A refined handle sculpted from gold, paired with spotless, crystal-clear glass imported from the southern regions—it was identical in every way to the door that led to Dehart’s greenhouse.
“Sigh.”
Sebelia pressed her hand against the door and leaned closer. The cold glass, pressed firmly against her palm, sent a chill that tingled all the way to the inside of her wrist.
She cautiously peeked into the greenhouse. Inside, she expected to see vibrant flowers dressed in wild colors, lush greenery brimming with life, and the man who always stood there alone.
“……”
But, as is the way of nightmares, what she yearned to see wasn’t there.
Sebelia withdrew her hand, leaving behind a clear imprint on the glass. Then, taking small, measured steps, she slowly turned away. And at some point, she realized she was no longer dreaming.
“It wasn’t exactly a pleasant dream.”
By the time she finished replaying the dream in her mind, the trembling in her body had subsided.
Sebelia left her travel bag by the front door and headed into the bedroom, throwing herself onto the bed. Even if Dehart had stood behind that door, she doubted she could have opened it.
“After all, the last time I was invited to the greenhouse… was back then.”
Before her father’s schemes had branded her a traitor.
Dehart had once invited her to join him for tea in the greenhouse, wanting to show her its wonders. But she had turned him down to meet with none other than a jeweler her father had sent.
“Ha.”
An uncertain sound escaped her lips—something between a bitter laugh and a scoff. Then, Sebelia rolled over, burying her face into the blankets as an overwhelming wave of fatigue washed over her.
***
Afterward, Sebelia took some time to mentally prepare herself before heading out. She didn’t want to be caught off guard again if she unexpectedly ran into the man who resembled Ryan. Fortunately, nothing of the sort happened.
Letting out a deep sigh, Sebelia placed the items in her hands on the counter: a thick outer coat, sturdy shoes, fire-starting tools, a lightweight sleeping bag, groceries—and, inexplicably, a bottle of strong liquor sitting squarely in the middle.
“You’re heading there too, huh?” The shopkeeper casually remarked as he glanced over the items Sebelia had chosen.
“Pardon?” Sebelia tilted her head in confusion.
The shopkeeper chuckled and gave the items another once-over before asking,
“You’re planning to head up the Sixth Path, aren’t you?”
“I’m from out of town, so I’m not familiar with the names used by the locals here.”
“Ah,” the shopkeeper said, nodding in understanding. “I hear there’s someone living in seclusion there—no, wait, that sounded a bit suspicious. I meant, there’s supposedly a doctor who prefers working alone there.”
“Are you talking about Mr. Watts?”
“Ah, yes, that’s his name.” The shopkeeper grinned as he began packing the items into a bag.
Only then did Sebelia understand what the doctor in Ulshik meant by “Someone who never lets people in.”
No wonder the supplies look like camping gear; She sighed inwardly, pulling out her wallet.
As the expert on incurable diseases, it seemed that man wasn’t someone one could easily meet.
At least I’m lucky to have a letter of recommendation from someone he’s acquainted with.
The shopkeeper glanced at Sebelia with a hint of pity before saying;
“I don’t know what you’re hoping to get from that doctor, but it’s not going to be an easy trip.”
“…….”
“Don’t worry, you won’t end up with broken limbs or anything. People just usually come back in tears, that’s all.”
Clicking his tongue, the shopkeeper glanced toward the outdoor café across the street.
Sebelia silently followed his gaze, and spotted a man crying in broad daylight.
“That guy bought the same stuff you did two days ago.”
“…….”
“Well, good luck.”
Thinking of the letter of recommendation she’d left safely tucked away in her room, Sebelia frowned.
[If it’s someone I referred, he’ll let them in.]
But recalling the confident attitude and trustworthy voice of the doctor in Ulshik, Sebelia calmly left the shop.
…I guess I just have to trust him.
***
Meanwhile, Dehart stood atop the steps of a square teeming with raving lunatics pointing fingers at one another, scrutinizing each person in turn.
“Peter Hansen, that cursed rat, really picked the perfect hole to crawl into,” he said with gritted teeth, murderous intent flaring up from him.
With Baron Serpredi’s cooperation, he had relentlessly searched for Peter Hanson, only to experience firsthand what it meant to be consumed by frustration.
“What is it with this moldy city having such an overabundance of doctors and scholars, as if they were rotting away here?”
On the surface, Serpredi appeared to be an ordinary midsize city, but upon closer inspection, the place was unsettlingly bizarre. It was overflowing with scholars, doctors, sorcerers, and magicians—professions notorious for leading one to the brink of madness….
“And why are they still stubbornly clinging to those crumbling old buildings like pests that can’t let go?”
As a city with a characteristic focus on preserving ancient architecture, it was filled with old buildings and equally aged alleys. In short, it was a haphazard mess, a testament to the complete absence of any urban planning from the outset.
“One day, I swear I’ll wipe this entire place off the map,” the northern lord muttered in a chilling tone as he examined dozens of unregistered buildings, his frustration mounting.
What irritated him even more was the city’s utter lack of organization. The buildings weren’t officially registered, making it impossible to track locations. To make matters worse, the residents didn’t bother labeling their establishments properly.
Just today, following a lead of someone who was staying at a specific inn named Hansen, Dehart had kicked open its door—only to find a man named Rozan standing there instead.
As his anger simmered beneath the surface, Ilay suddenly appeared and casually struck up a conversation.
“This is the perfect setup for a black market to thrive.”
“…….”
“Though for now, this hellhole is ruled by lunatics who are madly obsessed with knowledge and ancient relics.”
“Did you forget that I ordered you to keep your mouth shut?”
“My apologies. But if I keep my mouth shut, I can’t report to you, my lord, so I have no choice.”
In other words, he had deliberately ignored the order.
Dehart briefly entertained the idea of smiting him but restrained himself. Just then, Ilay handed him a report on the inspection of other areas.
“Oh dear, there he goes again.”
“……”
Ilay muttered to himself as he looked past Dehart, toward somewhere below the stairs.
“This time, she’s even dropping things.”
Dehart stared at him as if he were insane, and the knight, feeling wronged, shook his head in protest;
“That’s not it. There’s something I didn’t get the chance to mention last time, but the truth is…”
“What?”
“Um… never mind.”
At Ilay’s hesitation, Dehart frowned and turned his head away.
As such, an awkward silence fell between them.
Then, their gazes met.
Golden eyes widened in shock before narrowing. His pupils, which had been flitting around, suddenly froze, locked onto a single point as if nailed in place.
“What… is this?”
The document in his hand began to smolder, releasing an acrid smell as it burned in his grasp. Thousands of shimmering lights danced over the fabric of his clothes, and his hand unconsciously reached out into the empty air.
“Y-Your Grace.”
Startled, Ilay accidentally called him “Your Grace.”
At that moment, Dehart drew a desperate breath, as though he had just been suffocating moments before.
“Am I… seeing things again?”
Yet the sunlight pouring down was piercingly vivid, and the relentless noise scraping at his ears felt unbearably sharp.
“A hallucination, no… her ghost?…”
Dehart gasped, struggling to breathe. Even as confusion rattled his mind, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her, standing below.
Her pale face, rounded nose, and softly curved lips; her eyes, gentle like a doe’s, carried a subtle defiance in their upward tilt.
And then…
Brown hair?
That detail struck him like a hammer blow. This wasn’t Hylend Hall, a place cloaked in perpetual gloom and haunted by curses. And she no longer bore the same appearance as the last time he remembered her.
“This… is not a figment of my imagination.”
The sound of his voice, clear and steady beyond what he believed himself capable of, echoed in his ears. Somewhere along the way, the trembling in his body had vanished entirely.
“Sebelia.”
The call was brief, his actions resolute.
He sprinted down the stairs, and in an instant, he was right beside her. Her trembling blue eyes and her delicate body stumbling backward made Dehart’s heart race with certainty.
But then, in the very next moment…
Whoosh!
It was as if a flower bud had burst open before his eyes. A fierce gust of wind pushed him back, and something struck him violently, passing by in a blur.
“Ugh…!”
Dehart raised his arms to shield himself, but it was futile. Struggling to open his eyes, he peered through the chaos and saw them—hundreds of small blue birds, their shimmering wings glowing with a breathtaking brilliance.
What the hell is this…!
“Sebelia!”
Yet, even amidst the chaos, he shouted with all his might, stretching his hand toward her.
But all he could grasp was a glowing blue feather.
***
It all happened so fast that she couldn’t even recall what exactly had transpired.
Dehart was here.
She didn’t know why, but it was definitely him. And he had seen her. In a split second, he reached out to grab her…
“What happened after that?”
As soon as Sebelia escaped the square, she hid in an alley, pressing down on her pounding heart. Had she used her abilities? Or had she simply run away? Her jumbled thoughts failed to provide a clear answer.
But she couldn’t just stay hidden here.
Clutching her belongings tightly, Sebelia ran toward her inn with all her might.
“But really…this is absurd. How could something like this happen?” she muttered to herself, a dazed expression on her face.
The same scene kept replaying in her mind.
The disbelief etched on his face, the look in his eyes as he reached for her. His voice calling her name, desperate—almost pleading.
It was just like before, like the time before tragedy had struck them—he used to look at her like this…
“No, no, no.”
Thwack!
The sound of skin being slapped echoed through the alley. With her hand pressed to her stinging cheek, Sebelia bit down hard on her lip, then forcing herself to appear calm, she entered the inn. Thankfully, it seemed no one had noticed anything unusual about her.
What he looks like doesn’t matter. What’s important to me now… is not him.
Right. What mattered was not him.
“And I’m no longer the person I was back then.”
Why should his desperate face, his distorted eyes, his pained voice—like he missed her—matter?
“I gave up the life of Sebelia Inverness a long time ago.”
She gave it up to avoid dying alone, to avoid perishing in loneliness and despair. She ran away from his side, where she had been rejected, abandoned, and left to be despised, so that she wouldn’t die there.
Repeating the thought to herself, Sebelia flung open her room’s door.
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