"*She* is temporary."
Zero's eyes sparked with sudden interest.
The Duke's words had carried an unmistakable possessiveness—sharp, instinctive, revealing.
His reaction was far more telling than Zero had anticipated.
Beside him, Olive's eyebrows rose fractionally.
"Well, well."
"Olive."
Gerald's voice cut through the charged silence.
"Remove this one.
You stay."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Olive recovered instantly and jabbed his elbow into Zero's ribs.
The alchemist flinched and retreated a step.
"Wait—we haven't finished—"
"It's late.
His Grace should rest."
Another jab.
"And *you*, Mr.
Zero, require sleep as well."
"I'm going, I'm going—just stop *poking*—"
Olive pressed his advantage, targeting Zero's notoriously ticklish sides with surgical precision.
"Go to bed.
Quickly now."
"I *said* enough!
Olive oil!"
"I am Olive Lyon."
The name-based insult bounced off him entirely.
Olive smiled radiantly, unperturbed.
"Coming, coming!"
Zero kicked the door so hard it slammed against its frame, then stomped into the corridor.
His grumbling footsteps faded gradually into the distance.
"Olive."
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Find the author of the fairy tale 'The Raven Who Repaid Kindness.'"
"At once."
"You may go."
"Yes.
Please rest, Your Grace."
The door closed behind Olive with a soft click.
And the pain flooded back.
"*Damn.*"
As if it had been waiting for this moment, the agony rushed into his eyes with renewed fury.
His other senses, which he'd deliberately muted in anticipation of Zero's noise, rebelled against their restraint.
Everything *screamed*.
"Kay."
The shadow materialized instantly, prostrate before him.
Gerald hesitated.
What he was about to order felt like weakness.
Like admitting something he'd rather deny.
But the memory of that hour without pain—that blessed, impossible relief—
"Obtain Mandrelson.
He paused.
"And regarding this matter—*eternal silence*."
Kay remained frozen for a fraction of a second.
Then he bowed his head and vanished.
If this common weed—this plant that barely qualified as poison—truly relieved his suffering, then tonight's "help" had proven genuine.
Payment for teasing, received in full.
His thoughts drifted to the fairy tale she'd read.
A raven who lied to survive.
A raven who repaid kindness despite its deceptions.
## — Several Days Later —
"*Princess Snowflake and the seven elves, preparing for new adventures, lived happily ever after.*"
Marin closed the book with quiet satisfaction.
She'd transformed "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" into an action-packed saga featuring Princess Snowflake and her band of warrior elves.
The tale had stretched to nearly two hours.
Her throat felt like parchment.
Taking a long sip from the water she'd prepared, Marin narrowed her eyes and studied the Duke.
Usually, by now, he would have grumbled: "Are there truly no stories without 'happily ever after'?"
Silence.
For days now, the Duke had been behaving... strangely.
He allowed her to apply the Mandrelson compress without complaint.
He barely interrupted during her readings.
He hadn't teased her or twisted her words into accusations.
This quiet, cooperative Duke felt like a stranger wearing his face.
Anxiety coiled in her stomach as she retrieved the damp towel and approached his chair.
"I have the towel."
She no longer worried about waking him mid-story.
She'd learned the pattern by now: the Duke emerged from whatever half-sleep claimed him precisely when the tale concluded.
She extended the towel with both hands, expecting him to take it as usual.
He didn't move.
"The temporary worker should do what she offered to do."
His lips parted slowly around each word.
"I'm sorry?"
Marin's eyes went wide.
"You said you would wipe it for me."
His tone remained perfectly calm.
"Do so."
"I—?"
She swallowed the question, her light green eyes trembling with confusion.
"You offered.
The first time."
The memory surfaced.
That initial session, when she'd handed him the towel and instinctively offered to help.
She'd expected refusal.
He'd given it—and she'd forgotten the entire exchange.
"Ah... yes.
I'll do it."
Her voice emerged smaller than she'd intended.
She reached for the cloth covering his face, her fingers trembling like leaves in wind.
Green-stained fabric peeled away from his forehead to reveal the black silk ribbon beneath.
Smudges of crushed Mandrelson marked the elegant fabric—evidence of her treatment.
"I-I'll begin."
She bit down on her lower lip, hard, and gathered her courage.
"Proceed."
"Yes...
I am.
The words were more self-encouragement than response.
She extended her hand toward his face with agonizing slowness.
But despite the internal pleading, her arm moved with excruciating reluctance.
"Temporary."
Impatience edged his voice.
Before she could react, his hand shot out and caught her wrist—the one clutching the towel.
He pressed it firmly against his forehead.
"I-I'm touching it now!
Though if that's the case, why not just do it your—"
She cut herself off and began wiping carefully, meticulously.
She stepped closer, trying not to let her body brush against his as she worked.
The towel traced along his brow, his temples, the edges of his silk-covered eyes.
His skin had grown paler than porcelain from his long absence from sunlight.
Whiter than most noblewomen could achieve.
Thoughts spiraled, one catching the next.
"Have you decided to flay my skin entirely?"
"Oh—sorry!"
Marin leaped backward as though burned.
She'd been scrubbing the same spot repeatedly, lost in her worries.
Face flaming, she gathered the soiled cloth and towel, placing them on the cart with trembling hands.
"Temporary."
His voice came from behind her.
"Yes?"
"The fairy tale—'The Raven Who Repaid Kindness.'
Olive cannot locate its author anywhere."
"Ah."
Marin continued arranging items on the cart, her tone casual.
"I wrote that one."
"...I see."
His voice lifted slightly—surprise, perhaps?—but she didn't notice.
"Then I'll take my leave, Your Grace."
She gripped the cart handle and started toward the door.
"Temporary."
His low voice stopped her mid-step.
"Yes?"
"...Make a wish."
"What?"
She whirled to face him, utterly bewildered.
The Duke leaned back in his chair with characteristic laziness, head tilting slightly.
"A reward."
"A *reward*?
Out of nowhere?"
Her eyes had gone round as coins.
He began counting.
"Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven—"
"W-wait, Your Grace!
I need time to think—"
"Six.
Five.
Four—"
"This is too sudden, I—"
She pressed her palms together, fingers twisting anxiously, thoughts racing in frantic circles.
"Three.
Two—"
"*Walk!*"
"One."
Their voices collided in the darkness.
Marin froze, hand flying to cover her mouth.
"Walk?"
"That—would be beneficial for Your Grace!"
Words tumbled out before she could organize them.
"You haven't been outside in so long—and going directly into bright light wouldn't be wise—but at night, with darkness already present—we could start gradually, just short distances—"
She was babbling.
She knew she was babbling.
But the explanation wouldn't stop flowing.
"For what purpose?"
"For... physical activity?"
Even to her own ears, it sounded absurd.
"You're concerned about my *muscles*?"
One corner of his mouth curved upward—that familiar, infuriating half-smile.
Marin wanted to sink through the floor.
But somewhere beneath the embarrassment, a small, stubborn voice whispered: