Chapter 163

Elise slipped her gown back on, fingers deftly fastening the buttons. A thick cape followed, draped over her shoulders and cinched at the neck, wrapping her body in comforting warmth.

“Still…” she murmured, her tone steady but tired. “It’s better than the day I had to flee our burning home with nothing—unable to do a thing. That’s why, this time, I’m going to do what I can.”

She paused, then added with sharp finality, “And how many times do I have to say it? I’m not here for love. I’m here for my country.”

Andrei remained silent.

Elise continued, her gaze fixed ahead, voice unwavering.

“I’ll pretend I never heard anything about engagement. And once we secure victory, no one will care whose child I’m carrying. It won’t break morale—so there’s no need for you to worry.”

Andrei opened his mouth to speak, to stop her—but she didn’t wait.

Without another word, Elise turned and left his room.

The moment she stepped into the quiet of her own chambers, her legs buckled. She collapsed to the floor, breath stolen from her lungs as darkness edged into her vision. Just a few steps too fast—just a little too much.

Color bled back into the world slowly. She blinked, dazed, and found herself sprawled on the carpet.

Grimacing, she forced her fingers to shuffle through the crumpled papers she still held. Her hand glowed faintly as she cast a healing spell. Her chest and ribs—tight and aching—reluctantly eased open, as if someone had pried her lungs apart to let her breathe again.

“Haah…”

The exhale was shaky.

She tried to push herself upright, but her limbs refused to cooperate. In the end, Elise stayed where she was—slumped on the floor, body limp, hair pooling around her face. A long, defeated sigh escaped her lips.

Andrei… what a fool.

Her brother had done nothing but shout—sharpened words, thrown like knives—while she stood there doing her best just to hold it all together. Not once had he asked how she was. Not one word of concern.

His accusations had hurt more than she’d expected, cutting deeper than any blade. And yet, having finally said the words she’d kept locked inside, there was something strange—almost cathartic—about the pain. A quiet, hard-won sense of relief.

What was I so afraid of?

She didn’t regret the path she’d taken. Not anymore.

Still…

Rezette asked for my name four years ago? Even wanted to know why I wasn’t married…?

Her cheeks, which had finally cooled, flushed again in a rush of heat. She lifted a cool hand and pressed it to her face, muttering under her breath.

“So he wasn’t completely indifferent, huh…? Then why was he so cold at first?”

Her fingers wandered up to the collar of her dress, brushing against the small blue brooch hidden inside. She fidgeted with it absently—the brooch taken from the cloak he’d left behind. She’d tucked it away in the depths of her wardrobe, but somehow, it always found its way back into her hands.

“…And then he had the nerve to say he didn’t like women like me?” she muttered. “What was that about? Seriously. I’ll never understand him…”

She tried to push down the smile curling at her lips and buried her face in her hands.

Andrei’s words still lingered, heavy and painful—but they couldn’t stop her heart from beating fast. Frantic. Hopeful.

Maybe it was her imagination—but just then, she could’ve sworn something shifted inside her. A tiny bubble—popping gently in her belly.

***

Even after his sister had left without looking back, Andrei remained motionless in the center of his now-empty bedroom.

…Is he really that good? What about that man could possibly be worth it? But deep down, Andrei knew the truth: it wouldn’t have mattered who Elise had brought home. He would’ve felt the same regardless.

A dull throb began pulsing through his injured right leg, eventually sharpening into pain. Only then did he stir.

Leaning heavily on his cane, he walked toward the door Elise had exited and turned into the right hallway.

“Sameshita,” he called quietly.

A small girl—who looked no older than ten—stopped and turned, her eyes widening in surprise. But when she recognized the voice, her expression softened with something unsettlingly mature. It wasn’t the kind of look a child should wear.

Andrei met her gaze and spoke evenly. “I understand you made a deal with my sister. I’d like to take her place. I believe I can offer you… something even more appealing.”

The girl tilted her head, a slow, wicked giggle escaping her lips. “Hmm? You’ll have to try harder than that. Replacing my recent entertainment won’t be easy. Do you even know what Elizabeth promised me?”

“Whatever it was,” Andrei said coolly, “I’m confident my offer will be more tempting.”

She smirked. “Go on, then. Let’s hear it.”

“I know where the first emperor of Argan’s relic is buried,” he said. “And I know what it is.”

The dragon’s smile vanished.

Andrei, in contrast, now wore a calm, almost smug smile.

“Does that not… pique your interest?”

***

Each time the silver tassel hanging from the sword hilt danced, shards of light scattered in the air like fleeting embers.

With this, four of Ugel’s major cities—spread across the central continent’s wilderness—had fallen. The fourth, Sapa, had been consumed by the berserk madness of the dragonkin. Though it surrendered under a white flag, its state was twice as wretched as the three cities before it.

The commander of the Kingdom of Kiern, tasked with occupying Sapa, cast a wary glance around the ruins. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, lifting a hand in cautious deference.

“W-Well then… as previously agreed, we’ll take charge of sealing off the city.”

At his signal, Kiern’s troops fanned out with practiced precision, moving through the broken streets like shadows. Their orders were clear: cut off all lines of communication and prevent any messenger from escaping. They would wait—silent and unseen—for the signal to march on Ugel’s capital.

From Taro, Quinoa, Urs, to Sapa, the Northern Alliance had lost nearly half its forces. But with Sapa subdued, the end of the vast wilderness finally loomed in sight.

Green sprigs now pushed through gravel and shattered stone, and the wind carried a subtle warmth—tangible proof that the fertile lands of the South were drawing near.

“To live under a man like that as one’s lord…” the Kiern commander murmured, eyes fixed on the desolation. “My spine would freeze even in my sleep.”

He turned slightly, addressing the soldier beside him.

“The rumors were true,” he whispered to Ruben. “Rotiara’s army is the North’s strongest. But to serve under that Grand Duke… it takes more than talent. It takes something unnatural.”

Rezette’s infamous affliction had begun to show the moment they arrived in Taro, the first city. From then on, the campaign had become less a war and more a purge.

There was almost no need for blades—neither from the Alliance, nor from the knights of Rotiara. Even Rezette himself, volatile as he was, rarely bothered to draw his sword. It wasn’t battle. It was butchery.

Not even Ruben or Isaac—who had served beside Rezette the longest—had witnessed this side of him before.

And yet, it wasn’t that he seemed like someone else. That was what made it so terrifying.

The knights of Rotiara kept their distance, watching their lord from afar.

Just hours ago, the rubble at his feet had been Sapa’s city wall. Now, Rezette sat slouched atop it, unmoving.

His expression was unchanged. Despite being drenched in blood—armor soaked, crimson streaks painting his face and hair—his face betrayed no emotion. Only the glassy glint in his vacant eyes and the involuntary twitch of his right arm gave any sign of the toll his condition had taken.

With his heightened senses, even the quietest whisper must’ve roared in his ears like thunder.

“Y-Yes, thank you for the compliment. Well then, until we meet again… Oh, and if you value your life, I suggest you refrain from mentioning Her Highness the Princess. Yes….”

Ruben pressed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence from those within earshot.

A few paces away, Rezette sat with his gaze cast skyward, eyes unfocused. Silken strands of hair curled between the thick joints of his gloved fingers. He was absently toying with the tassel tied to his sword hilt.

Once, that ribbon had been something else entirely. During a recent war council in Rotiara, Lady Pettison had replaced it—removing the strip made from Elise’s hair and attaching a proper decorative tassel in its place. As if to compensate, she’d sewn on a small button taken from one of Elise’s favorite dresses.

Rezette had recognized it at once. After all, he’d undone that very button more than once with his own hands.

Since then, his fingers hadn’t strayed far from the hilt. The hypersensitivity in his touch gave him the uncanny illusion that he was still caressing Elise’s silver hair.

Softly curled, impossibly smooth—never a tangle in sight. The texture lingered on his skin, addictive.

When she used to doze in his arms, he would wind her long hair around his fingers and wait quietly for her to wake. Running his hand along the back of her head always drew the same response: a faint, cat-like murmur of pleasure that filled him with a strange, inexplicable peace.

His thoughts wandered.

It wasn’t just her hair. There were countless parts of Elise’s body Rezette loved just as deeply—her warm cheeks, the softness of her lips… the swell of her bre*sts in his palms, the elegant curve of her hips. Compared to the real thing, even a cherished lock of hair felt empty.

When he teased the most sensitive parts of her body with his mouth, she would let out the sweetest sounds. Her scent would cling to him—on his lips, in his breath—rich, heady, and maddeningly persistent.

The memory of her soft, springy flesh—sweet and yielding, like unmelted cream—struck him like a hunger pang.

In his current state, so finely attuned to sensation, the mere thought of holding her again was enough to unravel him. If he touched her now—truly touched her—he might lose control before she even had time to melt into his arms.

He didn’t need to imagine it. He already knew: it would be ecstasy.

Rezette let his thoughts roam freely. In this state of madness, there was no resisting the flood of images that surged through him—unbidden, relentless.

Looking back, he’d rarely had Elise the way he truly wanted. It had taken time—time to lower her guard, time to earn her trust, and even more time to move at a pace she could tolerate. He’d always needed to hold himself back.

And now, just when they’d begun to find rhythm and freedom in each other, that time was gone again.

It wouldn’t return anytime soon.

Not this year, at least. After giving birth, she would need at least six months to heal.

Rezette exhaled sharply, closing his eyes. Frustration clamped down on his chest like a vice.

He knew these thoughts were shameful—indulgent, even depraved—but it didn’t stop the irritation boiling just beneath his skin.

She would ask me again, he thought bitterly, Is s*x the only thing you care about?

Of course it wasn’t. It never had been. And yet, in moments like this, when his body burned and his mind spiraled, desire clouded everything else. Why did his affliction always amplify the worst of him?

Could he really return to her like this?

He doubted his own self-control—what little remained.

The truth was simple, and hideously clear: he was completely, insufferably frustrated.

If he’d never tasted this kind of violent, addictive pleasure, he might have remained something resembling a man. But now, with it engraved into every nerve, he devolved into a beast with terrifying ease.

The scent of blood and scorched dust clung to him, thick and foul. The haze began to lift.

Just one left now.

Still, he was glad they had moved quickly through Ugel’s cities. The first three had passed in a blur of blood, but after the fifteenth day, pieces of his shattered humanity had begun to return. That he could reclaim himself through killing—how ironic.

At this rate, they would breach all of Ugel’s key strongholds within twenty days and push straight down to Regal.

By next week, at the latest—he would see Elise again.

Hopefully, this cursed affliction will have quieted by then.

Rezette straightened and glanced down at his blood-caked hands. The thought of her while still covered in gore made him feel unclean.

He turned toward the nearest well, intent on washing—

“Your Grace!”

Ruben’s voice tore through the air like a crack of thunder, sharp and jarring. Rezette flinched, one hand shooting up to cover his ear as the shout rattled through him.

From across the camp, Ruben and Isaac came sprinting toward him, breathless and frantic.

“Haah… Hah… Your Grace,” Ruben panted, voice tight with urgency. “I have news—though perhaps… you’ve already heard…”

Amid the screeching storm of residual noise in Rezette’s ears, the words still pierced through—clear, cutting, louder than everything else.