The hot air swirled as if above my very soul, until I felt nothing but an overwhelming burden of pain and agony. There was a searing sensation in my mouth. My head throbbed as though struck repeatedly by sledgehammers wielded by devils taking turns around my body. I could feel the erratic pulses of my heart racing wildly out of rhythm. I gulped down oxygen uncontrollably, all in a futile attempt to satiate myself. My lungs seemed inadequately sized, as if incapable of drawing in the necessary amount of air. I was sweating profusely, depleting my body's water reserves, and yet I constantly craved to quench this thirst. But my consciousness drifted along its own path, refusing to coalesce.
The sensation of being severed from my own soul and body was beyond explanation — at least, I could not find the words for it. The surface upon which I lay felt like the earth of hell itself. I writhed and writhed, moaning, yet the scorching bed enveloped me with its tenacious roots, drawing me deeper in, I swear. I longed to sever those roots, to break free from this captivity and draw a deep breath — but…
It was impossible. My delirious fantasies bore no resemblance to the reality in which I merely lay feverish in my bed.
Occasionally, I heard muffled voices — or perhaps just one voice. I couldn't tell.
— Come on…
My eyelids were sealed shut, offering no chance to open them. Even when I managed it for the briefest moment, my entire field of vision was shrouded in a haze.
Sometimes, faint gusts of air from someone's movements brushed against my fingertips. Someone was moving about near me, clattering with utensils. At one point, a damp, cool cloth was placed upon my forehead. I felt icy droplets trickling down my face, tickling my skin unpleasantly.
At that moment, I wanted only one thing — to die and no longer endure this suffering.
Through the veil of all this confusion, I found the strength to notice something new. No one was rushing back and forth anymore, muttering to themselves. Yet, some time ago, a draft had drawn toward the door. The room seemed to fill with cold, and the very air grew thinner. I could distinctly hear the sound of boots — different from Karina's light, almost floating gait.
— Not the most elegant method, but you left me no choice, — a disgustingly calm male voice made me wince and force my leaden eyelids open.
The man stood by my bed, his hands clasped behind his ramrod-straight back. I still couldn't fully focus my blurred vision.
— You look wretched, — his utterly unperturbed voice irritated me more than anything else in this world. My teeth ground together, and I felt discomfort in my jaw. — Though perhaps, for the first time, you reflect what has long been inside you.
— You… What have you done? — I hissed, forcing the question out, though I already knew the answer.
Even with my clouded vision, I could clearly make out his burning yellow eyes. They held no remorse, no pity…
Only cold triumph.
— I merely treated you to a small measure of polygonatum. One sip — and your ardour has cooled. Quite symbolic, wouldn't you say?
Polygonatum… A pale root, ground into powder. Healing in one dose, punishing in another.
— You poisoned me… — I had no anger left. Only exhaustion.
The count moved with slow, measured steps toward the drawn curtains and parted them slightly, as if peering outside. I followed his movement with my eyes.
— So… I've cooled you down, — he tossed off. — You acted as if everything were permitted to you. As if you could break the rules, spit on etiquette, interfere. But alas, girl, there's a price for everything.
Bernard turned toward me and closed the distance. He leaned in, staring deep into my pupils, his voice dropping lower, more intimate:
— Do you think I'm cruel? — his words burned with ferocity. — No, I'm a teacher. I respect the law. Even if I have to bend it until it cracks, like a branch. Because you've decided to play adult games. You've decided you can overstep boundaries.
He seemed to revel in my helplessness. It clearly gave him genuine pleasure to see how utterly trapped I was in this bed.
— I could break your fingers. Send you to a dungeon. Expose you publicly, — he began, enumerating with emphasis. — But that would be too dull. Forcing you to rot from the inside, watching your body turn against you… That's truly instructive.
…
I clutched the sheets until they nearly tore, my nails digging into the mattress. The moment I grimaced even slightly, blood rushed to my head.
'A bag of filth.'
It was truly astonishing to witness the heartlessness with which the count treated his—unfortunately—own child. Though I had stopped reading the novel far from its end, I had stumbled upon spoilers. At first, it infuriated me, and I lost the desire to continue. Yet, intrigued by Illissa, I had already scoured sources on my own and fished out several more spoilers. Even those didn't capture Bernard's behaviour so vividly. Of course, one couldn't deny that the author had indeed poured all his violent fantasies into this man's soul—but experiencing it firsthand…
It was truly horrifying. So much so that beyond the pain, I felt something else. Something incomparable to rage or anything of the sort. Something I couldn't even properly describe, let alone name. Something that seemed to lurk in the subconscious. Or were these the memories of this body?
The count stared at my face, twisted in a grimace, eyes half‑open, for a few more seconds, then straightened up. He moved toward the door.
— By evening, the effects will wear off. You might still feel nauseous. I advise you to stay still and think. About where you are and who you are. And if that doesn't help… Well, then we'll find something stronger.
…
He tossed out one last remark:
— Oh, and if you decide to live—ask for honey and milk. Or wine with dried fruit. — 'Wait, please, just wait, Count Vanos. You will pay for this.' — An old, trusted antidote recipe. Though you'll probably prefer to languish in proud helplessness for another day or two.
I gritted my teeth and exhaled with effort, sinking into oblivion. Some final words were spoken, but I no longer registered them.
In the doorway, leaning against the frame in the shadows, stood Gerald.
[Some time earlier]
He didn't want to go there. Truly, he didn't.
But his feet carried him anyway.
When he first heard the commotion raised by the maid, he paid it little mind. However…
— Ah, well… Of course. No doubt this was to be expected, — the maid muttered haughtily and delicately, setting two wine glasses on the table before an unusually early‑rising Geraldine, after glancing down the corridor at the flitting figure of Karina.
— What? What are you talking about? — the young man mumbled sleepily, fastening the buttons on his waistcoat.
Nova tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear — where an expensive stud earring gleamed — and cast a sideways glance at her lord.
— My lord, you don't know, — she began, uncertain how to address him, casually rubbing her cheek. — Lady Ilissa…
Gerald froze for a second, unsure why. Then he covered his face with a hand, sleeves still unfastened.
— What has she done now, so early in the morning? — he exhaled. — She must be bored out of her mind. It's infuriating.
Nova moved toward him slowly, like a cat, as Gerald spoke. Silent, her hips swaying slightly. She stopped a few inches from him and pressed her hands to his chest.
— You've guessed wrong, — she spoke syllable by syllable, as if amused. — It seems she's ill. She's very unwell.
She almost purred the words, flirtatious, but she felt the muscles beneath her palms stiffen.
— ? — Nova let out a puzzled hum.
He said nothing. The girl took that as a sign.
— I saw her vomit blood. That's what you call karma…
Then, for some reason, Gerald jerked away, breaking free of the maid's influence, and reached the door just as she called out to him.
— Where are you going?! — Nova shouted, bewildered.
— I… — No thoughts came to mind, but he tried to justify himself. After a few failed attempts, he mentally spat, 'To whom am I even explaining myself?! — and left, abandoning the girl to her thoughts.
— Huh??
Now Gerald tried to come up with a reason for why he had rushed out of the room, his sleepiness instantly shattered. For fun, he told himself — that was his excuse. But there was no smile on his face. And he wished he knew why.
With every step, convincing himself grew harder. He didn't want to go. Truly didn't. It all felt so unnatural, so wrong. And just as he was about to turn back, he stopped at her door.
It was ajar.
A chill truly emanated from the room. But someone else was inside.
Fragments of a low, yet clear voice reached his ears:
— No choice… A sip… Poisoned… — the word made Gerald involuntarily shiver. — …Break…
But he didn't dare intervene. He remained a mere observer in the shadows.
Eventually, trying to focus on what he could hear, Geraldine stepped too close to the doorway. He caught sight of his father, the mad look on his face — and a fine tremor ran through him.
'It's chilly in here,' he thought.
But when the count straightened up, Gerald had no choice but to lean nonchalantly against the doorframe, shoulder propped, face arranged into an expression of indifference.
Bernard didn't flinch when he noticed his son. He approached the exit with the same dignified stride. Seeing this, Gerald pressed his lips tighter. When his father drew near, he managed to ask, voice low:
— Why? — he spoke softly, addressing his father — or perhaps himself.
The count regarded him with a blank stare, as if Gerald were asking something immature and meaningless.
— This is education, Gerald. Perhaps you'll learn something too, — he said, moving on as if sharing an axiom.
But after no more than two steps, he stopped. Turning his head, he fixed his son with a bright yet utterly unrepentant gaze.
— You're not planning to interfere, are you? — thrown out casually.
Geraldine, without hesitation, replied tersely:
— No.
Then, having done what he came for, the count strode down the corridor.
Gerald clenched his fists and bared his teeth.
Not because he felt pity. He was angry that, once again, he hadn't been deemed worthy. That Ilissa — she was already a piece on his father's chessboard. Even in her delirium, she earned his attention, even when she did everything wrong. But not him — not him, who tried so hard.
The air grew unbearably warm in too short a time. Breathing became harder.
He hadn't intended to go in. It was enough to see her moaning something incoherent. It seemed so pitiful.
But now she lay curled up like a small animal. Sometimes she twitched, as if in her sleep someone were pulling her along.
— It's your own fault. As always, — Geraldine stuffed his hands in his pockets, brows furrowed. — Always, — he repeated, without conviction.
She only sighed through parched lips and clenched her hand.
Suddenly, a memory flashed before his eyes — of her choking on a fit when they were children. Back then, the senior maid had rushed to her side, tenderly wiping her face with a handkerchief.
But he hadn't been allowed to show weakness. No matter how much he longed to feel that — to be spoken to with love, to be cherished — it was unattainable for him. His father always said it was unacceptable for a man.
Back then, Gerald had wished his sister wouldn't wake up.
'You always got love and attention, while I went to extraordinary lengths just to be noticed by Father.' — The lord was too preoccupied with himself to see the things right before his eyes. Or perhaps he simply didn't want to see them.
— If only you didn't exist…
He couldn't tear his gaze away. It irritated him — irritated to the point of convulsions. He shouldn't be looking. Shouldn't be feeling. Shouldn't be standing here.
Why did I even come?
He glanced at the basin of cool water and vinegar on the bedside table, then stepped to the edge of the bed.
— You always steal the attention, even when you're barely clinging to life. Even in your delirium. You really would be better off just dying.
Even doing nothing, Father always favours you. People in society whisper about you. You're truly the talk of the town. As if sensing his thoughts, Ilissa frowned and turned her head away.
No response. No sound. Only her faint, barely audible breathing.
Suddenly, he dropped to his knees. Not because he wanted to help — but because he feared that after his words, she might stop breathing altogether.
He had never pray packed.
And he wasn't about to now.
But inwardly, he cried out:
"If you die, I'll hate you. If you live, I'll still hate you. But don't you dare die before you say…"
Unable to finish the thought, Geraldine stood up, wiped his face with his palm as if that could banish his weakness, and left.
As if he had never been there at all.
***
Karina sat on the grass, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around herself.
— How can he…
Her face showed almost no emotion. Only her voice trembled slightly.
— Is it the count's fault? — Citea stretched out her legs, examining the shimmer of her iridescent shoes. She tossed the question out so casually that Karina froze — but only for a moment.
— How did you know?
She was certain the new maids had never worked for the count before. And no maid in his employ would ever smile as brightly as Citea did. So she had no doubts. But was it really just a bold guess?
— People's faces often show everything at once. It's especially easy to read those whose job is to find and maintain an individual approach day after day, — the chatty Citea seemed to give the matter no weight, yet the meaning behind her words made it clear she was not as naive as she appeared.
— …
— As soon as I saw the Count, I knew what kind of man he was. Greedy, cruel, envious, wicked, vindictive, a sadist, aggressive, arrogant… — She could have gone on carelessly for quite a while, but Karina, however much she might have wanted to, cut her off.
— Quiet, we're right by the mansion… — It also unsettled her that Citea treated such inherently unacceptable behaviour — insulting an aristocrat on his own grounds — with such ease. Citea could read a person's character at a glance, yet didn't seem to understand that such talkativeness could lead to a flogging or dismissal?
Karina was wary of her.
— Wuh—… m'fine…— she mumbled indistinctly as Karina hushed her. — Hm, I don't think there's anyone here who'd run to complain to the Count after hearing what I say.
Her mouth kept moving as Karina kept her eyes on the ground, on the grass scattered with fallen yellow leaves. The wind stirred and tangled her hair, letting autumn take its due. Her heart beat with melancholy in her chest.
— …
— That's how it is, but really…
How could he send me away from Lady Ilissa when she's all alone? Is she really feverish? What kind of man is he…
— So that's how I smashed all the dishes on my first day. Ha‑ha, how clumsy I was!
Citea kept chattering, but when she noticed Karina drifting further into her own thoughts, she reached out and touched her shoulder.
— Karina, I told you I can read people like books, didn't I? — Karina didn't reply, only half‑listening. — When I looked at Lady Ilissa, I could tell she's a strong person. She'll manage everything!
Only then did Karina slowly turn her head toward the girl.
— Yes! So don't worry, everything will be fine. The Lady will recover soon. By the way, does she like honey? You can dissolve it in hot milk. It helps with recovery, I know!
Still, even though Karina wasn't accustomed to such energetic conversation — even if one‑sided — she felt a little lighter. The talkative Citea, her cheeks flushed, smiled:
— Hehe.
The blonde rose, glanced up at the second‑floor window, and walked toward the mansion. But she turned back to the maid:
— …Thank you, Citea.
— Pfh…
The man lowered himself into a chair with a sigh. He adjusted his long golden hair, tying it into a careless ponytail.
— …
Pushing aside the edge of his knight's jacket, he pulled a letter bearing the imperial seal from inside his coat. He paused for a moment, his green eyes — deep like a forest at high noon — sweeping the room behind him. No one. Only the quiet crackle of a candle and the scent of wax.
Only then did the man open the letter, breaking the seal of the Imperial dynasty with a casual, disinterested flick of his nail.
«Kavel», — he read the recipient's name without pausing.
«How are things progressing? A commission will arrive today. Be aware. Officially, their purpose is to gather information about the recent attack. But I assume you know this is merely a formalities.
You will remain in your current position and continue your surveillance. Remember why you are there. If the count or anyone in his circle shows signs of concern — take note.
In case of unforeseen circumstances, follow the instructions given to you previously.
I expect your report by the end of the month.
— A.»
Kavel leaned back in his chair with a disappointed sigh, rubbing his tired eyes.
— Pointless, — he muttered, exhaling deeply as he stared at the ceiling.
The echo of his quiet words quickly dissolved in the emptiness of the room. Sunbeams filtered through the translucent curtains, casting simple patterns across the space.
The knight tossed the letter onto the table as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored in this utterly unnecessary place.