“The young lady’s orders were to prepare a temporary guest room for you. Please follow me and rest well today. Tomorrow, the young lady will meet you personally.”
‘A temporary guest room?’
Lyra blinked, stood up, and followed him with a smile.
“All right, thank you for the trouble, Butler Aru.”
Her compliance made Aru look at her again, but he said nothing.
He led her to the second floor, arriving at a quiet room at the end of the hallway.
The room was not large but was clean and tidy.
The bed looked soft and comfortable, and there was a small dressing table and wardrobe.
“The bathroom is at the end of the hall to the right. Please remain in your room during the night and do not wander around.”
After Aru finished his instructions, he bowed slightly.
“Goodnight, Miss Lyra.”
The door closed softly.
Lyra walked to the window, pulled back a corner of the heavy curtains, and looked out at the courtyard and the high walls bathed in moonlight.
The Contract Mark on her fingertip warmed slightly.
“Freya Christo Dale…”
She whispered the name, her red eyes shimmering with an unreadable light in the darkness.
‘An interesting “employer”… and “home.”‘
She turned and collapsed onto the soft, large bed, wrapping herself in the duvet that smelled of sunshine.
Almost instantly, she drifted into a long-overdue, peaceful sleep.
Meanwhile, in the master bedroom at the other end of the hallway, Freya had not yet slept.
She stood before the window, fiddling with an exquisite Family Crest in her hand.
Her purple eyes gazed at the same moonlight as her mind replayed every detail of her encounter with Lyra in the Black Market, as well as the chaotic and powerful force she felt hidden deep within the other girl’s soul when the contract was established.
“Lyra…”
She whispered to herself.
‘Who are you, exactly? And what can you truly bring to me?’
Darkness…
Freya could only see the darkness before her and feel the dampness of her environment.
The air was stagnant.
Every breath carried the scent of rust, mold, and an indescribable mixture of decay that clogged the back of her throat.
She was in the deepest part of this darkness.
The heavy stone walls were of an unknown thickness, isolating all sound and light from the outside.
This situation filled her with terror.
The only source of light came from a ventilation hole no larger than a palm, located high above her head.
A few faint rays of skylight leaked through, and occasionally, a thin, almost non-existent draft of outside air would struggle to seep down, carrying the scent of dust or rain.
This weak beam of light was her only remaining, fragile connection to the outside world.
Most of the time, she huddled in the corner where the light barely reached, tilting her head back to stare blankly at that small, shifting patch of grayish-white.
The heavy shackles on her hands and feet had long since rubbed her skin raw.
They had scabbed over and then been rubbed raw again, new and old wounds layering upon each other.
Every slight movement brought a piercing, dull pain.
She did not know how long she had been imprisoned.
She could only remain there, numb.
At first, she counted her breaths and the drops of water falling from the vent.
Later, her consciousness blurred under the successive erosions of pain, cold, and despair. Time lost its meaning, leaving only endless, repetitive torture.
Clang — !
The sound of a heavy iron door being pushed open violently tore through the eternal silence of the dungeon.
The screeching of the hinges was amplified in the narrow space, echoing until Freya’s eardrums ached.
Two figures walked in against the light.
The one in front had a tall, straight posture.
His armor reflected a cold, magnificent light under the glow of a lantern.
Even without seeing his face, Freya could clearly recognize him from his silhouette and his gait — Ross Castor, the Crown Prince of Kashena and a Holy Sword Knight.
He held a magic lamp in his hand. Its steady white light dispelled the darkness in the corner but also illuminated her current miserable state with cruel clarity.
Following half a step behind him was a figure in holy white robes.
Her long golden hair flowed with a honey-like radiance under the light.
Her face was beautiful, and her expression held a perfect touch of nervousness and pity.
The Holy Light Priest, Irina Ewell.
Freya did not move.
Only her eyes shifted slightly, moving from the illusory window to the real, detestable pair before her.
Ross hung the lamp on a hook on the wall and took two steps forward.
His boots clicked on the damp stone slabs, creating a distinct echo.
He looked down at the barely recognizable Freya in the corner.
His brow furrowed, and his voice was cold, filled with unquestionable authority and disgust.
“Freya, even now, do you realize your wrongs?”
‘Wrong?’
In Freya’s hollow eyes, two dim fires suddenly ignited.
Extremely slowly, she raised her head in a posture that strained every wound on her body.
Messy hair clung to her forehead and cheeks.
Beneath the filth, those eyes stared directly at Ross, then slowly shifted to the face of Irina, who was hiding in the shadows behind him.
A smile of extreme desolation bloomed on her cracked lips. Her raspy voice sounded like sand rubbing together.
“Admit my wrongs?”
Her gaze swept over her deformed wrists and ankles, where the skin was torn and the bones were misshapen.
“You think… breaking my arms and legs, locking me in this lightless place… torturing me…”
Every word was difficult to utter, yet they carried a poison-like hatred.
“… will make me admit my wrongs?”
Her gaze suddenly fixed onto Irina’s face.
The desolation in her smile turned into undisguised malice and mockery.
“In your dreams,” she spoke clearly, pausing after every word.
“As long as I do not agree, you can forget about… getting that thing for that wretched woman, Irina!”
“Ah!”
Irina seemed frightened by the poisonous hatred in her eyes. Her slender body trembled slightly, and she let out a short gasp.
She instinctively backed away half a step, almost hiding behind Ross.
Her pale fingers gently gripped the edge of Ross’s armor, and her voice was soft and trembling.
“Your Highness… let us just… give up. I can be fine without the Mana Heart Crystal… If I just train hard, surely…”
“Irina.”
Ross turned around, placing a hand on her shoulder and looking down at her.
Under the light, the coldness on his face melted instantly, replaced by a deep affection bordering on pity. His voice became low and gentle.
“You are always like this… gentle, kind, and always thinking of others.”
He raised his hand, seemingly wanting to stroke her face, but stopped. His tone became even more determined.
“Do not worry. I will do all the ‘bad things.’ You only need to keep your hands and your heart… as pure and clean as they are.”
He turned back.
When he faced Freya, the tenderness in his eyes vanished, replaced only by a resolute frost.
Ching — !
The clear ring of metal echoed in the dungeon.
Ross gripped the hilt of the sword hanging at his waist and drew it sharply.
It was not his usual knight’s longsword, but an ancient-looking blade with a faint, holy radiance flowing along the edge — Holy Sword Ares.
The light of the sword was not blinding, but it carried a soul-piercing majesty, illuminating Freya’s suddenly constricted pupils.
He did not hesitate, nor did he say another word.
With a thrust of his wrist, the tip of the blade, flowing with holy light, aimed at Freya’s heart and stabbed in steadily!
Squish.
The sound of a sharp blade piercing flesh was exceptionally clear and wet in the silent dungeon.
Freya’s eyes widened.
A bone-chilling cold and the following explosion of intense pain instantly seized all her senses.
She looked down, staring in disbelief at the Holy Sword buried in her chest.
The light on the blade shone through her body, illuminating her ragged clothes and pale skin.
Blood did not gush out, but a feeling more terrifying than blood loss was being forcibly seized and stripped from the depths of her heart along with the humming of the blade.
‘The Holy Sword… He actually used the Holy Sword… for Irina… to strip away my… Mana Heart Crystal!’
That was her innate magical origin, a part of her soul, the source of her power, her…
Now, this holy weapon was being used to carry out the cruelest of plunders.
“Urgh… Ah — !!!”
Indescribable pain finally broke through the blockage in her throat, turning into a distorted, inhuman shriek.
It was not something that physical pain could cover; it was the sensation of her soul being torn apart and her core being violently gouged out.
Her body convulsed violently like a fish out of water. Her shackles clattered against the stone wall before hanging limp once more.
Her vision began to blur and shake.
Her life force, along with something more essential, was rapidly draining from the wound.
At the edge of her fading vision, behind Ross’s focused and cold profile, she saw Irina.
The Holy Light Priest, who always looked down with gentle eyes and spoke with pity, was still standing there.
But there was no longer any trace of nervousness or cowardice on her face.
The corners of her mouth were clearly curved upward.
It was not the gentle, refreshing smile she usually displayed, but a blatant smile full of satisfaction, triumph, and naked greed.
That smile was sinister and alien, completely at odds with her holy appearance, like a snake flicking its tongue.
‘So… that’s how it is…’
‘It was like this from start to finish…’
The intense pain seemed to pause for a moment, replaced by a bone-chilling realization and a surging, heaven-shaking hatred.
Blood welled up in her throat, tasting of rust.
Freya used her last ounce of strength to pull at the corners of her mouth.
She looked at Ross, at Irina — at the man who had taken everything from her and was about to kill her, and at the woman hidden behind a gentle mask.
Her voice grew faint, but it carried a decisive curse, each word hitting the cold, damp air with weight.
“If… I could do it all over again…”
Darkness rushed in like a tide, swallowing her vision, her senses, and everything else.
But before her consciousness completely surrendered, the curse reached its final syllable, light as a sigh yet heavy enough to be branded onto her soul.
“I will definitely… kill you all…”
The last thing she saw was Irina’s widening, undisguised, and evil smile, and the fragment of her own Mana Heart Crystal, its light slowly fading, as it flashed on the tip of the Holy Sword when Ross pulled it back.
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