It was then that Helena shouted out.
“What are you doing?! Go! Get out of here! You have to save Philip first! I’ll finish things here!”
“Finish...? What are you talking about—?!”
Though her words stirred confusion in me, my legs were already in motion.
I had to save Philip.
That single goal was what drove me forward.
No—perhaps that was just an excuse.
Maybe I just wanted to push everything onto Helena, to make her bear the burden.
I dashed into the corridor and ran in the opposite direction of the approaching mercenaries.
Toward the place where Philip was held captive.
Before reaching the combat arena, I knew of a space—an isolated room where the sect master kept those who had fallen from his favor.
Breathless, lungs burning, I rushed down a dark underground corridor and finally arrived at the prison-like cell.
Inside, slumped behind metal bars, was Philip.
“How... how do I open this...?”
As I hesitated in front of the lock, a hand suddenly shot out from the bars.
Philip.
He wasn’t unconscious after all.
“I’ll borrow this.”
He plucked a hairpin from my hair with practiced ease.
Though Violorde often raised his hand against me, he still gave me trinkets and gifts from time to time—as if those could make up for anything. I had many such things.
Philip, with surprisingly deft hands, began picking the lock.
But his reach was limited, and he was clearly struggling.
That was when—
“Fire! There’s a fire in the sect master’s chambers!”
A shout rang out from above.
Then came the sounds of movement—mercenaries swiftly rushing toward the blaze.
A fire...?
I turned my head toward the corridor behind me.
“Helena...? Helena...!”
My vision blurred. Tears streamed down my face.
Terror closed in around me once more.
This is all your fault.
Do you really think you can keep living after this?
Violorde’s voice echoed in my mind.
I sank down and buried my face between my knees, clutching my head.
“I... I can’t leave... I can’t...!”
Then, a voice—one that cut through the fog.
Are you insane? You trying to die for real?! Pull yourself together!
Arrogant. Overbearing.
Yet strangely familiar.
A voice like a hand reaching into the depths of the sea to pull me up.
When was it...?
Two years ago—when I nearly drowned? Was it that memory?
I raised my head. My hand reached toward Philip.
“Give me the pin.”
Philip stared, eyes wide.
“You... can do this?”
“If I can’t—then let’s just die together, alright?”
I glared at him.
Still stunned, he silently handed me the pin.
✵
✵
✵
“This lunatic...”
That was the first thing the princess said after receiving the report—
that Erik had shattered a mithril-alloy door with a toy whip that wasn’t even fit to be called a weapon.
According to the attendants who witnessed it, they’d heard only a
single
impact.
He had gathered all his spiritual force—his aura—and shattered the door with one strike.
With nothing but a flimsy leather whip.
Ella stared down at the so-called weapon—the very whip the attendant claimed had been infused with Erik d’Orléans’ aura.
To manipulate aura, unlike arcane energy, one must channel it through a “weapon.” However, if the vessel lacks sufficient durability to contain the aura, some of the user's spiritual force is consumed merely to reinforce the object—resulting in severe exhaustion.
And this thing… looked like it didn’t even
have
durability to speak of.
“Lord Erik offers his apologies for damaging royal property…”
Before the attendant could even finish relaying Erik’s apology, the princess waved it off and barked another command.
“Has the palace physician left for the day? If he has, summon him back. And call for a healer-class mage as well.”
“A healer? But he only—”
“If he pushed himself that far, there's no doubt he’s suffering internal damage.”
The attendant explained that Erik had been holding Lady Emelline the entire time, and though his hand was scratched and bleeding slightly from the door fragments, he appeared otherwise unharmed.
But the princess scoffed.
“As if. Do you know how much that door’s barrier cost to enchant?”
“You placed a barrier spell on it?”
“Why are you looking at me like that? It was to keep someone from opening it from
outside
. Not to trap someone
inside
. Tch… what an idiot. I was going to open it in an hour anyway.”
“Truly?”
“…Maybe two…”
The attendant gave up on the conversation and left the princess’s chambers, heading to summon the royal physician and a healing mage.
✵
✵
✵
Erik stood over Emelline, whose pale face was glistening with sweat. She now lay on a guest bed Ella had prepared.
This wasn’t the first time.
A deep crease formed between Erik’s brows.
“H-hngh!”
Back in the Duke’s study, when Emelline had gone pale and collapsed onto the floor, he had been skeptical. He had wondered if it might’ve been a ploy—a desperate display to escape the situation.
But today…
“…I… I can’t… breathe…”
The moment she choked and gasped before him, everything became clear.
She hadn’t been faking it that day.
Even just now, in the room, she had been terrified. When he raised the whip, she backed away as if in panic. Just like how she had flinched at the birthday banquet of Lady Margaret Beaufort, the moment he so much as lifted a hand.
Erik looked down at his own hand, now wrapped in bandages.
He recalled Emelline’s small shoulders trembling violently as he swung the whip. Those eyes—wide with fear.
His jaw tensed, and a grimace twisted his expression. He unknowingly clenched her hand tighter.
Her fingers paled under the pressure.
“Mm…” Emelline whimpered faintly. Shocked, Erik immediately loosened his grip and looked down at her.
Her dry lips parted, whispering through gritted teeth:
“…damn it… damn it… why won’t this… open…”
Erik let out an involuntary chuckle at her muttered curses.
“…Why won’t it open?”
But his face soon hardened again.
“Don’t come any closer!”
Her words rang in his ears once more—as if she believed he might truly harm her.
No matter the reason, one thing was undeniable: he had caused her to tremble like that.
Because he had picked up that damned whip. Because he tried testing it. Because he even shattered a table with it.
“…I’m sorry.”
He gripped her hand tightly once again and muttered the words.
In Erik’s crimson eyes, a deep wave of guilt began to settle.
There was once a woman he hadn’t been able to save—a woman who had died alone and afraid. It was a regret that haunted him still. One he never wished to repeat.
Eric looked down at Emelline, whose forehead was drenched in cold sweat.
This strange woman—so unexpectedly—reminded him of his mother. That frightened expression. The way she had once asked to be held.
“But even someone grown needs a hand to hold, sometimes… just sometimes…”
The difference, though—an undeniable one—was morality.
“One must live righteously.”
Whatever the case…
Eric was determined to find whoever had left this kind of memory etched into Emelline’s mind. If he could, he would do everything within his power.
But not for Emelline.
No.
Absolutely not for her.
For himself.
It was then that the bedroom door creaked open.
Lily stepped inside.
She immediately saw Eric, still holding tightly onto Emelline’s hand.
“…I’m not misunderstanding anything,” she said.
She absolutely looked like she was misunderstanding everything.
“She gets anxious if I let go,” Eric explained.
“Ah… I see…”
But Lily nodded with a face that clearly did
not
see.
Who was the one that actually felt uneasy letting go? The unconscious girl lying in bed—or the man sitting at her side, refusing treatment just to stay by her?
Lily wanted to ask, but she knew Eric would never admit it. This was the same man who refused to acknowledge even the bright smile captured in a photo.
Eric could tell she wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t try to argue. Instead, he just stared at Emelline, deep in thought.
Then he suddenly asked, “Have you ever heard those tales? The ones where a stepmother torments a child, putting them in danger?”
Lily tilted her head at the abrupt shift in topic.
“Aren’t most fairy tales like that?” she replied.
Princesses being mistreated by stepmothers, only to be rescued by a prince… Wicked ones who overstep, trying to claim a throne not theirs, only to be struck down by the rightful heir…
Tales crafted to ensure young listeners always identify with the prince and princess.
Eric had grown up with stories like that too. And after his mother passed—during those few months before he joined the knight order—he had dreamed the same dream, night after night: unfamiliar stepmothers invading the ducal estate, tormenting and abusing him.
He now looked at the bead of sweat trembling on Emelline’s nose.
“Do you dream that too?”
Or… are you still living inside that dream?
Chapter 42