104.

“How could anyone…?”

“Pardon, my lord. What are you saying?”

Despite her exasperated expression, Erika still made an effort to respond politely, as a loyal aide should.

“How could someone like someone else… ‘that’ much? It doesn’t make sense. It’s absurd.”

Once again, I found myself voicing a deeply philosophical question, grappling with its implications.

Erika’s eyes widened as if I had said something utterly horrifying. But I was completely serious, so her reaction barely registered.

Normally, my answer to such a question would have been simple:

‘If Norma Diazi wasn’t utterly out of his mind, he wouldn’t claim to love me.’

But lately, the situation felt… different.

‘Who could look at that face and doubt his feelings? Only the cruelest of beings, surely.’

I was aware of my own absurdity, but anyone who had seen Norma shed even a single tear while pleading for his feelings not to be dismissed would understand.

Of course, it wasn’t as if he had broken down sobbing. His tears were dignified, rolling down his cheek with grace. Yet recalling that moment made me feel as though I wasn’t entirely delusional.

Thus concluded my nth internal monologue of the day.

But it didn’t stop there. I began replaying the image of Norma’s side profile as he waved goodbye before leaving the parlor.

His face, his height, his stature—how could someone look like ‘that’ while giving a casual handwave? Surely, it was all deliberate.

“My lord.”

“Hah… What’s he plotting now?”

“My lord?”

‘Too damn cute.’

I swallowed the words before they could escape, startled at my own thoughts. My awkward movement made Erika glance at me in confusion, and only then did I realize I was still staring at the door Norma had exited.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked hastily.

“You started to say something but trailed off.”

Perhaps it wasn’t Norma who was crazy. Maybe it was me. Finding a man, who could probably crush me in a single blow, adorable wasn’t exactly normal.

‘But isn’t his behavior objectively cute?’

My stream of consciousness was so nonsensical these days that even I struggled to follow it.

“Bring some cold water,” Erika muttered, clicking her tongue before instructing a nearby aide. She watched my face shift colors like a weather vane and waited patiently, a surprising feat for someone who normally couldn’t tolerate nonsense.

“And open the window, too. Damn summer heat,” I added, waving a hand dramatically.

“You don’t usually mind the heat. What are you talking about?”

She dismissed my flimsy excuse, her tone unimpressed. The aides behind her were visibly struggling to suppress their laughter, biting down on their teeth. Treacherous bunch.

Erika, maintaining her perfect posture, waited for me to finish the water. Once I set the cup down, she slid a scroll across the table toward me.

“Now that you’ve calmed down, please approve this.”

“Why are you bringing paperwork to the parlor?” I grumbled, glaring at her for the intrusion. Begrudgingly, I took the scroll and unrolled it.

It took me a moment—several moments, in fact—to process what I was reading.

It was a ‘marriage approval request’.

In noble society, just as emperors granted permission for the unions of grand houses, the head of a household had to authorize their vassals’ marriages. Though it was largely a formality, seeing one thrust at me so suddenly caught me off guard.

After reading it over about ten times, I finally raised my head and croaked.

“…Suddenly?”

“If you approve it, I’ll proceed as quickly as possible. Of course, I can’t prepare as fast as your own wedding, my lord.”

“Why the rush? No formal audience, just this?” I asked, incredulous.

Erika sipped her tea with a knowing look, as if to remind me that my own marriage had been even more abrupt. I had no defense.

“You used to nag me about why I wasn’t doing this sooner. If you approve it, I’ll take care of the rest.”

“And here I thought you said you liked being on your own.”

“I did. I wasn’t lying—entirely.”

“And now?”

“I have no choice anymore. Harry Forn looks so unbearably adorable no matter what he does. I didn’t plan on marriage being part of my life, but here we are.”

“What kind of reasoning is that?”

Her explanation left me flustered. How was ‘adorableness’ a reason to get married? Especially considering I had been thinking similar thoughts not long ago.

Erika shrugged lightly, as if my confusion wasn’t her concern.

“Do you love him?” I asked.

“Yes, I do.”

She replied matter-of-factly, as if I’d asked whether the sky was blue. Her confidence made me frown further.

“How can everyone be so sure about their feelings?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a slight smirk. “But if I were to die tomorrow, I think I’d regret not marrying Harry Forn. It’s silly, really. Just paperwork tying us together. I know that. But it feels important.”

Her words carried a touch of sentimentality that surprised even her. She chuckled softly to herself.

“Of course, life isn’t a romance play. I don’t expect this to last forever. Nobody knows the future. That’s why I’ve decided to focus on the moment.”

I stayed silent as Erika continued.

“If I propose, Harry will be happy. And though I love it when he cries, I love it even more when he smiles. Maybe I just want to be happy, too.”

Her words struck me like a blow. I sat quietly, pondering her declaration.

“Like someone said, why should Nyx—of all things—dictate how cowardly we live our lives?”

The weight of her statement lingered, but Erika, now unburdened, resumed sipping her tea with a serene expression.

I stared at her for a long moment before finally speaking.

“…You’re clever.”

It was a simple observation, yet it carried genuine admiration. Erika was not only clever but brave.

At my remark, she widened her eyes and then—shockingly—burst into laughter.

“Pfft! Hahaha!”

Her laughter was so rare that even her aides looked stunned. It wasn’t a sarcastic or cynical laugh, but one of pure amusement, the kind I hadn’t seen in years.

“Yes, I suppose I am clever and wise. That’s why I’m your chief aide, my lord,” she teased, wiping away tears of laughter.

“True.”

“And you, my lord, are still a coward,” she added cheekily.

It was a bold statement, but instead of being angry, I found myself chuckling. Her audacity was infuriating and oddly endearing.

“This concludes my report. Please rest until your next appointment. I’ll prepare in the office,” Erika said, leaving the parlor with light steps.

I sat there, staring at the scroll and the signet ring on my finger. After a moment, I carefully pressed my seal onto the paper. The impression was clean and precise, as I wanted it to be perfect.

It wasn’t some grand revelation. But for the first time, it felt like I had found a thread to untangle the chaos in my mind.

* * *

“Red really does suit you.”

Said Lady Seymour, her voice warm as she joined the dressing process for the first time in a while.

I stood awkwardly, arms outstretched, as the maid adjusted the dress. Glancing through the enormous mirror before me, I met Lady Seymour’s gaze easily.

“It seems I forgot to thank you,” I said. “Once again, you’ve gone through the trouble of visiting the temple. Was everything all right?”

“Yes, my lord.” she replied.

“Although with all the recent celebrations in McFoy, Priest Edio must be feeling his age.”

Lady Seymour spoke courteously, expressing concern for her peer. I chuckled, my eyes sweeping over the extravagant red dress reflected in the mirror.

This dress, as it happened, was no ordinary garment. Lady Seymour had retrieved it herself from the Western temple, and it bore the blessing of none other than the high priest, Edio.

It was undoubtedly a precious item, yet from the perspective of someone without a shred of faith, the notion of bestowing blessings on a mere dress was absurd.

“Edio doesn’t need anyone’s concern. He’s making a fortune off these blessings. Honestly, the temple’s people seem to spend more time thinking up ways to make money. They claim wearing a blessed garment on your birthday will bring you a long life—if that’s not a sales tactic, I don’t know what is.”

The influence of the temple was so pervasive it crept into even the smallest corners of daily life. The idea that a blessed outfit or accessory on one’s birthday would ensure longevity was just one of their many schemes.

Naturally, the more famous the priest offering the blessing, the steeper the price. The personal wealth of these so-called prominent priests was nothing short of staggering.

Today was my birthday. Every piece of clothing and jewelry I wore bore the touch of Edio, the most revered high priest of the West. The old man had made a tidy profit simply by sitting still.

‘Long life, my foot. Swindlers, the lot of them.’

I’d been surrounded by blessed trinkets every birthday of my life, yet during the last Founding Festival, I’d faced death head-on. If that didn’t scream “sales pitch,” nothing would.

My irritation at the temple deepened as the thought crossed my mind.

“They ought to be taxed heavily or offer their blessings for free. Religious figures should have a sense of service, after all.”

“My lord, it’s a joyous day. Please be more forgiving,” Lady Seymour chided gently, her tone tinged with surprise at my unusually harsh criticism of the temple. I respected her enough to hold my tongue.

The truth was, my outburst wasn’t entirely unprovoked.

Beyond the tedium of the preparations, rising before dawn, being scrubbed head to toe, and standing stiffly for over an hour had drained me. Who wouldn’t be irritable in my position?

It was no wonder I hated banquets. The endless games of power and flattery were bad enough, but the hours spent getting ready were a torment in their own right—a novel form of torture.

At that moment, the maid began stitching the waist of the dress with practiced precision.

Experience told me that once the waist was secured, the worst part of the ordeal—getting into the dress—was over. The jewelry and hairdressing still awaited, but those were a breeze compared to this.

“All done, my lord!” the maid finally announced, lifting her head with a relieved smile. Her flushed face betrayed the effort she’d poured into her work.

“Good work,” I said.

“You’ve done well.”

I figured she’d had a tougher time than I had, so I offered her a light compliment for her efforts.

Through the mirror, I saw Erika slip silently into the room. She carried a familiar silver tray, atop which lay a pristine white letter.

Given the timing of her arrival, it was clear the letter was of some importance.