But, to be honest, there was nothing left between her and Windsor. There never had been.

No love. Only bitterness. Only betrayal.

It wasn’t affection that held her back from seeking revenge; it was the lack of a just cause. She had yet to find a reason that aligned with the teachings of the Goddess Vallinea.

Her mother had taught her that revenge was not just. She lived and died by those teachings, devoting her entire life to theology.

And yet—

A sly, whispering voice inside Tilda tugged at her heart.
‘Punish them.’

Although the goddess said that vengeance was unjust, she also declared that everyone must answer for their sins.

Nevertheless, at the back of her mind, the voice of mercy pleaded with her.

‘Don’t become like them.’
‘Don’t stain your hands just to make them suffer.’

As Tilda fell into silence, caught between the two voices, Calles reached out and seized her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. His crimson gaze burned with an eerie, unshakable light.

“Are you thinking about your ex-husband right now?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Without warning, he closed the distance between them and crushed his lips against hers.

Startled by the suddenness of it, Tilda froze. Instinctively, she kept her lips pressed shut.

But then he gently yet firmly bit down on her lower lip.

“Ah…!”

It didn’t hurt. But the shock of it caught her off guard and her lips parted before she could stop herself.

The next moment, something warm swept into her mouth. Not hesitant. Not tender. It was raw and urgent — a storm of motion that left her breathless.

His kiss wasn’t like before. There was no teasing in it—only heat and force, as if he were trying to chase away the hesitation she couldn’t let go of.

He explored her mouth without pause, stealing every trace of breath, his tongue tangling with hers in deep, consuming pulls.

“I can’t breathe…!”

Tilda pounded her fists against Calles’s chest, her voice hoarse with protest. Only then did he slowly pull away.

A glistening strand of saliva stretched between their parted lips. The sight was so intimate and indecent that heat rushed to her face.

Flustered, she turned away and hastily wiped her mouth.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

“I was healing you.”

This shameless explanation alone took the wind out of her sails.

“You really are unbearably rude!”

“Well, you’re not exactly being cooperative with me either, are you?”

He shot back with infuriating calm. Her glare sharpened.

“Is this still about my revenge? I told you — it has nothing to do with you!”

“It does.”

He stepped closer again. Then, with a single finger, he reached out and lightly touched the skin just beneath her eye; the spot was still pink from where the emotion had flushed through her earlier.

His finger traced downward in a slow, deliberate stroke. There was nothing rushed about the motion; just smooth, quiet insistence.

And yet the intimacy of it left her momentarily frozen.

His voice dropped lower.

“I want to see you fall into ruin.”

‘Ruin…?’

Tilda flinched not only at his rudeness, but also at the strange, unsettling weight behind his words. The way he spoke was too calm and too knowing, sending a prickle of unease through her.

She belatedly smacked his hand away from her face.

“Then I’ll just have to make sure things don’t go your way.”

“Think you can?”

“What do you mean?”

“That woman, Aklaire — she’s far more vicious than you realise.”

Tilda’s brows knitted together.

“You talk as if you know her.”

“I do.”

He muttered, almost as if in confession. Then he looked up, his gaze level and unreadable.

“She’s like a parasite that chews through the guts of a corpse. She doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left to rot.”

Tilda felt a chill rise along her arms.

“Aklaire thinks I’m dead.”

“I told you, she’s the kind that devours from the inside out. She won’t rest until you’ve been completely hollowed out.”

His words struck deeper than she wanted to admit, and the twisted curve of his mouth only deepened her dread.

“So, Tilda…”

“……”

“If you’re going to face her, then you’ll have to fall too.”

His low whisper scraped against her eardrums like a blade drawn slowly across glass.

“All the way down… to a place where not even light can reach.”

The words wound around her like a noose, tightening with each syllable. Tilda’s breath caught in her throat, her heart beating faster and harder — not just from fear, but from the pressure of being watched, too.

She could feel his eyes on her, waiting, measuring and anticipating her response. When she remained silent, Calles tilted his head, looking almost amused.

“You don’t seem all that bothered, even knowing what kind of woman she is?”

“Being afraid won’t change anything.”

He let out a quiet breath that could have been a laugh.

“Impressive.”

Tilda met his gaze without flinching. She still couldn’t fully understand him.

Why would someone help her when they claimed to want to see her fall? This contradiction unsettled her, but she refused to give him the reaction he seemed to crave.

He liked watching people unravel. But she wouldn’t be one of them.

“How long can I stay at this manor?”

“As long as you like.”

“Wouldn’t that cause you problems if someone found out I was here?”

“The servants in this house are all members of the Turin tribe. They owe me their lives. That means not a single secret ever leaves this place.”

Tilda narrowed her eyes slightly.

“And what about other visitors? What about people who come and go from the manor?”

“Rarely. Even if someone does visit, they only come to the main drawing room. As long as you don’t show yourself there, you’ll be fine.”

Tilda gave a small nod and relaxed her shoulders slightly.

“Then I’ll stay here a little longer.”

He studied her for a moment, then asked quietly,

“And after that?”

“…”

There was a pause, and a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, before she finally spoke.

“I’m going to the Holy See.”

***

While staying at Calles’s manor, Tilda developed a daily habit of reading the newspaper. A week passed without any discovery of her body, and finally, the Bureau of Public Safety declared her dead.

The announcement sent the public into an uproar.

Even without stepping outside, she could feel it, the empire was alive with whispers, speculation, and unrest.

Calles never showed any particular reaction in front of her, but she knew that if he visited the temple, he would undoubtedly hear every rumor circulating about her supposed death.

Then, a sudden thought crept into her mind.

‘I wonder if Grandfather has heard the news yet.’

If he had…If he believed she was truly gone.

‘What kind of expression would he make?’

Her grandfather had always looked at her with cold, indifferent eyes, but would he feel even a flicker of sorrow if he believed she was gone?

Tilda let out a bitter smile.

Realistically, the chances were slim. He was far away, on a distant continent. The news might not have reached him yet. And even if it had…
‘Would he really care?’

If even her own grandfather wouldn’t mourn her death, then who would?

No one truly grieved her.

To the public, her disappearance was nothing more than a fleeting curiosity, a dramatic whisper passed from one idle conversation to the next, just gossip to liven up their dull routines.

Tilda watched her own death unfold in the lines of the newspaper, as if she were reading about a stranger.

“Who died?”
The question came softly from beside her.

Komri—her small hands fidgeting in her lap, looked up at Tilda with wide, curious eyes.

During her time at the manor, Tilda had grown surprisingly close to the Edzel siblings. Komri, in particular, was like a bright-eyed sparrow: endlessly curious, sweet, and as clear as morning dew.

Just seeing the little girl skip around the house brought a quiet warmth to Tilda’s heart, soothing some of the gloom that had taken root there.

Tilda gave a soft nod.
“Seems like someone did.”

“My sister says death is a sad thing…”

“Komri.”

Stella gently interrupted, placing the tea set on the table.
“it’s not proper to talk about things like that during tea time.”

Her voice was light, but there was care in it—like a hand smoothing over a crease.

Stella gently took the newspaper from Tilda’s hands and poured hot water into the teapot with a slow, practiced swirl.
Beside them, Komri had already lost interest in the subject of death and now sat staring blankly at the rye cookies laid out for dessert.

Tilda, never much for sweets, slid her plate toward Komri without a word.

As she poured the tea, Stella spoke softly.
“Today’s rooibos. I noticed you’ve been having trouble sleeping lately, so I chose something mild. Even expectant mothers can drink it.”

“Thank you.”

It had been on the third day of her stay that she finally let her guard down around Stella. That night, when the aftereffects of the poison triggered another fever, it wasn’t Calles who stayed at her side—he had been away. It was Stella who tended to her throughout the night.

Her care was sincere, her every action filled with quiet devotion. And in the face of such earnest kindness, it became impossible for Tilda to hold on to the fear or resentment she’d once felt simply because Stella bore Turin blood.

She was beginning to believe what Calles had told her, that perhaps the idea of the Turin people as a cursed, godless race was nothing more than an ancient, deeply rooted prejudice.

Time spent with the siblings had begun to soften the rough edges of her heart. Even Calles, for all his frustrating provocations, no longer threw her into disarray the way he once had. She didn’t flush at every teasing word or recoil at every bold gesture.

She was starting to grow used to him, and that, more than anything, felt strangely dangerous.