#12. Isn’t That a Bit Strange?
Before walking side by side with him like this—no, even before facing him directly—Olivia’s only impression of Cryer was that he was the man who had killed her four times and a bloodthirsty madman who had both started and ended the Great Continental War. But now…
“Because I’m a slave, I have to do as I’m told.”
Unconsciously, Olivia grabbed Cryer’s arm. Just like when she had hit him, her grip was so light it was barely noticeable. But the warmth she felt was vivid.
As Cryer looked down at Olivia’s pale hand, blue veins bulging as she squeezed tightly, he suddenly felt a sharp pain near his collarbone. The pain only lasted a brief moment. If it had been anywhere else, he might’ve dismissed it as nothing. But his collarbone—wasn’t that where the mark, the brand indicating he was a slave of an ancient god, was etched?
Perhaps reading his unusual expression, Olivia quickly spoke, prompting Cryer to touch his lips rather than his collarbone.
“What is it? Something bothering you?”
“Did I… say that out loud?”
“What? No, you didn’t. But what is it that’s bothering you? Hurry up and tell me.”
Her eyes sparkled—no, glinted—like she was always ready to listen. Cryer stared quietly at her. And again, as if she had read his mind:
“How do I know? I could tell by your face. Or maybe your expression? Your eyes? The atmosphere?”
Even Olivia seemed unsure as she tilted her head. A strange look crossed Cryer’s face as he watched her. Had there ever been someone who read him so well? He couldn’t be certain, since he couldn’t remember the past. But at least after his resurrection, Olivia was likely the only one. Hardly anyone dared look him directly in the eye. Maybe the sorcerer who had brought him back, and his daughter? Speaking of which—Greta. That woman also spoke like she could read his mind.
“What now? You’re thinking of something else again, aren’t you?”
Olivia stepped closer and stood on her toes.
“Tell me everything that was bugging you just now, all at once.”
The look in her eyes made it clear: if he didn’t talk, she looked ready to pry his mouth open and look inside.
Cryer finally opened his mouth.
“The brand started throbbing suddenly.”
“What?!”
Startled, Olivia instinctively reached for his collarbone, but froze at his next words:
“Right after you grabbed my arm.”
Blinking rapidly, Olivia slowly withdrew her hand and took a step back. Shrinking her round shoulders, she asked softly:
“Was it… because of me?”
“Who knows. I don’t have enough information to be sure.”
At his casual response, Olivia seemed to accept it and relaxed, though she didn’t reach out again.
“That makes sense. Does it still hurt?”
Standing on her toes with her hands behind her back, as if to resist the urge to touch him, she looked up at Cryer. He gave a slight chuckle and pushed her smooth forehead gently.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore. More importantly, the grand conference ended well, didn’t it? The King of Norden’s death was ruled an accident.”
Though the topic shift was abrupt, Olivia didn’t press him further. She simply responded naturally.
“The conference ended without much trouble, but…”
She narrowed her eyes at him and trailed off.
“Ah, the people loitering around the palace…”
When Cryer nodded, so did Olivia.
“Right. Rumors are spreading that the princess has taken a concubine and is planning to marry soon. That’s why His Majesty is angry.”
Of course, the emperor wasn’t one to believe idle gossip. In fact, he had summoned her after the conference to confirm things personally.
“I trust you.”
Those words weren’t lies. But trusting her and punishing her for failing to clean up properly were two different matters.
“A concubine, huh.”
Cryer glanced at the small, fragile-looking Olivia walking beside him and was reminded again—she was a princess. She hardly behaved like one around him, so he kept forgetting. Olivia continued, picking out less-traveled paths.
“By the way, you’re also very good at disguising yourself, or transforming, or whatever it is you’re doing.”
She didn’t know when or how it happened, but Cryer was also in disguise—perhaps even transformed. His moonlike silver hair and dark red eyes were now hidden under a black wig, and his clothing, wherever he got it from, looked so plain it bordered on shabby. The rough, wild aura that used to surround him was gone too. Now he just looked like an unusually tall, ordinary man.
“Even if no one recognizes me, I still draw attention. And…”
“And?”
Olivia stopped as Cryer halted.
**“Looks like we’ve arrived.”
“What?”
Following his gaze, Olivia looked ahead—just thick overgrown bushes. A common sight on the outskirts of the capital. But then Cryer spoke again, and Olivia’s blue eyes grew cold.
“I smell blood.”
Meanwhile…
Back when Olivia was tugging on Cryer’s sleeve, the royal palace of Norden was in chaos, bustling with preparations for the sudden funeral of the recently deceased king.
“That’s not it!”
“It takes at least a month to prepare the tapestries—”
“We don’t have that kind of time! Use something else or finish it in ten days!”
The servants weren’t just in a rush—they looked like they were literally walking on fire. The king’s sudden death meant there had been no time to prepare for a national funeral, but the crown prince had issued the command:
“Prepare the state funeral immediately.”
Who would dare defy that order? With his authority uncontested, there was no bloody succession war—the prince was already as good as king.
Too busy to visit the dining hall, the servants began eating lunch in the hallways. Lightheaded and parched from running around all day, one tore bread into pieces and dunked it into soup.
“I wish I could sleep like the dead.”
The others nodded weakly and stuffed bread into their mouths. One servant, dazed, recalled how the crown prince had rushed the funeral. His gaze drifted to a small, orange-red carrot on the tip of his fork—and with it came a chain of thoughts: the prince, and the stunning woman always at his side—Greta.
“That woman… she has hair like this orange carrot.”
He muttered so quietly even he could barely hear it, then started shaking his head. He’d been too busy to think straight, but—yes, that woman was strange. Greta and those close to her had somehow embedded themselves in the royal family’s inner circle. No one knew when they’d arrived or who they really were.
It wasn’t the nobles who sensed the unease. It was the servants—because the sorcerer’s magic never affected them.
As the servant stabbed the carrot with his fork, he spoke again.
“Isn’t it a bit strange?”
His sudden comment caught the attention of the others.
“What is?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s just… how should I say this…”
But his words trailed off. It was hard to even describe who—or what—the sorcerer was. No noble title, no official rank. Always beside the king, but never called by name. Eventually, the servant spoke again:
“We haven’t seen him since the king died, have we?”
He didn’t say “the sorcerer,” but the others nodded. The man’s constant presence by the king had been so natural.
“You’re right. I haven’t seen him lately either.”
“Now that you mention it… he was always there before…”
Before anyone could finish their sentence, a long shadow fell over them.
“Sounds like you’re having a fun conversation.”
“Ah, it’s not fun, just… it felt strange that he disappeared right after the king’s death…”
The servant trailed off as he lifted his head—orange hair was swaying in front of him. Faces went pale. They dropped their food and jumped to their feet.
As always, she wasn’t alone.
“Greta.”
At the crown prince’s call, Greta gave a small nod and swept her eyes over the servants. Her gaze was cold and reptilian, like a snake’s scales. The servants instinctively lowered their heads.
“You were discussing strange things, weren’t you?”
She didn’t raise her voice or even frown, but—
Gulp.
The servants swallowed dryly, in unison.
After looking at every single one of them, Greta spoke again.
“Speaking carelessly about palace matters…”
Technically, she wasn’t wrong. But Greta was never officially part of the palace. And the servants were simply chatting during lunch on a quiet hallway, not even badmouthing anyone.
Still, no one dared correct Greta—not when the crown prince stood beside her, staring coldly at them without blinking.
Greta leaned closer to him and whispered,
“There must be consequences for speaking carelessly.”
Her voice was so low only he could hear.
“Isn’t that right, Your Highness?”
The prince looked down at the servants with a serene gaze and spoke.
“There must be consequences for speaking carelessly.”
Their eyes widened in terror as he issued the command.
“Kill them all right here.”
As if ordering the cleanup of garbage.
Knights who had somehow encircled the area unsheathed their swords and, without giving the servants even a chance to plead, beheaded every last one.
After confirming the last body had fallen, Greta’s shoes were stained with blood. But she merely smiled.
In the blood-scented hallway, the crown prince stood still with empty eyes as Greta whispered into his ear:
“Send a messenger to the Empire.”
