Chapter 13

Chapter 13

“Wake up now.”

A gentle hand stroked her hair, rousing her. The calm, orderly voice was pleasant to hear. Slowly, her distant, scattered thoughts returned.

Sian, who had collapsed, pushed herself off the floor with difficulty and lifted her torso.

No insects. No slimy plants. Not even the cold brick floor. Apart from the navy coat still clutched in her hand, nothing overlapped with the nightmare she had just endured.

As expected, it was just a dream. A hallucination.

Instead of relief, the realization left her unsettled. The pounding in her head and the racing of her heart still carried the nauseating aftershock of the horror.

The swarm of writhing bugs covering her body. The shattered shells and sticky fluids. The choking mucus. The vines that had bound and crushed her limbs. And… that shameful arousal she wanted to deny.

“Ugh…!”

Bile rose in her throat. With nothing in her stomach, only a trickle of sour gastric acid escaped.

She wiped her lips roughly with her sleeve only for a hand to reach out and gently cup her chin, lifting her face.

Looking down at her with a serene expression was Actarachion Jerdin. He knelt on one knee before her, studying her.

Sian’s face twisted with disgust.

“Was it such an unbearable ordeal?”

His words sounded tender, concerned. But only a fool would mistake them as genuine worry. Especially when the one who had inflicted the ordeal was speaking. His sympathy was mockery.

Her teeth ground audibly.

“What’s put you in such a foul mood?”

Was it you who gave me such a filthy nightmare? She swallowed the words, but his knowing look showed he understood.

“You may well end up making an enemy of the Emperor himself. Isn’t it only natural to confirm whether the one receiving such lavish investment is truly worthy of it?”

“And what exactly did that nightmare test?”

Covered in vermin, violated by writhing vines. What meaning could such visions possibly hold?

He did not answer. Instead, he drew a folded document from his robes and held it out. The vow she had signed upon her first arrival at the temple, during their initial consultation.

I solemnly swear to endure and overcome whatever trials may come my way

“Ah.”

A soft groan slipped from her. She understood what he meant.

To endure every ordeal, no matter how loathsome.

Even nightmares like these, for the sake of annulment.

Whether or not this was his intention when he presented the vow mattered little. What mattered was that she could not take back the words once signed.

Sian let out a long sigh of resignation.

Actarachion retrieved the document, his voice cutting like a blade.

“One month would be too easy. More than three, and you’d shatter completely.”

“…So?”

“Half, then. Forty-five days.”

“…”

“Endure forty-five days here in the temple without fleeing, and I will grant you your annulment.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Well. Perhaps I’ll extend the time. Or perhaps I’ll cast you out immediately.”

“…”

“In any case, try. I never once thought you’d refuse.”

He was right. She had already signed the vow. Refusal was not an option. And truthfully, she had no intention of refusing.

“…Fine. I’ll endure it.”

As soon as she answered, his hand released her chin and he rose. Without that support, her head drooped low, as if foreshadowing her inability to withstand what lay ahead.

The humiliation burned. At once, Sian forced herself to rise. She staggered, swayed, but steadied herself in the end and lifted her chin high.

Actarachion arched a brow at her rigid posture, then flicked the vow between his fingers in a mocking gesture. Don’t play games.

She ignored it. He had told her to endure. If she faltered at something so trivial, she would never last. Pride as a Princess demanded otherwise.

“You’ll write a vow too. A proper contract, stating who the parties are, the start and end dates, the promised outcome upon success. I want everything in writing.”

Her tone was firm, almost solemn. He, however, sat at his desk with casual indifference. Dropping her vow nearby, he pulled out fresh paper.

“I’ll write it. Don’t worry.”

His silver pen scratched quickly across the page. He was so compliant it almost left her at a loss. Before long, a new vow lay on the desk.

“Check it.”

He turned it toward her. She stepped closer and read.

Vow

I, Actarachion Jerdin,

High Priest and Margrave of the Borderlands, swear before the gods:

From June 2nd, XXXX to July 16th, XXXX,

if Sian Heartperion endures forty-five days of ordeal,

I shall, with body and soul, see to the annulment of Sian Heartperion and Dion Hertese.

Dated June 2nd, XXXX.

Signed, Actarachion Jerdin.

It was concise, but contained everything she had demanded.

“If you want amendments, say so.”

“No. It’s enough.”

“Then take it.”

“Should I keep it?”

“I have your vow. Wouldn’t it be better to personally manage this one?”

Normally, yes. If she were still the Princess in the palace, with loyal guards and a secure vault.

“Unless, of course, you’d rather trust me to hold it.”

He smirked, provoking her to take it. Instead, she pushed it back across the desk.

“I trust you. High Priest Jerdin should keep it.”

“You trust me?”

He looked faintly surprised.

“If I didn’t, I never would’ve come to you in the first place.”

In truth, she had nowhere else. No vault, not even a proper bag. And she could not trust herself not to lose it.

“You realize I’m the one who gave you that ordeal? The one you hated so much you vomited?”

“I know. But with even the Emperor against me, there is no one else on this continent I can trust.  I can’t even trust myself since kidnapping, coercion, betrayal could happen at any moment. That’s why I came to you. That’s why I signed the contract. Right now, you’re the only one I can rely on.”

Perhaps that satisfied him. He asked no more. With a complicated look, he placed both vows together in his desk drawer.

What is he thinking? Sian wondered. Her trust clearly stirred something in him.

She studied him a moment too long. His brows knit with irritation, his cold stare warning her off. She flinched, startled, though she had done nothing wrong.

“We’re finished. Leave.”

“So curt to your guest.” She gave a sharp little laugh. “I was going to, anyway—”

The words cut off. Her vision tilted. Not her eyes, but her body.

She caught a fleeting glimpse of Actarachion’s wide eyes as she fell. He looked genuinely startled, so this was not his doing. More likely her frail constitution failing her once again.

Thud!

Her body hit the floor.

* * *

Actarachion was dumbfounded. What on earth was this? He clicked his tongue, staring down at her collapsed form.

He had thought her spine stiffened, her spirit hardened. Yet here she was, unconscious again. Shameless in attitude, fragile in body. He couldn’t fathom it. With a sigh, he crouched beside her.

What did I do, for her to faint like this?

What a troublesome woman. His annoyance was mild, but present, as he turned her onto her back and brushed tangled hair from her face. Her neck wasn’t broken, at least. Pale as death, but alive.

Still, if left untreated she might worsen. Again, he would have to use his divine power to heal her just as he had in the temple hall, when she fainted; in the guest room, when she collapsed into exhaustion; by the lake, when she burned with fever; after the nightmare, when she awoke shaken.

“How will you endure forty-five days like this?”

He ran his fingers through her silver hair, frowning deeply.

Far too weak. She might not last even half the trials he intended. What a headache. He didn’t plan to kill her, only to toy with her. But at this rate, she might die regardless.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

He pressed his palm to her forehead, channeling divine power, and considered grimly.

How could he break this fragile Princess just enough to satisfy himself without shattering her completely?

* * *

Sian awoke in a daze. It had been bright when she collapsed. Now darkness filled the room. And the surface she lay upon was not the floor.

What…?

The texture beneath her head was strange. Firm, yet warm. She reached up to feel when suddenly, light flared.

She flinched, eyelids squeezing shut. At the same time, her wrist was caught. Her lashes fluttered open, and through the glare of the ceiling lamp she saw a face come into focus.

Handsome, familiar.

“Actarachion?”

A short, low laugh answered.

“You call me by name now?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

The question slipped out before she could stop it. Only then did she realize what her head was resting on. And who held her wrist.

Startled, she sat up abruptly. Actarachion leaned back, releasing her.

She could not look at him. Never in her life had she lain on another’s lap except her parents, or her nanny. To use someone’s body as a pillow demanded a closeness she had never granted. Mortified, she muttered:

“Why… your lap…?”

“Are you becoming a fool over borrowing a thigh once?”

“…”

“It’s just pity. Don’t be too moved. ”

That insufferable tone, void of compassion, swept away her embarrassment and left only irritation. Her face flattened back into indifference, and she let her head fall once more. His thigh supported her again. Heat prickled at her ears, but she feigned composure.

He leaned forward, gazing down at her.

“What are you doing?”

“How often does one receive pity from High Priest Jerdin? I’d best make the most of it.”

“For you, it’s hardly rare. I’ve counseled you whenever you asked, indulged midnight meetings twice, even signed a vow.”

“I wish you would pity me more and grant me the annulment, too.”

“Keep going and even what pity I have will vanish.”

So prickly. She bit back her retort. Provoking him further would yield nothing. So she lay quietly, head on his lap, staring up at him.

He did not complain. Whether pity or whim, once given, he would not take it back. That, at least, was a small mercy.

“…Thank you. For the healing.”

It was like creating a disease only to give the cure.

His lips curved faintly.

“I wondered from the start, how did you survive with a body this frail?”

“I’m a Princess…”

“Don’t make excuses. You’re simply lazy.”

The blunt strike left her speechless. He could have phrased it kindly. She turned her head aside, sulking in silence.

Naturally, he had no patience for sulking.

With a light shove, he tipped her off his lap. She rolled onto the rug, face first.

Her nose and forehead felt the sudden impact. She groaned with a clenched jaw, then shot upright.

“Honestly!”

“Stop whining.”

He looked down at her with a cool, superior gaze, as though she were a child throwing a tantrum.

She bit her lip, swallowing her annoyance. Why had he offered his lap at all, if only to dismiss her now? She brushed herself off and rose.

“Thank you for your help. It’s late so I’ll go.”

Of course, he did not stop her. He did not even offer a farewell as she left.

In the corridor, Sian stomped her foot. His temperament was unbearable and she worried it would only get worse. How could she endure forty-five days of this? She could have a very long forty-five days ahead of her. With a sigh, she returned to her room.

* * *

Actarachion leaned against the closed door, listening as her footsteps faded. Not that he needed to strain, but still, he lingered there, foolishly.

Am I insane? Standing here like this…

He gave no bitter laugh.

It was her fault. Her sudden collapse had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

Only when all trace of her presence vanished did he turn away, abandoning the foolish act of guarding the doorway like some kind of gatekeeper. Back at the sofa, he sank into the cushions, placing a hand on the spot still faintly warm from her.

The same thought returned, relentless.

What to do with her.

To hurl that frail Princess repeatedly into the inner world was dangerous. Unless he adjusted the intensity, she would die. He needed to tailor the ordeals to be harsh enough to torment, but not enough to kill.

The very thought irritated him.

She was the one who had accepted the wager of forty-five days. And yet he was the one agonizing over how to manage her survival.

The absurdity gnawed at him.

He ended the thought with a snort.

If she dies, then she dies.