I opened my eyes—when I could actually perform the act of “opening my eyes,” I knew the body had once again fallen under my control.
All around was darkness. I rose in silence. Hearing steady breaths beside me, I turned toward the moonlight spilling through the window and saw a little girl with pale-gold hair sleeping soundly.
After all, this room held only two beds, one large and one small. With Clytia occupying one, Diya had no choice but to squeeze in here.
My stomach growled. The churn of hunger made itself known. I remembered the scent of barley porridge earlier, yet Clytia had no appetite at all—I was honestly afraid she might starve herself to death.
But then, emotions welled through her heart. This child must be lost in confusion, trembling in fear and helplessness. The last memory before her collapse was of the Nanny being killed—her own desperate bolt from the hand crossbow useless against the black-robed mage.
“But… we can’t really go hungry, can we?”
I felt my limbs weak, inching toward the edge of the bed, then lowered myself to the floor. Out of the corner of my eye I checked the sleeping girl—good, she hadn’t stirred.
On tiptoe I slipped into the kitchen.
I lifted the lid of a clay pot on the stove. Inside was barley porridge. What I was about to do might look like theft, but if we didn’t eat, Clytia’s weakness would only deepen.
I stirred with a wooden ladle. The porridge had already congealed into one solid mass. In my past life I’d read old anecdotes of slicing such porridge into portions, but Clytia’s stomach was unsettled. She needed something warm.
Fortunately, a flint lay near the stove, and there was still half-burnt wood in the hearth. I crouched and struck sparks again and again. Failure.
“What a hassle…” I thought. Surely there must be an easier way to start a fire, but I didn’t want to use that power for such a trivial matter.
Power that demanded a price—
Persistence paid off. After several more strikes, the fire caught. The porridge began to heat slowly.
“Where are the bowls…”
Climbing onto a stool, I opened the cupboard. Inside were three clean wooden bowls, sparsely arranged. In the Ducal estate we used fine porcelain and silverware. These wooden bowls felt feather-light and insubstantial in my hands.
“Wait… what’s that?”
In the corner of the cupboard hung a few smoked sausages.
“Wouldn’t plain porridge be too bland?” My stomach acid roiled. My hand reached toward the sausage of its own accord—
But wouldn’t that be theft?
Well… Clytia was the daughter of the Duke. Once she was safe, she could repay these siblings tenfold. Yes, not theft, only credit.
After persuading myself, I took one, chopped it into pieces with the kitchen knife, and dropped the chunks into the heating porridge. When it warmed through, I ladled a bowlful.
The wooden spoon felt coarse against my fingers. I scooped porridge and brought it to my lips. Warmth filled my stomach bit by bit.
That was when I heard a faint cough behind me.
“Um… I heard something moving…”
I whipped around. In the doorway stood the silhouette of a boy—surely the elder of the siblings.
I froze, then steadied myself. At times like this, showing fear was fatal. No, I had to act natural.
“Ah, you came to sneak food too?”
I held the bowl as if nothing were amiss and walked toward him.
“No… I mean, it was already—”
His mouth hung half-open, trying to explain. I seized the moment and shoved a spoonful into his mouth before he could react.
“Shh—don’t make a sound. You’re an accomplice now!”
I’d made sure it was a spoonful with sausage chunks. That should keep him quiet.
“Mmph!”
Caught off guard, Nolan clamped his mouth shut before the food could spill. He staggered back, utterly unprepared for such an absurd move from the girl.
“Wait a second, why is there meat in this?”
“Because I added sausage. And since you ate it too, you can’t tell on me.” I downed the rest of the porridge in a few swift gulps.
“That’s our reserve food… If it’s used up, Diya will scold.”
“Don’t be stingy. You’ll be repaid.” I set down the empty bowl. The boy seemed on the verge of rebuking me—but instead sighed and gave a wry smile.
“Hm?” I looked at him. He shook his head.
“It’s fine. Just seeing you with some spirit again eases my worry.”
Spirit? Maybe so—but the one with spirit was me alone. Clytia remained trapped in shock and grief. With that thought, I slowly left the kitchen and gazed through the window toward the yard.
“Where is this place?” I asked after a pause.
“You mean the village? This is Lotte Village. Where are you from? Are you local?” Nolan replied.
“You say Lotte Village like I’d know where that is.” I frowned. “Which region?”
“Romern region, under Baron Locket.”
“Tch… so we’re already inside imperial lands.” My mind ticked on. Baron Locket was a petty noble, irrelevant to me. But Romern I knew: northern imperial plains, south of the Romern Forest. A fair stretch across the plains from the Erandel Duchy.
I lifted my eyes toward the bear’s carcass in the yard. The dead body sprawled in the night. Under the winter wind, its fluids were freezing, muting the stench. Fortunate it was winter.
If Ross’s plan had gone without interruption, that bear corpse—animated by black sorcery—would have carried Clytia straight into some cult den. Then the helpless Duke’s daughter would have been butchered by black sorcerers.
But things hadn’t gone that far.
Because I had broken the taboo—binding myself in contract with the Abyss. The terms of that contract, I no longer knew. When I came to, all that remained was black magic knowledge seared into my mind—
And the Seed of the Evil God throbbing in our chest—
Borrowing that foul knowledge—just remembering fragments was enough to make me gag—I unraveled the necromancy Ross had placed on the bear. Then the strain crushed me into unconsciousness.
It was drinking poison to quench thirst, but there had been no choice. I could not allow Clytia to fall into cultist hands.
I knew for certain—the contract tied only to my soul. Clytia remained untouched. Yes, it was my mistake—knowing Ross was unstable, dangerous, yet rashly whispering to the Nanny, provoking his premature strike—
So I alone bore the price. That was just.
Nolan frowned slightly. The girl stood silent at the window, moonlight spilling between the slats, turning her gray hair to silver.
“The draft there will chill you,” he warned gently. She turned, offering him a fleeting, phantom smile.
“It’s all right—”
“By the way… what’s your name?”
There were so many other questions he might have asked: Where did you come from? How did you end up inside that bear? Do you have family? But at that moment, inexplicably, only this question seemed necessary.
“My name? Hm… I don’t really have the right to give one. But… you can call me Clytia.”
“In any case, Clytia will be in your care.”
The silver-haired girl let the words float out and drifted back toward the bedroom. Strange though the phrasing was, Nolan repeated the name to himself, committing it to memory:
“Clytia… is it?”