“Lady Erandel, if you lack spirit, you will never be able to feel the wonders of art.”
The painting tutor, Ross, smiled gently. From the pocket of his waistcoat, he drew out a thumb-sized glass vial.
“This is an essential oil from Sochi County. A whiff of it refreshes the mind. Would you like to try some?”
Since dawn, Clytia had been training in swordsmanship and horsemanship. Then came etiquette, flower arranging, music, and the endless stream of noble training lessons. Aside from a short break at lunch, she had not rested. By now, late in the afternoon, her spirit was stretched to its limit.
But she knew the nanny waited outside the door. If she were caught slacking, the ruler would be waiting—
“If it can make me more alert, then… please.” She forced the words out, fighting against her weariness.
At her reply, Ross unscrewed the vial and held it beneath Clytia’s nose.
A sharp, pungent fragrance stung my senses. Then I noticed Clytia freeze as if her soul had been plucked away, her body stiffening in the chair.
It’s starting, I thought.
In Ross’s hand appeared a jet-black bead. Before I could see clearly what it was, he unceremoniously pried open my mouth—or rather, Clytia’s. But since her consciousness was gone, I alone felt the rough intrusion.
“So this is the Seed of the Evil God? How sloppy—at least give it some flavor.” A sensation like a glass bead rolled down my throat, then dissolved without a trace.
Clytia soon stirred again. With a dazed look, she gazed at the art tutor.
“Do you feel more awake?” Ross asked.
“…A little,” she answered vaguely.
“Good. Then let us continue.” Smiling, Ross clapped his hands and, as if nothing had happened, resumed lecturing on the principles of perspective.
****
A grave problem dawned on me.
As I was now, bound to Clytia, I could do nothing—yet I shared everything she felt. For now, it was only grueling, force-fed education. Harsh, yes, but still within human endurance.
But later? When she became the outcast villainess, when she was transformed into a monster, squatting amid the ruins of the capital, feeding on rotting corpses—would I have to endure all of that, feel it all with her?
And in the end, what could I do? Nothing but watch.
After painting came two hours of literature. Fortunately, that teacher was a dull pedant, droning on with long-winded verses, oblivious to whether his student listened.
At last, utterly exhausted, Clytia finished her day’s lessons, ate the supper her servants had laid out, and returned to her bedroom.
It was a spacious but austere room. From etiquette lectures she knew that the capital’s noble young ladies had gilded dressing tables, wardrobes stuffed with gowns, canopied velvet beds perfumed year-round with incense that sank into the bones.
But here there were only bare essentials. No rugs or paintings adorned the walls—only axes and iron swords hung as decoration.
The Duke of Erandel was bold and decisive in war, but in family matters, his two halves warred constantly. On the one hand, he wanted Clytia to become a glittering socialite to secure a grand marriage. On the other, he clung to the Veylin warrior’s austerity, unwilling to let his children soften. Thus Clytia lived rough, yet was forced to act like the pampered daughters of the capital’s aristocrats.
But tonight, aside from the usual spartan furnishings, there was something else.
Clytia silently looked toward the bed.
There sat a girl of about six, with dark black hair, bundled in thick cotton clothes, staring at her with wide, expectant eyes.
“Sister, come play with me,” the girl said.
Claire Erandel—the youngest daughter of the house, Clytia’s little sister.
Clytia said nothing. She only lit the rest of the candles in the room.
“Sister, I’m so bored. No one talks to me. Let’s play.” Claire pressed.
As the room brightened, Clytia turned back.
“Did Father not set you a schedule?”
Claire nodded, then shook her head.
“Mm… only this morning. The afternoon was so boring.”
I knew why. Claire possessed talent for magic. The duke had hired a magister to teach her, but the master deemed her too young, her body undeveloped, and thus her lessons were light.
A pang of bitterness welled in Clytia’s heart, and I felt it as well. But she said evenly:
“It’s already late. Another time.”
“But…” Claire’s eyes drooped. “But Sister, you haven’t played with me in so long…”
Clytia fell silent for a moment. Then she walked over, took a storybook from her desk, and said:
“Lai, I’ll tell you a story instead.”
“Lai” was Claire’s pet name, used only between sisters. The little girl’s eyes lit up instantly, as if a lamp had been switched on.
“Okay!”
Clytia leaned against the headboard, letting Claire curl up beside her, and opened the heavy-bound book.
“Long, long ago… there was a princess…”
The story had been told countless times. Yet Claire rested her chin on her hands, snuggling close, listening with rapt delight.
Bedtime stories were meant to lull the listener to sleep. But this time, it was the storyteller who drifted off first.
“Sister? …Sister?”
Claire whispered, waving a hand in front of her sister’s closed eyes. She realized Clytia had succumbed to fatigue.
“…Alright then.”
She muttered softly, then climbed up, pulled the blanket over Clytia, and tiptoed away.
****
My awareness did not fade with Clytia’s slumber.
Usually, when her eyes shut, I too could do nothing—sightless, motionless—until I forced myself into sleep.
But tonight was different.
Ross had planted the Seed of the Evil God within her—an iconic scene from the novel, enacted before me. Fate had begun to turn, and I could not rest.
And her sleeping posture was atrocious—my neck ached unbearably!
“The Seed of the Evil God… what do I do…” I lamented in the dark.
The Cult of the Night worshiped an ancient entity called the Abyss, undoubtedly a heretical faith. And as in all such settings, where there is an evil god, there must also be a righteous one. Yes—the Glorious Church, the only official faith of the Empire, worshiping the Creator God, Danor.
“The Seed of the Evil God, split from the deity’s own essence… ordinary clergy cannot detect or remove it…” I recalled the lore. “But, if she could undergo the highest-level Baptism of Holy Light…”
“Ah, but Erandel has no high clerics. And who would submit to such a ritual without cause? It would be no different from confessing ‘I consorted with heresy’ to the Church itself…”
Tormented, I rolled over instinctively—
And froze.
Wait. Rolled over?
Disbelieving, I slowly lifted a slender girl’s hand before my eyes, flexing and curling the fingers again and again.
For ten years, I had been able to hear, see, and feel—but control had always belonged to Clytia alone. I had never been able to move her body.
“Why… why can I suddenly move?”
No time to ponder—I sprang upright, like a fish leaping from the water. This was not Clytia’s reflex. This was my will.
“Yes… I can move! Then the most urgent task is to expose Ross’s scheme!”
This must be my mission.
Barefoot, not even pausing for shoes, I ran out of the room.
“Whom should I find? The duke is away on inspection. The local priest? But the church is in the city beyond the castle… My brothers? No, they have brawn but no wit—they’d think I was playing around—”
Heart pounding, I raced through the corridor. But behind me came a cold, stern voice:
“Young Miss, it is late. For what reason do you run about at this hour?”
The nanny. I turned back, scrambling for words.
“I… I… I had a nightmare…”
A sudden thought flashed through my mind. I tried it.
“An heir of Erandel, frightened by nightmares?” The nanny frowned, lamp in hand.
“Enough. Back to bed. Sleep now, and you will still have four hours of rest.”
She wasn’t even giving me the chance to speak! But I pressed on.
“I feel… the nightmare might be linked to what happened today…”
“Oh? And what do you mean?” she asked.
“Because… during painting, I was too drowsy. So Master Ross gave me something strange to smell. My mind went blank, and then I felt alert. But later at night… my body began to feel unwell.”
I spoke in a child’s muddled tone, but every word was true.
The nanny’s face darkened imperceptibly. After a moment’s thought, she took my hand.
“Young Miss, thank you for telling me. For your health, I will take you to the infirmary.”
She led me downstairs. The cold stone floor stabbed my bare feet—I regretted not taking shoes. In a small chamber lined with wooden shelves of glass bottles, she lit a lamp and examined me.
I knew her past. Once the duke’s military physician, she had been wounded in battle against demons, later becoming housekeeper here.
She checked my eyes and tongue, pricked my finger, mixed the blood with some reagent, and studied the color. But such simple tests could reveal nothing.
“You show no sign of poisoning,” she concluded. “Still, I will report what you said to His Grace.”
I hesitated. Should I lay everything bare? But if they dismissed it as childish nonsense, I might only provoke Ross too soon. I had to choose the right moment.
At the very least, I had to wait for the duke’s return. Without him, there was no power to suppress Ross. In the original story, Ross was no mere tutor—he was one of the masterminds behind many conspiracies, and later, when his power grew, even the protagonist’s party struggled against him.
While I wavered, the nanny led me back to my room.
“Sweet dreams, young lady. Rest assured in all things.”
So she said, closing the door behind me.