They wouldn’t dare approach her, of course. But they would ache for her, quietly and hopelessly.

Yet, to Calles’s surprise, she attracted more rumours than longing glances.

“Isn’t she the Pope’s granddaughter?”
“Yeah, and his successor, too. It was supposed to be her mother—Lady Celestia—but she died.”
“Ah… because of that incident?”

It wasn’t until much later that Calles learned what “that incident” truly meant.

It was the event that had taken her mother’s life. He still couldn’t get his head around it.

‘It’s not like she meant to kill her.’

Clearly, it was an accident. After all, she was only ten. Who could expect a child to know that touching a sacred fruit would unleash divine power?

Calles couldn’t understand the cold, unforgiving stares that followed Tilda wherever she went.

“I heard her relationship with His Holiness is strained. Some say he’s already looking for a new successor at any cost.”

“It’s no wonder. They say she can’t use divine power anymore.”

“In the end, she’s just a cracked vessel.”

She must have known. The rumours weren’t whispered quietly — they clung to her like shadows.

And yet, Tilda carried herself as if none of it mattered. With her back straight, her gaze distant and her expression unreadable, she moved through the seminary like a ghost that refused to be unsettled.

She attended her theology classes without fail, took the same gruelling exams as every other trainee cleric and remained behind long after the others had left, her lamp still burning and her hands still turning the pages of scripture.

At first, Calles wondered if she might be ambitious after all. Perhaps she wanted to become the next Holy One.

But over time, he saw the truth.

She wasn’t chasing power. Had she been, she wouldn’t have been buried in the seminary. Instead, she would have been at the Papal Palace, trying to win over the elite.

No—what she had was something different.

She simply loved to learn.

Before he knew it, Calles realised that he was watching her every day. Not deliberately, but inevitably. His eyes always found her.

At the time, he told himself it was just curiosity. The temple and seminary were filled with dull, colourless routines — rituals, rules and repetition.

But she… she was different.

A flicker of life in a world of sameness. Watching her endure all those whispers yet remain untouched was entertaining, at the very least.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

But slowly and subtly, his curiosity deepened.

He found himself wondering. What would that girl, who looked so fragile that not a drop of blood would spill if she were pierced, look like when she frowned?

Even the fleeting thought stirred something strange in him—a heat that coiled low in his abdomen, unfamiliar and disquieting.

That night, he dreamt of the pale girl.

On the outside, she looked the same. But in the dream, everything else had changed.

Her eyes, which had once appeared cold and distant, now sparkled with desire. Her usually straight-lipped mouth curved into a soft, sultry smile that was tempting.

That night, Calles had his first wet dream.

He woke up to damp, clinging sheets — and, for the first time in his life, he felt a flush of startled, almost shameful embarrassment.

From that moment on, he could no longer just watch Tilda Vallinea.

His gaze shifted, becoming more intense and searching, as though trying to uncover the reason behind his obsession.

‘Why her?’
Why did he feel such want for a girl so cold, so emotionless?

They had never even made eye contact. Never shared a real conversation. And yet… he couldn’t look away.

He needed to understand what it was about her that pulled him in.

But no matter how often he lingered nearby or tried to approach her,

Her replies were always brief, indifferent and dismissive.

Eventually, it stopped being about desire. It became a challenge. A matter of pride.

“Your interpretation of the relic in today’s lecture was wrong.”

He hurled the words at her like a provocation.

For the first time—she stopped.

And for the first time, he saw it: a flicker of unmistakable emotion in her eyes.

“Then what’s the correct answer, according to you?”

That day, Calles had to endure a long, drawn-out debate over a relic he didn’t even care about.

He wasn’t nearly knowledgeable enough to argue with Tilda on the subject—and by the end, it was obvious she had been right all along.

But it didn’t matter.

He had achieved what he wanted.

‘This is it.’
He had discovered how to make Tilda Vallinea speak.

Yet, as time passed, she learned how to deal with him, too. No matter how much he provoked her, she responded only with short, clipped replies that were calm, measured and deliberately unbothered.

Calles didn’t mind this cold dynamic. Except for one thing.

Even as the years passed, even after he came of age, graduated from the seminary and was elevated to the esteemed rank of High Priest, his fixation on her only deepened.

Every time he saw her, his mouth went dry. It wasn’t thirst — not for water, at least. It was hunger.

A gnawing, insatiable craving that could only be eased by tasting her lips and exploring the places she kept hidden from the world.

It was a desire he knew he could never satisfy in this life. And so it spilled over into endless fantasies.

What would that pale, delicate neck taste like beneath his teeth?

What about that tongue—so rarely used for anything but pious, measured words?

“Ah, there’s no torture quite like this!”

Whenever he gave in to those fantasies, a burning heat would gather low in his body, so intense that he felt as though his trousers might split from the pressure.

But more than anything else, Calles longed to see the moment when her calm, lake-like eyes finally clouded over.

Eyes that never wavered. Eyes that remained clear and unshaken, no matter the storm. Always seeking truth. Always steady. Those eyes were her essence. Her core.

Those who called her cold and claimed that just looking at her gave them chills had no idea what kind of soul lived behind those eyes.

Unconsciously, Calles ran his tongue over his lips.

‘What would it be like to roll those blue eyes around in my mouth and taste them for myself?’

But then one day, the news came—and shattered everything.

“Tilda Vallinea is going to marry Windsor Nokilla,” someone said casually.

‘Windsor Nokilla?’
The Count of Nokilla—young, handsome. Not from an old noble line, but the richest man in the Empire now.

It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head.

The fire that used to burn in him day and night—snuffed out. Gone, without a trace.

In that moment, Calles became painfully aware of who he was.

A High Priest. A Turin, burdened with the future of his dying race. A man with a mission—one he could never abandon.

So, he forced himself to look away.

To turn his gaze from her—not out of indifference, but by sheer, deliberate will.

A dull, uneventful life had its drawbacks, but at least it allowed Calles to keep moving forward without distraction.

Then, one day, he heard a rumour:

Tilda Vallinea might be getting divorced.

His brow lifted slightly.

That woman…

Aklaire Belmont. She was no ordinary person, that much was clear.

Eventually, Calles had ordered his informants to keep a close watch on her.

Because of that, he’d been able to step in just in time. He’d saved Tilda Vallinea. Though, of course, not without cost.

The inevitable scolding from the elders was already looming in his mind, causing his temples to throb in anticipation of the irritation to come.

Knock knock.

It wasn’t the most noble-sounding entrance. The knock was short and sharp, laced with impatience.

Still resting his chin on one hand, Calles called out lazily.

“Come in.”

The door opened and his adjutant, Lizard, marched in and stood firmly in front of the desk.

“You actually brought Tilda Vallinea here?!”

“If I hadn’t, she’d be dead.”

Lizard buried his face in his hands and groaned, sounding as though he were on the verge of collapse.

“We’re as good as dead. Do you honestly think the Pope will just sit there while his granddaughter lives under the same roof as a Turin high priest?”

Unfazed, Calles leaned back and replied calmly.

“I spoke to her — I handled it reasonably.”

Lizard’s head snapped up. He practically shouted.

“Reasonably?! Did she see you with black hair and not stab you on the spot? That alone is a miracle!”

Calles didn’t bother mentioning that she had almost done exactly that – with a candlestick, no less.

“Besides, it would have taken extraordinary powers to save her life, wouldn’t it?”

“I may have… overdone it a little.”

Lizard stared at him warily.

“How much is ‘a little’?”

“Probably about five years’ worth.”

Lizard looked like he might faint on the spot.

If Calles were even slightly smaller, or if he weren’t one of the most powerful Turin ever,

Lizard might have grabbed him by the collar and shaken him until his bones rattled.

But Calles remained completely composed.

“There’s no need to be so dramatic. If she helps us, it’s basically a direct carriage ride to the goddess Vallinea herself.”

“And you really think she’ll help us?”

“She will… probably.”

So he didn’t have her full cooperation. That much was clear—and it set off alarm bells in Lizard’s mind.

‘This can’t go on.’

“I’ll speak with her myself.”

He stepped forward with purpose. But just as he moved, Calles’s voice cut through the room, sounding low, cold and commanding.

“Stop right there.”

The tone alone was enough to freeze him in his tracks. His instincts stopped him in his tracks before his mind could catch up.

Calles’s crimson eyes were glowing faintly, hinting at something sharp and dangerous.

“Don’t go near her without my permission.”

“Why are you being so serious about this?”

“I don’t repeat myself.”

There was something unmistakably territorial in his voice, like that of a predator guarding its territory.

Suddenly, Lizard realised that something was off. Very off.

This was a man who had never shown the slightest interest in women before. What had changed? What was this?