Chapter 136

Keith struggled with where to hold Marie’s funeral.

The street of Yenikel, where they had first met her, had burned down long ago and was now rebuilt—neat and polished. Shops lined both sides, and people still bustled there even after dark. There was no trace of its former poverty, nor anyone left who remembered Marie.

Florence suggested they hold the funeral in the neighborhood where Marie had stayed the longest, with the couple who had once cared for her.

But Keith thought differently.

“Let’s go to the inn.”
“Which inn?”
“Tolle Street.”

Florence understood immediately.

Keith had hesitated between going to the border city of Karen or Tolle Street, but in the end, he felt it was right for Marie to be laid to rest near Redamas, the city where she had been born and raised.

The dead cannot return. Mourning belongs to the living. So perhaps, he thought, it was fine to choose what gave him a little peace.

In truth, the funeral had already been held that day.

Florence had ordered her spirit to burn Marie’s body until nothing was left. She carried the ashes in a necklace, always keeping them close. That alone was enough for Marie. Florence remembered her, grieved for her, and carried her remains with her—Marie would have wanted nothing more.

Marie was that kind of child—easily content with so little.

It had been a miracle that she even survived as long as she did. Florence’s wounds were too severe, her magic drained after chasing Laila. Keith could barely keep her alive with makeshift treatment.

He considered calling Enoch. If he did, Enoch would rush to them immediately. But Keith didn’t.

The “Florence” he had met back then didn’t seem to know Enoch Hains at all. Whatever had happened—why she fled her husband and ended up brutalized by Laila—Keith didn’t know yet. And dragging Enoch into it before understanding the situation seemed reckless.

Besides, Florence almost never spoke of House Seymour.

Yet, how could he ignore someone dying before his eyes? So he saved her first. Later, if it turned out she was an enemy, he could always hand her to Laila. If he had simply misunderstood, then he could call Enoch afterwards.

But for the moment, they needed a hiding place—one that even Laila couldn’t track.

After some thought, Keith chose Yenikel Street.

The slum was one of the hardest places to search. Spirits avoided dirty, unnatural places. Magic, too, had trouble combing through such crowded, messy districts. Carrying Florence in his arms, he felt her flinch unconsciously, her shoulders trembling. The burns had scarred deep, and even his touch terrified her.

“Don’t… touch…”

Her lips were cracked and swollen, blood pooling inside her mouth. Someone had beaten her meticulously, cruelly. Keith had repaired torn flesh and broken bones enough to stop her insides from spilling out—but the pain was still there. Worse than the pain, though, was her terror of being touched at all.

He carried her into one of the countless abandoned houses and gathered children from the streets. Among them, he picked the one girl who showed the least greed for money.

That girl was Marie.

“I’ll pay you double if you help me.”
“Instead of money, please give me food.”

In this street, hunger was harsher than cruelty. Of course the children wanted money—gold meant survival. When Keith showed them coins, most rushed forward, eyes shining. But Marie stayed still, calm.

She knew better. Children with money only got robbed. She was clever.

When Marie stepped forward, even the bigger kids—some nearly adults—stepped back.

“You’re a girl, right?”
“Do I look like a boy to you?”

Marie scoffed. She was thin, shabby, but clearly a girl.

Keith gestured toward the inside of the building.
“A girl will be better for this.”

“What do you need me to do?”
“Come inside with me. You there—go buy food.”

He flicked a coin at another child. Marie calmly watched the boy grab it, then turned back to Keith.

“You’re not going to warn him not to run off with it?”
“Why would I? That’s his choice. The money isn’t even mine.”
“It’s yours—I gave it to you.”
“Even so, if he runs, that’s on him.”

If her words had been empty bravado, Keith wouldn’t have cared. But her eyes held no expectation. She truly wouldn’t be surprised if the boy never came back.

“Follow me.”
“Yes.”

She didn’t ask who he was, or what he intended. His clothes and face were smeared with Florence’s blood, yet she stayed quiet.

Inside, the house stank of dust and iron. Marie immediately spotted Florence lying there.

“Is she dead?”
“No. Still alive.”
“Her? Really?”

That was how terrible Florence looked.

“I’m treating her.”

Without Keith, she would already have been dead.

Keith was a genius. He had become a 7th-class mage with healing magic alone—a feat even his harsh master couldn’t deny.

He handed Marie clean gauze and towels.
“Wipe off the blood. Clean her, change her clothes.”
“We’ll need more towels. And warm water.”
“I’ll get them. For now, just wipe her down. Cleanliness comes first.”
“Understood.”

Marie began wiping Florence’s face carefully. Keith left to fetch hot water, extra cloth, medicines, and new clothes.

This is more troublesome than I thought.

If not for his late father’s words—never turn away a life you can save—Keith wouldn’t have bothered. But once he chose to heal, he couldn’t stop halfway.

When he returned, Marie was tidying the place.

“You didn’t have to go this far. Rough work is fine.”
“Did you buy blankets?”
“…Yes, here.”
“And clothes?”
“…Also here.”
“Then I’ll do the rest. You—”

She looked him straight in the eye.

“Keith. Keith Hayden Brien. Please wait outside.”

“What? Why? I still need to heal her.”
“Didn’t you say cleanliness matters? You’re not her lover. Not her family.”
“…True.”
“Then I’ll wash her and dress her. After that, you can heal.”

And with that, Marie pushed him out.

Keith blinked in shock.

Marie had asked earlier if Florence was alive. But once she began cleaning her, her attitude shifted.

Keith realized Marie must have seen the same things he had—the way Florence shrank from touch, whimpered faintly, trembled even in unconsciousness.

Who’s pitying who here…

Through the crack of the door, he glimpsed Marie gently wiping Florence’s blood-streaked face, gathering her hair back. Her lips moved in a whisper:

“Please don’t die.”

To a woman whose name she didn’t even know.