakable, rising terror of something that could no longer be undone.