* * *

“What do you mean, Freya’s gone?”

My voice rose in shock.

Marchen’s expression was troubled as he explained.

“We placed Lady Freya, who had fainted, inside a carriage to rest until the situation calmed down. But while her guards briefly left their posts, she vanished.”

Anxiety tightened my fist.

Distracted by Parak, I had momentarily forgotten—Freya still bore the spirit of Belial within her.

I was about to suggest that we gather everyone to search for her when something caught my eye.

Seeing me frozen, Marchen followed my gaze.

“The spire.”

“What?”

“Look at the spire.”

With a trembling hand, I pointed at the tall spire.

On the edge of the railing, a woman in a white veil stood precariously, swaying as if she might fall at any moment.

Seeing Freya’s precarious figure, Marchen cursed under his breath.

Before my mind could process it, my body moved on its own.

“Freya!”

I rushed up the spire, Marchen shouting ahead.

Despite racing up alongside him, I was winded, while Jerome seemed perfectly fine.

After catching my breath, I observed Freya’s condition.

She was staring silently at the sunset, and finally, she spoke.

“I wanted to jump quietly, but today, the sunset is just too beautiful. I wanted to see it one last time.”

“…”

“At the end of it all, accepting Belial was my choice. I’ve caused so much trouble for Marchen, for the villagers… I’m disgusted with myself, ashamed.”

Freya, who had been sitting on the edge, stood up.

The wind blew her veil away.

It seemed like she was determined to jump as soon as the sun completely set.

My heart pounded as I watched her teetering.

I suddenly thought of the music box I had bought while getting Jerome’s birthday present.

‘Damn, I’m sure I tucked it inside my robe.’

Originally intended as a gift for Jerome, I hadn’t given it to him, fearing it would seem suspicious.

The music box slipped from my robe pocket and hit the ground, winding itself from the impact.

A simple melody filled the silence.

Both Freya and Jerome stopped and turned at the sound.

The song playing from the music box was…

“Winter Soldier’s Waltz.”

Freya murmured, entranced.

It was a lullaby often sung to children in the Kaisar Empire, the song Jerome’s mother used to sing to him and the one Freya and Pascal had promised to sing to their future child in the original story.

Humming along to the melody, Freya let out a weak smile.

“Yes. Pascal and I promised to sing this song even after our child was grown. If the child turned out like him, they’d surely struggle to sleep as an adult. I wanted to sing lullabies all night, raise a child who wouldn’t go astray.”

Freya’s gaze reached the crimson-stained sky. Her dry lips parted.

“But why did Maya take him away from me?”

“…”

“Why does Maya keep making my life miserable?”

I, too, once wondered the same thing—why fate seemed so cruel to a person like me, why every step I took seemed mired in pain, why everyone I loved eventually left.

I approached Freya as she lowered her head, tears falling.

“I don’t know either, but… the one thing I’m certain of is that there will continue to be unfortunate days for us. Times when your heart shatters, when everything feels meaningless, and you’re hurt by people, by circumstances, over and over.”

“…”

“But even amidst those dark days, there will surely be days of joy. The day your child takes their first step, or the day they run to embrace you. When simple, everyday moments like that build up…”

It dawned on me that I was saying the very words I had once needed to hear.

Gently, I placed my hands on Freya’s tear-stained cheeks.

A cool breeze tousled my hair.

Taking a deep breath, I spoke with casual conviction.

“You can find happiness again. I’m sure of it.”

Freya’s tears trailed down over my fingers. She sniffled, asking.

“Really?”

“…”

“Can I truly be happy again?”

As I was about to quietly nod, Freya suddenly grabbed my wrist.

My eyes widened at her unexpected move as she threw herself over the railing.

In a calm, unreadable tone, she whispered:

“No, you’re wrong. For this woman, there’s no peace better than death.”

Just as Freya’s body, overtaken by Belial, was about to drag me down with her, a strong arm wrapped firmly around my waist.

With a powerful force, I was pulled back from the brink, back onto solid ground.

“Ugh…”

Freya, pulled up beside me, collapsed to the floor.

I felt a warm breath against the back of my neck. Letting out a sigh, Jerome spoke in a steady, low voice.

“Living as your husband would require more than a hundred hearts.”

I looked up, trying to steady my racing heart, and met Marchen’s gaze.

He was watching Freya with a pained expression.

With a look of firm resolve, Marchen clenched his fists and approached her.

Freya resisted fiercely, her veins standing out on her neck, but Marchen pulled her into his arms.

“Ever since that heretic appeared, I’ve been researching a potion to halt heresy. But every attempt has failed because I never had a proper sample.”

Marchen pulled a vial from his jacket pocket.

Watching him closely, I quickly grabbed his wrist and shook my head.

“Don’t push yourself. From now on, you can just leave it to the temple.”

“If left like this, she’ll die anyway. I can’t allow a hero of the North to meet such an end. And if it’s the sister I’ve known and looked up to since I was young, she would make the same choice as me.”

With a bittersweet smile, Marchen revealed his intentions.

“Lucky that we finally have you as a sample.”

Freya’s despair and frustration were real.

But that didn’t mean the sense of justice and selflessness she displayed were lies.

Sensing Marchen’s resolve, I released my grip on his wrist.

Marchen tilted the vial to Freya’s lips.

Struggling, she finally swallowed the potion, coughing and her eyes red with anger.

“You bastard… what on earth did you make me drink…!”

Before she could finish speaking, Freya started retching violently, expelling a thick, tar-like substance.

The potion Marchen made was working.

Before we could celebrate, the black mass on the floor suddenly darted toward the stairs.

“Catch that thing!”

Marchen seized the escaping Belial with one hand, squeezing him like a potato, the black mass splattering everywhere.

Turning my head in disgust, I sighed.

Marchen’s voice, edged with anger, rang out.

“You’re not getting away.”

Jerome then poured holy water over the remnants of Belial sprawled across the floor.

Belial let out an eerie wail, like the cry of a newborn, before dissolving into the holy water and disappearing.

Perhaps it was due to his younger age among demons, but in his physical form, Belial seemed weaker than other demons.

“Ugh…sob…”

Freya lay on the floor, crying like a child.

Marchen, who had been full of anger moments ago, looked flustered and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, letting out a relieved sigh as he stumbled slightly.

‘It’s changed. A future where neither Freya nor the child dies.’

With things finally settled, I found a corner at the base of the tower and sat down, intending to wait until Freya composed herself.

Shivering from the biting cold, I pulled my knees to my chest.

Jerome, who had just finished cleaning up the remnants of Belial, sat down beside me.

The proximity made the cold feel a bit more bearable.

“Jeanne, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“Do you believe Freya will be able to overcome that sorrow?”

It was unusual for Jerome, usually so brash, to sit quietly beside me and ask such a question.

I was about to retort that I wasn’t a fortune teller, but I paused and thought deeply.

In a calm voice, I finally answered.

“People… if there’s just one person who believes in them, it makes them want to live well for that person.”

“….”

“I don’t believe that person will be missing from Freya’s life in the days to come.”

Seeing Marchen’s flushed face, despite his reputation as the imperial philanderer with 163 wives, was amusing.

Even he seemed shy in front of someone he truly cared about.

Chuckling softly, I shrugged my shoulders.

“He might already be around.”

“….”

“And what about you? Do you believe Freya can stand again?”

Returning his question, I looked up at Jerome.

Light flickered in his eyes as he gazed at me.

After a moment’s silence, he averted his eyes with a discomforted expression.

“Looks like the hangover’s hitting me now.”

“…How much did you drink last night?”

“I don’t buy into this sentimental idea of people saving each other. I can’t stand those sappy words.”

I nodded at Jerome’s response.

It made sense; people are often more tormented by others than saved.

I mulled over his words in silence, narrowing my eyes as I asked him,

“Wait, but… how do you know a word like ‘extreme dislike’?”

“Hm? I dug around in your subconscious and found it.”

“Why are you saying that so casually?”

“There were a lot of strange words in there—maybe it’s because you’re from Sacre. What’s ‘anssa’ supposed to mean?”

My face flushed at hearing the ridiculous term.

Noticing my reaction, Jerome’s voice took on a playful tone, teasing me.

“Aha, by your reaction, it’s similar to buttoning up, right?”

“….”

“I want to ‘anssa’ with Jeanne.”

“Don’t.”

Jerome laughed heartily at my annoyed tone, leaning his head on my shoulder.

Just as I started to pull away, annoyed, I stopped.

“Jerome.”

“…”

“Jerome?”

He didn’t respond, no matter how many times I called his name.

With a sinking heart, I placed my hand on his forehead, feeling his intense fever.

It was far worse than the last time I’d checked.

I could hardly believe he had been able to hold a normal conversation with me until now.

Filled with worry, I hastily rolled up his shirt sleeve, revealing a sacred tattoo, darker and redder than usual.

My voice trembled.

“Marchen, is there an inn nearby where we could stay?”

The worst fears that Carlisle and Berr had warned about were coming true.

---

Even after being moved to the inn, Jerome didn’t regain consciousness.

His condition seemed to worsen as time passed.

I declined Marchen’s offer to stay and help watch over him.

As severe as Jerome’s condition was, it still didn’t seem worse than that of the pregnant woman who had attempted suicide today.

Unable to resist my insistence, Marchen eventually returned to Freya, leaving me alone in the dark room with Jerome.

‘With him in this state, even healing magic might not help. Jerome’s deteriorating condition must be due to Mephisto’s growing influence.’

Sighing, I crossed my arms.

The Moon King Blade lay by Jerome’s bedside.

Round and round we went, and somehow, it all boiled down to him protecting me and ending up like this.

A pang of guilt pierced my heart.

“I told you, didn’t I? A new sacred seal is necessary. As Mephisto’s power grows, it’s become difficult to contain him with the old seal.”

As I sat by Jerome’s side, worry written all over my face, I heard an irritating voice from near the window and turned abruptly.

Ber, flapping his small wings, was smirking. Raising one eyebrow, I asked,

“I thought you hated the cold North to your bones. So, what brings you here?”

“Turns out, even indulging constantly can leave you feeling hollow when there’s no one to whip you into shape…”

“….”

“After all, I feel the best when I’m completely under your control without a break, Master.”

It was a terrifying thing to say aloud, in case anyone overheard.

Ber clambered over the window sill with his short legs and settled down on my lap, then shoved his head under my hand, demanding attention.

“But, Master, I think it’s about time you made a decision, don’t you think?”

“About what?”

“At this rate, that fellow could actually die. Well, I personally wouldn’t mind if that mongrel died, but I wouldn’t want to see you heartbroken, Master.”

Already feeling conflicted, Ber only added to my unease, finishing with, “Of course, the choice is yours, Master.”

The conversation Ber and I once had flashed through my mind.

“Instead of engraving the divine ritual onto the skin, as we would with a traditional blessing, this one would imprint directly onto the soul. With this, the mongrel would be able to suppress Mephisto’s power just by being near you, Master.”

“Instead of Jerome, engraving it on my soul? That sounds pretty suspicious.”

“Heh, sharp as ever, Master. Yes, you’re right. Unlike the usual ritual, which only harms the target, this new divine ritual would affect the caster as well. But it’s highly effective—at least it’ll prevent the mongrel’s mind from completely shattering. Think of it as a last line of defense.”

I’d refused back then because it felt unsettling, but given the situation now, it didn’t seem like there was much choice.

I stared quietly at Jerome’s face, as if he were dead, before I finally spoke.

“Tell me. Specifically, what do I need to do?”

* * *