"And what is the reason for all this insolence? Because I rejected you?"
The Baroness’s question hung in the air. Her words were sharp, but beneath them was sothing suppressed. It was not pride. Nor was it anger. It was sothing more dangerous: the fracture born of not being taken seriously.
I smiled. Not deliberately, but by reflex. Because it was genuinely amusing. At that mont, I felt like the protagonist of so romantic drama series, and I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy it.
"Lady Catherinne, being rejected by you was, of course, a disappointing experience," I said. "But now there is a new woman in my life. Luciene. She beca... a kind of consolation for ."
Of course, this was a lie. I didn’t need to be comforted, and even if such a thing had happened, this person would not have been Luciene.
The expression in her eyes froze for a fleeting instant as my words settled.
That was the mont I had been waiting for.
When I spoke Luciene’s na, I deliberately softened my voice. Not boastful. Not defensive. As if it were an innocent confession that had slipped out unintentionally.
The Baroness’s lips parted, but no words followed. Her pride had withdrawn. Her anger had failed to find a target. All that remained was the unease of soone realizing that control was slipping through her fingers.
"I don’t want you to misunderstand," I continued calmly. "This isn’t an accusation. It’s simply a result."
My gaze moved across her face. I did not look away. I did not hide. On the contrary, I fixed my eyes on her deliberately. People rarely avert their gaze when they feel powerful. But when they lose control, eye contact is the first thing to go. Just like Catherine is doing right now
"You didn’t take seriously. That was your right. I accepted it. But a person does not remain where they are rejected. They move on."
I did not ntion Luciene again. There was no need. The seed had already been planted.
The Baroness’s fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of her dress. A small detail, but not one that escaped my notice. A woman’s body language screams what she cannot say.
"I did take you seriously..." she snapped suddenly. "But!"
Her voice fell, fractured.
"But what?"
Catherinne’s breathing grew uneven. Her chest rose and fell visibly. For a mont, I thought she would not speak at all. Then, as if saying the word would make everything irreversible, she averted her gaze.
"I..." she said quietly. "...I can’t bind myself to anyone."
The sentence alone was aningless. But the tremor in her voice conveyed far more than the words ever could.
I inclined my head a little further. This ti, the gesture was neither calculated nor theatrical. I was listening.
"Because you don’t want to?" I asked.
"Or because you can’t?"
That was when it happened.
The subtle but ever-present pressure I had felt around her suddenly intensified. The air grew heavy. The candle flas trembled. For a brief instant, the Baroness’s shadow on the wall seed longer than it should have been.
Catherinne clenched her teeth.
"You don’t need to know that," she said sharply. But the sharpness ca too late. It was defensive.
"Just say it," I replied evenly. "Maybe I can help."
Her eyes returned to . This ti, they did not flee. But neither were they aggressive. They were the eyes of soone cornered.
"I’m cursed," she said at last.
One word.
But it filled the entire room.
"When I was a child, a witch cursed ," she continued, painful mories resurfacing in her eyes. "She killed my entire family and... left alive. So that I would never form a family of my own until the day I die."
Catherinne did not lift her head. She deliberately avoided looking at as she spoke, as if eting my gaze would make the reality of her words unbearable.
"The witch," she went on, her voice turning almost chanically cold. "No matter how much I searched, I could never find her. That’s why I sponsor promising young talent, hoping to find a way to break the curse."
Only then did what I saw in her eyes beco clear.
It was not fear.
It was not guilt.
It was a long-familiar loneliness.
"That’s why I rejected you," she said at last. "It’s not that I underestimate you. On the contrary."
She raised her head. Her gaze was steady now.
"Because I took you seriously."
As I looked at the woman before , my own expression grew more serious. Not out of pity, but because I was undecided about whether I should help her. I had known long ago that Catherinne was cursed, and one of the reasons I had go to the city was to obtain a potion capable of breaking curses.
After completing my destiny quest, I had seen no reason to save her. A potion of that kind would be extrely expensive. That’s why I gave up on this plan, but now, sothing she had said caught my attention.
"You said you were cursed as a child?"
Catherine’s shoulders tensed briefly, almost imperceptibly, but it was telling nonetheless.
"Yes," she replied after a short pause. "I was seven."
That detail...
That was truly important.
This was a detail that only soone knowledgeable about witchcraft or soone like who had read the novel could see. I slowly raised my head. My hesitation was replaced by a careful clarity. No pity. No romance. Only calculation.
"That’s good," I said thoughtfully.
She frowned.
"What do you an?"
"Curses have tiers. Those that do not kill but inflict long-term damage are inherently dangerous. To curse a child for years without killing them, at least a low-tier curse must be used. Otherwise, the child’s body wouldn’t survive the curse’s power."
When I finished speaking, silence filled the room again. But this ti, it wasn’t heavy or suffocating. It was... attentive.
Catherinne’s brow furrowed slowly.
She understood what I was saying, but she couldn’t yet see where it was leading.
"Low-tier?" she asked cautiously. "Does that an the curse is... insignificant?"
"Most of the ti, yes" I answered. "Because low-tier curses are easier to remove than others."
Her gaze drifted involuntarily to her hands as if she were seeing her body and existence through a new lens for the first ti.
anwhile, I was looking at an item on the shop interface.
[Low-Level Curse Removal Potion]
[Cost: 1,000 System Coins]
As I read the description, only one question occupied my mind.
Was Catherinne worth a thousand coins?
She was a relatively wealthy noblewoman. If I cured her, she would likely beco attached to . Grateful. And gratitude was dangerously effective on people accustod to control. For soone like Catherinne, it would be far more than a simple thank-you. A sense of debt. Attachnt. Loyalty.
Control.
And, incidentally, I would also end up with one of the most beautiful won I had ever seen. I don’t particularly like characters who think with their penis, but the profit margin here was already high.
"What is it?" Catherinne asked.
Her tone had changed. The earlier defensive sharpness was gone, replaced by cautious curiosity. She could sense that her fate was being weighed on a scale she could not see.
"A possibility," I said honestly.
"What kind of possibility?"
I closed the system interface. The overlay dissolved, and the room returned to a single reality.
"Let’s say I have a way to remove your curse."
She didn’t react imdiately. She didn’t even blink. The expression on her face was like a statue that had stood unchanged for years, now beginning to crack. It wasn’t hope, not yet. It was the fear that hope might exist.
"You shouldn’t..." she said slowly. "You shouldn’t say that."
Her voice trembled slightly, suppressed with near-perfect control, but still noticeable.
"Why?" I asked.
’Because if you’re lying...’ her unspoken words continued.
’Because if you give hope and then take it away...’ her eyes scread.
’Because if this is real...’ the child inside her whispered, ’I can’t endure it.’
Catherinne took a step back. Then another. She stopped when her back touched the heavy wooden table. Her fingers gripped its edge instinctively, not out of weakness but to keep from falling.
"I..." she said, swallowing. "I’ve heard this before."
Her eyes finally locked onto mine.
"Mages. Priests. Academy scholars. Every one of them said the sa thing at so point. ’Maybe.’ ’Theoretically.’ ’Under the right conditions.’" Her lips twitched into a bitter smile. "They all failed."
The disappointnt in her voice did not turn into anger. It was sothing heavier.
Acceptance of defeat.
"So of those who tried to cure died," she added calmly, emptily. "So went mad. So simply gave up. So... use that word carefully."
I paused. In truth, the safest way to lift a curse in this world was through another witch’s power. That was why mages, priests, and academy scholars had failed. According to the system description, however, this potion was created through witchcraft, aning it should work.
"I didn’t say ’maybe,’" I said firmly.
Her breath caught.
"I said possibility," I continued. "That ans there is a thod. A cost. A risk. And most importantly... it ans it can be tested."
Her fingers whitened against the table. Her shoulders trembled. It was as if her body had noticed an emotion her mind had forbidden for years.
"No," she whispered. "Don’t do this."
"Don’t do what?"
"Don’t make talk like this," she said, her voice bordering on a plea. "I’ve been suppressing this for years. Because if I truly want it and it fails again... I won’t recover this ti."
Her eyes filled with tears. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.
"I was seven," she said suddenly. "When my family died, I rember the sll of blood. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. The witch looked at and said, ’You will live.’ After that day... I belonged to no one. I bound myself to no one. Because I thought that if I did... I would kill them too."
Her voice broke, and tears finally fell. Silently. It wasn’t uncontrollable; it was as if there were no longer any reason to hold them back.
I looked at her. Not at a noblewoman. Not at a Baroness.
But for a seven-year-old girl who survived yet never truly lived.
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