The Origin of the Poison.
Elara blinked, her mind racing as the Marquis's question hung in the air like a thundercloud.
"How much of your memory have you lost?" he asked again, his tone firm yet somehow gentle, like a parent coaxing a confession from a child.
Her heart skipped a beat, confusion and shock tightening her chest. How could they know? She had worked tirelessly to conceal it, playing the part as best she could. Yes, there had been minor slips—details that didn't quite align—but none seemed severe enough to give her away.
The Marquis paused, his lavender eyes studying her intently. "Let me rephrase," he continued, leaning back slightly but still focused on her. "How much do you actually remember?"
Elara swallowed hard, her thoughts scrambling for an answer. She looked at the three figures in turn, her gaze lingering on each face as if searching for clues to how much they truly knew. Could she feign partial memory loss—claim that her recollection was hazy only around the time she was injured? But then, what if they pressed further? What if they asked about her childhood, her family, the life she was supposed to know? She wouldn't have any answers.
Her heart raced. This body… This life… It isn't mine. The thought gnawed at her mind, bitter and unrelenting. And here she thought only her hair had changed—perhaps some external marks of the wound. But no, it was more than that. This isn't my world. It's hers.
Her gaze drifted to Physician Calytrix, recalling the information the woman had freely offered back in the camp. Could it be…? Did she suspect something even then?
Before her thoughts could settle, the door burst open with an abruptness that startled everyone.
A man strode in, his breath slightly uneven as if he'd rushed. His presence filled the room, commanding attention.
Elara froze, her breath catching as her eyes landed on him. The familiarity of his face slammed into her like a gale. Riven. The name slipped from her lips in a whisper, barely audible.
But the Marquis heard it. His sharp gaze flicked to her, the soft murmur not lost on him.
Elara barely noticed his reaction. Her wide, astonished eyes stayed locked on the man before her. He was undeniably Riven, yet not the Riven she remembered as Kael's friend.
This Riven stood tall, his silver-gray hair neatly styled, catching the light to reveal a faint lavender hue that had never been there before. His eyes, a striking blend of violet and silver, were alight with worry—a stark contrast to the cold indifference she was accustomed to. His expression, one she had rarely seen before, held genuine relief rather than the usual stoicism.
This isn't the same man, she thought, her chest tightening. Her mind flashed to the silver-haired girl's visions, to the glimpses of a younger, colder Riven. He wasn't that boy anymore either. This version of Riven bore none of the icy distance she remembered, either from her own memories or the girl's.
"Elara," he said, his voice steady but lined with concern.
The Marquis had risen to his feet the moment the door opened, his earlier calm now replaced by a sense of deference. Both physicians followed suit, bowing slightly as they addressed the man who had entered the room.
"Your Grace," they said in unison.
Riven, however, barely acknowledged them, his violet-silver eyes fixed on Elara as though afraid she might vanish if he looked away for even a moment. He waved a hand dismissively at their greeting, a subtle acknowledgment, before stepping further into the room.
Elara's mind churned, caught between Riven's unexpected appearance and her precarious situation. The Marquis's question still hung in the air, unanswered, and she knew she wasn't out of the woods yet. I'll have to answer him eventually, she thought grimly, trying to keep her composure.
Riven's gaze finally left her, turning to the Marquis. "What's her condition?" he asked, his voice carrying a commanding edge that made Elara stiffen.
The Marquis, his demeanor professional, began to explain. "The findings of the physicians are troubling. The wound is poisoned—a complex and ancient poison. It's unlike anything commonly seen, which makes treatment... difficult."
Riven's jaw tightened, but his expression remained controlled, stoic—a demeanor Elara recognized. For a moment, she saw the Riven from her world, the one she had known as Kael's friend, resurface.
After a brief hesitation, the Marquis added, "I have not seen the wound myself. I needed permission—either yours or hers—but you were away when I arrived, and the young miss has been asleep for two days straight." He glanced at Elara, his voice more measured now. "From what I've been told about the symptoms—the itching and burning sensations—there is only one poison that comes to mind. But I cannot confirm it without examining the wound directly."
Riven nodded, his gaze hardening slightly. He turned to Elara, and for the first time since entering, the worry in his eyes was replaced by something calmer, though not cold. "Are you comfortable allowing our uncle to examine the wound?"
Elara froze, the words catching her off guard. Uncle? Her gaze snapped to the Marquis, her eyes narrowing in confusion. The man, who looked no older than his late thirties, was her uncle? She studied his features, the faint resemblance to Riven suddenly more apparent now that the connection had been made.
The surprise in her expression must have been evident because Riven's brow furrowed slightly. "He is my uncle, yes," he confirmed, his tone quieter but still firm. "And yours."
Elara's heart raced. The implications of these relationships were piling onto the already tangled web she found herself in. Was she supposed to have known this? Was her ignorance of the family dynamic yet another crack in her facade?
She forced herself to focus, masking her shock. "If it's necessary," she said finally, her voice even, betraying none of her inner turmoil.
The Marquis inclined his head. "It is."
Riven stepped aside, gesturing to the Marquis to proceed, but not before his gaze lingered on Elara once more. His stoic mask faltered for a fraction of a second, a hint of something softer flickering in his expression, before he turned away.
The examination was about to begin, and Elara braced herself—not just for the discomfort of it, but for the questions and revelations that were sure to follow.
Elara instinctively moved to the edge of the bed, her back to the group, her muscles tense. She wasn't comfortable exposing her back to anyone, least of all these strangers—strangers from another world. She bit back her unease as Physician Calytrix stepped forward, her movements careful and deliberate.
"Let me," the older woman said softly, brushing aside Elara's tangled silver strands before loosening her gown just enough to reveal the blackened wound.
The room seemed to hold its breath as the wound came into view. Crimson veins webbed out from the injury, pulsing faintly like threads of poisoned fire.
Elara caught the sharp intake of someone's breath and another gasping audibly.
"Why was I not informed about the crimson veins?" the Marquis demanded, his voice tight with shock and restrained anger.
The older physician stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Your Grace, they were gone before. When I healed the Young Miss initially, it took everything I had—every ounce of my mana—just to bring her fever down. I had to rest afterward to recover, but it was worth it. Without it..." He trailed off, bowing lower.
Mana.
Elara's mind snagged on the word. She wasn't completely ignorant of its meaning—she knew it from games and stories—but in her world, mana was nothing more than fiction, not an actual phenomenon.
The Marquis, his face grim, turned his gaze to Elara. "May I?" he asked gently, his tone oddly formal.
"May you what?" Elara asked cautiously, turning her head to glance back. Her eyes met Riven's, and her words died on her lips.
His expression stunned her. His face was pale, chalk-like, and his violet-silver eyes were wide with horror. Was he... was he really that frightened for her? The thought unsettled her, and she quickly pushed it aside. Instead, she gave a small nod to the Marquis and turned away again.
The Marquis stepped forward, his footsteps deliberate but light. "Forgive me," he murmured. "But I need to touch the wound to send mana inside. It's the only way to assess the damage properly... and perhaps to heal it as much as possible."
Elara stiffened, then sighed. "Do what you must," she said, bracing herself.
The Marquis placed his hand near the wound, his fingers barely grazing the blackened skin. A faint warmth radiated from his touch, spreading inward. Elara gasped softly as the pain dulled, a soothing heat replacing the sharp ache. She caught sight of a shallow cut on her leg and watched, awed, as it knitted together.
But the moment of relief was short-lived.
A sudden, stabbing pain lanced through her wound, making her gasp sharply. At the same time, the Marquis staggered back, clutching his chest, his face drenched in sweat despite the cold air.
"Your Grace!" the old physician cried, rushing to steady him.
The Marquis held up a trembling hand. "Do not... do not try to heal her again," he said, his voice shaky but firm. He turned to the older physician. "The wound is reacting. It consumes mana—like it's feeding on it. Any more, and it could make things worse."
Elara, her gown now being fastened hurriedly by the shaken Calytrix, turned back to face the group. Her heart pounded as she took in the commotion.
The Marquis straightened with effort, then turned to Riven, his expression grim. "Your Grace," he began, addressing the shaken Grand Duke. "The wound... it is cursed."
Riven's brows furrowed, confusion shadowing his face. "Cursed?" he echoed.
The Marquis nodded solemnly. "Cursed," he confirmed, his tone heavy. "Tell me, Your Grace—are you familiar with Lacrimosa Regalis?"
At the name, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier, and Elara felt her breath catch in her throat. The Marquis's words weren't just a question—they were a revelation, one that would undoubtedly shift everything yet again.