Her resentment toward the demon who had defiled her burned far hotter than any gratitude she might have felt for being saved.

“Your expression is even more tragic than I expected.”

Calles observed, watching her with calm detachment.

“…Why did you save me?”

For once, he didn’t answer right away.

“Because I didn’t want you to die.”

“To use me as a puppet for the Turin race?”

Calles let out a dry chuckle.
“A puppet, huh… Having a saint wrapped around my finger does sound appealing. But personally, I prefer a feisty little cat.”

“If you’re not going to give me a proper answer, then I’ll stop talking too.”

Her anger was rising fast. She was desperate—desperate to understand what was happening to her, what his intentions were. But that smug, elusive man only kept dodging the truth with games and grins.

Perhaps sensing she was close to snapping, Calles’s expression shifted. The teasing smirk faded from his face.

“I meant what I said, I didn’t want you to die.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

He frowned slightly, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Then let me put it this way—I needed you.”

Tilda’s eyes narrowed.
“Why would someone like you need someone like me?”

Calles leaned forward, lifting his back from the chair. As he moved, his robe slipped open slightly, revealing a sculpted chest—hardened muscle beneath smooth skin.

“Tilda Vallinea, why do you think I went through the trouble of wearing that ridiculous silver wig and masquerading in priest’s robes… just to become a High Priest?”

“…To bring down the High Temple. What else?”

Calles let out a short, bitter laugh.
“If that were my goal, I’d have already ripped out your grandfather’s throat and torn it to shreds.”

The words were so vivid, so violent, that Tilda instinctively held her breath. She didn’t doubt him.

The power she’d felt from him last night had been immense—far beyond anything she had ever encountered. He had purged poison from her blood. Healed her broken body. Even restored her lost sight.

Not even the most devout priest or strongest knight of the Empire had ever wielded power like that. This wasn’t arrogance. It was simply the truth.

“I became a High Priest, to meet the goddess Vallinea.”

The tension in Tilda’s face faltered, replaced by stunned disbelief.

“…To meet the goddess?”

“I wanted to ask her something.”

He said quietly, resting his chin on his hand as he turned toward the window. His crimson eyes, gazing out at something far beyond the sky, were darkened by something strangely sorrowful.

“To ask why she hates our kind so much. Why she gave us power that surpasses humans… only to curse us for it.”

Tilda stared at him.

She couldn’t make sense of it. She simply… couldn’t.

What Calles was questioning… they were things so basic, so widely accepted, that even a child raised in the Empire would know the answers by heart.

The Turin had always been a dangerous race—born with unnatural powers they used to kill, seduce, and sow chaos. Their very existence inspired fear.
In time, that fear turned into action. The temple led a grand purge. But they were never fully wiped out.

Instead, the survivors vanished into the shadows—changing their hair and eye color, hiding among humans, living behind masks. Just like Calles had.

Tilda had never once heard of any so-called curse on the Turins. But perhaps… perhaps it wasn’t a curse at all. Maybe the goddess had simply punished evil.

That, at least, made sense to her.

Then Calles broke the silence with a question.

“Saintess,” are you even aware of the curse the Turin race suffers from?”

“…Why would I know anything about a Turin curse?”

“Exactly.”
His lips curled into a scornful smile.
“People only care about the tales—Turin bathing in human blood, feasting on flesh, selling their souls to demons.”

His mocking tone made Tilda’s brow furrow.

“Are you saying those stories aren’t true?”

“They are.”
The edge in his voice was sudden and biting.

Tilda blinked, startled by the shift in his tone.

“…Don’t tell me you’re trying to say the Turin have been unjustly persecuted all this time?”

“There’s a reason, of course. People instinctively fear and distrust anything more powerful than themselves.”

“That’s all it was?”

Tilda asked, disbelief flickering in her voice.

“There’s more to it, obviously. A tangled web of deeper interests—political maneuvering, sacrifices made in the name of control. It’s easier to rule when you give people a common enemy to fear, isn’t it?”

Tilda struggled to process his words. It felt like he was trying to rewrite the entire history of the Empire with a single breath.
And if what he said was true…then it wasn’t just fear. It meant the temple—her temple—had manipulated people. Had turned the masses against the Turin without true cause.

“…The temple isn’t that corrupt.”

“Not anymore, but in the past? Absolutely. The fear and prejudice they planted toward my people… That hasn’t gone anywhere.”

Without realizing it, Tilda’s shoulders eased. Her body relaxed slightly—instinctively—at the implication that her grandfather was not responsible for such corruption.

The realization struck her hard. She was relieved. Part of her actually wanted to believe Calles. And even more frightening—she was starting to. His words, threaded with reason and calm certainty, were beginning to feel dangerously close to truth.

“That’s… hard to believe.”

“Whether you believe it or not is your choice. But just as the goddess’s candlestick symbolises balance and repayment, I trust you understand that you now owe me for what happened last night.”

“…You made that choice on your own.”

Calles’s lips curved into a smirk.
“For something I did on my own… didn’t you take advantage of me quite a bit?”

He let out a soft laugh, the movement causing his chest to rise and fall with subtle amusement.

As Calles shifted, the robe slipped from his shoulder, revealing the bare skin of his neck. Even from where she stood, Tilda could see them clearly—scratches from her nails, faint impressions left by her teeth.

She clenched her jaw and stubbornly ignored the heat rising in her face.

“I don’t have the power to help you meet the goddess.”

“No? But you’re the Pope’s heir.”

Tilda almost scoffed. Coming from him — a man who clearly understood the inner workings of the temple — it sounded like a cruel joke. He had to know how she was treated. The looks, the whispers, the way her every move was scrutinised!

Yet he said it like it meant something. Like it still mattered.

Grinding her teeth to swallow the bitter taste of frustration, she replied tightly.
“That title is just for show.”

“By law, you’re still the rightful successor. Surely you don’t believe your grandfather would go so far as to replace you?”

“You never know.”

The truth was… she did believe it. She was certain of it. But saying it aloud—admitting it—would mean surrendering what little pride she still had.

Calles held her gaze, his voice calm but pointed.
“Breaking tradition to appoint a different heir—it’s no simple matter. The process would be long, messy, and politically disastrous.”

“My grandfather wouldn’t hesitate to go through all that.”

Calles’s expression sharpened.

“And you’re just going to sit back… and let him?”

His tone was subtle, but the provocation was unmistakable—almost like a taunt. And Tilda hated it.
Hated how easily Calles spoke. How calm and composed he remained, as if none of this cost him anything.

How could this be the same man who had held her so tenderly the night before? The same one who had whispered gentle words against her skin, whose touch had brought comfort in her most vulnerable moment?

Now, she saw it clearly. His true purpose. And it left her standing in an impossible position.

“Just as I can’t easily understand your people, there are things about my family you couldn’t possibly begin to understand.”

“Even so, you don’t have a choice. You’ll help me meet the goddess.”

He was absolutely relentless.

Even if she somehow became the next Pope—something she no longer truly believed—the goddess hadn’t responded to anyone in years. No vision. No divine message. Nothing.

As a High Priest, he should know that better than anyone.

“Why are you so desperate to meet her?”

“I already told you, It’s because of the curse.”

That word again.
‘The curse.’

Tilda narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing his face. Calles’s voice didn’t waver. It remained flat, steady—almost too calm.

“Our entire race has short lifespans.”

“Short lifespans?”

“We live only half as long as normal humans, It’s an ancient curse placed on our people.”

Then, with a quiet intensity, he added:
“And I intend to meet the goddess to find out why the hell she cursed us—and how to break it.”

Tilda’s thoughts raced. Everything she thought she understood was unraveling—layer by layer, it was all becoming more and more complicated.