Motifiel’s sudden outburst of tears and heartfelt confession was like a stone cast into a stagnant pool.
Though Villeres had brushed it off irritably at the time, the ripples it left behind did not fade so quickly.
Perhaps she had been struck by that fool’s overly sincere emotions, or perhaps those words—”It’s warm here” and “No one will hit me or scold me”—had stirred up something inside her, emotions she herself was unwilling to examine.
Villeres found she could no longer observe everything about the Court of Purity with the same mindset as before, simply seeing it as a task or a charade.
A good friend, huh?
She’d never needed one before.
But Motifiel had said she was her good friend…
She began to watch Liang Lai more closely, almost unconsciously, and not just to find weaknesses or to curry favor, but with a faint hint of curiosity and verification, even if she herself didn’t realize it.
She wanted to see if this “Lianglai Mama” Motifiel spoke so highly of was really as wonderful as she claimed.
In the days that followed, the small details she observed gradually pieced together a picture in her heart that far surpassed her previous understanding.
Illucy, having felt neglected again, had once more harmed herself.
Her fluctuating emotions left her feverish and curled up on the bed, shivering, her face pale as paper.
Liang Lai never left her bedside, personally changing the cool cloth on Illucy’s forehead and patiently feeding her spoonful after spoonful of the bitter medicine.
When Illucy, in her discomfort, unconsciously clutched at Liang Lai’s hand and even left some medicine stains on the pure white Saintess Robe, Liang Lai showed no impatience at all.
Instead, she gently clasped Illucy’s hand in return and softly hummed an unknown, soothing melody until the furrows in Illucy’s brow slowly eased and she drifted into a deep sleep.
That focus and patience—there was nothing fake about it.
Gentle, was she?
It really did seem gentle, radiating a motherly glow.
Morgana, once again bubbling with excitement, brought out her pot of Magic Potion Soup—said to “strengthen the body”—though its color was odd and it was suspiciously bubbling, she cradled it like a treasure, presenting it to Liang Lai… Even Motifiel beside her unconsciously took a step back.
Yet Liang Lai, after a moment’s pause, actually accepted the soup.
Under Morgana’s expectant gaze, she calmly took a small sip, smiled, and said, “It’s a very unique flavor. Thank you for your hard work.”
She even patted Morgana’s head encouragingly, although Villeres clearly saw that after putting the bowl down, Liang Lai’s fingers trembled slightly as she secretly gulped down a large glass of water.
Such almost doting tolerance left Villeres dumbfounded.
So tolerant?
Or… was she just that afraid of hurting the children’s feelings?
But what about herself?
She saw Dexilensi and Dolosa arguing over an academic matter—well, truthfully, they were just looking for reasons to quarrel because they couldn’t stand each other.
Their fight grew heated, the atmosphere tense as a drawn blade.
Liang Lai arrived just in time—not taking sides, nor rebuking them harshly, but instead shifting their attention elsewhere, then comforting each of them separately, and finally suggesting a compromise that, though they continued to glare at each other, at least temporarily calmed things down.
This way of handling conflict was filled with a respect for each individual’s emotions—a respect Villeres had never witnessed among the elders of the Darkspawn.
Respect, was it?
People of high status—would they really respect others?
She also noticed that Asterys and Delucia were Shadowborn, yet Liang Lai had hidden this from the church and taken them in on her own accord.
And what did that count as?
Kindness.
A kindness so pure it was almost foolish.
In such a cruel environment, kindness is foolishness.
Yet Villeres found herself unable to call the other party a fool.
Of course, Liang Lai remembered every child’s little preferences.
She left Dolosa, who loved quiet reading, an undisturbed corner; prepared the darkest room for Asterys and Delucia; and filled Motifiel’s snack cabinet with treats, knowing how quickly she got hungry.
Even when Villeres herself had casually mentioned once liking a kind of small white flower in the courtyard, the next morning she found a small fresh bouquet, still dewy and tied with a ribbon, on her windowsill.
All these trivial, everyday details gradually washed away the wall of prejudice, vigilance, and indifference in Villeres’s heart.
No calculation, no hypocrisy, no condescending charity.
Liang Lai’s kindness and gentleness were so natural, permeating everyday life.
Villeres had to admit: maybe Motifiel, that fool, hadn’t exaggerated.
It really was warm here—a warmth she’d never known in the rigid, icy hierarchy and brutal competition of the Darkspawn, something called “family,” a relaxed and tolerant atmosphere.
And Liang Lai really was good—so good that Villeres couldn’t understand it, and even began to feel a little afraid.
She began to fear, to suspect that Liang Lai must have some ulterior motive, that she’d seen through her disguise all along and was just playing with her.
At first, she thought Liang Lai’s kindness was only on the surface, but now…it didn’t seem so.
Why would anyone give so much patience and kindness to people with no blood relation, even strangers with unclear origins?
This didn’t fit any of the laws that governed her world.
Such pure, unselfish kindness made all her own flattery and scheming, so full of hidden intentions, seem laughable and… despicable.
She still acted silently, but deep inside, something was quietly changing.
When she looked at Liang Lai, it was no longer just evaluation or pretense—sometimes a flash of complicated, unexplainable emotion appeared in her eyes.
The seed watered by Motifiel’s tears seemed to have found a faint crack in the icy lake of Villeres’s heart.
However, what truly widened that crack was something else.
Villeres was, after all, a Darkspawn.
Though her disguise was flawless, the ever-present, dense Aura of Light and Faith Power in the core area of the Holy Court was like a constant, invisible, low-grade corrosion to her.
She was not quite the same as Motifiel—Motifiel was the most successful kind of variant, but she was not.
During the day, it was bearable, but every night, when her body was exhausted and her guard was down, a subtle but inescapable burning pain and spiritual pressure would surface, making sleep difficult.
She had almost gotten used to it, accepting it as the price of remaining undercover.
But one deep night, as she once again tossed and turned in that familiar, irksome ache, she unconsciously furrowed her brow and let out a barely audible, suppressed breath.