Chapter 13
The night in the North was long.
Before dawn had even broken, the training grounds were already filled with the heat radiating from the men.
Cleor immediately went to find Whitney.
Whitney was scheduled to finish his early-morning training and head to the central region.
“Whitney, this too.”
Cleor pulled Whitney aside and handed him a sheet of paper.
“Bring me the person written on that paper. It’s urgent, so move fast—like your nose hairs are about to get ripped out.”
Cleor handed over the roughly folded paper.
Whitney muttered, “But I don’t even have nose hairs,” and took it.
The moment Whitney saw the name written on it, his mouth fell open.
“Are you telling me to kidnap them?”
Cleor didn’t answer.
So it really is kidnapping. No doubt about it.
Whitney let out a deep sigh.
If Cleor had planned to request an official meeting, he would’ve sent a letter first instead of ordering him to bring the person by force.
But as far as Whitney knew, Cleor had never sent any message to the Solstella Temple.
The Solstella Temple and the Duchy of Noberdic were not on good terms.
The Solstella Temple did not acknowledge the Noberdic Ducal House.
Solstella had abandoned the North.
Even though they were all citizens of the same Empire, the priests of Solstella never bestowed blessings upon Northerners, and they never came to help even when disasters struck.
Once, Cleor had been curious about the reason.
But now, it didn’t really matter.
Even without the blessings of Solstella’s priests, the North had become a place people could live in.
Of course, that was a very subjective opinion.
“You want me to go to the Solstella Temple and bring back a priest named Johan? Me?”
“Then should I go myself?”
That was impossible.
If—though it was unlikely—Cleor personally carried out such a thing and got caught, it would become the signal flare for a war between the North and the Temple.
“Who is this person anyway?”
“An apothecary.”
It felt strange for an apothecary to be in a temple, but Whitney didn’t ask further and shoved the paper into his pocket.
“What about their appearance or any distinguishing features?”
“That’s your problem to figure out.”
Whitney almost threw the paper and quit on the spot, but barely managed to swallow the words that were about to explode out of his mouth.
Forcing a smile, he bowed his head to Cleor.
Joan looked down at Isabella, who was sleeping like the dead.
For someone who had been coughing up blood like crazy, she looked strangely peaceful.
Maybe the bed is comfortable enough to put her right to sleep?
Joan twisted her lips and looked around Isabella’s room.
Everything was extraordinary.
A lavishly patterned carpet she’d never seen even in the Helsington Count’s estate, curtains that perfectly blocked out the cold northern wind, and porcelain said to have come from somewhere in the East.
The room was filled with items Joan could never obtain even if she worked her entire life.
Far too luxurious for someone cursed with a death sentence.
This place doesn’t suit you.
What suited Isabella was the attic of a count’s estate.
Or else, cold ground beneath the earth.
Joan didn’t want to waste her life serving Isabella.
She imagined two possible futures.
Either Isabella died quickly and she returned to the count’s estate, or she caught Cleor’s eye and secured a place here.
What Joan truly wanted was the latter, but the former wasn’t bad either.
The people here were strangely kind to Isabella, but cold toward Joan.
Arrogant northern bastards, living on such barren land.
Suddenly, she recalled the cold stares of the ducal servants who had looked at her like dirt.
Anger surged up inside her.
And that anger turned entirely toward Isabella.
You said you wanted to die, didn’t you? I’ll help you die faster.
Joan threw the window wide open.
The northern dawn wind pierced straight into Isabella’s lungs.
Isabella, still half-asleep, coughed up blood.
Covering her mouth, she woke up in shock.
Seeing the freshly changed bedding now soaked, Isabella tried to pull the bell cord with a troubled expression.
But Joan was faster.
She grabbed it before Isabella could.
“J-J-Joan?”
Only now did Isabella realize Joan was there.
Joan’s gaze was abnormal.
Isabella clutched the blanket and turned her head.
The window was wide open.
“My lady, I’ll wipe it for you. I’m here, after all.”
Joan smiled brightly and pressed a towel over Isabella’s mouth.
After giving Whitney his orders, Cleor headed straight for Isabella’s room.
Thanks to the cold northern wind, all sleep had vanished.
Is she sleeping well?
Just thinking of Isabella made his heart ache as if being ground against stone.
He had to find a way to make her better—quickly.
Just then, Demor was passing by.
“Demor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring me a famous doctor.”
“From the North?”
“The region doesn’t matter.”
“And the method?”
“That doesn’t matter either.”
“I’ll bring one within three days.”
Demor disappeared like the wind.
For the first time in a while, Cleor felt like he had given him a task that suited him.
“Welco—”
Cleor raised a finger to his lips, stopping the knight who was about to greet him.
It meant to stay quiet.
He didn’t want Isabella to wake up because of any noise.
The knight bowed and stepped aside.
Cleor grasped the doorknob.
At that moment, an ominous feeling crawled up the back of his neck.
And, as always, such feelings were never wrong.
There was someone by Isabella’s bed who should not have been there.
And that person was covering Isabella’s mouth.
The moment Cleor saw the blood smeared across the bed and Isabella’s hands twitching beneath Joan, he lost all reason.
Forgetting that Joan was a woman, he shoved her away.
Bang—Joan was slammed to the floor and screamed.
The knights waiting in the hallway rushed in.
“Isabella, Isabella, wake up.”
Cleor pulled the cloth stuffed in Isabella’s mouth out and held her in his arms.
She wasn’t breathing.
With trembling hands, Cleor stroked Isabella’s cheeks again and again.
“Please, Isabella… please…”
He frantically searched her body for a pulse.
But the more he did, the more all he could feel was his own pounding heartbeat.
Feeling the ground give way beneath him, Cleor hugged her tightly.
“Cough.”
Had his embrace helped?
The lump of blood blocking Isabella’s throat came out with a cough.
“C-C-Cleor?”
Isabella called his name weakly.
The wind blew, shaking Cleor’s hair, and he snapped back to his senses.
Those damn windows—I should nail them shut.
Gritting his teeth, Cleor shouted,
“Barrack, close the windows!”
He still hadn’t taken his eyes off Isabella.
“Isabella, are you conscious?”
Cleor pulled her slightly away to look at her.
Color was slowly returning to her once-pale face.
Isabella nodded faintly and leaned her forehead against Cleor’s chest.
“Barrack.”
“Yes, young master!”
“Bind that woman who tried to kill Isabella. And bring His Grace and the Duchess. We’ll hold a summary judgment.”
At the words summary judgment, Barrack shuddered.
Joan finally came to her senses.
“P-Please spare me! I was just trying to stop the bleeding, that’s all!”
Cleor stood up with Isabella still in his arms.
Joan knelt on the floor, looking up at him.
“Shut up. Be grateful to God that you’re a woman. If it were up to me, I’d tear your limbs off and kill you right now.”
He meant every word.
For a moment, Joan felt as if her throat were being crushed.
Joan was dragged toward the underground dungeon, tightly restrained by the knights.
“I’m innocent! I protected the Noberdic Ducal House from a curse!”
She screamed repeatedly.
The knights on either side frowned.
They wanted to punch her in the face, but the ducal knights were strictly trained.
They never used violence against women.
But Clara was different.
“Where did this crazy bitch come from, spouting nonsense?!”
Clara came sprinting down the corridor and delivered a flying dropkick to Joan.
The knights let go at just the right moment, and Joan flew straight down the hallway.
She lost consciousness instantly.
But she soon woke up again when a sharp hand slapped her cheek.
“Stop it, Clara.”
Clara raised her fist again, but Cleor—who had just put Isabella back in her bed—stopped her.
“Brother? Killing her right now wouldn’t even be enough!”
Cleor pushed Clara aside and sat in front of Joan.
Rage boiled inside him.
Trying to restrain himself, Cleor let out a breath and brushed back his fallen hair.
Joan’s eyes shone with hope.
Hope that Cleor might spare her.
Cleor met her gaze.
The moment madness flickered in his eyes, Joan’s hope shattered.
“Clara, killing her is too easy. Instead, I’ll make her live such painful days that she’ll wish she were dead. Won’t I, Joan?”
Cleor spoke her name as if carving it into her bones.
Joan’s summary judgment was attended by the Noberdic Ducal couple and Barrack.
“Put her in thin clothes, chain her up, and make her walk around the training grounds all night.”
“That’s too light a punishment, my lady. At least throw cold water on her before sending her out.”
Barrack stiffened as he listened.
In the North, people bundled themselves up just to survive the icy wind—pouring cold water on someone before sending them out was practically a death sentence.
“It’s still too easy! No, this won’t do! I’ll just smash her with a hammer myself—”
Cleor stopped Clara.
“Let’s do that. But, Barrack.”
“Yes, young master.”
“If Joan collapses, bring her back inside the castle. Wait until her body thaws.”
“Brother!”
Cleor looked at Clara.
His eyes told her:
The greater the crime, the less easily one should be allowed to die.
Such mercy is for the pitiable.
“When her body thaws, throw cold water on her again and make her walk. Barrack, remember this. She must live. Do you understand?”
He would make her beg to be killed.
Normally, Cleor would’ve smiled at least once by now—but because this involved Isabella, he spoke with a face frozen colder than ice.
