Zeke stepped out of Freya's bedroom and stood there, running a dry hand over his face.
"Hoo..."
A deep sigh escaped him, his face etched with worry.
Just moments ago, seeing Freya in the bedroom had confirmed it for him.
His Master was truly afflicted by that curse.
Her breaths came in ragged gasps, labored and uneven.
Her body twitched as if in discomfort.
Her pained expression was beaded with sweat, her cheeks flushed a deep red.
Crunch!
Zeke bit down hard on his lip.
It split open.
Not enough.
Thwack!
He slammed his fist into his own face with all his might.
...You pathetic idiot.
The thought of his Master suffering alone from the curse because he'd cowardly fled in fear of being abandoned by her only fueled his self-directed rage.
"If only I'd stayed by her side..."
Regret gnawed at him deeply.
But even if he had stayed, nothing would have changed.
A witch who had researched magic for centuries and ascended through the ranks couldn't overcome it—what could Zeke possibly do?
Everything just felt like his fault.
It was far too late to beg for forgiveness now.
If Freya had been willing to forgive him, she would have done so long ago.
He'd missed the golden window, turned away from chances at redemption—it had been his choice.
The wounds had festered too deeply in the meantime.
Asking for forgiveness now was the height of shamelessness.
He was waiting for punishment, of course...
But seeing her frail state with his own eyes stirred an overwhelming urge to do something.
He'd do whatever he could.
Zeke steeled himself with that resolve.
2.
A week had flown by since his return to the mansion.
Unlike his vows, Zeke hadn't accomplished a thing in that time.
He'd cleaned the neglected mansion and tended the garden, but he hadn't lifted a finger to care for his ailing Master.
Freya had secluded herself away.
She'd holed up in her bedroom and refused to come out.
Because of that, he hadn't laid eyes on her once since their reunion.
He knocked on her door every day, only to hear her tell him to leave.
She was furious, clearly.
Each dismissal nearly broke his spirit, but he knew a master's pain at her disciple's betrayal cut even deeper—so he held firm.
"How can I get her to see me?"
His worry grew by the day.
Was she too ill to even step out of her room?
She'd always bottled up her troubles, suffering in silence—surely she was doing the same now.
Zeke shot to his feet.
No more waiting.
Even if it was rude, he had to check on her condition.
He strode purposefully up to Freya's bedroom.
He knocked on the door.
"Master, may I come in?"
A flustered rustle came from inside, followed shortly by a reply.
"...Go away."
Her voice was shrill, trembling faintly.
It was thick with labored breaths, like someone in pain grunting through their words.
Zeke gripped the doorknob.
"I'm coming in."
"W-what?!"
A panicked protest erupted from within, urging him not to.
He ignored it and opened the door.
Steamy heat washed over him the moment it swung open.
A dizzyingly sweet scent flooded the room, enveloping him all at once.
Freya lay in bed.
She'd pulled the covers up to her chin, glaring at him with wild, fierce eyes.
"Sorry about this."
"Go away!"
"It's been a week now. You've been locked in here the whole time—I'm worried, so I came to check on you."
Zeke frowned.
Freya looked gravely ill.
Her hair was soaked as if she'd been caught in the rain, sweat pouring off her; her face burned fever-red, and her breaths heaved roughly.
"D-don't come closer...!"
As Zeke approached, Freya cried out desperately.
"If you come any closer, you'll be in big trouble!"
"Punish me all you want—I don't care."
He was prepared to die if she asked, so any penalty would be sweet.
"I said don't come! Hic!"
Freya shrieked at him not to, even hiccuping through it.
He'd never seen her so frantic.
She must be too weakened to maintain her usual elegance.
That's how Zeke interpreted it.
"Hic...! Y-you can't come...!"
Freya yanked the blanket up over her face with all her might.
She looked ready to dive under it entirely.
"You beg for forgiveness one minute... th-then you just barge in anyway?! You won't listen to me anymore, is that it?!"
Zeke knelt on one knee beside her, matching her eye level politely.
Their gazes met, and Freya's pink pupils quivered violently.
"Master."
Zeke took hold of Freya's hand.
"Hng...!!"
She jolted so hard her shoulders heaved, trying to yank it free—but Zeke clamped both his hands around it firmly.
"L-let go...!"
Freya struggled desperately to pull away, grunting with effort, but she couldn't.
Her movements were restricted.
If she slipped and the blanket came loose, it would be a disaster.
Freya's hand was slick with moisture.
Unnaturally slippery.
Zeke brushed it off.
"Your hands are sweating this much... you must be in bad shape."
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped her damp hand clean.
Not sweat...
Freya's face flushed crimson in real time, like a ripe tomato.
"I know full well how shameless it is for a traitor who betrayed his master and ran away to come back now and play the dutiful disciple."
Zeke stroked her hand tenderly, his eyes glistening with tears.
Seeing that, Freya squeezed her eyes shut tight.
Don't touch me! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!
With Zeke touching the hand that had just been fidgeting between her thighs, her shame felt like it might burst her heart.
Unaware, Zeke gave a wry smile at her tightly shut eyes and uncomfortable expression.
"I know I don't deserve forgiveness."
"Nngh..."
"But please, just hear this: I'm sincere. I came back because I was truly worried about you. Not once since leaving have I lost my respect for you. Even if you see me as the lowest scum... as shameless as it sounds... to me, you are more precious than my own life."
Zeke brought his face to her hand.
She used to stroke his face like this when he was little.
A rich, sweet fragrance wafted gently from her.
The same scent he'd caught upon entering the room.
Ah, so this is Master's sweat...
Imagining her suffering alone in this room, drenched in sweat, brought a lump to his throat.
"Hngh...!"
Freya hunched her shoulders and curled up.
This was bad.
"To me, you are more precious than my own life."
His words made her heart pound wildly.
Of course, she knew he meant it as a disciple's devotion to his master.
But it sounded just like a fairy-tale prince confessing to a princess, sending shivers through her.
Pathetic to get flustered like a schoolgirl at her age—but a woman was still a woman, after all.
"So..."
Zeke gazed at her soulfully.
Freya averted her eyes.
Staring at such a handsome grown man was igniting her female instincts dangerously.
"Please tell me."
"T-tell you what?"
"If you're struggling, tell me. I'll do anything I can."
He'd felt it since earlier, but Zeke's words were landing oddly—she couldn't quite grasp them.
She wasn't unwell.
She was perfectly healthy.
Well, struggling—yes, but it was her heart that hurt.
Yet here she was, being treated like a patient.
No, it wasn't just a feeling.
He was treating her like one.
"I'm fine."
"Master."
"I said I'm fine."
Zeke's face crumpled further.
"Don't suffer alone!"
He snapped, voice rising in frustration.
"I know I'm not reliable."
"No..."
"I know a wretch like me can't help you at all."
"No..."
"Still, I want to help even a little. Hold your hand if you need it held, support you if you need supporting. I want to offer that much."
See?
Treating her like a patient, just like she thought.
Why?
Freya tilted her head.
"I know the truth—that you're sick."
"What truth?"
"You're afflicted by that curse. Bad enough that you sought out the Saintess herself."
Zeke pleaded earnestly, brows furrowed.
Freya blinked wide-eyed.
Not at all?