The moment Livia's fingertips touched the Holy Grail shard, the world collapsed inward like a whirlpool.
Time lost its color.
Space turned upside down.
Every sound receded like a vanishing tide—
Until only memory remained, surging forward like a flood.
And then, the images surfaced.
It was that night.
The night Livia had lived through… and spent years trying to forget.
In the study of that familiar castle.
Marcellus knelt on the floor, his back to her, shoulders trembling faintly—as though he were whispering to himself… or weeping.
A short dagger was clutched in his hand, its blade buried deep in his palm. Blood dripped from between his fingers, falling onto the floor in slow, blooming drops like crimson flowers. His lips moved continuously, muttering something too low to hear clearly—somewhere between self-denial and a curse hurled at a phantom enemy.
"She died… no, she's still alive…
She killed me… no, I killed her…"
His voice was hoarse and fragmented, like a wounded beast gnawing at itself inside a nightmare.
The words twisted and repeated, disjointed—
As if two minds were at war within one body.
Livia held her breath, terrified to make even the slightest sound. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her eyes stayed fixed on him—shocked, unsettled. She had thought she knew Marcellus: his composure, his restraint, even his quiet compassion.
But the man before her—
No, this broken soul—was someone else entirely.
Then, suddenly, as if sensing her presence, Marcellus turned.
His eyes—hollow, furious, wild like a cornered animal—locked on hers.
For a second, she truly believed he might lunge at her and tear her apart.
His body jerked forward, his expression contorted by pain and hatred. His bloodied hand rose, trembling. In that instant, it seemed he didn't recognize her at all. To him, she was merely an intruder who had glimpsed something she never should have seen.
But just before he reached her, he froze.
As if some invisible force pulled him back from the edge.
He stood still, panting, staring at her—recognizing her, maybe. Or simply losing the strength to continue. Then, without a word, he turned back around. He dropped to his knees again, his fingers clutching the floor so tightly that his knuckles went white.
Livia didn't wait for an explanation.
She didn't dare.
She turned and ran—ran through the dark corridors and stone halls, through the cold night air, until the sharp wind outside finally dragged her out of the swamp of memory.
And the next day…
Marcellus said nothing.
He wore his uniform.
His face was calm.
His tone was neutral, measured, unchanged.
As if the madness of the previous night had never happened.
He didn't mention the blood.
He didn't mention the spell.
He didn't even mention the moment she had stood behind him in that room.
He performed the role of composure. And she, silently, played along.
But both of them knew—their world had shifted.
It was this performance of normalcy, this quiet denial of truth, that shattered Livia's final sense of safety.
She realized then:
There were secrets Marcellus kept—darker, deeper than what she had seen that night.
And he realized:
He no longer deserved her trust.
From that day on, the two of them… never truly drew close again.
And it was from that moment—
That everything became irreversible.