* * *

The temple’s front gate?

I stared at the priests heading toward the gate.

Judging by how they’d dropped their meals to rush out, it was clearly something significant.

An uneasy feeling crept in.

The way that hesitant priest checked my reaction rather than Kaindel’s only added to my discomfort.

I was about to follow after the retreating priest when Kaindel, who had been standing still, spoke up.

“Are you going?”

“…”

When I blinked in silent affirmation, Kaindel nodded slightly, his gaze drifting toward the bustling crowd near the temple’s front gate.

“Let me come with you.”

“…”

“Please, let me accompany you.”

It was more a plea than a request.

If he wanted to come with me, he could have simply followed without asking.

Yet Kaindel insisted on seeking my permission, as if I held the authority over such decisions.

I looked up into his green eyes, which reflected nothing but a desire to stay by my side.

There was something almost desperate about it, and in the end, I couldn’t refuse.

After all, I had no valid reason to deny him.

When I didn’t stop him, Kaindel seemed to understand my silent consent.

He smiled, scattering a brightness I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Seeing him smile like that, it almost felt as though we had returned to the past—a time when I loved him freely, without worries or doubts.

“Thank you.”

The closer we got to the front gate, the stronger the unpleasant stench became.

It didn’t take long to recognize the source of the sickening smell—blood.

I was all too familiar with this kind of scent, having encountered it often when Kaindel and I ventured into the lairs of calamities.

It was the same scent Kaindel had once bled, the same scent that clung to the monsters we’d faced.

The problem was the location.

Blood might belong in a battlefield, but it had no place in the sacred grounds of the temple.

My stomach twisted with unease, the foreboding that had been gnawing at me finally taking shape.

A crowd had already gathered at the front gate, all staring at the wall in a similar posture.

On the wall was a single short phrase, scrawled as if to be noticed.

But what caught the eye more than the words was the color of the ink used.

Red.

…It wasn’t ink, was it?

Judging by the overwhelming scent of blood in the air, I sighed.

Of course, it wasn’t ink. It would have been nearly impossible to use that much ink.

Whatever blood it was, it painted an unsettling scene.

While I frowned in distaste, hushed whispers reached my ears.

“…So vulgar, isn’t it?”

“They even caused trouble back in the capital…”

“How grotesque. To desecrate such a sacred space—surely the divine will punish them.”

“Judging by the smell, it seems to be goat’s blood.”

Goat’s blood.

Well, that solved a minor curiosity.

Still, the timing was inconvenient.

Of all days, this happened on the very day I planned to leave the temple.

Escaping unnoticed during afternoon prayers would be nearly impossible now.

Should I adjust my plans?

But if the rain arrived soon, I wouldn’t be able to leave today, and who knew when I’d have another chance?

If the forecasted rain stretched into days, it would only complicate matters further.

The calculations swirled in my mind until my gaze accidentally landed on the scrawled words.

The ominous feeling surging up from below swallowed me whole.

I froze.

My breath halted as if I’d forgotten how to breathe.

[Wretch.]

The handwriting was barely legible, but the word was unmistakable.

That was all that was written. Just that single phrase.

“…”

Yet it was painfully clear who the message was meant for.

“Who would write something like this? And for whom?”

“I don’t know. It’s horrifying.”

“Could a priest have done it?”

“Perhaps. It’s unlikely an outsider entered during the night.”

The surrounding conversations grew clearer despite the noise.

For some reason, I found myself focused on their exchange.

As they speculated, it became evident this wasn’t the work of an outsider.

Few visitors ever came to the temple at night, and even fewer would smuggle blood past the guards.

The culprit had to be someone from within.

And I had a good idea who.

Scanning the crowd, I spotted brown hair among the onlookers. Harilson.

The moment our eyes met, he flinched, startled as though he hadn’t expected me to notice him.

Then he forced a smile, a facade meant to deflect suspicion.

Seeing that fake grin, my empty hands curled into fists. I felt sick.

Whether it was from the blood in the air or Harilson’s deceitful smirk, I couldn’t tell.

“How vulgar, truly.”

“How dare a mere commoner.”

“Look at that mess.”

“Disgusting.”

Their voices overlapped with words engraved in my memory.

Each phrase stirred like a storm in my mind, making me feel nauseated, as if I might throw up at any moment.

My clenched fists began to tremble. It was an instinctive reaction, a rejection of the vile atmosphere surrounding me.

“Still, ‘wretch’—who could they mean?”

“Who indeed?”

The voice, wondering who the writing on the wall was referring to, grew as loud as a drumbeat and soon faded into the distance.

It felt as if my ears were submerged underwater, muffled and heavy.

Truthfully, I knew.

I knew that if I turned around and walked away, no one would find out.

If I acted as if nothing had happened, no one would suspect that the words on the wall were meant for me.

But knowing this didn’t help. I couldn’t move.

My feet felt nailed to the ground.

It was as if I had forgotten not only how to breathe but also how to walk.

[Wretched creature]

As I stared at the writing on the wall, biting the inside of my cheek, a warm hand suddenly descended on my shoulder.

“Shhh.”

It was Kaindel.

“It’s okay. Look at me.”

He glanced sharply at the surroundings before speaking to me in a low, steady voice.

His calm but weighty tone demanded attention, pulling my focus away from the wall.

When I finally turned my blurry gaze toward him, Kaindel gently lifted a strand of my hair and peered into my eyes through the holes in my mask.

“Has it always been like this?”

The meaning behind his question was clear.

Was this treatment—this degradation—something I had endured all along?

If Kaindel thought I was merely “Ein,” he wouldn’t have asked such a question.

The Ein he knew was an ordinary priest with plain black hair like anyone else.

This question, then, implied one undeniable truth.

He knew I was “Isa.”

I didn’t need to ask how long he had known.

It must have been since that moment I thought I heard him in my dreams—not an illusion, after all.

I had dismissed it, thinking I’d merely dreamed of him repeatedly over the past few nights.

“Isa…”

Why hadn’t I realized it sooner?

Kaindel knowing my identity was glaringly obvious in hindsight.

Why had I clung to what I wanted to believe instead of seeing the truth?

How foolish of me.

As I stifled the bitter laughter rising in my throat, Kaindel brushed my hair back gently.

His slow, deliberate movements were unassuming, as if trying to soothe the emotions threatening to spill over.

“Always, like this…”

“Take your hand off me.”

“…”

Now that he knew my identity, I no longer needed to mask my voice.

After steadying my trembling voice with great effort, I pushed his hand away.

Raising my head, I glanced again at the red writing on the wall.

If I couldn’t walk away from it, I’d erase it myself. I didn’t care if people found it strange.

I just couldn’t leave it there.

The moment I resolved to take a step, Kaindel, who had been staring at his empty hand, suddenly grabbed both of my shoulders.

“Why is it…”

His even expression twisted in an instant, his brow furrowing deeply.

His entire face contorted, as if he were struggling to comprehend an unbearable reality, on the verge of breaking apart.

“Why do you always refuse my help?”

The pressure on my shoulders increased, causing me to wince.

“Complain, for once.”

“…”

“Tell me that I’m making things harder for you.”

Kaindel’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if speaking to himself.

“Hit me, blame me. Don’t bottle everything up on your own. Please?”

“…”

“The more you act like nothing is wrong, the more I think about the things you’ve endured, the more I…”

His voice caught.

He stopped mid-sentence, biting his lower lip before resting his forehead against my collarbone.

“I don’t know what to do, Isa.”

* * *