Chapter 112
Thud.
A pine cone dropped between Sinclair and Torch Hyperion. Naturally, her eyes moved to the pine cone.
When she lifted her head again, Torch had his head bowed, fully absorbed in prayer.
Sinclair tilted her head.
“Orrlesion, grant Michael Owen eternal rest.”
“Eternal rest.”
Suddenly worried about the baby mole, she looked back down at the box.
Thankfully, the mole wriggled, no longer in distress as before. She closed the lid of the box—moles were supposed to live in the dark.
She definitely couldn’t let what happened earlier happen again.
This was the life Theodore and Alfred had jointly saved for the first time.
She had to protect it.
“May Michael and all who have departed this world find peaceful rest through the mercy of Orrlesion.”
“Peace and rest.”
“Peace and rest.”
Sinclair quietly repeated their prayer.
Hoping peace and rest would come to her heart as well.
She quickly returned to her place, glancing repeatedly at Torch Hyperion, who still kept his head bowed.
But he only tapped the ground like the other priests and calmly murmured the prayer.
Had she imagined it?
“In Orrlesion’s kingdom, life eternal and glory.”
“Life eternal and glory.”
Sinclair followed along—“Life eternal and glory”—and hurried back to her seat.
“Truly.”
“Truly.”
“So shall it be.”
“So shall it be.”
“I believe.”
“I believe.”
Sinclair echoed each line and carefully observed whether anyone noticed their earlier movements.
They were simply praying quietly. They didn’t seem aware of her presence at all.
When the prayer ended, everyone opened their eyes, and at the high priest’s signal, the clergy stood and closed the coffin lid.
Hmm… Sinclair felt as though she had glimpsed a crack in this world—something she wasn’t meant to see—and her mind grew tangled.
The high priest circled Michael’s coffin once and stood before the family. As Jan and the others bowed their heads and joined hands, Sinclair followed suit.
Knights approached with practiced solemnity, lifted the coffin, and lowered it into the grave.
The high priest scooped dirt from the nearby mound, raised it toward the sky, offered a brief prayer, and sprinkled it over the coffin.
After him, the other priests took turns tossing dirt. Among the family, Jan was the first to do so.
The high priest then approached Sinclair and instructed her to follow after Jan. She did as she was told.
She reached down to gather dirt when—
“Travier zenda.”
Torch Hyperion brushed past her, whispering strange words.
Sinclair lifted her head, meeting his gaze again.
His mouth… it seemed stretched grotesquely toward his ears. Like a Joker’s smile.
“…?”
Travier zenda.
Her lips almost shaped the syllables on their own—but something instinctively told her she absolutely should not say them.
Pretending she hadn’t heard, she quietly scooped the dirt.
Yet the words kept boring into her ears, replaying over and over—
In the voice of a wailing boy.
A pitiful girl.
A shrill, nerve-scratching woman.
A terrifying scolding man.
An elderly woman muttering in a trembling rasp.
All buzzing together like a swarm of bees, crowding her mind completely.
Ugh—
Sinclair clenched her lips. She couldn’t move her foot.
“Sing?”
Gerald, who had been following her, quickly came close.
Looking into those worried emerald-green eyes, Sinclair felt her racing heartbeat gradually calm.
Finally, the screaming voices faded away.
“What happened?”
“It’s nothing. Thank you, Jed.”
With his support, Sinclair sprinkled dirt over the coffin.
She then returned with Gerald to where the family stood, deliberately avoiding looking at the priests.
The sticky, cold, slime-like sensation she had felt—like touching some grotesque creature—seemed to coil not only around her hand but around her entire body. She shuddered.
He was definitely connected to that man behind the stage.
“Your Grace, the Grand Duchess?”
“Aaagh!”
The voice calling her startled Sinclair so badly she shrieked without realizing it.
“Sing?”
“Stepmother?”
Gerald steadied her as she nearly stumbled, scanning her face in alarm.
Theodore abandoned the dirt he was about to throw and ran down the hill at full speed. His knight and servants rushed after him.
People turned, wondering what had happened to the Grand Duchess.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Gerald glared at the high priest, who had caused the commotion merely by calling out to her.
The high priest opened his mouth apologetically—
“Stepmother.”
Theodore barreled into Sinclair’s skirts, hugging her as he looked up at her with wide red eyes.
“What happened?”
“Well, that is—”
Sinclair glanced at the high priest, who flushed awkwardly.
“My apologies. I meant only to speak with Your Grace, but I startled you.”
“No, I’m the one at fault. Sorry, Theo. I made you worry.”
Realizing the high priest was the cause, Theodore puffed out his cheeks, pressed his back against Sinclair’s skirt protectively, spread his arms wide, and glared up at the man.
“What happened?”
Theodore’s bright red eyes flashed.
Yes. This was the reaction the high priest had feared.
He had simply wanted to relay a message, yet before he could even speak, he now stood branded as some villain who had committed a grave offense.
“Well… that is…”
He tried to continue, but Theodore’s guards, maids, and servants all rushed down and lined up around him, making the moment unbearably awkward.
“Speak.”
Gerald urged him, sounding a bit irritated.
“Before participating in the Demonic Realm Commemoration Subjugation Campaign, I ask that Your Graces attend the first service of the newly appointed bishop of Dyson Parish.”
Hmm…
Gerald pressed his lips tight.
Ever since his mother, Stephanie, had been exiled to an island in the south, he had never attended Dyson Parish’s services.
They had all stood by and watched during her exile.
Sinclair assumed he would refuse.
But—
“Very well. We’ll attend.”
Huh? You weren’t going to go…?
Sinclair stared at Gerald in surprise. He smiled gently, his eyes curving kindly.
You’re working so hard to expand Theodore’s social sphere—shouldn’t I at least do this much?
Sinclair blinked.
That smile… the kind he used when expecting praise. What was he up to?
“Oh! I got the prayer script from Lady Beatria!”
“Really?”
Sinclair, seeing Theodore respond so brightly, turned to the high priest.
“Will Lady Beatria attend as well?”
Theodore looked up at him expectantly.
“If the young lord wishes, we shall invite her.”
“Hm… it’s not like I especially want her there.”
“I would appreciate it. Please do.”
Sinclair quickly accepted on Theodore’s behalf.
If it was Lady Beatria, she was always welcome. No harm in having Theodore grow close to a future talent.
The bishop seemed dangerous—but the more dangerous someone was, the more they needed to investigate.
“Very well. I shall prepare accordingly. May Orrlesion’s blessing be upon you.”
“May Orrlesion’s blessing be upon you.”
The high priest pressed his palms together, bowed, and slowly retreated with his clergy.
“Theo.”
“Yes?”
Sinclair looked down at him carefully.
Judging by the state of him, he clearly hadn’t thrown any dirt at all.
“Did you see Michael off properly?”
“Oh!”
Theodore’s eyes rounded as he looked up. Sinclair smiled and ruffled his hair.
“We must do what needs to be done, right, my son?”
“Heung…”
Wiggling his hips, Theodore acted cute.
“Shall we go?”
“Yes!”
“We’ll be right back.”
Sinclair signaled Gerald to wait, took Theodore’s hand, and went to stand in line behind the mourners tossing dirt.
Gerald couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Her delicate shoulders and slender waist—so frail they looked as if a tap could snap them—filled him with aching tenderness.
He would have to tell Ellie in the palace to prepare a supplement perfectly suited for Sinclair.
And the head chef—he must make nourishing dishes.
No. Actually, he needed to order the matriarch to bring the Spring of Vitality water immediately.
He should have made her rest…
His lips drooped in concern.
His heart squeezed painfully watching her.
He wanted to lift her in his arms right now and fly straight back to Schlesen Palace.
He had set a deadline—he would let her do as she wished only until the day they watched the play.
Because she had personally asked him for practice sessions, and cared deeply about Theodore’s education.
Because he understood how important that gathering was to her.
He had done everything he could to help her feel fulfilled.
The premium shops related to “Theodore’s Gifts” in the capital—completed at record speed, marketed fiercely to spread word of mouth—all of it had only been possible because he had pushed himself and his vassals.
His retainers had worked sleepless nights.
But he saw none of their dark circles.
He only saw Sinclair’s bloodshot eyes and the shadows beneath them.
It felt like a weight of sin on his chest.
If he had known things would turn out like this, he should have paved Theodore’s path exactly the way she wanted before marrying her…
Meeting an inadequate husband like him had only burdened her further.
When they returned from the Heather family’s play, he would make her sleep—no matter what. He would feed her only the best.
But who could have predicted monsters would attack so soon?
Or that Michael would suddenly die amid all this chaos?
Ellie from the palace suspected homicide.
She said his heart, brain, and lungs had all dried out.
Hmm…
In the short moment after the knight confirmed he had regained consciousness and left to call Ellie and Jan…
Something had happened.
Something was there.
