Chapter 12 (1/2): Hotter than hope, deeper than despair, is love!

Marianne’s eyepatch was roughly torn off, and the dazzling light made her instinctively squint.

She was standing at the edge of the Lower City Municipal Plaza.

Pigeons strolled leisurely on the pale gray stone tiles, cooing softly as they pecked at breadcrumbs scattered by children.

Sunlight poured down unobstructed, casting the fountain’s water jets in the center of the plaza in sparkling clarity.

The sound of splashing water mixed with the chatter of citizens and the calls of street vendors, creating a lively, noisy current.

The air was filled with a scent of freedom—warm, tinged with the smell of baked goods, and even a faint trace of floral fragrance.

This was in stark contrast to the perpetual rust and bloodstains that clung to the Order of Heretic Inquisition’s chambers.

Marianne took a deep breath; the warm air filled her lungs but left her feeling dizzy and unfamiliar.

She was like someone resurfacing from the deep sea, struck dumb by the overly bright light and the noisy “normal” world.

In a daze, Marianne’s thoughts were pulled back to the night the Laval Family was attacked.

When the Inquisition finally arrived at the Laval estate, Allen de Laval lay in a pool of blood, his face as pale as paper, his breath faint to the point of almost being undetectable.

The accompanying doctor, clad in a white coat, quickly examined Allen’s wounds and left behind one cold, piercing statement: “Blood Loss Shock. No time for crossmatching. Chances of survival are minimal.”

Minimal.

Those four words stabbed mercilessly into Marianne’s heart like an ice pick.

She didn’t understand what blood loss shock meant, but she understood the doctor’s expression—

The look of pity and guilt a physician feels toward a dying patient.

Her knees went weak, and with a thud, she sank heavily onto the cold floor.

The hard tiles pressed painfully against her bones, but she didn’t care.

“Please, save him!”

Grasping the doctor’s hand like it was her last lifeline, she begged humbly, “Anything I can do, I’ll do it!”

Seeing Marianne’s desperate protectiveness, even Viscount Bernard and the Butler were moved.

“Child, you’re only going to hinder the doctor…”

The Butler gently pulled Marianne aside, trying to comfort her, “The young master will be fine. He has the Lord’s blessing; the Lord will protect him.”

“Yes…it’s all my fault…how did I not notice he was hurt…”

Bernard sank into endless self-blame.

Perhaps it was Marianne’s sincere despair, or perhaps it was the phrase “Anything I can do, I’ll do it” that struck a chord.

A flicker flashed behind the doctor’s cold spectacles.

He paused silently for a few seconds, then quickly pulled out a strange test strip and several thin syringes from his medical kit.

“There is one last option—an allogeneic emergency transfusion. Extremely risky, but it’s worth a try.”

The doctor’s voice was steady, his professionalism drawing the hope-filled gazes toward him.

“Everyone present, test your blood type!”

When only her blood sample matched Allen’s on the tiny strip, Marianne nearly cried with joy.

She didn’t understand blood types or transfusions, but she trusted this doctor.

He stood for the Church; he represented the Lord’s glory!

“If I’m to save him, you might die from excessive blood loss. Even so, are you willing to save him?”

Without hesitation, Marianne stretched out her slender arm.

The blue veins beneath her pale skin were clearly visible.

“I will save him!” she said resolutely.

The doctor nodded and said no more.

Watching the dark red blood flow from her veins through a transparent tube and into Allen’s cold wrist, Marianne’s heart raced wildly.

Not from fear, but from a sacrificial resolve.

She was already prepared for death.

Rather than die branded a heretic, she preferred to die as Allen’s maid.

Goodbye…

Mother…

Father…

Brother…

After I’m gone, live well.

Please…don’t become like me…irredeemable.

When a faint flush appeared on Allen’s ashen face and his chest began to rise and fall gently, Marianne’s tense nerves snapped.

Her vision blacked out, and she lost consciousness completely.

When she woke again, Marianne found herself lying on a cold hospital bed, surrounded by unfamiliar metallic walls.

A Church Nun assigned to care for her was in the room.

She told Marianne that this was the Order of Heretic Inquisition’s Medical Ward.

Heretics who survived the Lord’s “Cherished Mercy” with half a life left would be sent here, healed, and then subjected to more “mercy.”

The words tightened Marianne’s chest.

She was still inside the dreaded Inquisition.

The Nun told her that although Allen was temporarily saved, his life still hung in the balance.

Marianne’s heart tightened painfully.

She couldn’t leave Allen alone in this place!

That thought consumed her utterly.

So she made a decision that seemed utterly absurd to outsiders—

She volunteered to stay behind to care for Allen.

Even if it deepened the interrogators’ suspicions and dragged her into an abyss without return.

The days at the Inquisition became the longest, most torturous nightmare of Marianne’s life.

She was locked in a cramped single cell near the Interrogation Room.

The suppressed but never fully blocked screams, cries, and desperate pleas pierced thick walls day and night, invading her ears and mind.

She saw black-robed Interrogators silently carrying covered stretchers by, the stiff outlines beneath the white sheets telling silent tales of cruelty.

Night was the hardest.

Lying on the hard wooden plank bed, the agonized moans of an unknown “heretic” next door cut through her nerves like a dull blade.

She dared not imagine what that person had endured, nor whether she would be next.

Anxiety, fear, and guilt twined around her heart like vines tightening, robbing her of sleep night after night, pushing her to the edge of sanity.

The Inquisition never interrogated her directly, but the silent, oppressive atmosphere alone was enough to gradually break down her mental defenses.

Every horrifying rumor about the Order of Heretic Inquisition was true.

They spared no one guilty, and never wronged the innocent.

And Marianne Durand was exactly the enemy of humanity they hunted—

A traitor who conspired with heretics and plotted regicide!

She felt like a fish on a chopping block, waiting for the blade to fall.

The only place in the entire Inquisition that gave her even a hint of respite was Allen’s bedside.

There were no piercing screams, no grim Interrogators—only the steady tick of machines and Allen’s faint breathing.

When she was allowed to enter and saw Allen lying on the hospital bed, weak but still breathing, Marianne’s tightly wound nerves broke like a dam bursting.

She threw herself onto the bed, clutching Allen’s unbandaged hand, burying her face in his cool palm, and sobbed like a child.

Only here, by the side of the one she had both harmed and saved, could she release her nearly broken emotions without fear of suspicion.

She felt the Inquisition’s omnipresent eyes had already seen through everything.

But in the end, she was not convicted.

The Order of Heretic Inquisition released both master and servant, citing insufficient evidence.

The order to release came so suddenly it felt like waking from a nightmare.

Now standing in the bustling yet warm plaza, feeling the sunlight’s real warmth on her skin and the gentle breeze caressing her hair, Marianne felt a profound sense of unreality.

She really…survived?

Together with the young master?

The overwhelming shock of survival made her eyes burn and her nose sting.

She just wanted to cry her heart out.

At that moment, a warm hand gently tapped her shoulder.

Marianne spun around abruptly.

Allen de Laval stood beside her.

His complexion was still pale, his lips lacked color, and he was thinner than she remembered, but his black eyes shone astonishingly bright, filled with a strange exhilaration and pride that Marianne couldn’t understand.

He even gave her a teasing, youthful smile.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry, Marianne,” his voice carried deep fatigue but he forced a light tone, “Smile! We made a perfect team this time! Come on, high five to celebrate making it through.”

Smile?

High five?

What was he talking about?

Did he even realize how close he came to not making it back?

Marianne’s mind went blank.

All the grievances, fears, and lingering terror—along with a fierce emotion she could barely describe—burst forth at once.

“Idiot!!!”

She screamed through her tears and threw herself into Allen’s arms, wrapping her hands tightly around his waist as if trying to meld him into her body.

Tears poured down, soaking the fabric of his chest.

“I was so…so scared…” she buried her face deep against him, her voice muffled and trembling violently, “I thought…we’d never…ever get out…”

Allen’s raised hand, poised for the high five, froze awkwardly in midair.

He clearly hadn’t expected such a reaction.

After a few seconds, he tentatively lowered his hand and gently stroked Marianne’s soft black hair.

Marianne didn’t resist his touch.