The revelation that Turin had short lifespans—that their lives were cut in half by some ancient curse—
was something Tilda had never heard before.

It wasn’t in any scripture, any temple record, or whispered in any sermon. It had simply… never been spoken of.

And yet, looking into Calles’s eyes, so steady and open, she couldn’t bring herself to believe he was lying—not just to manipulate her.

She still thought of him as a cunning devil, dangerous and unpredictable. But somehow, the sincerity in his voice felt real.

The contradiction left her deeply uneasy.

She stared at him, frozen, mind clouded by too many thoughts—then abruptly turned her head away, forcing her voice to stay firm.

“…I’m sorry, but that has nothing to do with me.”

Even just coming to terms with what had happened to her yesterday…
That alone was already too much.

‘Aklaire.’

The very name sent a chill through her bones. Had she ever felt such primal, searing rage toward anyone before?

It was as if her thoughts had gone blank—her blood turned to ice. She truly believed it would all end with her death. But instead… this man had pulled her back from the brink.
Dragged her, without consent, into a storm she didn’t understand—a chaos that hadn’t finished with her yet.

She didn’t even know where to begin. What she was supposed to do. What she was allowed to feel.

Then Calles’s voice cut through the silence, quiet but piercing.

“Don’t you want revenge?”

“…”

“On Aklaire Belmont, who tormented you, and on that shameless Windsor, Nokilla, who dares to marry her.”

Tilda’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide, her breath catching in her throat.

How could he possibly have known all that?

“It wasn’t just some coincidence that I pulled you from that dark sea.”

Now that she thought about it—of course it wasn’t. What were the odds that someone would just happen to find a lone soul flailing in the heart of a storm-ravaged ocean?

“Take your revenge, I’ll help you.”

He stepped closer, placing one hand on the bed and leaning in, his face now inches from hers.

“In return… you help me.”

As the robe slipped from his shoulder, the same subtle, alluring scent that had lingered on his skin the previous evening wafted towards her.

The faint scent of his skin and his heavy-lidded gaze, which had once made her weak, beckoned her again, urging her to surrender.

The fury that still simmered deep inside her urged her to take his hand and follow him down that path.

But just as quickly, Tilda forced herself to silence that voice and resist the growing pull within her.

“You don’t have the right to talk about this.”

Even now, Tilda trembled with rage at the memory of Aklaire’s smile as she revealed the truth and the image of Windsor sneering behind his polished mask.

But when she truly asked herself if she wanted revenge… she wasn’t sure.

What would it change? Her parents were gone. No matter how precise or cruel, no vengeance could bring them back.

All she’d be left with was a fleeting sense of justice and the hollow triumph of standing over someone else’s ruin.

The scriptures taught that the goddess Vallinea forbade revenge for that very reason—because whatever satisfaction it brought was shallow, a temporary balm that only deepened the emptiness that followed.

“You’re not seriously clinging to doctrine at a moment like this, are you?”

Calles’s voice was gentle, almost amused, as if he could hear the debate unraveling in her mind. He reached out, brushing aside the loose strands of hair that had fallen around her face and tucking them behind her ear.

Tilda’s gaze hardened as she looked up at him.

She didn’t flinch or soften the way she had the night before.

Now she saw it clearly—his tenderness, his sweet words… they had been nothing more than tools. Means to break her down, to draw her in.

And in the end, he’d gotten it all: her body, and what he really wanted.

She slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me.”

Calles only gave a quiet, almost amused chuckle.

“I’d love to respect your wish, but the treatment isn’t quite finished yet.”

“…What?”

People often said that with her cold, emotionless face, Tilda looked like a porcelain doll. But she had no idea how often her expression twisted in frustration whenever she stood before Calles.

“That woman gave you a vicious poison. One session of purification wasn’t enough.”

Tilda didn’t believe a word of it. It had to be another one of his tricks, another excuse to indulge his shameless and lecherous desires.

How utterly absurd.

But the thought had barely crossed her mind when the world around her suddenly grew dim, as if engulfed by a shadow.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Not wanting to admit that she couldn’t see, she quickly lowered her gaze in an attempt to hide it.

“Well, now.”

But Calles noticed immediately.

He caught her chin and tilted her face upwards, forcing her to look at him.

“Can’t see again, can you?”

Her unfocused pupils gave her away.

Tilda narrowed her eyes and glared through the darkness in the direction she thought he was standing.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You didn’t purify it all at once.”

“I’m starting to wonder just how much of a monster you think I am.”

“You lied to me from the very beginning.”

Calles responded with an exasperated click of his tongue.

“I swear on the Goddess’s Candlestick — I did everything I could to save and heal you.”

“The Goddess’s Candlestick?”

The holiest relic in the Magorie Empire.

In the beginning, the Goddess had gifted humankind with fire — a sacred flame that ignited civilisation.

This was seen as divine mercy and a cornerstone of progress.

Because of this, the Candlestick was invoked in the most sacred oaths, especially by the clergy.

For priests and high-ranking officials — individuals imbued with divine power — swearing a false oath upon it was more than just a sin.

It invited divine retribution in the form of afflictions, sudden illness, and sometimes even fatal accidents.

Although he was a Turin, Calles still held the title of High Priest.

This meant that he could not lie while swearing upon it.

“Then… it’s true…”

“So now you understand—if I don’t finish the treatment, your blindness will return. Maybe not today… but soon.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course not.”

His voice was as calm as ever: silky and slippery. Just like the demon he so often resembled. Then, exasperatingly slowly, he traced his fingers along her lips.

“If it starts to hurt again… you’re always welcome to use me like you did last night.”

“That will never happen.”

“We’ll see.”

And with that, he pressed his lips to hers.

His tongue moved slowly, deliberately, tracing the curve of her lips before slipping past them to taste the dry warmth of her mouth.

Tilda was caught off guard by the sudden kiss and instinctively grabbed a handful of his robe. But this wasn’t like the kiss from the night before.

Now that the pain had eased, she could sense everything more acutely: his breath on her skin, the faint fragrance clinging to him, and the warmth emanating from his body. The pressure of his *rousal was impossible to ignore.

The raw intensity of his desire stunned her. She tried to speak, to push him away.

But before she could utter a word, the same foreign energy as the night before surged up her throat and spread through her body like fire.

“Ah—!”

The pain came suddenly, leaving her no choice.

In the end, she clung to him, trembling as though her life depended on it.

***

Later, seated at his desk, Calles wore a faint smile, a lingering echo of their intense encounter that morning.

‘She didn’t give herself to me completely…’

But even so—

Things would have been easier — and cleaner — if she had given in to her emotions and drowned her pain in pleasure like she did last night.

But today, she gritted her teeth and endured in silence, biting her lip until it bled and swallowing every sound.

Of course she did. That was who she was.

And yet, now that he had tasted the warmth of her bare skin, the memory of it made restraint feel unbearable. Maddening.

But he knew that another chance would come. Eventually, she wouldn’t be able to turn him away.

The image of Tilda, sobbing and clinging to him with a face twisted in anguish, breath ragged and desperate, and the faint scent of dry grass clinging to her skin, lingered vividly and unshakably in his mind.

Without realising it, Calles slowly licked his lips.

He hadn’t eaten properly in days; he had been consumed by everything spiralling around him. But the energy he had taken from her left him feeling strangely full.

In one way, at least. In another, his desire still burned slowly and relentlessly — a quiet fire beneath his skin, always ready to flare up the moment he reached for her again.

Recalling the tight, searing heat of her body and how she had clenched around him and trembled, he felt his blood begin to stir and rush downward.

‘This… is a problem.’

Now that he’d tasted the forbidden, the hunger he’d kept buried surged wildly, like a colt loosed from its reins.

‘If I’ve reached for something forbidden, then taking responsibility for it must be my burden to bear.’

And then, like a drop of ink blooming in water, a memory rose to the surface.

‘When did I first see Tilda Vallinea?’

He remembered.

It was the first day of theology class.

She was the kind of girl who made people stop and stare.

At fifteen, she looked like an angel who had wandered into the mortal world — pale, ethereal, and breathtakingly beautiful.

The lack of emotion on her face added to this, making her seem almost unreal.

She seemed like something conjured from a dream.

“The priests are going to have a hard time with that one.”

Calles had thought that from the moment he first saw her.

Most of the boys at the seminary were teenagers, brimming with restless energy and still clinging to fragments of immaturity.

And now they were expected to uphold their vows of purity while someone like her walked by every day?