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Chapter : 74
Did She Die Before?
Count Bronte froze in the middle of the manor.
“Madam, the master has arrived!”
The wife who was said to have awakened when her coffin opened lifted her gaze.
At the end of his line of sight stood a woman with long, white hair.
Her ankles looked as though they could buckle at any moment, and her lips were dry and cracked.
The long, white hair cascading down and the pale skin only heightened the frailty of her figure.
“L–Lord Count, please restrain your… presence…”
The woman stiffly fidgeted her hands.
“Madam, this is your husband. It has been more than ten years since the wedding. Madam, do you recall now?”
“M–marriage? Does that mean I am his wife?”
Count Bronte tightened his grip around his sword sheath.
“Why is she like that?”
“Madam has lost her memories.”
The Countess had lost her memory. Her health had been poor to begin with, and perhaps the shock of being placed into a coffin after being presumed dead had wiped everything away.
“Are you all right?”
Count Bronte cupped his wife’s cheek.
“I—I was scared. Everything was strange and unfamiliar. Cough, cough… My body feels weak and wrong. What have… I forgotten?”
“It’s all right. You’ve only just awoken—you must still be disoriented.”
Her complexion drained. On her bloodless white skin, faint blue veins surfaced.
“So pale…”
She was still dressed in the shroud meant for the dead. He ran his fingernails once down the funeral robes—scritch.
“Were you looking at the cherry tree?”
“Yes. The branches are dry and bare.”
“It’s still too cold for blossoms.”
She had lamented, upon learning she would not live past the winter, that she would die without seeing the cherry blossoms one last time.
“Stop the funeral rites.”
She appeared exactly as she had while living. Long, white hair fine and thin, skin bloodless enough that even hair lying against her cheek was indistinguishable.
Dirt, dew, the smell of grass—she had always been one who could notice such little things. Seeing that same wife now breaking up dry earth with her fingers, he looked away.
“Eek!”
She flinched in fear and curled her arms inward.
“S–sorry, your aura was so fierce…”
“That harsh aura must still cling from the battlefront. Forgive me. It feels strange to me as well. Are you better now?”
He had spent much time away on the extermination front. Even in death, he had not remained by her side.
“Don’t be afraid.”
“She was too frightened for us to ask anything. She remembered nothing before, only spoke of being trapped in darkness.”
The head maid sounded troubled.
The wife squeezed her eyes shut. Reaching out blindly, she clung to him. Gradually, her trembling eased.
“The physician.”
“He is imprisoned.”
“Has he been questioned?”
“A weak pulse—so faint it was hard to find even normally. And yet the whole funeral proceeded—coffin closed over a living lady…! Please sentence him harshly. The Lady was nearly burned alive—he was the one who requested cremation!”
Count Bronte’s grip tightened again around his sword.
“Send a request for audience at the Imperial Palace.”
“It was dreadfully quiet with both of you away from the palace. Now that the true master sets foot here again, I am deeply moved—”
The chief attendant’s chatter dragged on. The emperor had returned after a long absence, yet something about him was different. The empress lay nestled weakly against his chest beneath her shawl.
“What is it?”
“Ah—nothing, Your Majesty.”
Benjamin lightly pressed on Charles’ neck, and the attendant snapped into a bow.
“Clear the area.”
The attendants disappeared. The corridor fell silent.
Only Roskella remained beside them.
“Your Majesty.”
Benjamin gently stroked the shawl covering her neck.
“Let her sleep.”
“Yes. I will wait.”
Roskella, who guarded the emperor’s back, glanced toward the empress.
“Has her strength faded?”
“So they say.”
Charlopf had fallen ill as though to reclaim all the stamina she had spent. Her constitution had never been strong to begin with.
“Is it urgent?”
“It concerns an old investigation.”
After settling her in the imperial bedchamber, the emperor walked the now-empty halls. Roskella followed.
“The Rupurtic disease has no direct link to dark magic.”
“Indeed?”
“Most ancient texts on dark magic have been lost. Investigating alone took time.”
Benjamin waved off the apology.
“Dark sorcerers deal in death—and that requires dark power.”
“…Go on.”
“A body poised on the boundary between life and death—that is where they draw dark power. That is said to be the beginning of ancient black sorcery.”
“The source itself?”
“Dark magic trespasses on the realm of the living. To prevent the gods’ intervention while amassing power, practitioners would choose bodies in near-death to channel dark energy.”
Roskella spoke lengthily, but the point was simple.
“A body standing between life and death.”
Retracing the origin led to a connection.
“Does the Rupurtic disease end in a near-death state before it kills?”
“It is a southern endemic disease—victims harden little by little until death.”
So that was the reason it had seemed troubling.
“Dark power is not limitless. Life and death obey divine order, and powers that violate this are bound by restriction. Obtaining a dying vessel is part of that limitation.”
So wrote the ancient books.
“And what became of the sacrifices?”
“Their bodies were torn apart.”
“…”
“The end is gruesome. Shall I continue?”
“Speak.”
“Monsters ate them. Yes—ate them.”
Roskella had needed to close the book repeatedly at that passage.
“To stand on the boundary of life and death… means the mind can reach both sides. Even at the moment of dying, one may remain conscious. It is possible they felt every bite as they were devoured alive.”
Benjamin pressed his temples.
‘Did you know?’
Were you aware—or ignorant?
“I’d prefer she didn’t know. But she might.”
“Your Majesty?”
“Watch her closely. If she cannot sleep comfortably, send in handmaids to tend her.”
Roskella bowed.
“Shall I investigate further?”
“No. That is enough.”
She had remained at the Bronte estate rather than the front for this inquiry.
“The chief attendant approaches.”
Roskella dissolved into the shadows.
“Your Majesty.”
The chief attendant spoke from afar.
“Count Bronte requests an audience.”
“What is that look, as if you’ve mastered life itself?”
The corridor outside the reception hall was cleared. When the doors opened, Count Bronte bowed.
“Is the Countess well?”
“Yes. It was a misunderstanding. She suffered chronic heart disease—her pulse had grown so faint as to seem absent.”
“If you have a sick family member, your worry must run deep. Yet you travel here instead of staying by her side?”
Count Bronte clenched his fist and placed it firmly over his heart.
“My wife is ill. The years of sickness have been too long. I intend to remain by her now—and take all the leave I postponed.”
“Leave is easily granted.”
Benjamin studied him quietly.
“You must stay and see her through.”
Count Bronte, weather-darkened from years on the front, nodded.
His lineage was one that fought with steel.
“And you? Are you all right?”
“…Pardon?”
“Even you, taciturn as you are, must have feelings.”
Bronte opened his mouth, speechless.
“I didn’t expect such a question.”
Seymour Bronte.
A house that shielded the empire with their bodies on the extermination front, burying themselves in the soil to uphold their duty.
Their clan never wavered even as the imperial factions fought for power.
“Do I seem that inhuman?”
Benjamin closed the dossier and looked him in the eye.
“Is there nothing I can do?”
“Nothing, Your Majesty.”
“I heard you submitted your resignation before your leave.”
“And I heard it was refused.”
“You may take long leave. If the front has exhausted you, you may resign.”
Those stationed on the front may eventually lay down their burden.
“But don’t say it with that face.”
You’re drowning in guilt.
“If you need help—speak.”
After a long silence, Bronte replied:
“Eternal glory to the Imperial House.”
The head lady-in-waiting pressed her forehead.
‘Graaah!’
‘Grrr!’
It was a cry full of rage.
“A familiar?”
“Yes. Ever since Her Majesty awoke, it has been like this.”
A fluffy white beast dug at the blankets with its paws, venting its misery. Charlopf soothed it.
It kicked the blankets away and, irritated, exposed its belly while writhing. Then it bit Charles’ finger.
‘Grrraah!’
Charlopf petted the familiar.
“I think it was upset to be left alone.”
“It cries like a child.”
Its small size only made it seem more like one.
“I tried comforting it, but that just made it cry more.”
The beast shoved Charles’ cheek away with its paw and bared its teeth to nibble her fingers, tears glassy in its eyes.
“It’s biting lightly so it won’t hurt.”
Benjamin asked quietly:
“Wasn’t it a creature that handled solitude well?”
“Perhaps it gets lonely… It keeps wailing in sorrow, so today I’ll hold it close.”
Lyan settled its jaw on Charles’ shoulder. It glared at Benjamin, growling low.
“Don’t cry.”
Pat, pat.
“Are you tired?”
“A bit hazy, but fine.”
Lyan purred and sniffled as she scratched its chin. Its fur was matted, so she brushed it smooth.
He leaned on the side table, watching them.
“You woke sooner than I expected.”
Benjamin brushed her tangled curls—so vividly red it looked like scarlet paint smeared down his arm.
“What’s that on the table?”
He was holding something.
Benjamin loosened his cuffs and laid a thick dossier tied with cord on the table.
“May I hold your hand?”
He interlaced his fingers with hers.
“I’m not trying to frighten you.”
“…”
“I don’t want you to be afraid.”
He pulled her into his arms, pressing her head against his shoulder.
“Did something trouble you?”
He seemed somber.
“It feels like you’re hurting.”
Benjamin wrapped an arm around her neck, fingers finding the thudding pulse beneath the skin.
“Dark magic stands in the realm between life and death.”
Charles stiffened. If you won’t answer, I can’t know.
He pressed slightly—her pulse throbbed hot and anxious.
“Its source lies outside the human realm, craving living souls.”
Benjamin asked:
“I think I asked the wrong thing before—whether you’d ever encountered a monster as a child.”
“…”
“May I change the question?”
Her fragile hand tightened on his shoulder.
“Have you ever suffered Rupurtic disease—dying from it?”
Or—
“Did you… die once already?”
