DTI Chapter 14

The world tilted backward, and her body leaned forward. Her foot had caught on a tree root.

This wasn’t the first time something like this happened. Whenever Irene got lost in her thoughts, she couldn’t see anything else. That’s why she often ended up crashing into trees, slipping on ice, or getting splashed with dirty water.

I really shouldn’t think while walking. But the Professor told me to think things through…
She regretted it, but it was already too late. The ground was fast approaching her nose. Irene shut her eyes tightly, bracing for the pain.

She imagined herself walking around with a bandage on her nose for a while. Or maybe gaining another silly nickname.

Just as she was ready to accept her fate,

“!”

A strong grip caught her by the wrist and waist, halting her mid-fall.

For a moment, she couldn’t understand what had happened. Time hadn’t stopped, and she hadn’t suddenly developed the ability to fly.

Cautiously, she opened her tightly shut eyes. The ground was still just inches from her nose, with a sharp rock waiting below.

If she’d fallen, it wouldn’t have ended with just a bandage. At the very least, her forehead would’ve been bruised—if she was lucky.

“…”
She wasn’t ready to die just yet. No, not anytime soon.

Her heart started pounding belatedly, her breaths came short, and her pulse quickened. As she tried to calm herself, a familiar voice spoke softly beside her.

“Are you alright, Miss Irene?”

The voice carried a faint trace of amusement. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was—there was only one person who called her “Miss Irene” with such a tone.

Relief washed over her briefly before she stiffened all over again. She had just realized someone was touching her.

The grip was firm, and the touch felt hot against her skin. Everywhere his hands had been, she felt goosebumps rise.

“…”
Divoa noticed Irene freeze like a statue in his grasp. His eyes narrowed slightly as he tightened his hold to steady her.

But that only made her tense even more, until she began trembling like a leaf in the wind.
Why?

It wasn’t disgust. It felt more like fear.

Sensing this, Divoa pretended not to notice and helped her stand upright. Once Irene was steady on her feet, he slowly let go. Raising his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, he smiled faintly.

“I know you dislike being touched, Miss Irene, but it couldn’t be helped. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Your Grace, Grand Duke Cassis,” Irene stammered, finally managing to form words.

What exactly she was relieved about wasn’t clear—was it relief at not being injured or at escaping his touch?

She looked up at Divoa, her gaze steady but tinged with a hint of curiosity.

Divoa was third in line to the throne and the ruler of a vast duchy. He had the power to force Irene into anything if he wanted.

But he hadn’t. He had withdrawn his hand of his own accord.

When she first enrolled, Irene’s unusual habits had made her a target. Mischievous students would grab her hand or touch her belongings on purpose.

One particularly mean-spirited boy even hugged her against her will.

“This is shock therapy! You’ll thank me later,” he had said.
That was the moment Irene’s fragile composure shattered. Later, she heard she’d briefly stopped breathing.

The classroom had turned into chaos. Students called for a professor, others panicked, and one classmate named Max punched the troublemaker in the face.

After that, no one dared bother Irene anymore. Most students avoided her altogether, unwilling to risk a similar scene.

Still, that made her school life a little easier.
“That was a close call. If I’d been a moment later, it could’ve been bad,” Divoa said, pulling Irene’s wandering thoughts back to the present.

Regardless of why he was here, she was grateful that her nose and forehead were intact.

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a small nod.

Then she resumed walking. Divoa, smiling, as usual, fell into step beside her.

“Busy, are you?” he asked lightly.

“I need to move out of the dormitory by the end of the week. There’s a lot of packing to do. You, on the other hand, seem to have plenty of free time, Your Grace,” Irene replied without missing a beat.

Divoa narrowed his eyes slightly, wondering if she was mocking him. But Irene’s expression remained unchanged.

Was she being serious?
Maybe she truly was questioning why he, of all people, was here at this hour.
It amused him. Divoa was used to the layered, double-edged conversations of the nobility, but Irene’s straightforward words felt refreshing.

“As it happens, I haven’t accomplished what I came here for yet,” he said.

“…”

“When I return to my duchy, I intend to take you with me.”

Irene stopped mid-step and looked at him with a deep, searching gaze. For a moment, her eyes seemed to reflect a flicker of sadness.

Divoa smiled casually and tapped his temple with a finger.
“Don’t worry, my memory is perfectly intact.”

Irene nodded slightly, as if reassured, and resumed walking. Divoa’s smile deepened as he fell into step beside her again.

“Once you leave the dormitory, what do you plan to do next? Will you return home?”

At his question, Irene faltered briefly but quickly masked her hesitation.

Divoa noticed, of course. He wasn’t as oblivious as he appeared.

Go back home? Irene inwardly shook her head.

She couldn’t decide yet, but going home wasn’t an option.

Reading her hesitation, Divoa’s voice turned softer, almost like a coaxing whisper.

“My duchy has everything you desire.”

“Everything I desire?” Irene repeated, skeptical. How could he know what she wanted when she didn’t even know herself?
Divoa smiled warmly, though, to Irene, he still looked like a perfectly polished potato.
“Yes, everything—wounded soldiers awaiting your care, wealth, honor, and…”
He paused for effect before adding,
“Freedom.”

“…Freedom?”

“Freedom from everything you wish to escape,” he replied smoothly.

Be it her stifling home, prejudice against surgeons, mockery for her compulsions, or her ghost-like presence in the world—freedom from all of it.

“Javier,” Divoa called.

The man following discreetly behind stepped forward and handed Divoa a paper bag. Divoa then extended it to Irene.

Irene stared at the bag hesitantly, thinking the whole exchange seemed unnecessarily elaborate.
The faintly sweet scent wafting from the bag caught her attention.

“…Is that a sweet potato?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Divoa covered his mouth with his hand, suppressing a laugh. Irene’s eyes sparkled, fixed on the bag.
“Ahem,” Divoa cleared his throat, regaining composure.

“It’s a sweet potato cake,” he said.

He didn’t mention that he’d felt bad for making her miss a meal the day before—or that he wasn’t above using her love for sweet potatoes to his advantage.

“Sweet potato cake…” Irene murmured, staring at the bag. But she didn’t take it right away, wary of the strings attached to such gifts.

Sensing her hesitation, Divoa’s tone softened further.

“The chef at Count Rodry’s estate has a talent for baking. I thought of you when I saw this and brought it along. It’s just a cake, Irene. I don’t intend to ask for anything in return.”

“Well then,” she said finally, taking the bag.

The sweet smell tickled her nose. Sweet potato cake was a rare treat; the student cafeteria never served it. At best, they’d mash sweet potatoes into a salad.

This made the cake feel even more precious.

I’ll savor it.

Divoa walked alongside her again, his tone casual.

“Did you know the Norte region is famous for its sweet potatoes?”
Irene glanced at him, slightly skeptical.