13.

 

 

“I… may I say something now?”

“By all means…?”

Klaus’s thick golden lashes flicked slightly upward in surprise—he hadn’t expected Azniel to respond so quickly.

“I… I’m not sure how you’ll take this, but… Pilgrims who come to the Holy Kingdom often go days without eating, waiting outdoors in endless lines. Things might be a little better now, thanks to your support, but if possible… I was hoping you could show them a bit more compassion…”

“Ah.”

As she spoke, Klaus’s brow drew tight with clear displeasure.

“Matters concerning the Holy Kingdom are handled between House Gestern and the Church. Whether it’s distributing the potions we sponsor, or by other means—it will be taken care of accordingly.”

“…”

“You’ve already left the Holy Kingdom. I suggest you stop concerning yourself with it.”

The coldness of his voice made Azniel silently clench a fistful of her skirts. His words cut deep, reminding her of how she had been discarded by that very place—sold off like some obsolete relic for money.

Either unaware of that shame or deliberately ignoring it, Klaus continued in a tone as smooth as a song.

“Instead, you should think about what you need.”

“What I… need…”

Azniel had never truly wished for anything. Until recently, she believed that as long as she had daily purpose and a bit of rest, life was bearable. And now—rest, at least—was something she could enjoy in abundance.

‘Purpose… Maybe if I fulfill this contract diligently, that will be my new purpose.’

While lost in this conclusion, her brow furrowing slightly, Klaus mistook the expression for her struggling to choose a gift. He added casually,

“If possible, something grand—so I can present it publicly at the wedding and proclaim my devotion for all to see.”

“Your… devotion, my lord?”

“Ah, that reminds me—there’s one more thing we should align on, apart from the contract.”

Azniel slowly raised her gaze to Klaus.

This, she realized, was no suggestion. It was a declaration. He had already written the narrative, and she was expected to follow the script.

Gulping unconsciously, Azniel swallowed dryly.

“I’d like our marriage to appear as a love match. That’s how the staff seem to be interpreting it anyway.”

His tone was flat, his gaze cool—clearly seeing his future wife as nothing more than what was printed in the contract. Reclining lazily in his chair, one leg crossed, he looked at her with all the passion of someone discussing a business merger—not a love story.

“Some will assume our marriage is merely the result of negotiations between the Church and Antagon. But setting that aside… a romantic backstory would help Antagon’s image more.”

“…”

“For example, perhaps I, a man of deep faith, once visited the Holy Kingdom for confession, and upon witnessing the grace of the Saint, found myself falling helplessly in love…”

“That’s a bit…”

Azniel spoke without thinking. It was impulsive.

“What if… we made it so we had a connection from the start?”

“A connection?”

“Yes. Like… we met in our youth, at the Holy Kingdom, perhaps…”

“…”

“And since my gift is healing… maybe I healed you before you developed the mana potion. That way…”

Her voice trailed slightly, unsure how the idea would be received. But she couldn’t help it—creating a story based on something that might have been real felt more bearable than playing along with a fiction born from nothing.

For the first time, Klaus’s composed gaze subtly faltered. His eyes, usually unwavering, scanned her face, trying to gauge her intent—but Azniel met his stare without even the slightest tremor.

Considering the enormous sum he had promised the Church, there was no way this unorthodox political marriage was just a whim. Then perhaps, just perhaps… the roots of it lay in that brief moment ten years ago—when a sickly boy and a silent girl had shared a corner of the Papal Palace garden. Perhaps, even now, some vestige of compassion for her remained… a trace of memory stirred by guilt.

‘…But he seemed to dislike any mention of that time.’

The way his expression froze at the sight of the pendant… the chill in his tone, ever since. That distant attitude. Still, she had to test how far he would let her go. Whether she might, just might, rely on some piece of his humanity in this foreign world where she had nothing else.

“Would that kind of story… sound too far-fetched?”

Her golden eyes shimmered—not with hesitation, but quiet insistence.

“…”

“I just thought it might sound more plausible.”

Klaus brushed a hand across his clean-shaven jaw, slowly crossing his legs in the opposite direction. His eyes, observing her from over his raised chin, remained unreadable.

A long silence stretched between them, the kind heavy with too much meaning. Ian, clueless as to what was happening between them, only looked on in growing discomfort.

It was only after several seconds that Klaus finally responded.

“…An interesting scenario.”

“…”

“I didn’t realize you had a knack for romantic fiction.”

Azniel did not flinch at his cold tone. His eyes—already difficult to read—were further obscured by the glint of his glasses, making it nearly impossible to discern what lay beneath.

“Well, if that’s what you prefer… I’ll add it to the list of candidates. The Antagon press office will review and confirm the final version.”

Ah.

Relief bloomed in Azniel’s chest.
‘I thought he might be angry…’

He wouldn’t bring up the past himself. That much was clear. But he didn’t deny it either. And that alone was enough to give her a small, anchoring comfort. At least now, in this unfamiliar world, she had something that vaguely resembled a root.

“On that note,” Klaus said

“We should clarify forms of address. You’re still calling me ‘Baron,’ and once we’re married, that won’t do.”

“Ah… yes.”

“And I can’t keep calling you ‘Saint,’ either.”

“…”

“You’ve left the Order, after all.”

Perhaps her relief had come too soon. His deliberate reminder pricked like a needle, and Azniel’s gaze dipped faintly, darkening.

“For now, I’ll address you by name. After the ceremony, I’ll use ‘my wife’ when needed—but I’ll avoid doing so whenever possible.”

“Then… how should I…?”

“Klaus.”

There was no hesitation.

“Please use my name, Azniel.”

“…”

“That will suffice.”

Klaus.

Azniel let the name roll slowly across her tongue—soft, unfamiliar. Klaus’s gaze narrowed faintly as he watched her do so.

“Is there anything else you’d like to ask?”

“No, I don’t think so…”

Her eyes drifted back down to the document in her hands.

A contract whose entire purpose seemed to be allowing her to live in comfort as the nominal Lady Gestern. Having never imagined a life beyond the Holy Kingdom, she had no real metric by which to judge any of this.

“If you’d like to amend something…”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Would you prefer to hold on to it for a few more days? You may think of something you’d like to add.”

Perhaps sensing her unease, Klaus—who could have ended the conversation already—continued pressing gently.

That, in itself, flustered Azniel. Whether she was given days or weeks, she doubted she would ever have anything to revise in a document so detached and clinical.

“For reference, if you’d prefer, we can amend Clause 9 regarding… conjugal frequency. There will be much public attention on our union, and I’d prefer not to spark rumors that we’re estranged. However, Clause 10 ensures that nothing would proceed against your will…”

“Yes, well… I don’t really mind, either way.”

“…Then, if you sign here, our legal counsel will process the notarization.”

“I… actually.”

Azniel surprised even herself by speaking up.

But maybe it was better to say something. Even if her role in this intricate performance was just that of a puppet—

“Are you truly fine with not setting a contract term?”

“A term?” Klaus echoed, his brow twitching slightly.

“Yes. For now, you… well, Klaus… need me for your business, which is why we’re doing this. But someday, you might not. What if someone you truly care for enters your life and you want a real marriage with them?”

Klaus’s mouth twitched into a small, bitter smile.