Why… why am I here…?”
Erik stared blankly at his damp hands, his voice a soft murmur, like one lost in a haze of spiritual disarray.
Without responding, Emelline casually pushed open the old door. The entire room unfolded before them in a single glance.
As expected—there were no proper furnishings, no madwoman confined in sorrow.
Only a simple glass bottle containing violet tea and a pair of teacups sat atop the windowsill—clearly brought by Emelline herself.
“The steward said he saw you heading this way,” she replied airily, climbing onto the sill and perching herself cross-legged.
Erik looked at her in a daze.
There were no lingering shadows of a deranged mother. No spirit haunted by despair or regrets lingered in this place.
Only Emelline sat there, red hair gleaming in the sunlight, at ease, as though her presence there was the most natural thing in the world.
Erik’s face tightened.
“Don’t sit there. It’s filthy.”
“…Tch. Even in the midst of your gloom, you still mind etiquette?”
“Who says I’m in a gloomy state?”
He stepped inside the room, his spiritual presence stirring the dust in the air.
He had expected something—anything—terrible to strike once he crossed that threshold.
But nothing happened. Only the staleness of disuse made it hard to breathe.
Emelline pointed at him.
“You, Young Lord. The steward came running, saying you of all people had gone to the annex for the first time in ten years. Said it must mean something’s changed in your heart.”
Erik sighed, eyes drifting to the sill where Emelline sat in a clearly unladylike posture. Dust lay thick across it.
With a frown, he pulled a handkerchief from his inner robe and laid it on the sill, patting the surface with a firm hand.
“If there’s been any change in my heart, it's that I now know where I don’t want you sitting. Come here.”
“Aww, but the view’s better from this side.”
He watched her grumble as she scooted over and whispered to himself:
“As I thought… nothing remains.”
He surveyed the room—just a room.
There were no traces of his mother’s scent, no lingering essence of the fear that had haunted him since he was fourteen. Just silence. Dust.
“Were you expecting to find some sort of clue?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
“You too, huh?” he said with a slight nod. “Yeah… I thought maybe it would help with our journey south.”
Even if it wasn’t a clue… just a trace of her… anything.
“Help with what, exactly?”
“To make my maternal grandfather at least somewhat favorable toward me.”
“Excuse me?”
Emelline looked at him like he’d just spoken in ancient demonic script.
Erik brushed the question aside and poured the violet tea into a cup. His throat was dry from the dusty air.
“…You didn’t hear anything weird, did you?”
“I already drank it. Didn’t die.”
“I’m not worried about poison.”
What worried him was
heat
—the kind that built up between them when she climbed atop him like last time, her crimson curls brushing his nose, lips parting—
Kiss me, just one more time.
He scowled at the memory.
Disgraceful… I almost kissed someone who doesn’t even love me.
To chase away the thought, he gulped down the entire cup. A floral essence bloomed across his senses like spiritual fragrance dispersing through his meridians.
“…This is… actually good?” he murmured in surprise.
Emelline laughed softly.
Pouring himself another half-cup, Erik muttered,
“Your mother really is a strange cultivator.”
Emelline simply nodded, as if to say,
you’re just figuring that out now?
“Of course. Out of all the women I’ve met in this life, she’s by far the strangest. But…”
“…?”
Emelline looked out the window with a rare, unreadable expression on her face.
“…But somehow, it fits me. The first time she saw me, she asked if I’d become her daughter. Who even says something like that? To a twelve-year-old… That’s when I made up my mind.”
“To become family?”
Erik smiled bitterly.
If his mother—Lady Emilie—had been given the same chance… would she have chosen him?
To become family.
He didn’t know.
He had failed to protect Emilie. He hadn’t believed in her. Emelline had told him not to bear the weight of guilt, but—
Still, if Emilie had been given one more chance… If she could’ve chosen a life apart from marrying the Duke to preserve a crumbling dynasty—apart from giving birth to him and growing old branded as mad in this dull, lifeless ducal manor—he would have told her to choose that new path.
A life not chosen by duty or schemes. A life lived with the family she built by her own hand.
A life she truly wanted.
He looked at Emelline.
For her, too, life in this estate had never been a choice. But if she had been free to choose—surely, she would have chosen to live with her
true
family, wherever they were.
That thought brought him a strange peace.
Maybe it was better to be rejected outright.
That’s what he told himself.
Erik spoke.
“Have you thought about what I said?”
Emelline blinked at him. “What part? You said
so
many things…”
“That we could just keep going like this.”
Just like this.
You and me—living together.
That.
When Emelline and her family had been in danger, Erik had realized it with crystal clarity: if this woman were to die, or be hurt, or vanish before his eyes—
Then—
It wouldn’t be about sympathy or duty anymore. He simply wouldn’t survive it.
Yes.
It wouldn’t work.
Not without her.
Not just in this farce of a marriage pact, this elaborate charade.
But in his
own
life.
He needed her.
Emelline’s eyes widened.
“That wasn’t a dream? You really meant it?”
Erik gave a dry chuckle.
She really thought it had been a dream?
“Who says something like that as a joke?”
“People do. Like Philip… or… Philip-types…”
Erik’s face soured as he thought of Philip—his arm casually slung around Emelline’s waist.
Part of her family, yes. But a man Erik could never bring himself to like.
Still—
If he was someone
she
had chosen to call family—
He’d accept it.
Gladly.
With that resolution, Erik asked, a hint of tension in his voice—
“Would you choose to become family? Just as you once chose Helena… would you choose me…?”
Erik’s voice faded as he spoke, his gaze lingering on Emelline’s crimson hair and the soft bridge of her nose.
He didn't want to force her. But still—he yearned for it, hoped with the quiet desperation of one laying bare his inner spirit.
“There’s a kind of gentleness that wells up from the depths of the soul—and you possess that.”
Softly.
“...Choose me.”
As soon as the words left his lips, Erik felt a fierce heat spread over his face—mortified.
He was begging. Begging for affection. For connection.
Even after having told himself that rejection would be better and cleaner...
Emelline stared, mouth agape, as she watched the red creep up Erik’s face. Her own cheeks soon flushed a matching hue.
Then—
“Ah!”
Startled, she sprang up—only to smack her crown against the windowsill above with a painful thud.
Just as Erik reached out in concern, Emelline leapt back, distancing herself from him.
“I—this… this isn’t right,” she stammered.
Erik’s brows knit together. Emelline planted her hands on her hips like a stern cultivator scolding a wayward disciple and gave him a sharp glare.
“You can’t just give me
that
look and expect it to work, you know! Even if we both pity each other, that doesn’t mean—”
“Pity?”
Erik blinked, one eye twitching.
I’m… pitiful?
Was that supposed to be a good sign? Well, if she felt anything at all, that meant there was some emotion to work with… right?
“I know. You pity me,” Emelline said.
Ah. That—
Erik tried to interrupt, but she pressed on.
“Honestly, I pity you too. And I hate it. It's ridiculous, but it’s why I came here in the first place. Just thinking about you sitting here alone, sulking in misery like a spirit abandoned in a cold cave—it gnawed at me.”
Yes. Complicated and miserable.
Though Erik didn’t realize it, Emelline was currently in a very dangerous emotional state.
A mouse pitying the tiger. Feeling sorry for Erik—he, a noble heir with more gold than any sect elder could hoard.
But thinking about him being left behind with that lunatic father of his… it made her want to accept his absurd proposal.
“You can’t survive without me!”
That kind of desperation reminded her too much of herself. Of her loneliest nights.
“I hate living kindly,”
she thought.
To feel sympathy, to feel kinship—it was a dangerous path. Especially for someone like Emelline, who had always lived beneath the blade, where survival left no room for compassion.
To feel those things…
Made it harder to do
bad things.
Choose me.
She remembered Erik’s gaze, as pitiful as a pup caught in the rain. She shook her head firmly.
“But in marriage,” she said, “you need more than that. Not just pity, but something… electric. Maybe not love, but at least a little spark.”
“Spark?”
Erik stepped down from the sill, approaching her slowly.
Emelline nodded and grabbed his hand boldly.
“Like this. When I hold your hand—there should be this jolt, like—ow! Wait, what was that—?”
As their fingers met, a sharp spark flared between them.
She stared in shock at her tingling fingertips, then glanced down at the edge of Erik’s sleeve.
“...Are you wearing velvet? In this weather?”
Erik glanced down calmly at the navy velvet cuff of his robe, utterly unfazed. It was the robe the steward had handed him after his post-training wash. Likely picked by mistake—it didn’t suit the season—but Erik had worn it anyway. He nodded and said,
“We just resonated a moment ago. Sparks flew.”
It had stung quite a bit.
Emelline shook her head, utterly baffled.
“No, that was just static. From the velvet. Not… not
that
kind of spark…”
She swallowed hard.
Seriously… after drawing a line between us so I wouldn’t jump him in his sleep, he thinks—
Trying to stay composed, she continued,
“W-what I meant was… not sympathy, but…”
“A heart moved by affection?”
At Erik’s reply, Emelline clapped her hands.
“Yes! Exactly! But I don’t mean some vague compassion-for-mankind thing. I mean, real affection. The kind where you’re drawn to each other—deeply. I’ve never felt it myself, so it’s hard to explain… You probably haven’t either, right…?”
Erik’s brow twitched slightly.
What face should I make? How do I hide this feeling?
But he knew—he’d never been one to hide anything well.
Honesty—
That was just how he was forged.
“Listen…”
“…?”
He cleared his throat awkwardly. His throat felt dry again.
“I’ve come to a realization… and I have a feeling you probably don’t want to hear this right now… and I know you don’t feel the same… but I’ve never been good at lying. So it’s better I just say it plainly.”
“What are you talking about?”
Erik measured every word in his mind. Wondered if it would come across too intense, too abrupt—
But truthfully, he had no idea how it would land.
“I like you.”
He cleared his throat again, watching Emelline freeze in complete shock.
Was that really such a shocking thing to say?
To him, once he realized it, it had felt obvious. Like it had been true all along.
The idea that he
didn’t
like her seemed far more strange.
Liking her felt inevitable.
Unliking her would’ve taken more effort.
And yet—
As the sense of liberation spread through him, a smile slowly crept over his face.
It felt good.
To finally be able to say it aloud—
That he liked her.
But then—
Emelline, still as frozen as a statue, finally twitched and took a small step back. Like a traveler who just stumbled across a wild beast on a forest path. Tense, wary.
Erik lowered his gaze slightly and spoke,
“If you don’t feel the same… I’ll accept that.”
Chapter 98