TPWTL 95

TPWTL

Posted by Tommy Vercetti, Released on September 10, 2025

#95. I Have No Intention of Being Apart from You

In the blink of an eye, the person he was guarding had gone pale, sweat pouring down her face like rain.

And then—

“Are you all right?”

Contrasting with her deathly white complexion, bright red blood began to trickle from her nose.

Keslan, moving so quickly it was barely visible, handed her a handkerchief. But Greta’s arms didn’t move.

To him, it looked as though she was refusing, which only unsettled him further. But in truth, Greta hadn’t refused his handkerchief at all.

She simply didn’t even have the strength to lift a finger.

If she’d had the strength, she would have wiped away the foul metallic blood staining her lips.

Though she usually didn’t shy away from the stench of blood, this was different—this was the stench of failure.

It had all happened in just the span of a few blinks, but Keslan carefully assessed her condition and concluded she wasn’t about to die.

He placed the unused handkerchief gently beside her and began to scan the room.

As always, he searched the air itself for anything unusual, anything abnormal. But soon, his composure cracked.

More shaken now than he had been by Greta’s sudden collapse, he realized he could find no trace of an attack.

Of course. There hadn’t been one.

But if it wasn’t an attack, then what had reduced her to this state in mere moments?

He examined the room again and again but found nothing out of place.

Then, just as he turned back toward Greta and their eyes met—

He saw it.

Something strange, unnatural, unearthly.

It was so ominous, so repulsive, it was impossible to describe.

A sense far beyond the usual unease he always felt when stepping into this room.

Every one of his senses screamed in alarm, warning him that what he was seeing was dangerous.

The diplomat he had found suspicious before entering the room no longer seemed human—just a shell containing something horribly twisted.

Keslan fought down the instinct to gag, forced his face blank, and bowed slowly.

“…I beg forgiveness for failing to protect you.”

Greta said nothing. She simply waved her hand weakly.

Her head felt as though it were on fire. Her eyes throbbed so badly she wanted to tear them out, and now even her ears rang with a piercing hum.

“…Leave.”

Her voice was faint, barely audible, but Keslan, attuned to her every sound, understood immediately.

“Shall I summon the court physician—”

“No…! Wait. Yes. Call him.”

She had snapped sharply at first, then reversed herself just as quickly.

Her condition was far too severe not to call a physician—it would only raise suspicion if she didn’t.

Even if she had erased his memory, she had to act naturally.

The spell she had placed on him was imperfect. Who knew when or how it might unravel?

She regretted trying to turn him into her puppet so hastily, but right now, she only wanted everything gone so she could rest.

The moment she gave permission, Keslan left the room.

It was faster to fetch help himself than to tug the bell rope for a servant.

Stepping into the hall, he spotted a passing servant.

“Summon a court physician. The Norden Kingdom’s diplomat is unwell.”

The servant hesitated, carefully choosing his words before replying.

“The physician assigned to this palace has already departed. I’ll fetch one from another wing.”

“Departed? Where to? Did something happen to him?”

The physicians assigned to foreign diplomats were always among the empire’s finest. The empire couldn’t risk even the suggestion that a foreign envoy might fall ill—or worse—while under their care.

And if something had happened to the physician, Keslan should have been informed immediately. Without one, his own responsibilities as bodyguard increased dramatically.

Yet he had heard nothing. His gaze turned sharp.

“Nothing happened, sir,” the servant said with a puzzled shake of the head.

“Then why call another—”

“Because his dismissal hour has already passed.”

Even a physician assigned to diplomats was not held past hours against his will. Leaving at the appointed time was perfectly ordinary.

Still, Keslan’s question made it seem odd. The servant didn’t press and simply added:

“I’ll fetch another physician as quickly as possible.”

Keslan’s expression twisted strangely, as though struck from behind.

But with his head bowed, the servant never noticed.

“Sir knight?”

“…Yes. Hurry.”

Watching the servant scurry away, Keslan muttered under his breath, still wearing that unsettled expression.

“Dismissal hour? That much time has passed already?”

He had only been in Greta’s room for a short while.

And yet, somehow, a large span of time had vanished from his memory.

“You said the brand hurts sometimes.”

“Yes.”

Olivia’s eyes fixed on Cryer’s collarbone—specifically, on the brand etched there.

“Why do you think that is? If it’s not only you, but Suga too, then there must be some common factor.”

She remembered the night she’d gone through the shadows to question Suga about his brand.

Just as she was leaving, Suga had hesitantly stopped her.

‘It might be nothing… but it has to do with the brand.’

‘If it’s about the brand, nothing is trivial. Tell me anything.’

Encouraged by Olivia’s firm tone, Suga had rubbed at his brand and confessed:

‘It hurt.’

‘When? Since when?’

‘Recently. Well… back when my parents were alive, it hurt often. But afterward, not at all. Only lately has it started again.’

‘And now?’

At that, Suga had brightened into a smile, shaking his head.

‘No. It doesn’t hurt now.’

‘Good. I’m glad.’

‘So I thought about it…’

He had remembered: while mention of his parents sometimes caused pain, there was something else that triggered it more often.

Fidgeting nervously with his small fingers, Suga had admitted:

‘I think it hurts when I’m with Lady Ruir.’

‘What? Me?’

Olivia recalled Ambre’s bewildered face as she had pointed to her own chest. Her brows furrowed deeply.

“What’s going on? He hurts when he’s with Ambre? But you said it hurts when you’re with me. Could it be Amb—”

“It never hurt with her.”

Before she could even finish, Cryer cut her off flatly.

The speed of his denial made Olivia narrow her eyes suspiciously. He only smiled faintly and pointed to the brand.

“It has only ever hurt when I was with you.”

Depending on how one heard it, his words could sound strangely… intimate.

Only Olivia could make him hurt.

Technically, it was the brand that hurt—but since Cryer himself couldn’t remember pain, the only person capable of making him feel any trace of it, body or soul, was her.

And wasn’t such meaning usually reserved for lovers—those who saw each other as their one and only?

Not that either of them was thinking of each other that way.

Olivia took his words literally.

“So basically, I’m the reason you’re in pain.”

Unwittingly the cause of his suffering, she stomped her foot in frustration.

Like a rabbit thumping its hind leg when annoyed—so cute, so unbearably cute—that Cryer couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Don’t laugh! No, wait—let me ask properly. When exactly does it hurt? Is it constant whenever we’re together, or—”

She trailed off, her eyes dimming with worry.

“…Don’t tell me it’s constant?”

“No. So don’t make that face.”

Reading the fear behind her expression, he added firmly:

“And don’t even think of that look—like we should stay apart because of it.”