"Jemar not only failed his mission but also fell into the hands of the Alliance. Just received the intel. Demitria, it seems your man has let you down."
Demitria had been prepared for this statement and didn't feel the sudden blow.
"Aren't you grateful for the news I brought you?" Ethenrion continued. "At least make me some tea, won't you?"
"We're out of tea."
"Oh, what a pity." Ethenrion sat on the edge of the bed, patting the bedspread. "This pattern never gets old. Do you remember how much effort our tailor put into weaving this? If they knew it once bore Jemar's scent, they might secretly shed tears."
"He never entered my room."
"I never said he did."
Demitria understood what he implied. "Vile."
Ethenrion chuckled silently. "Come here."
She walked over to him. He grasped her right wrist, bringing his nose close to her palm, sniffing.
"How many days has it been since you used the perfume I prescribed?"
"I don't need it anymore."
"You're right." Ethenrion let go of her hand. "You're unworthy of it. That perfume was specially made for the Crimson Saint. Now you're just an ordinary woman."
"I'd rather—"
"Rather what? Save your nonsense, Demitria."
Ethenrion stood up, drawing his sword and holding it across her neck.
"This world isn't as romantic as you imagine. You should know how much effort it's taking me right now to resist the urge to kill you. Look, my sword is trembling. I gave you the most esteemed position, a life every Crimson member envies—ha, those poor soldiers. Do you know what they think? Let me tell you, any guard who even glances at this bedroom is highly regarded among his peers. So many of them want to know what kind of teacup the exalted Crimson Saint Demitria holds, what kind of bed she lies in. And look at how you've repaid me."
Demitria's eyelids drooped, and her lower lip began to tremble.
"If you want to cry, go ahead. There's nothing else you can do now. I know your tears are from fear, not anything else. If even one percent of those tears were from regret, perhaps you could move me. But unfortunately... I have no expectations."
"What will you do to me and him?" Demitria's tears dropped onto the blade as she uttered her final words.
"I can't let the Alliance dispose of him. First, we need to seek further negotiations, and then we'll make other plans. Don't be too sad, beautiful. At least you still have a chance to live. Of course, it's not solely my decision."
Before leaving the bedroom, Ethenrion said, "I smell something burning. You're not planning to cause me more trouble, are you?"
She shook her head.
"Good... Good night, Crimson Saint. I still have to check on little Sally. She's been feeling guilty and emotionally unstable after reporting you."
"Ethenrion," she said, "spare her."
"What do you mean by that?" He stopped and turned around. "You must be mistaken. She's not like you. Becoming the Saint may not have been your choice, but she's two hundred percent determined to become the Grand Inquisitor. She's got potential. Perhaps you should consider taking some time to witness her interrogation... if you survive."
The door locked again. Demitria pressed her eyes with the back of her right hand, wiping her tears like a child. She sat down on the floor.