Chapter 37
Sylvia had made a pocket space out of blood. It was similar to teleportation magic, except that before it moved anything, it simply let it vanish from this world for a moment. No one could take it out again unless she did it herself.
So if I die, the holy relic disappears too.
When she’d told Owen that much, she had thought herself brilliant. But no matter how cleverly she hid something in a space that vanished with her death, there were endless ways to force her to take it out again.
Hurry. I’m uneasy.
Owen had cut the cloth into strips, bound Sylvia’s arm tightly, then hoisted her onto his back and ran. Unfortunately, they hadn’t gone far before they were surrounded.
If it had only been people with swords, they might have had a chance. But there were two mages among them. In the end, Owen lowered his blade, and soon Sylvia and he were encircled by people in shabby black cloaks so filthy they looked almost like monsters, their genders impossible to make out.
It smelled so foul when they were tied to chairs that it was obvious these people hadn’t bathed in a long time. Even when they spoke to one another, they did so in whispers, and most of the time they remained silent, as though they refused to reveal anything at all about themselves.
How strange for villains to be this quiet. It didn’t suit them, Sylvia thought, forcing herself to make the joke even now.
Though the sun was still up, the hut—one that had no windows at all—was pitch-dark and grim.
“What happened to the holy relic?”
A rough, low voice, already worn hoarse, asked it of Sylvia. Owen, with his arms and legs bound tight, had already tipped his head back as if he were sick to death of the whole situation, and Sylvia, trying to hide her trembling, remembered the conversation she’d had with him before they were captured.
Owen had told her to be as docile as possible. If they irritated people like this, they wouldn’t leave in one piece.
Don’t worry. I’m not dying.
He had muttered that as if reassuring himself.
Right. I’m not dying. That’s why I hid the holy relic.
Sylvia looked at the knife pointed at her and answered carefully.
“The holy relic is under a teleportation spell. I coated it with my blood and set an imprint on it. If you kill me, the relic vanishes with me.”
“Don’t lie to us!”
The knight surrounding them shouted, but the one who looked like a mage merely gave a short sound of appreciation and nodded.
“That makes sense.”
He even looked at her with a thin smile, as though impressed that she’d used her head.
“You said it was a pocket space made from blood. Then if you lose consciousness or happen to bleed too much, that space will collapse too. Was that your plan in case of torture? Rather clever. It’s rare to find a mage capable of that.”
The praise, if it was meant as praise, did not please her in the least. Sylvia lifted her chin and spoke in the steady tone she used when negotiating.
“So just let us…….”
“Then you were going to say that if we let you go, you’d undo the spell, weren’t you?”
The mage cut her off with maddening ease. Sylvia clenched her jaw against the tremor in it, trying to look as composed as possible.
“Yes. I’ll move it as far away from here as I can—far in the opposite direction from where we’re going.”
The mage nodded as if satisfied. He was tall, with a strangely low voice, and every movement he made carried an uncanny air.
“A rational and appealing offer.”
He said it, but for all his supposed approval, the way he smiled was nothing short of ominous. He drew the sword from the man nearest him and came toward her. Sylvia shut her eyes tight the moment he swung the blade, shouting, “If you kill me, the holy relic—!”
Thud. Something was stabbed, but there was no pain. A chill skittered down her spine at that fact. If it hadn’t been her, then who else in this room could have taken that blow?
Praying it wasn’t true, she opened her eyes—and God did not grant her request. Owen’s face had gone deathly pale as he fought back the pain, and his fists, still bound to the chair, were clenched so tightly the bones stood out. A huge knife had pierced straight through his thigh and into the chair beneath him. Blood welled on the blade and dripped down in heavy drops.
“But I find this way more to my liking. You’ve destroyed every magic circle I set up like a rat tearing through the walls. I ought to vent my anger over that, don’t you think?”
Only belatedly did she realize that, through their mana sharing, the pain in her own thigh had arrived like a brutal kick. But compared to Owen’s, it was nothing severe. Only then did Sylvia understand Owen’s earlier action—how, before they were seized, he had lowered his knife, hidden a mouthful of medicine in his coat, and swallowed it down. He had known all along that he would take the blade in her place, and still he’d done it to keep the pain from reaching her.
It feels like my thigh is burning away.
As she writhed in agony, the mage’s eyes gleamed.
“Mana sharing, is it? I only stabbed on a hunch, but this worked better than expected. So—do you feel like moving it now? Or should I stab you once more?”
“Reinforcements are coming to save us…….”
Sylvia threw out something meant to frighten him. But the man didn’t even bother listening to the end of her sentence; he simply drew the knife again and this time drove it into Owen’s shoulder. Owen still didn’t let out a groan, but a low sound slipped from Sylvia’s own lips. Her thigh and shoulder felt like they were being torn apart.
It was the first time in her life she had ever hurt this much. But even more serious than that was the fact that Owen was being hurt because of her. When she saw his blood soaking the floor, so much of it she felt sick with guilt, she thought she might vomit.
The mage slapped her cheeks sharply, and when her tear-bright eyes turned to him, he spoke again.
“Do you feel like moving it now?”
Should she bite her tongue and die here? But they didn’t seem likely to leave Owen alive and well if she died. Dying by biting her tongue would mean surrendering everything.
“I’m moving it. I’ll move it.”
Only after her frightened voice spilled out did the man let out a silent laugh, satisfied at last.
Just when he slowly withdrew the knife from Owen’s shoulder as if granting mercy, Sylvia, though still in pain, allowed herself a little relief.
But even after getting the answer he wanted, the man stabbed the knife into Owen’s hand one final time. Taken by surprise, Owen let out a low groan. The man nodded, satisfied, and pulled the knife back out.
“Sorry. I just wanted to finish with a flourish.”
“…….”
“Now move it.”
Sylvia bit her lip and glared at him as if she meant to burn him through with her eyes. The man clicked his tongue and slapped her cheek again for her insolence, but she did not shrink back at all. Nor when he struck her a second time. Nor when her mouth split open and blood ran to the corner of her lips.
He laughed when he realized that stabbing Owen’s hand had lit a fire in her pride. What was this thing, trying so hard over nothing? Still, there was no helping retreating at this point. After all, if the woman really did bite her tongue and die, that would be a disaster.
“I’m not killing you, so move it already.”
At last, the man raised his arm as if surrendering. Sylvia jerked her chin toward the doorway.
“Get out.”
“What?”
“Get everyone out of here. Then I’ll move it.”
“Ha.”
The man exhaled in disbelief, as though a ridiculous rat had started making demands. In the end, Sylvia deliberately twisted the injured arm bound to the chair’s armrest. The wound Owen had bandaged so tightly tore open at once, and blood began dripping through the cloth.
“Get out. Honestly, I’m dizzy as it is. If you don’t want to lose the holy relic, get moving.”
The mage bit down on his lip. It wasn’t a bluff, either. The holy relic had vanished without a trace, just as the woman claimed, and since she had wrapped the large box in blood, she must already have lost plenty of it. He nodded and stepped outside with his men.
“There. Happy now?”
They were mice trapped in a jar anyway.
As ordered, he went outside and raised his hands harmlessly. Then, whether the woman had used some trick or not, the door slammed shut at once. The man snorted at the sight of Sylvia locking herself in and called her stupid, but it wasn’t long before he understood why she’d done it.
“I moved the holy relic beyond the mountain range! If you don’t hurry, it’ll turn into dark magic and the monsters will snatch it!”
“That little bitch.”
From the beginning, the reason they had even entertained Sylvia’s bargain was to take the relic safely before it turned dark. Furious, the man ordered one of his underlings to open the door, but if it had been locked by magic, there was nothing to be done.
With a locking spell, there were several methods, and depending on how the caster had done it, there were different ways to undo it. In the end, the mage chose to depart quickly before the relic could fall into a monster’s hands. Though he couldn’t cut their throats as planned and leave them there, he could still burn the hut down before going.
But when they finally arrived at the place Sylvia had named, and confirmed that the box no longer held the holy relic, they were plunged into despair that they hadn’t torn out those throats—or at least the limbs—before leaving.
Meanwhile, after much effort, Sylvia and Owen escaped the burning hut and were rescued safely by the reinforcements that arrived just in time.
It seemed her dreams had been uneasy.
Heston had dropped everything and come here the moment he heard she’d returned, guarding her bedside ever since, yet even after two full days she still hadn’t woken.
Her face twisted over and over as though she were trapped in some terrible nightmare, and at times she would clutch at her throat and groan as if she couldn’t breathe. Each time, Heston would smooth her back and hold her hand.
At some point, the bandages wrapped around Sylvia’s arm reminded him of how she had looked when she was first discovered. Her arm had been torn open, her hand a ruin, her cheek badly beaten—she had been in an awful state. Of course, Owen had looked even worse, and since they’d been left overnight in unpurified land, everyone agreed it was a miracle they’d survived this much, but Heston still felt wretched.
At first, he had only prayed that she would come back alive. But now that he’d seen the injuries, it was almost unbearable.
“I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”
No—he shouldn’t have so easily obeyed Princess Catherine’s words then. No matter what, he should have gone himself. Back then his chest had felt ready to burst, and he’d thought that one wrong move might drive him into something irrational, so he’d listened. But if he’d gone personally, he might have found her before she’d ended up like this.
“Hah.”
She jerked awake with a sharp gasp, as though she’d fallen off a cliff in her sleep. Heston tightened his grip on the hand he was holding, and her wandering gaze soon settled on him.
“Hes…… Heston?”
“Yeah. It’s me.”
Like a dog waiting for its master to rise, Heston answered obediently. Sylvia, looking as if she had a headache, braced herself on his hand and tried to sit up, rubbing at her temple. Then, as if something had just occurred to her, she looked around the room. But when she failed to find what she wanted, she turned back to him, met his eyes, and asked, “Owen?”