121.

The black carriage clattered noisily, splashing muddy water in every direction. Droplets of the murky water spattered even against the carriage window, drawing a frown to my face.

It had been over two weeks since the rainy season began in earnest. Despite carefully timing my departure to catch a lull in the storm, luck was not on my side today. The persistent rain seemed to mock me, as if confirming the saying that McFoy was forsaken by the goddess.

Watching the fine drizzle cascade without pause, I closed my eyes for a moment. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me, the result of sleepless nights recently plaguing me. Just yesterday, I’d even had a nightmare for the first time in a long while.

The carriage jolted again, more violently this time. Despite its meticulous construction, the ride made it clear that the roads had been gouged and pitted by days of relentless downpour.

“I really don’t feel like going today,” I muttered.

“Even if you’re married to someone with celestial beauty, he’s not an actual god, so you must keep up the appearance of piety,” Erika retorted, igniting a flicker of longing in me.

“He should have arrived in Baghdad by now,” I murmured.

“If everything went according to plan, he must have,” Erika confirmed.

“…I should have had his portrait finished,” I said to no one in particular, the words slipping out as a regretful mumble. Erika, my ever-competent aide, wisely chose to pretend she hadn’t heard me.

Being apart from Norma Diazi was far more agonizing than I had anticipated. The absence of his constant warm, radiant presence felt like the sun had vanished from my world. I couldn’t help but think, is this what plants feel like when deprived of sunlight?

Day by day, I felt myself wilting, as though deprived of sustenance. The sweet haze of our newlywed life, which had consumed me so completely, now felt like a distant dream. Each day crawled by, brittle and dry.

For the first time, I understood why love poems about longing transcended time and culture. If someone handed me a sheet of parchment to write my feelings now, I could likely fill a dozen scrolls. It was a wonder I had resisted acknowledging my feelings for so long.

That relentless star dust of a man. What has he done to me?

Erika regarded me with a mixture of pity and exasperation. “You should try to rest your eyes for a bit,” she suggested.

“I can’t sleep in this rattling carriage. More importantly—”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Have you found her? It feels like we should have news by now.”

It was true that I’d been somewhat distracted by my new husband, but I had not been neglecting my duties. My sudden question brought a flicker of hesitation to Erika’s face.

“Not yet, but we’ve narrowed her possible destination to three locations. We’ll make contact soon.”

“As expected, she’s not easy to find.”

“Still, we’ve made more progress in these months than in the past ten years. It’s almost unsettling how smoothly things are going.”

Her words drew a dry chuckle from me. Whether it was fate conspiring to keep me from finding Ophelia, or simply her own skill at hiding, I couldn’t say. As time passed, my memories of Tartaros grew fainter, leaving me uncertain about what to make of it all.

“My lady.”

Erika said cautiously, breaking the silence.

“Will you really not tell me why you’re searching for her?”

“What do you mean? I’ve told you—I want to see if her divine power can be utilized.”

Erika pressed her lips together, her expression suggesting she didn’t fully believe me. Her eyes seemed to say, that’s not all, is it? The pointed gaze made my brow arch sharply.

“What is it? Are you worried I might bring Ophelia to McFoy?”

The remnants of the Western survivors, including Erika, held complex emotions toward Ophelia. At the core was resentment. Even knowing rationally that none of it was her fault, it was human nature to think, if only she hadn’t been there. The strength of those feelings varied widely—some hated her as much as Nyx, while others, like Erika, simply couldn’t bring themselves to trust her.

As the head of McFoy, I bore the responsibility of understanding the pain borne by all under my care. Erika blinked a few times, seemingly startled, before answering in a steady voice.

“No, my lady. The head of McFoy would never do such a thing.”

“Exactly. The head of McFoy cannot,” I replied, my voice flat.

“Yes.”

“For you to bring this up is unusual, Erika. Have I seemed that careless lately? Don’t worry—I have no intention of stirring up unrest in the West with my own hands.”

“I beg your pardon. It wasn’t her treatment I was questioning. I just… worried you might be considering something dangerous,” Erika admitted.

Sharp as ever, Erika never let anything slide. I valued her straightforward nature, but internally, I clicked my tongue. My reaction made her narrow her eyes knowingly.

“As I thought. I don’t know what you’re planning to do with her, but I will not allow you to endanger yourself, my lady. If it comes to it, I’ll tell Sir Dogman everything.”

She motioned toward the carriage window, her threat clear. The thought of Glenn’s overwhelming devotion to his liege made me shudder.

“Just try it. Why is everyone being so insufferably overbearing lately?”

“Oh, perhaps I should report directly to your husband instead?” Erika quipped with a smirk, her boldness narrowing my eyes. That was absolutely out of the question. I’d made a promise to Norma not to do anything dangerous. Keeping quiet was supposed to be the easy part, but Erika seemed determined to complicate things.

“You know as well as I do that I value my life far too much to risk it. I wouldn’t attempt anything remotely dangerous,” I said with genuine conviction, though Erika’s skeptical gaze lingered.

She knew me well, but she also harbored one significant misconception: she believed I might someday sacrifice myself for some noble cause. Despite my denials, her unwavering eyes made it clear she still thought so.

“As I’ve said before, Erika, your worries are unfounded,” I said, shrugging.

Heroics weren’t in my nature. Sacrifice and righteousness? Not words in Aisa McFoy’s vocabulary. If anything, life had only made me more selfish. My future was filled with things I didn’t want to lose again.

Who would willingly give this up?

I was prepared to make selfish choices to survive. If I needed Ophelia’s power, I’d use it without hesitation.

So, Ophelia… once again, I’ll—

I shook off the thought, turning back to the window. Just then, the carriage jolted again, spraying a fresh wave of mud against the glass.

“…Hah.”

Whether coincidence or fate, it felt like a warning not to indulge in wicked thoughts.

“The weather’s awful. It’s like those famous dramas where something unlucky always happens on days like this.”

“My lady, please.”

Erika sighed, burying her face in her hands at my deliberate attempt to lighten the mood.

* * *

“Lord”

As I stepped out of the carriage, Idio, who had arrived at the temple ahead of me, greeted me with a wide grin. His squinted eyes were full of warmth, and I gave him a once-over. While I seemed to have lost my vitality, he appeared to have grown plumper and more content.

“Life must be good for you. You look quite at ease.”

“The peace in the West is all thanks to the pious Lord McFoy,” he replied.

Idio had become increasingly friendly with me lately. It was hard to understand his mindset, and I found it oddly irritating. Reflecting further, it wasn’t just Idio; most people seemed to speak to me more casually than before. I wondered briefly if my dignity had diminished.

It was only then that the temple caught my attention. This was my first visit since the wedding, and the atmosphere felt starkly different without Norma by my side. The sky was overcast with dark clouds, the air damp, and the rain unrelenting, which left the temple far less crowded than usual.

Sigh. Gloomy and desolate, just like my mood.

That thought made it even harder to set foot inside the temple. Noticing my hesitation, Idio, oblivious as ever, chirped cheerfully to spur me along.

“The prayer room you always use has been prepared.”

He looked at me expectantly, awaiting praise. I regarded him with a deadpan expression, withholding any remark. His inability to read the room was not a new revelation. Letting out a short sigh in his direction, I headed for the prayer room, saving myself the effort of pointing out every little misstep.

The prayer room door creaked open with a rusty screech. I couldn’t help but wonder where all the money I poured into this place was going. Looking at the worn-out door made me think of Norma, so polished and immaculate by comparison.

…That was just an excuse. I missed him every second.

The prayer room was about the size of my carriage. Its cramped interior featured a small altar hewn from stone in one corner, atop which stood a statue about the length of an adult forearm. The sculpture, meant to represent Mehra, was a stylized rendition of a beautiful woman.

It was an unremarkable, ordinary prayer room. I wanted to see Norma again—far more than this dull scene.

Most visitors to the temple would spend hours in prayer before the clergy, but the irreverent Master of the McFoy house skipped that process entirely. My regular visits to the temple were more about appearances and donating money than actual devotion. My routine consisted of little more than sitting alone in the prayer room for a few minutes before leaving.

Drip, drip.

The sound of leaking rain was the sound of money draining away—and likely the reason for Idio’s added weight.

Instead of proving my devotion to the goddess, I passed the time scoffing at the trappings meant to honor her. However, this amusement didn’t last long. The dreary weather gave the prayer room a particularly eerie atmosphere.

“I’ll head back now,” I decided, standing to leave earlier than usual.

But the weather refused to cooperate.

“The rain is worsening. It would be best to wait here for a while,” Glenn informed me, his tone regretful. Despite my insistence, he had been stubbornly waiting outside and was now soaked to the bone. Everything about the situation annoyed me. Idio, flustered, jumped into the conversation.

“W-Wait just a moment, and I’ll arrange a room for you, Master.”

“No need. This is likely just the tail end of the rain. It’ll subside soon. I’ll return to the prayer room for now. Sir Dogman, wait by the door.”

Rather than subject myself to Idio’s clumsy hospitality—he still seemed to have a nervous tic whenever he spoke to me—I opted to return to the confines of the prayer room. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the lesser evil.

Back in the narrow room, sitting idly once more, I reflected. While things weren’t going my way, at least nothing genuinely threatening had come to pass. Not yet.