Chapter 23
“Cleor?”
Isabella lifted her upper body slightly.
The fur she had been idly touching was actually Cleor’s hair.
Cleor was asleep, sitting in a chair and leaning back against the bed.
When did he come in?
And why was he sleeping in such an uncomfortable position?
Isabella had never slept as uncomfortably as Cleor was now.
Even at the count’s estate, her bed had always been made comfortable.
She had nothing particular to do, nor was she allowed any other space, so at least when it came to sleeping, she had always rested in her familiar bed.
Because of that, she couldn’t even begin to imagine how painful Cleor’s position must be.
The only thought that crossed her mind was that she needed to wake him quickly.
“Cleor.”
His back clearly twitched, but Cleor made no move to get up.
“Cleor.”
She called him again.
“Mm… Isabella. More… stroke me a little more.”
Cleor murmured in a voice as sweet as honey and as soft as whipped cream.
Still not opening his eyes, he grabbed Isabella’s wrist hovering near him and placed her hand on top of his head.
“C–Cleor. Don’t joke around.”
Isabella panicked.
Yet she didn’t pull her hand away from where it rested on his head.
“Isabella, hurry… mm.”
Cleor complained impatiently, shaking his head across the blanket.
The soft texture of Cleor’s hair brushed against Isabella’s palm.
Isabella frowned, watching his behavior with an expression that was neither smiling nor crying.
This wasn’t like him.
Cleor was usually kind, but he always maintained a certain distance from Isabella.
This unguarded closeness was unfamiliar.
Hearing her name from his lips was sweet enough to melt her ears.
His sulking behavior felt so natural, as though it were second nature.
“Mm… Isabella?”
His voice changed.
It became exceedingly polite.
He’s awake!
Isabella hurriedly pulled her hand away.
Cleor straightened up.
Both his voice and actions were the Cleor she knew.
His gaze lingered on Isabella’s withdrawn hand.
“…Was it you who stroked my hair?”
There was clear embarrassment in his voice.
The corner of his lips seemed to tremble.
“Y–You don’t remember…?”
He took her hand again and rubbed his head against her palm.
“Did I make a mistake while half-asleep? My apologies. I won’t let something like that happen again.”
Cleor apologized stiffly, his face hardened.
There was no need for him to go that far.
Isabella avoided his gaze.
“Send that priest back.”
As Isabella’s condition improved, Cleor began spending more time away from the bedroom.
Every time he left, Isabella would say, “Please be careful,” and Cleor liked hearing it.
It felt as though a wife were seeing her husband off…
Come to think of it, I’m her fiancé, aren’t I?
That thought made Cleor want to get rid of the word fiancé as soon as possible and become her real husband.
Perfect on paper, and perfect in reality…
His face reddened as he imagined it.
We should hurry the wedding.
After announcing that the wedding would be postponed to monitor Isabella’s health, he hadn’t brought it up again.
Cleor decided he would talk about it at today’s meal.
“Young master? You want us to send Yohan back to the temple? That bastard deserves to die.”
Whitney was angrier than ever.
Through their conversation with Yohan, Cleor and Whitney learned the truth.
It was true that Yohan had helped Isabella—but he hadn’t helped her wholeheartedly.
Yohan had used Isabella as a test subject.
After creating the medicine, he fed it to her to observe its effectiveness and side effects.
From the start, his intention had never been to truly save her.
Thanks to the experiments on Isabella, the medicine was stabilized.
Once the completed medicine was ready, he no longer needed to give her any—but his conscience stirred.
Yohan shared the medicine with Isabella.
He couldn’t give her much.
With other priests watching and dragon’s blood being limited, he kept enough for himself.
Isabella, unaware of all this, supported Yohan materially and emotionally.
Later, when Isabella left for the North, Yohan regretted not giving her more—but he justified himself by thinking it was the best he could do.
He wanted to live.
For a long time.
Cleor and Whitney couldn’t forgive Yohan for failing her.
When Isabella arrived in the North, her condition was terrible.
If only he had shared a bit more of the medicine…
Resentment was inevitable.
What angered them more was imagining how sincerely grateful Isabella must have been to Yohan.
But Angela had ordered that he be spared.
“Have you planted someone in the Solstella Temple?”
“Not yet. But we placed a spy in the Helsingten territory. I’ll have her monitor him.”
“Is she reliable?”
“She’s a woman.”
One person immediately came to mind.
Sezanne.
A red-haired woman of the North—quick, deadly, and skilled in assassination.
She wasn’t just sharp; she had an exceptional ability to piece together the bigger picture from fragments.
Cleor held her in high regard.
I was planning to assign her as Isabella’s guard.
It was unfortunate, but knowing she was acting as a spy was reassuring.
If Yohan tried anything foolish, Sezanne’s blade would pierce his heart.
“Well done. Make sure no one knows Yohan came to the North.”
“Do you intend to use him?”
“No. Nothing at all. Just let him live his life.”
Though dissatisfied, Whitney didn’t press further.
“Oh—what about the rumors spreading through the count’s estate?”
Cleor stopped Whitney as he turned to leave.
Whitney returned to the desk.
“There are several.”
“What kind?”
Whitney rolled his tongue inside his mouth, reluctant.
Cleor would definitely get angry.
He might get blamed just for speaking.
Should he have Demor handle this instead?
“I don’t have much patience, Whitney. Speak.”
That was a lie.
Cleor, impatient?
He once camped in the Forest of Lament for over three months, chewing on dried meat, waiting for the right moment to subdue a dragon.
The innermost parts of the forest barely saw sunlight and were brutally cold.
Surviving even a week there was considered impressive.
He endured three months.
Not just because of physical endurance—but sheer mental fortitude.
“Demor—”
Whoosh.
What just passed by?
A gust brushed Whitney’s left cheek.
Turning slowly, he saw a fountain pen embedded in the door.
“Oh. There was a bug.”
Whitney had forgotten.
Cleor’s patience vanished entirely when it came to Isabella.
“Don’t forget.”
“For the record, I didn’t spread the rumors about Lady Isabella.”
“I’ll take that into account.”
Whitney wanted to flee.
He spoke bitterly.
“There are three major rumors.”
The first: the reason the ducal family wanted to marry Isabella.
That the North was conquered using forbidden black magic, requiring the blood of high-ranking nobles.
In short—Isabella as a sacrifice.
The second: that the count’s estate cherished Isabella deeply, but she had been violent.
She refused treatment, dismissed maids repeatedly…
Though not directly tied to the marriage, these rumors surfaced after she left.
However, it was said that the family loved her until the end and even provided a dowry.
That the remaining family was grieving was an added detail.
The last: the rumor that Isabella was a witch.
That her curse had long been lifted through the count and countess’s devotion and prayers—but she had fallen into dark magic on her own, resulting in her illness.
“Who benefits from these rumors?”
“Count Helsingten, of course.”
“Why?”
“After the rumors spread, the count avoided criticism for marrying off his sick daughter without preparation.”
“And?”
“Praise followed for the count’s son and daughter as well.”
Cleor stroked his chin.
He turned his chair.
Leaning back, fingers interlaced over his stomach, he sank into thought.
“Whitney.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Whitney had expected fury.
Seeing Cleor calm instead made him relax.
His temperament’s improved a lot…
“No matter how I look at it, I can’t shake the feeling that the Helsingten family fabricated these rumors themselves.”
“I agree.”
“Gather the Black Wolf Knights.”
So much for improved temperament.
He was even more aggressive than before.
“Are you starting a war?”
“No. Isabella might worry.”
“Then what?”
Cleor looked at Whitney.
He smiled brightly.
His eyes curved as well—he looked genuinely pleased.
Please don’t smile like that. It’s ominous.
Whitney’s eyes trembled with unease.
