Saint Eustacia’s footsteps halted, and she slowly turned her head. Her usually icy gaze rarely reflected disbelief.
It then shifted to a scrutinizing look, as if viewing an idiot, sizing up Movira from head to toe, her brows gradually furrowing.
“Movira, are you sick? Has something eaten your brain? What madness is this?”
With that, Saint Eustacia gave Movira no chance to speak, quickening her pace and swiftly disappearing around the corridor’s corner.
Movira froze in place. Saint Eustacia’s words “are you sick” pierced like a thorn into her chaotic thoughts.
In her mind, it no longer seemed like an insult.
Sick?
Was she… sick?
Perhaps… yes.
A “sickness” that couldn’t be freely vented, hard to voice.
A “sickness” on the verge of being crushed by inner desires.
A “sickness” that only flared up near Seraphina, and one that must—and could only—be cured by her.
Saint Eustacia’s rejection and sarcasm were like a bucket of cold water, making her realize even more clearly how terrible her current state was.
She couldn’t even find someone to have a good fight with to distract herself.
Irritation and frustration surged, nearly leading her to confront the air itself.
…
But in the end, she suppressed the impulse, her face darkening further as she strode toward the cafeteria.
When she returned to the room carrying the food box, Seraphina was leaning against the headboard, gazing at the scene outside the window under the slanting afternoon sun.
“Sister, you’re back?” She turned her head, her voice still carrying a trace of lingering softness.
“Mm.” Movira responded, setting the food box on the table and starting to arrange the dishes.
She deliberately avoided Seraphina’s gaze and didn’t dare get too close.
This unusual feeling was noticed by Seraphina. Before, Movira had been a bit awkward, but at least not like now—carrying a kind of… deliberate distance, with added… wariness and tension?
“What’s wrong? You don’t look so good…”
“Nothing.” Movira’s reply was quick and stiff, almost instinctively denying it.
She pushed a bowl of soup in front of Seraphina. “Eat quickly, before it gets cold.”
She herself picked up her rice bowl, abandoning her Demon King poise, eating absentmindedly yet voraciously, stuffing the food into her stomach to avoid any unnecessary contact with Seraphina.
Seraphina watched Movira like this, her doubts growing stronger. She sipped her soup in small mouthfuls, her gaze occasionally drifting to the person sitting beside her.
After hesitating, Seraphina set down her spoon, leaning slightly toward Movira’s direction.
“Sister, are you really okay? Could it be… some old injury?”
“Or… did you run into trouble outside?”
This unintentional concern, carrying her faint fragrance, was like a fuse to a powder keg.
It made Movira suddenly sit up straight, her hand gripping the spoon tightly.
She could clearly smell the light scent from Seraphina, see the delicate collarbone under her slightly open collar, feel the warm breath from her words…
The “string” in her mind was somewhat overwhelmed, emitting a wail on the brink of collapse.
“I’m done eating!”
Movira abruptly stood up, the motion so large it nearly knocked over the chair.
Without daring to glance at Seraphina again, she tossed out those words, turned, and strode out of the room, once more leaving Seraphina behind alone.
The door closed with a bang, leaving Seraphina in the room with a face full of astonishment.
What was… wrong with her again?
Seraphina looked at the barely touched food on the table from Movira, then lifted her head to glance in the direction she had left. The sense of loss in her heart seemed to deepen.
Movira wandered aimlessly along the academy’s quiet paths. The cold wind could carry away the surface chill, but not the inner heat.
Her steps were uncontrolled, and when she came to her senses, she found herself once again standing before the carved wooden door of Dekalorin’s office.
In the end, trusting her body, she knocked on the door.
“Come in.” Dekalorin’s voice came from inside as usual.
Movira pushed the door open and saw Dekalorin seated behind the wide desk as always, head down with a pen in hand, seemingly handling some documents.
She looked up at Movira, especially noticing the distracted look on her face.
“Oh my, Movira. What’s going on? Don’t tell me Seraphina kicked you out!”
Dekalorin set down her pen and leaned back fully in her chair.
Movira ignored her joke and, as if returning to her own home, casually slumped into the comfortable chair across the desk, rubbing her temples without responding immediately.
“No.” After a moment, she squeezed out two words from her throat.
“Oh?” Dekalorin leaned forward, carefully observing her expression. “Then what’s with that look? Old injury flaring up? Or… did you eat something bad? Logically, with your current strength, there shouldn’t be anything troubling you much.”
She guessed several things in a row, but the other just shook her head, her face looking even worse, even carrying a hint of embarrassment.
Dekalorin watched this hesitant demeanor, completely devoid of a Demon King’s aura, and gradually lost her patience. She slapped her hands on the desk.
“Enough, Movira! What are you playing at, acting like a pure maiden with me? What’s the matter? Just say it straight—stop hemming and hawing… it’s making me anxious!”
Movira was a bit dazed by this barrage of scolding. She opened her mouth, words rolling in her throat again and again.
Finally, she expressed her “worry” in an extremely roundabout and veiled way, using very implicit wording.
“Ha?” At first, Dekalorin had no idea what Movira was talking about, but as those fragmented words pieced together, the suggestive statements still stunned her.
Her eyes widened suddenly, her face showing shock and realization, which quickly turned into an extremely amused expression.
“You, hehe… you, oh… you wouldn’t be…” Dekalorin pointed at Movira’s nose as if discovering a secret, her voice rising several pitches with a teasing tone.
“Movira! You went around in such a big circle and said all that nonsense—just to say… your heat has come?”
Those three words exploded like a thunderclap, without warning, in the quiet office.
Now, even the Demon King couldn’t avoid a faint pink flushing her cheeks. She sprang up from the chair, glaring straight at Dekalorin.
“Dekalorin! You! What nonsense are you spouting! Shameless!”
Movira’s voice even trembled. Having lived for centuries, no one had ever dared to expose her current state so bluntly—or rather, so crudely.