​Dayat had lost track of how many hours he had been anchored to that chair.

​The dim violet light from the Medical Room’s ceiling cast a sickly glow. The white walls surrounding him seemed to constrict with every ragged breath he drew. The iron bed before him remained motionless. Dola lay there, her eyes sealed shut, her chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, agonizingly slow cadence.

​Dayat took her hand. It was ice-cold.

​Dola’s fingers lay limp in his palm—lifeless, unresponsive. No squeeze back. No rejection. Just a hollow, haunting silence.

​Dayat tightened his grip. Still, there was no reaction.

​He had been perched there since last night. In this room, there were no windows and no sun. Only the rhythmic pulse of the violet light, thumping like the heartbeat of the castle itself.

​Occasional exhaustion would claim him, dragging him into a shallow slumber that lasted mere minutes. Each time he jolted awake, his first instinct was to check her chest. Still rising. Still falling. It was the only thing keeping him sane.

​The door glided open without a sound. Lunethra entered.

​Her green gown billowed softly, despite the lack of a breeze in the corridor. She carried a small tray—a bowl of soup and a cup of tea. Faint wisps of steam drifted upward, offering a warmth that felt out of place in this cold room.

​She stepped beside Dayat, setting the tray on the wooden nightstand.

​”You need to eat,” she said softly.

​Dayat shook his head, his gaze never wavering from Dola’s face.

​”At least drink something.”

​Dayat offered no reply.

​Lunethra didn’t push. She pulled a chair from the corner and sat beside him. Not too close, yet not too far.

​”I’ve spoken with Kancil,” Lunethra whispered. “He’ll look after Loy and Riri.”

​Dayat gave a subtle nod, his eyes still anchored to Dola.

​”They’re frightened,” Lunethra continued. “They’ve never seen Dola like this.”

​”Neither have I.”

​Lunethra looked at Dayat. Her green eyes were pools of gentle concern. “Dola is strong. She will wake up.”

​Dayat remained silent.

​A heavy stillness filled the room, punctuated only by the pulsing violet light and the whisper-thin sound of Dola’s breathing.

​Lunethra picked up the soup bowl. The silver spoon caught the violet glint as she brought a mouthful to Dayat’s lips.

​”Drink. If not for yourself, then for Dola.”

​Dayat stared at the soup for a heartbeat before finally parting his lips.

​She fed him slowly. One spoonful, then two. Dayat chewed mechanically, tasting nothing, caring less.

​”I love you. Dola loves you. You must love yourself, too,” Lunethra murmured.

​Dayat stopped chewing. He looked at her, his expression unreadable.

​”Lun…”

​”Don’t say a word. I just want you to know.”

​She placed the bowl back on the table. She didn’t press further, nor did she leave. She simply sat there, sharing the vigil over Dola’s silent form.

​Dayat returned his gaze to Dola, his hand still clutching those frozen fingers.

​”I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “Until you wake up.”

​Dola did not answer.

​Outside the Medical Room, Kancil stood leaning against the cold stone wall.

​His dark blue jacket was dampened by the corridor’s mist. His brown hair was a chaotic mess, even by his standards. His eyes were bloodshot and weary.

​Loy sat on the floor, knees tucked against his chest, chin resting atop them. He stared blankly at the door, his eyes unfocused.

​Riri sat beside Loy, her head resting on his shoulder. Her short black hair, usually neat with its white ribbon, was now disheveled. Her eyelids were heavy, yet she refused to let them close.

​”Sister Dola… she’ll wake up, right?” Riri whispered.

​Kancil nodded firmly. “Yeah.”

​”When?”

​”I don’t know. But she will.”

​Loy remained silent, simply gripping Riri’s hand.

​Riri squeezed back.

​Kancil watched them, wanting to say something—anything—to reassure them that the world wasn’t falling apart. But the words died in his throat.

​He simply stood there, a silent sentinel in the hallway, waiting.

​Dawn began to break.

​The fog outside the Forest of Lamentation thinned, but refused to vanish. Pale sunlight, devoid of any real warmth, filtered through the castle’s crevices, casting long, skeletal shadows across the halls.

​The distant howl of wolves echoed, though more muted than usual.

​Dayat was still in the chair. His eyes were raw, the dark circles beneath them deepening. Lunethra’s tea sat untouched and stone-cold. The soup bowl was empty—not because Dayat had finished it, but because Lunethra had fed him what she could and finished the rest herself.

​Dola remained unconscious.

​Lunethra returned, empty-handed this time. She took her seat beside Dayat.

​”You haven’t slept,” she noted.

​”Not yet.”

​”You must.”

​”Later.”

​Lunethra exhaled a weary sigh. “Dayat…”

​Dayat turned to her. His eyes were bloodshot, but dry. “She moved earlier.”

​Lunethra blinked. “What?”

​”Her finger. It twitched, just a little.”

​Lunethra glanced at Dola’s hand. The pale fingers lay motionless against the sheets. No movement, no twitch.

​”Are you sure?”

​”I didn’t imagine it.”

​Lunethra didn’t argue. She simply placed her hand over Dayat’s—the hand that was still holding Dola’s. It was warm, slightly slick with sweat.

​”She’ll come back to us. I believe it.”

​Dayat didn’t respond. He only had eyes for Dola.

​In Brassvale, the gates of the capital stood wide open.

​Mornings in Brassvale were never as picturesque as in other kingdoms. The sky was a permanent slate gray, and the air reeked of soot and molten metal. To the merchants and soldiers bustling about, it was simply home.

​Orchid limped through the gates.

​His black cloak was shredded in three places. The left sleeve was torn from shoulder to elbow; a hand-width gash at the waist exposed the lining; the hem was tattered and stained with grime and blood.

​His right arm was wrapped in bandages—white cloth now stained a muddy brown with dried blood. At the center, a fresh crimson spot bloomed—blood still seeping through.

​The gate guards—men in black iron plate with half-helms—tensed the moment they saw him. They recognized that cloak. They recognized the blade at his hip. They recognized that heavy, yet unyielding stride.

​”Hero… what happened to you?” one of them ventured.

​Orchid didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at them. He trudged past, his boots clicking against the cobblestone streets.

​Citizens stared. Some whispered, some fell into a stunned silence. A woman pulled her child away. A merchant froze in the middle of arranging his wares, eyes wide with shock.

​Orchid ignored them all.

​Every step felt like hauling a mountain, but he didn’t falter. He didn’t stop. He didn’t ask for help.

​He didn’t stop at the barracks, the infirmary, or the tavern. He headed straight for the palace.

​Behind him, a faint trail of blood marked the stones. Only a few drops, but enough to make the onlookers shudder.

​The Hall of Gears.

​Steam-powered lamps flickered overhead. The rhythmic grinding of gears echoed from behind the walls like the heartbeat of a mechanical titan.

​Orchid knelt before Emperor Volco.

​His tattered cloak pooled on the stone floor. His bandaged arm was a stark contrast of white against the darkness of his attire.

​Two figures stood flanking Volco. Minister Balista, with his long beard and perpetually suspicious, narrowed eyes; and General Herakles—a mountain of a man in military regalia, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp as a hawk’s.

​”The Maiden’s Herald… is still alive,” Orchid reported.

​Volco didn’t immediately reply.

​He sat upon his throne, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. Slow. Measured.

​Tap. Tap. Tap.

​The sound echoed through the vaulted silence of the hall.

​Orchid didn’t lift his head. He remained in his kneeling stance.

​Tap. Tap. Tap.

​Volco stopped.

​”And your wound?”

​Orchid bowed even lower. “His blade… is different. It is not of this world.”

​Balista stepped forward. “What do you mean, ‘not of this world’?”

​”A blade of violet energy infused with emerald. Azure-silver armor. There was no magic within it. No mana. No spells. It was something… new.”

​Herakles furrowed his brow. “You claimed he was a mere human?”

​”He is human. But his power… is not.”

​Balista and Herakles exchanged a grim look. Volco remained stoic, his cold gaze fixed on Orchid.

​”The Architect,” Volco said at last.

​Orchid nodded. “That is what they call him. The Architect.”

​Volco raised a hand. Balista stepped back.

​”Enough,” Volco commanded. “Rest. You will be summoned when required.”

​Orchid nodded, standing slowly. He turned and departed, his tattered cloak fluttering behind him. His footsteps rang out against the stone.

​One. Two. Three.

​The doors opened, and he was gone.

​Volco stared out the window at the oppressive gray sky.

​Back in the Medical Room, it was now midday.

​Dayat was on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion. His eyes were half-closed, his head nodding forward before snapping back up. This cycle had repeated dozens of times since dawn.

​He still held Dola’s hand. It was still cold. Still the same.

​He wanted to speak, to say something, but his throat was like parched earth.

​”Dol…”

​No answer.

​He squeezed her hand harder.

​”I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

​Silence.

​But then—Dola’s finger moved.

​Just the index finger. A tiny, faint twitch.

​Dayat snapped wide awake. His eyes bulged as he stared at her hand. It didn’t move again.

​”Dol?”

​No answer.

​But then it happened again, clearer this time. It wasn’t just a twitch; it was a conscious movement.

​Dayat gripped her hand tighter, his own hands trembling.

​”Dol. I’m here!”

​The index finger moved again. Then the middle finger. Then the ring finger. One by one. Slowly. As if she were relearning how to feel.

​Dola didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t speak. She didn’t smile.

​But her fingers were now squeezing back.

​Dayat didn’t scream. He didn’t call for Lunethra. He didn’t move from his chair.

​He just sat there, clutching Dola’s hand, as tears silently tracked down his cheeks.

​He didn’t wipe them away. He simply let them fall, splashing onto Dola’s hand.

​Night began to descend.

​Dayat had finally succumbed to sleep in his chair, his head tilted awkwardly, chin nearly touching his shoulder. His hand was still locked with Dola’s. Even in sleep, he wouldn’t let go.

​Dola remained unconscious, but her breathing was steadier now. Her chest rose and fell with a healthy regularity.

​Lunethra entered, carrying a blanket. She stepped softly, careful not to wake him. She folded the blanket and gently draped it over Dayat’s shoulders.

​She lingered for a moment, looking at Dayat—his haggard face, his dark circles, his messy hair—before turning her gaze to Dola.

​”Get well soon,” she whispered.

​She slipped out, the door clicking shut without a sound.

​Inside, only the sound of breathing remained. Two souls. One weary, one recovering.

​In Brassvale, Orchid stood on his balcony.

​A fresh black cloak had replaced his ruined one. But his right arm remained bandaged—a clean white wrap, as yet unstained.

​He gazed toward the east. Toward the Forest of Lamentation. Toward Castle Zero.

​”The Architect,” he whispered.

​He didn’t elaborate.

​He simply stood there, beneath a gray sky that never truly surrendered to the dark.

​Then he turned and walked inside, the balcony door swinging shut behind him.

​In the Medical Room, Dayat slept on.

​Lunethra was gone. The blanket on his shoulder began to slip, but he didn’t stir.

​Dola lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her hand still held fast by Dayat.

​But her fingers—the fingers that had squeezed back earlier that afternoon—were now motionless.

​Just silence. Waiting. Like their owner.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep