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Chapter 46
Late at night.
Cilien stood before the door with a tense face and knocked.
Knock, knock.
“Who is it?”
Monica’s wary voice flowed out, sharp and defensive at the sound of an unexpected visitor.
“It’s me, Cilien. Could I have just a moment of your time?”
After a pause of silence, the closed door creaked softly open.
The warm glow of lamplight spilled out, brushing over hair as black as ebony and fingernails painted crimson, resting lightly against the doorframe.
Monica, apparently just ready for bed, was clad in a loose gown.
“Ahaha… hello?”
Her smile was stiff, her eyes narrowing as she took in the sight of Cilien standing there.
“What is it?”
“Well… I was wondering if you might like to take a short walk with me.”
Cilien forced a smile, speaking carefully.
“The Grand Duke’s garden is so beautiful at night. It feels like a shame to see it alone.”
At those words, Monica raised her brows.
A walk? At this hour? With me?
It was suspicious. Brazen, even.
Who wouldn’t feel uneasy at such an approach?
She must be plotting something for tomorrow’s test. But I’ve no intention of listening to such schemes.
“I’m sorry. As you can see, I’ve already finished preparing for bed. Perhaps another time…”
Her voice turned cold as she began to close the door—
But with a sharp thud, a hand slipped into the gap and pulled the door back with surprising force.
Normally, Monica would never have been overpowered by Cilien’s delicate strength.
But whether through the desperation of one or the carelessness of the other, Monica found herself dragged helplessly into the corridor.
She clutched her gown back into place, her irritation seeping into her tone.
“What is the meaning of this? If you’ve nothing important to say, I don’t care to—”
“Your husband!”
Monica froze.
“It’s about your husband’s injury.”
Her expression chilled instantly.
Cilien swallowed hard against the suffocating tension but forced her lips into a calm smile.
“Well? Not so trivial now, is it?”
The two of them stepped into the garden. Their pace was slow, measured, cautious.
The night air was cool, and moonlight spilled faintly over the cobblestones beneath their feet.
As before, the garden lay silent and empty.
Yet Cilien deliberately led them deeper, toward the far corner near a fountain hidden by hedges, far from any watchful eyes.
Monica followed without a word, though her suspicion remained.
Cilien did not speak. She gave no glance, no sign. She simply led on.
At last, Monica’s patience broke. She caught Cilien’s arm sharply.
“Enough. What exactly are you trying to say? Get to the point already.”
Her eyes gleamed dangerously.
Only then did Cilien stop.
She turned slowly, meeting Monica’s gaze. After biting her lip once, she spoke softly.
“I’ve heard your story. About you and your husband.”
Monica’s brow furrowed slightly.
“Kyle Brenton. Once a promising knight on the northern front… until he suddenly left and rose to fame as a mercenary.”
“…”
“They say it was all because of a woman.”
Cilien let the words hang in the air, her gaze fixed on Monica. And you know I mean you.
Monica crossed her arms and smirked faintly.
“Yes. That was me. He saved me, I fell in love, and we married.”
She gave a careless shrug.
“And what of it? Not much of a scandal. I thought you were building up to some grand threat.”
“I never meant to threaten you. Quite the opposite—I was moved by your story.”
“…What?”
Monica blinked, momentarily wrong-footed, while Cilien’s face softened into a gentle smile.
Yes, she remembered the tale well. Even overheard, it had struck her as oddly beautiful.
“A woman rescued from abuse in a border village, a knight wounded in the process who gave up his calling for her… how could that not be moving?”
Her tone was dreamy, like a reader lost in the pages of a romantic tale.
But for Monica, it was reality—one scarred with guilt and pain.
“Your husband gave up mercenary work too, didn’t he? Because the aftereffects of that injury grew worse?”
“…How do you…?”
Monica’s voice trembled.
Cilien only lifted a shoulder, lips curled in a knowing smile.
“My father’s from the north. I’ve heard things.”
Monica pressed her lips together and looked away.
Kyle’s injury was her eternal wound and shame.
She remembered it vividly: the day Kyle had first appeared in her village.
She had been bound, accused of witchcraft, pelted with stones and spit.
She had clutched at his trouser leg, begging for her life.
He had looked away in torment, the villagers insisting she was being punished and must not be touched.
He could have walked away. He owed her nothing.
But that night, Kyle returned. He knelt and broke her chains.
And in their flight, he was struck down and forever scarred.
Though the wound healed, the villagers’ malice and curses clung to it.
As time passed, he grew weaker, until even the mercenary band began to see him as a burden.
And so, they drifted here, to the Luciano lands.
Monica’s face tightened at the memory.
Seeing that expression, Cilien’s confidence grew. Yes—her proposal would strike home.
“So then,” Cilien whispered, stepping closer, “what if I told you I could heal him?”
Monica stiffened.
“If I could cure your husband… wouldn’t that make us friends?”
Her eyes widened unconsciously. She flinched as Cilien closed the distance and gently clasped her hands.
“I told you, didn’t I? Your story touched me. Lucien’s maternal relatives are famed for their healing arts.”
Monica’s eyes wavered at last.
“If you wish it, I could ask Lucien to arrange treatment for your husband.”
“Truly?!”
Her voice was sharp with urgency. She leaned in, desperate. Cilien’s smile twitched.
“On one condition.”
Cilien’s voice sank low, her gaze steady.
“Hand over the mana stones to us.”
“Wow…”
Meanwhile, Emil wandered through the portrait gallery of the Grand Duke’s residence, unable to shut his mouth.
Unbelievable… people I only studied in academy textbooks are right here.
Once, the Luciano family had been the Empire’s most illustrious line of magicians.
That glory lingered in every corner.
So many of its figures had shaped the advancement of magic that even now, their names remained etched in academic texts.
Emil felt a childish excitement, as though he were once more a student.
To stand before portraits of those legendary figures made his heart race.
“Ah… these must be…”
At last, he reached the final painting at the far end of the great hall.
Lifting his head, he stared up at the massive canvas.
A smiling couple.
And between them, a young boy.
A family of three, captured in the warmth of a single portrait.
