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Chapter 09
Despite his monotonous tone, the meaning behind his words was considerably heavier.
“So I can’t watch you end up half-dead from doing something reckless. And if you actually die and your Name manifests to me within a year, I’d be dragged down with you.”
So that was why.
Only now did Lyrette understand why he had been so intent on taking care of her.
“Let’s run a test first.”
Sitting on the sofa, he motioned for her to come closer.
Lyrette hesitated as if wary, but then remembered the shackles around her ankle and forced herself to move. Valderion stared at her in apparent disbelief, standing at a distance wide enough for a person to pass through.
With his foot, he stomped down on the chain connected to her shackle and pulled her toward him. The frail, dry-looking girl had no way to resist and was dragged along helplessly.
Before she could properly process it, she was already standing between his legs as he sat back against the sofa.
Valderion leaned into the backrest and looked up at her silently.
Rose Quartz.
The name of a gemstone, often mentioned in connection with the now-ruined Blawitt Marquessate, surfaced in his mind.
It referred to the distinctive pink irises shared by members of its bloodline. Lyrette’s eyes were the same. Such a rare trait—one that would naturally provoke the greed of someone like Dailen, who wanted to possess anything difficult to obtain.
Of course, if one asked whether that alone was the reason she was spared, the answer was no. Dailen had confessed his reason himself.
“She was too beautiful.”
She was too valuable to kill outright.
A simple, crude answer—ignorant, yet entirely like Dailen.
And yet, there was some truth to it.
Even before the Blawitt Marquess still stood, Lyrette had been known in high society for her beauty. Even before her formal debut, rumors of her extraordinary appearance had quietly circulated among the elite.
It all began with those who had seen her in person, spreading the word like drifting clouds.
Had her father not attempted rebellion, and had she maintained her rightful position, it might have been Lyrette—rather than Camille—who now ruled the social circles.
“Let’s start by holding hands.”
“Why hands?”
Lyrette reacted sharply, already on edge at the mere closeness between them. Like a kitten baring its harmless claws.
“We need to check how far your condition improves. We know that touching your Name helps, but if there’s a better method, it’s better for both of us to find it.”
She remembered the rough sensation of his hands pressing against her body the previous day. The soft down on her skin had bristled violently in response, a disturbing sensation twisting through her body. She didn’t want to feel that again.
And yet, she was afraid of what this man might do.
Then she recalled the scene from earlier that day—him walking through the garden with his fiancée.
This isn’t something emotional for him. It’s treatment… in a sense.
Once she accepted that, the confusion in her mind cleared slightly.
Like someone stepping into an unknown world, Lyrette slowly unfurled her curled fingers. He had already extended his palm like an escort offering his hand. Her fingertips brushed his palm several times, hesitant and uncertain.
Valderion watched her thin, fragile fingers. Last night, when he had briefly touched her Name, he had clearly seen her tension ease.
But within a few days, she had reverted to her original state.
Looking at fingers that seemed naturally fused together from birth, he felt an odd sense of irritation. Acting on a sudden impulse, he grabbed her hand—one he had previously left untouched.
“Ah—!”
Startled, Lyrette stepped back.
But Valderion had already locked their hands together, interlacing their fingers.
His fingers forcibly pushed between hers, invasive and unrelenting. The spaces between her still-mobile fingers were forced open like puzzle pieces clicking into place, while the stiff, fused sections were pried apart as far as possible.
It was an action devoid of hesitation, as though asserting his presence.
Even though it was only their hands touching, Lyrette felt something deep within her contract and slowly unravel, making her blink in confusion.
When she tried to pull away in panic, Valderion tightened his grip and yanked her closer. Her fragile body toppled forward without resistance.
He caught her effortlessly.
“What—!”
Realizing she had been pinned awkwardly on the sofa, Lyrette struggled to pull her hands free. Valderion ignored her efforts and focused on moving his fingers with precise intent.
His intense concentration forced her resistance to falter. Gradually, the stiff gaps between her fingers began to loosen.
Sensing the change, Valderion pushed further, inserting his fingers deeper between hers. Lyrette’s long eyelashes trembled.
The seams of her tightly bound fingers were forced apart, his movements rubbing against the most sensitive inner spaces. Repeating it several times, the three fingers that had been stuck together slowly separated, gradually returning to their natural shape.
Valderion perceived it both visually and tactilely.
“It’s effective, but significantly slow.”
To confirm, he continued lightly probing the already-separated fingers, still keeping their hands locked together.
Even though the purpose of treatment had been achieved, his actions remained persistent.
Dizzy and overwhelmed, Lyrette finally pushed against his chest and sat up from the sofa.
Her dress, once perfectly neat, was now thoroughly wrinkled. Valderion, beneath her, was no better—his cravat had already been loosened, giving him a far more disheveled appearance than usual.
“Since it’s effective, that’s enough.”
Valderion slowly straightened his upper body.
Even after correcting his posture, his appearance remained slightly unkempt, contrasting sharply with his usual immaculate composure.
“You probably don’t want to stay in that condition forever either.”
Lyrette immediately understood the implication.
She recalled the relentless way his hands had toyed with her moments earlier—an unrefined, almost cruel touch devoid of consideration. The thought that she would have to endure that repeatedly made a wave of resistance rise within her.
But thinking of the shackles, she couldn’t bring herself to refuse outright.
She pressed her lips together in silence.
“Thirty minutes a day. That’s the maximum time I can allocate for you.”
“….”
“Given my schedule during the day, night would be more appropriate.”
Though she said nothing, he continued as if she had no say in the matter.
“If you agree to behave during that time, I’ll remove your shackles.”
As expected.
Valderion had offered the removal of her shackles as a condition. Or rather, it wasn’t truly an offer at all.
It was a command disguised as one.
Lyrette stared stubbornly at the floor, feeling the weight of her circumstances. Even the sight of the chain still irritated her, making her quietly resent herself.
From that day on, two changes occurred in Lyrette’s room.
First, the cold sound of iron chains that matched the winter atmosphere disappeared. Nothing within the room restrained her movements anymore.
Second, a sandglass was placed at the center of the table.
The fine golden sand inside marked exactly thirty minutes per cycle.
When flipped, the grains flowed endlessly through a narrow neck of glass, shimmering as they fell. There were no exceptions, no deviations.
The hourglass stood like a solemn guardian, enforcing time itself.
“…ngh…”
Lyrette flinched at the sensation pressing against her palm.
She wanted to pull away immediately, or even hide somewhere. She swallowed nervously, forcing her back straight as she tried to relax her fingertips.
If someone asked why she was struggling so much over something as simple as touching hands, the answer lay in what came next.
Unlike the visibly uncomfortable Lyrette, Valderion sat with one leg crossed, flexing his fingers lazily.
Their palms, still pressed together, twisted—and their fingers intertwined like tangled thread.
The man remained utterly composed.
His expression showed no strain, his posture perfectly refined, the model of nobility. He looked as though he could just as easily be holding a book or a glass of wine in his other hand.
“Relax.”
He frowned slightly, not because of her condition, but because her excessive tension made their joined fingers stiff.
Lyrette exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. She glanced sideways.
Toward the hourglass.
Despite her desperate hope, only a small amount of sand had fallen.
Barely five minutes had passed—let alone ten.
