A sound stirred nearby. From the steady rhythm of his breathing, Tilda could tell the man was still asleep.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as though bracing herself for something unbearable.
“Hoo.”
Taking a deep breath, she slowly opened them—and looked at the man who had devoured her like a beast throughout the night.

Just as she’d thought, it was a face she recognized—
Long lashes, unusually thick for a man. A sharp nose. A strong yet graceful jawline. And black hair, still damp and clinging to his forehead.

‘Black… hair…?’

Tilda blinked in confusion, a dazed look in her eyes. Then, in a flash, she slapped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from gasping out loud.

‘This doesn’t make any sense…!’

In the same instant that she registered the color of his hair, Tilda bolted upright from the bed like a startled animal, her body snapping into a defensive stance.

The sound roused the man, and he slowly opened his eyes. In the sunlight, his crimson pupils shimmered vividly.

Despite Tilda’s pale, stunned expression, he blinked sluggishly, still half-asleep, and gradually sat up. With only the blanket barely covering his lower half, he ran a hand through his tousled hair.

“I wasn’t expecting a warm morning greeting.”

He said, reaching for the robe draped over the nightstand.

“But I thought you’d at least acknowledge me.”

“…Who are you?”

The man was unmistakably the one Tilda had assumed—Calles Moin.
A High Priest known for his ever-lecherous gaze.

That’s why, even when she suspected it had been him last night, she hadn’t been overly concerned.
If a High Priest were to lose his divine power over such a thing, surely Calles had lost his long ago.

She had figured he’d already spent many nights with countless women, indulging himself freely without remorse.
And with his formidable skill in swordsmanship, he could easily have masked the absence of his divine power.

Yes, that’s what she had believed.

But the man in front of her—though undoubtedly Calles Moin—did not have silver hair. Nor emerald eyes.

Black hair and red eyes. That colouring could only belong to one race.

“You’re quite a sight, but you’ll catch a chill like that.”

He said casually, his eyes sweeping over her as if admiring a work of art.

Calles said, his eyes sweeping over her as if admiring a work of art.

Tilda knew full well how dishevelled she looked. When she had jumped out of bed, her nightdress had clung to her, but in her haste, the front had fallen open slightly. The cold air grazed her bare skin, raising goosebumps.

However, fixing her appearance was the last thing on her mind. She was still on high alert.

“Answer me! Are you really the Calles Moin I know?”

“Are you questioning me because of my hair and eye colour?”

Calles lifted a strand of hair from his forehead and glanced upwards in unconcerned amusement.

He didn’t seem the least bit shaken. To him, it was nothing. But to Tilda, it was everything.

That appearance — the black hair. The red eyes.

There was no doubt that it was a Turin.

A race cursed by the Empire’s one true goddess, Vallinea.
Beings reviled as harbingers of evil, heretics said to weave spells of seduction, leading people into temptation and ruin—dragging them into desire and despair.

If Calles Moin truly bore the traits of a Turin. Then it wasn’t just a matter of deception.

One of the Empire’s three High Priests—guardians of divine holiness—was, in truth, a heretic.

And if that were the case, then this sanctuary she’d believed to be sacred was anything but safe.

It was becoming painfully clear now—he must have had ulterior motives from the very beginning. From the moment he brought her here… and when he touched her.

Had it all been part of a plan to shatter her defenses? To use her as a pawn in some scheme to strike at the Pope—her own grandfather?

As Tilda’s thoughts raced to piece everything together, Calles rose from the bed and slowly approached her.

“…Don’t come any closer.”

She backed away, snatching a candlestick from the nearby shelf and holding it out like a sword.

“Not a bad stance.”

Calles said with a smirk, amused rather than threatened.

Without hesitation, Tilda swung the candlestick at him.

“You saved me with an ulterior motive from the start, didn’t you?”

But in the blink of an eye—almost effortlessly—he caught her wrist and twisted it back.

“Ugh!”

“A cornered cat can be surprisingly fierce.”

He murmured, sounding more intrigued than alarmed. Like he was dealing with a child throwing a tantrum, he calmly plucked the candlestick from her grasp and returned it to the shelf. Then, with no warning, he swept her off her feet and tossed her back onto the bed.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

“To calm down an angry cat.”

Calles said, gazing down at Tilda as he pinned her wrists.

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

Last night, all she had felt in this position was shame. But now—fear came first.

Her mind was spinning with dread. What if she had unwittingly placed her grandfather—or the entire temple—in danger? What if this had all been part of a trap, and she was the weak point?

She thrashed beneath him like a wild animal, desperate to break free, but Calles’s expression shifted—his eyes darkened with something unreadable.

“Don’t get worked up. Just breathe.”

“…”

“You might hurt yourself otherwise.”

His voice—low, quiet, unnervingly gentle—was unlike anything she had heard from him before. It startled her enough to still her movements, just for a moment.

And in that moment, she remembered—
The night before, when she had been trembling, overwhelmed by pleasure and confusion…
He had soothed her then, too.

Right.

There was no defeating him physically—not now. Whatever had happened between them last night, some of his energy must have entered her. She could feel it in her body, still lingering.

Running wouldn’t help her. Fighting wouldn’t either.

If she wanted to protect what mattered… then her best chance was to stay calm.
To read him. To understand his true motives—and, if possible, negotiate.

That would have been her first instinct, normally. But the shock of seeing his black hair…
It had rattled her far more than she was willing to admit.

When Tilda slowly loosened her hands, Calles finally released her wrists. A dull ache pulsed through them—his grip had been like iron shackles, unrelenting. Her skin was flushed red where he had held her too tightly.

He leaned down and, without warning, ran his tongue over the reddened spot.

“If you don’t fix that open gown by the count of three. I might just lose control this time.”

With that, he rose from the bed.

‘Perverted bastard.’

Tilda scowled and quickly adjusted her gown, yanking the sash tight around her waist.

“Now answer me. Are you a Turin?”

Calles let out a lazy yawn, stretching his long arms overhead.
“I am.”

“Then why are you in the sacred High Temple?”

“Because I’m a High Priest.”

“There’s no way. There’s no way someone from the Turin race could ever become a High Priest.”

The path to becoming one of the High Three wasn’t just sacred—it was grueling, merciless. Ten years of rigorous clerical training. Years spent in the seminary, where nine out of ten failed or gave up. And at the end, a brutal final examination—followed by a sacred power evaluation no one could fake.

There was no possible way a Turin, of all people, could have survived that process.

More importantly, they weren’t supposed to be capable of it. The Turin were said to be cursed—incapable of wielding divine power at all.

“So, are you suggesting I killed someone and took their place?”
Calles asked, reclining lazily in the armchair by the window, his tone light—almost amused.

“If not, then how could a Turin possibly pass the divine power test and complete clerical training?”

“I didn’t, I don’t possess divine power.”
He tilted his head, smirking.

“But I have another kind of power—one that can serve the same purpose.”

Tilda’s brows drew together in disbelief.
“The Turin’s innate abilities…?”

“That’s right, not that fragile sacred power you all cling to—but something far greater. Overwhelming. The same power that saved your life last night.”

Her breath caught.

So it had been Turin power. That strange, potent energy that had purged the poison from her veins and filled her body to the brim—it wasn’t divine at all.

It was something darker. Something foreign. And if it was that powerful… he couldn’t be just any Turin.

“…Don’t tell me… You’re the Patriarch?”

Calles chuckled.

“My people do seem to call me that.”

Tilda nearly lost her balance. Her body trembled, and she had to will herself to remain upright.

The Patriarch. The leader of the entire Turin race.

To Tilda—who had spent her whole life in the temple, a devout follower of the goddess Vallinea—
this was a revelation too cruel to bear.

A heretic’s power now flowed through her veins. Not just any heretic, but the Patriarch of the Turin himself.
She had spent a night wrapped in his arms, overcome by pleasure, and lived only because of his unholy strength.

She had been saved—revived—by the power of the enemy.

How…

How could she ever return to the embrace of Vallinea now?