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Chapter 15
“Ah… Your Grace the Grand Duke…”
“Yes, that damned title again. You’re always so consistent with your greetings.”
Killian pressed his fingers against his furrowed brow as if trying to contain his anger.
With a long sigh, he brought the medicine to Litrisha’s lips once more.
“Can you take this?”
“What is it…?”
“Medicine.”
But the pill was too large to swallow easily, and Litrisha shook her head with difficulty.
Seeing that, Killian clenched his jaw and popped the pill into his own mouth. There was a crunch as he bit down, crushing it.
“Open your mouth.”
Holding Litrisha’s small jaw, Killian pressed his lips to hers.
“Mm…”
Litrisha flinched at the sensation of his breath invading her mouth.
“Shh.”
With a soothing tone, Killian deepened the kiss slightly, passing the crushed remains of the pill into her mouth before finally pulling away.
“Haah.”
Their faces were so close, the tips of their noses touched.
From that distance, Killian stared intently into Litrisha’s eyes, though she refused to meet his gaze.
“Litrisha.”
“…?”
“Who am I?”
“Your Grace the Grand Duke…”
“No, that’s not right. You shouldn’t call me that.”
Killian pressed his forehead against hers and slowly closed his eyes.
“I’m your husband.”
In this life.
And in the last one, too.
There are many kinds of magic in the Empire.
From simple spells engraved into magic stones that anyone can use, to forbidden magic shunned for its danger.
The types are countless.
Among them, one kind of magic has a particularly fearsome reputation—magic that manipulates time.
There was once a time when mages, bewitched by the allure of bending time, revered and pursued it relentlessly.
But after a single mistake by a time mage wiped an entire ancient kingdom off the map in a single day, time magic was nearly lost to history.
Though it survived in documentation, no one in their right mind dared attempt it. One miscalculation in the formula and your body could be torn apart at a molecular level.
Even if someone dared try, time magic was of such a high tier that no amount of magic stones could substitute for the skill required. Only the greatest mages could even dream of attempting it.
Killian had been no exception—until a few months ago.
“I wonder if you know just how insane I had to become to find you again.”
With darkened eyes, Killian stared at Litrisha, who was breathing heavily, still trembling.
Her long, soft pink lashes rested peacefully—she had already fallen asleep, perhaps from the effect of the medicine.
“There were so many things I wanted to ask you when we met again. But in this state, I can’t ask anything, can I?”
He gently swept her sweat-dampened hair behind her ear, murmuring quietly.
Then he frowned.
From the long scar across his callused palm, light began to leak out, and letters appeared midair.
“You haven’t forgotten the terms of the contract, right? You must not reveal that you returned to the past.”
Killian grimaced and clenched his fist tightly.
The floating letters dissipated like smoke.
“Tch. So annoying.”
To clear the lingering smoke from the carriage, Killian reached out.
Creeaak.
He forced open the stiff window and leaned his head against the wall.
Muttering to himself as memories from the past flooded in clearly, as if they had happened yesterday:
“Really, you’re such a hassle, Litrisha.”
“I greet Your Grace the Grand Duke. I am Litrisha Charlotte Estaye.”
“What now? Don’t bother me. Step aside.”
“Your Grace, please use me. I will be your shield to avoid a marriage with Lady Luzabeck.”
This was what Killian heard during his very first meeting with Litrisha before the regression.
Even in their past lives, their relationship hadn’t been much different from now.
The only differences were: the war with Kazar had lasted about half a year longer back then, and that it was Litrisha, not Killian, who proposed the contract marriage.
In any case—
Back then, Killian had needed an excuse to decline the engagement arranged by the Empress Dowager, so he accepted her offer.
“In exchange for using you, what do you want?”
“A place to stay… for about half a year. Somewhere no one knows me, where I can rest quietly. That’s all I ask. I’ll leave without a word once the time’s up.”
“Fine. But don’t cause me any trouble. If you so much as inconvenience me, our contract ends right then.”
And so Killian welcomed Litrisha as his fake duchess, beginning a six-month marriage with a set expiration date.
It was neither particularly good nor bad—a lukewarm arrangement.
Litrisha kept her promise and quietly stayed in the duchy as if she didn’t exist.
Killian, using the lull in the Empress Dowager’s surveillance, spent most of his time outside the duchy building his power. So they rarely saw each other.
Occasionally, when Killian returned, they’d eat together, walk through the garden, share a few words.
Their days repeated like that in a quiet routine.
But at some point, Killian began to think—maybe this monotony wasn’t so bad.
That perhaps it wouldn’t be terrible to extend this relationship beyond the agreed six months.
He didn’t know why he thought that.
He just knew that the idea of Litrisha leaving the duchy made him feel awful.
And that feeling worsened when he later found out that Litrisha had a terminal illness.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your illness? Were you never going to say anything unless I figured it out myself?”
“I didn’t think you needed to know. We’re nothing once the contract ends anyway. I didn’t want to burden you with something unnecessary… You told me not to be a bother.”
He was speechless.
Because of a few offhanded remarks he’d made—remarks he barely even remembered—she’d decided not to tell him she was dying.
He was so stunned it made him furious. He wanted to grab her and yell that she should have told him.
But her exhausted expression stopped him from saying anything.
And around that time, a large war broke out near the northern border. Killian, with no other choice, left for the front lines—leaving behind only the words, “Wait for me.”
He had fully expected her to wait. After all, their six-month contract wasn’t over yet.
He was certain they could talk things out once he returned.
But contrary to his expectations, Litrisha left the duchy while Killian was away on campaign.
And long after that, on a day when rain poured in thick sheets—
She returned.
As a handful of ashes in a small urn.
Clatter.
The carriage jolted over a rock, rousing Killian from his memories.
He tilted his head slightly and ran his fingers through Litrisha’s hair.
“My wife, you were so cruel—leaving without even saying goodbye.”
His fingers tangled again and again in her cherry blossom–colored hair.
As her strands slipped between his fingers, Killian lowered his head.
“I told you to wait. What was so urgent?”
“……”
He quietly stared at her sleeping face.
Unlike his final memories of her frail, sickly appearance, her cheeks now had the healthy bloom of peach blossoms.
The wedding ring that had once been loose on her emaciated fingers now fit snugly.
Though he had unfortunately returned to the past in the middle of the Kazar battlefield, seeing these changes made it all feel real—he had truly come back.
“When I returned from the war, I was going to apologize. For what I said. For telling you to leave.”
Killian loosened the grip of the hand that had been holding her hair.
But just before the strands completely slipped away, he caught them again and brought the ends to his lips.
Even now, he wasn’t sure why he felt so twisted when he looked at Litrisha.
Love? Affection? Those sweet words the world liked to use didn’t seem to fit.
His feelings were darker. Stickier.
Like a warped possessiveness over a cherished object that dared to run away.
He didn’t know exactly what this was.
But one thing was clear—he couldn’t tolerate Litrisha vanishing from his sight.
He had even turned back time to find her alive, to bind her to his side again.
Well, it didn’t matter.
Whatever this messy emotion was, he had time to figure it out.
“Because we still have so much time ahead of us.”
Eeeek.
With a harsh screech, the carriage came to a halt. Killian gently lifted Litrisha into his arms.
His gaze fell on the man standing outside the carriage, framed by the townhouse behind him.
It was Piril.
Fel must have acted quickly—Piril’s nose was red from the cold, suggesting he’d been waiting a while.
As Killian opened the carriage door, his eyes remained fixed on the man shivering like a little bird in the cold.
“That doctor will cure your illness.”
Yes—Piril was the doctor who, three years from now, would invent the cure for the disease that had once taken Litrisha’s life.
