The night was as dark as spilled ink. In the side courtyard room of Greyst Manor, only a sliver of moonlight seeped through the window lattice, barely outlining the two figures huddled together.
Ophelia rested her head on Ley's chest. A faint itch lingered on her back from the healing potion, but it was no match for the exhaustion left by her torture.
She'd drained too much energy—her eyelids grew heavier by the second, and unexpectedly, she fell asleep in front of the man she'd thought she could never be too cautious around.
Ley looked down at the woman in his arms. Her silver hair spread across his lapels, carrying the faint smell of blood scabs.
His fingertip brushed gently over the slave brand on her stomach. He pulled out his cursed blade—tomorrow, one more brand with this knife, and Ophelia would be forced to call him "Master" forever.
He could even play the part of a dissolute young man, lazing on Ophelia's lap every day. But somehow, that felt too easy, too boring. What he wanted was for Ophelia to willingly let him mark her—like how a first-class airline stewardess willingly brings a passenger their favorite seafood.
He wanted to take her unwavering heart, not just her beautiful body.
When the first ray of dawn filtered through the window screen, Ley woke up first. He carefully moved Ophelia out of his arms, afraid of disturbing her.
The moment his fingertip touched the sheet, a faint blue status panel popped up before his eyes:
[Today's Intel: Lily, member of the Witch's Mutual Aid Society, will sneak into the side courtyard this afternoon to rescue Ophelia.]
Sneak into my courtyard? Ley thought to himself, understanding instantly.
Ophelia was roused by the scent of warm water. When she opened her eyes, Ley was standing by the bed holding a bronze basin, a clean cloth soaked in its contents. Next to it sat a porcelain bottle carved with alchemical runes.
"Awake?" Ley's voice was soft, like the early morning mist.
"Wipe your face first—you're covered in blood. I need to talk to you."
Ophelia sat up. The wound on her back throbbed faintly. When she took the cloth and her fingertip touched the warm water, she finally felt like she'd truly come back to life.
But her wariness didn't fade—she still remembered Shinobu's torture, and she hadn't forgotten Ley was a Greyst. His sudden tenderness felt like it must be hiding a trap.
"I know all about the suffering you endured at Shinobu's hands,"
Ley said, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching her wipe her face. His tone grew heavier.
"Being whipped, having your tongue torn out, watching your body be tortured repeatedly… I know that pain better than anyone."
He rolled up his left sleeve, revealing dense scars on his forearm—leftovers from years of abuse at Satila's hands.
"Satila forces me to drink the 'Pleasure Potion' every day.
It makes my whole body burn, but then she chains me up, whips me, and watches me twitch in agony. She even steps on me with her high heels and says, 'Ley, you worthless potion vessel, you only deserve to be treated like this…'"
Ophelia's hand froze, and the cloth slipped onto her lap.
She stared at the scars on Ley's arm—just like the whip marks on her own body, they were proof of suffering. She'd always held prejudices against Ley; if her doubts had wavered yesterday, today she'd never imagined he was enduring such pain too.
"What you've been through—this is how you know I'm not lying," Ley said. His fingertip brushed her knuckles; his touch was cool, yet carried a hint of comfort.
"I hate this kingdom, just like you do. I hate those who stand above us—they treat us like toys and take pleasure in our pain. That's why I want to help you. Help you avenge your people, help the elves of Eldora get justice."
Ophelia's heart skipped a beat. She stared into Ley's eyes, trying to spot a trace of deceit, but saw only "sincerity." Yet in the next moment, she remembered Shinobu's tricks—under that gentle pretense lurked the most vicious intentions.
When her gaze fell on the cursed blade beside Ley, her heart stopped. Why was that knife here? It was the Dark Blade, one of the elves' most precious relics—a treasure of the dark elves, capable of enslaving hearts. The more darkness it devoured, the stronger its wielder became.
Her mother had told her: once branded with this blade, even the most resolute of wills could never break free.
Unless she reached Level 80 and advanced her class to Holy Maiden of Light, she would never escape.
"You don't have to lie to me," she said, her voice trembling. "Do it, if you want. Aren't you going to use that Enslavement Blade to turn me into your slave? To satisfy your bizarre desires?" She paused. "Lewis said all men are like this."
Lost in these tangled thoughts, she suddenly felt a chill on her stomach. Ley's hands, coated in an oil-like substance, were massaging the area where the enslavement brand was. She stared in confusion as Ley wiped the slave brand from her stomach.
"This is 'Brand-Removing Elixir,'"
Ley said, handing her the porcelain bottle.
"It can erase any magical brand. I have no intention of controlling you."
He stood up, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtain. Sunlight streamed in, wrapping around him. "I want your heart more than your body."
"I've prepared a carriage—it's in the backyard. This afternoon, leave quickly—I've already distracted the kingdom's guards for you."
Ophelia was completely stunned. She stared at the vanished brand on her stomach, then at Ley's back, unable to believe her ears.
"Why… why are you letting me go?" She thought of the wine she'd drunk earlier that had upset her stomach, and her voice turned cautious.
"What kind of trick are you planning now?"
"There's only one condition," Ley said, turning around. His eyes held a longing she couldn't quite read. "When you leave this afternoon, I'll be standing by this window. I want to watch your carriage go. Just one last look at you—the most beautiful elf princess in the world."
Ophelia opened her mouth, wanting to ask so many questions—why was he helping her? Why was he being so kind all of a sudden? But before she could speak, Ley took a step forward and gently grasped her shoulders.
Sunlight fell on his handsome yet perpetually melancholy face, illuminating his pale, noble complexion that was almost vampiric.
His shoulders began to tremble as he apologized, and he pulled Ophelia into his arms.
Tears fell from his eyes, hot as they landed on Ophelia's silver hair.
"Forgive me for going to such trouble to buy you back then, forgive me for letting jealousy make me steal your first kiss. I thought if I hid you in Lord Zoe's mansion, the princess's scouts would never find you. Forgive me for making you suffer so much."
The sun shone on his face, yet the smile he wore was brighter than the sunlight itself.
"Remember this, Ophelia—I have always loved you. That, at least, is the truth."
Ophelia's mind went blank. She looked into Ley's eyes, and all she saw was her own reflection. All her tangled emotions—surprise, confusion, and a faint, unrecognized flutter—were written plainly on her face. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She could only let Ley's fingertip brush gently across her cheek.
She had to admit, for a fleeting moment, her heart had indeed stirred. But in Ophelia's mind, her first priority was avenging her kingdom; her ambition was far greater than any fleeting feeling.
By afternoon, the sunlight had grown soft, yet a strange aura pervaded Ley's room.
He lit two candles in the corner: the left one was twisted and green, its flame dancing wildly.
The thin smoke it emitted carried a sickly sweet stench that clouded one's mind—it was the Candle of Mutation, dedicated to Tzeentch.
The right one was dark red, its surface carved with symbols of enslavement. Its burning released a dizzying scent that induced depravity—the Candle of Decadence, dedicated to Slaanesh.
The toxic fumes of the two candles mingled; a single whiff would leave one weak and disoriented within moments. Having endured Satila's torment, Ley had long since grown immune to both poisons. Now, he was just waiting quietly for his prey—Lily—to take the bait.