Luke had a mountain of things he needed to do.
After entrusting Camilla—whose body had stiffened like stone—to the physicians, and leaving Deidre in the care of the household staff, Luke ran from the estate alone.
Where he went was the prison that held those who had attacked his wife and child.
Soldiers offered to accompany him. He dismissed them all.
Then he demanded answers.
He questioned, he pressed, he broke.
The attackers likely thought they had no reason to speak to some mere late-teen boy. At first they shrugged him off with contempt, sneering through his interrogation—until Luke, with eyes colder than winter steel, began his work in earnest.
Screams filled the prison.
The kind of screams that sounded like the end of a life.
The soldiers forced to wait at a distance trembled, and some of them vomited from fear.
Luke pursued the trail of whoever had hired them with a tenacity that did not allow escape. And at last, he dug out the truth.
Their patron was the Queen.
The Queen, bitter over her son’s lack of promise, had seen danger in Deidre—those blue eyes of the royal blood, and a composure so striking that even King Gerald had taken notice though she was only one year old.
Afraid that the child would one day become her son’s rival, she had ordered Deidre’s death.
Luke stormed the throne room with evidence enough to drown excuses, and laid out the Queen’s crimes without flinching.
Naturally, she denied everything at first.
Naturally, the King raged at the insult to his wife.
But Luke’s voice did not waver. He stated the facts, one after another, and at the last he forced the Queen into a corner so tight she could no longer breathe—until her spirit broke beneath his pressure and she confessed with her own lips.
Luke banished her.
The King, confronted with the ugliness of his consort’s actions, was shaken to the core. His will collapsed. He declared that he would abdicate and withdraw from the world.
Luke supported the new monarch, and swore with solemn devotion that he would serve so that the crown prince—still only four years old—might one day become a worthy king.
And by then, at last, Camilla’s examination had concluded.
Every physician had been helpless. Only after Luke had summoned a doctor versed in ancient arts from far away did someone finally speak with certainty.
“My lord… I believe your wife has been petrified by magic.”
The doctor’s accent marked him as a foreigner, but his expression was grimly sincere.
“In old records, there are cases of bodies becoming stone-like under magical influence. Your lady’s condition is too rigid to be a mere coma, and it does not resemble the stiffness of death.”
Luke had thought the same.
He had watched comrades die on the battlefield. He knew what death did to flesh.
Months had passed since the attack, yet Camilla’s body—though it had lost its former warmth and living sheen—had not decayed.
If she were dead, rot would already have claimed her.
“I cannot say what spell was used,” the doctor continued, “but I believe her body is in a state of halted activity. Until the petrification is undone, her condition will not change at all.”
“…Can it be undone?” Luke’s voice rasped, as though the question tore his throat on the way out.
The doctor bowed his head, ashamed.
“I am deeply sorry. I do not know a method to reverse it at present.”
Luke did not speak.
“However,” the doctor added carefully, “most magic has limits. And whatever artifact was used—if it has survived into an age where mages have long vanished—it is unlikely to contain truly extraordinary power.”
“…So it may heal naturally,” Luke said, too quickly.
“I cannot promise,” the doctor answered. “But there is hope. Please keep her in the best environment you can. Temperature, humidity—anything might affect her. It would be wise to tend her body regularly.”
“…Understood,” Luke said, the word heavy as iron. “You have my gratitude.”
After the doctor left, Luke reached out and touched his wife’s cheek with the gentlest of fingers.
Cold.
Still, he touched her as though warmth might return through sheer devotion.
Then he went to the next room.
The nursery was sealed—its scars too cruel to leave exposed—so Deidre was being kept in Camilla’s chamber instead.
When Luke entered, a young maid who had been amusing the child looked up and bowed.
“I hear you served Lady Camilla well,” Luke said.
The maid, who had been trying to withdraw out of consideration, froze. She trembled, forcing out a hoarse, “My lord, I am unworthy…”—and her face twisted with grief.
“B-But even so… I could not protect her…”
“That is enough.” Luke’s voice cut cleanly. “Lady Camilla will be relieved to know no one else was harmed.”
He paused, then glanced toward the adjoining room—the one prepared as the marital bedchamber, where Camilla now lay like a beautiful statue.
“…More importantly,” he said, quieter, “will you continue to care for her?”
The maid’s eyes widened.
“No one knows when Lady Camilla will awaken. But when she does, she must find her body tended, the room kept clean, and the seasons brought to her even in stillness. See to her. Make the world gentle for her, until she can return to it.”
“Y-Yes!” The maid bowed so deeply it was nearly a prostration. “My lord, I swear I will fulfill this duty!”
“I am counting on you,” Luke said.
He nodded once, dismissed her, and walked to the cradle set in the center of the room.
Perhaps because she had been playing only moments earlier, Deidre still clutched a soft ball in her tiny hands. When her eyes met Luke’s, she broke into a bright smile.
“‘To-ta!’”
Luke’s throat tightened.
Slowly—so slowly—he reached out and lifted her.
He did not know the proper way to hold a child of a year and a half. But Deidre wriggled in his arms and found her own comfortable position, as though she meant to teach him without words.
Luke swayed gently, testing the motion, uncertain.
Deidre seemed delighted. She laughed, gripping the front of his coat with small fingers, as if claiming him.
“…Deidre,” Luke whispered.
His daughter.
The child he had yearned to meet.
The way she could smile so openly, the way she could recognize him and call him “Father” the moment they met—everything in her was proof of the love Camilla had poured into her.
Luke lowered his forehead to his daughter’s hair.
“…Lady Camilla.”
His voice was almost a prayer.
“I am waiting for your awakening. I will build a kingdom where you can always smile. I will… protect and raise Deidre.”
In the hazel eyes of an eighteen-year-old baron, a steady flame of resolve burned—quiet, unwavering, and absolute.
“Luke’s Love” — The End
