Chapter 22
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: Burning Thirst
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"No time to explain! Your real captain's in danger! No, just shut up and get Duke Karls here! Right now!"
The shout tore from my raw throat, vibrating the dank air of the underground prison. My hands gripped the iron bars so tightly my knuckles turned white, veins bulging in my neck.
Persuasion (Lv.2)
Irresistible command infused with instinctive dread of impending disaster
The soldiers' pupils dilated instantly. Their eyes darted between the silver dagger rolling on the floor, my frenzied thrashing, and the empty corridor beyond.
Normally, they'd dismiss it as a prisoner's ravings, but the uncanny pressure in my voice crushed them. Without even glancing at each other, they sprang into action.
"Report to His Grace the Duke immediately!"
"Squad 1, search the north! Squad 2, call the medic!"
The thud of heavy boots echoed chaotically as they retreated. Torch shadows danced wildly in their haste before vanishing into the corridor's gloom.
Silence returned.
I slumped to the floor, gasping ragged breaths. My heart pounded against my ribs, a deafening thrum in my ears.
The dagger's sharp blade gleamed ominously in the faint light. The thought that it could have pierced my brow hit me late, sending tremors through my fingertips.
Time dragged like viscous oil.
My throat burned. The water pouch left by the fake Adella sat just beyond the bars, but I couldn't bring myself to reach for it.
Was it water... or poison to end my life? I swallowed dryly, glaring at the damp moss in the ceiling corner. Drip... drip. The irregular water drops scraped at my taut nerves.
How much time passed?
A heavy, measured footfall shattered the quiet. Unlike the soldiers' frantic scramble, this carried the weight of crushing each stone underfoot.
Duke Karls emerged from the darkness.
He wore no helmet. Tousled blond hair clung to his sweat-damp forehead, and his silver breastplate was dulled by dust and dirt, as if he'd rushed straight from the front lines.
He halted before the bars, eyes flicking between the fallen dagger and me. His blue gaze was serene as a deep lake, yet beneath swirled a vortex of complex emotions.
Karis said nothing for a long moment, just breathing heavily as if sorting his feelings. At last, he spoke, voice low and gravelly.
"We found the Patrol Captain."
His eyes locked onto mine without flinching.
"Near the cliff edge by the city stream outside the walls. Deep gash in her side, barely conscious."
Karis's jaw clenched tight. He was suppressing rage and self-recrimination that one of his knights—under his command, in the capital no less—had been struck down without a sound.
How did he know? He was locked in here. How could he sense something happening outside... and more importantly, how did he spot that Adella was a fake? It's beyond sharp instincts. Like a beast sniffing out the unseen... And where do these rats keep coming from, always targeting the Emperor? How many have we already purged...
I could feel the doubt rippling in Karis's mind. But he didn't voice it. What mattered now wasn't how I knew—it was that I had warned them.
"She was dying. Heavy blood loss, poison spreading. If the soldiers had been even a little later..."
He paused, then added heavily,
"She lived thanks to you."
A gruff acknowledgment in place of thanks.
Karis drew a silver flask from his belt, etched with intricate crosses radiating holy aura. He passed it through the bars.
"And that water pouch the fake left... It was laced with Formless Venom. Tasteless, odorless, colorless deadly poison. Your insides melt away without a hint of pain."
I took the flask with trembling hands. The cold metal against my palm finally eased the tension.
"Holy water from the Solar Church in the capital. Pure and untaintable by any poison."
Karis gripped the bars, looking down at me. His eyes remained cold, but the utter contempt from before was gone.
Now, they held confused scrutiny for an incomprehensible being.
Incompetent tyrant. Lecher. Yet he saved a knight's life—no, two lives between the soldier and knight... And somehow halted the war. What is he...? Changed on the brink of death?
As if masking his turmoil, he ended stiffly,
"Drink. Can't have you dying before your appointed time with Queen Helena."
I gulped down the water, quenching my burning thirst.
Dawn still lingered beyond the horizon, and in the world's deepest darkness—the underground sanctuary—silence so profound it froze breath hung heavy.
The circular hall, carved from black granite, had a ceiling lost in shadows. A few flickering candles cast long shadows, barely outlining the space.
The air was humid and oppressive, thick with the scent of earth and stale incense mingled with the chill floor.
At the head of the round table, a figure in pitch-black robes drummed fingers slowly on the wood.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The rhythmic sound echoed like an execution drum in the empty chamber, making the woman prostrate on the floor flinch.
Her back trembled visibly, her leather-clad hips rigid with tension.
Sweat-soaked brown hair stuck to her cheek, cooling, but she dared not brush it away.
"I said he'd die for sure."
The voice from the shadows was low and dry. Devoid of emotion, it carried a deeper chill of disappointment than anger, slicing like a razor.
"That fool emperor should have died by Karis's hand that day. Or choked on the poisoned gruel, or drunk the water you gave him."
The tapping stopped. Robe fabric rustled, slicing the silence.
"But what happened? He's breathing fine in his cell, and Roselia's army—the one you swore would succeed—has stalled before Argent's walls for two days. Reports say Queen Helena halted the advance and hunkered in her tent. Is this your guaranteed plan?"
Prostrate on the floor, Priestess Sia bit her lip bloody. She tried to speak excuses, but her throat clogged like it was packed with sand.
Her mind burned with humiliating prison memories: the iron grip on her rear, the sticky whisper in her ear, and above all, the transparent barrier mocking her killing intent.
Shame and terror clawed her nails into the stone. The pain of breaking tips was nothing to her despair.
"One more chance... please..."
She squeezed out the words, forehead grinding the floor.
"Just one more! I won't fail this time. I'll take his head, I swear..."
"Opportunity isn't given—it's earned."
The figure at the head cut her off mercilessly. He rose and glided forward, ghost-silent.
The other shadowed saints in deep black robes bowed as one.
"You failed. Not just the assassination—you exposed our existence. Your armor, the water pouch—now they're clues in enemy hands."
He stopped before Sia. Black leather boots entered her view under his robe.
"I strip you of your authority."
A death sentence. Sia's pupils quaked like in an earthquake. All her priestly power and status dissolved in those words. She was nothing now—a dulled tool, a blunted blade.
"Withdraw. Your punishment will be decided later."
He turned without another glance. Sia staggered back into the shadows on weakened legs. Cold silence lingered in her wake.
The figure turned to the saints encircling the table. Candlelight gleamed grotesquely on their white masks, empty black eyeholes staring.
"A minor variable, but the river can't be dammed. We wasted time on one rotten log blocking the great path."
His finger tapped the map on the table. Black ink veins radiated from the imperial capital and palace.
"Saints, hear me. Time to flip the board."
His finger pressed the map hard. Paper crinkled lowly in the sanctuary.
"Proceed with the other grand plan. The Empire Emperor's fate will end naturally—and miserably—in that mighty current."