TPWTL 97

#97. Even Better

“Since you’ve got a free hand too, miss, you should hold on.”

“Yes!”

Without asking a single question, Angveuh immediately clasped Isaac’s hand.

Though he had been the one to extend his hand first, Isaac hadn’t expected her to take it so readily, so naturally. For a split second, he flinched, then cleared his throat and deliberately looked away from Angveuh’s bright, sparkling eyes as he asked:

“How is it? Does it hurt?”

He hadn’t asked because he truly believed it might hurt.

After all—couldn’t that be absurd? Holding Angveuh’s hand would make the brand ache?

The brand could certainly hurt. Isaac had already heard what it was, so even if light were to shine from it, he would have accepted it without much surprise.

But that it should hurt simply by being close to or holding someone’s hand?

If Sugar hadn’t been a child, if Isaac hadn’t known of the years he had lived and the curse he bore, he would have immediately scoffed at such nonsense.

Yet, to his question, Sugar hesitated… then nodded.

“Y-yes… it hurts.”

“What? It hurts?”

At Sugar’s answer, Angveuh instantly loosened her grip, worry written all over her face.

Since she’d been told holding hands hurt, of course her intention was to let go, and Sugar didn’t resist—he obediently released her hand.

As soon as Angveuh let go, she asked:

“Does it not hurt anymore?”

Naturally, the pain should vanish once the cause was removed.

“Um…”

Meeting Angveuh’s eyes, which brimmed only with concern, Sugar whispered faintly, like the crawl of an ant.

Isaac’s brow furrowed as he watched.

As the heir to the name of Akendel, Isaac excelled at gathering information and judging its reliability—in short, discerning truth from lies in what people said.

This was no lie.

The child truly felt pain from the brand. Even when he wasn’t holding Angveuh’s hand, he still hurt.

Could it be because I was holding him?

Isaac discreetly released Sugar’s hand.

It had been an impulsive act, provoked by the way Angveuh and the child squealed together—but if this had caused him pain, even Isaac’s faint conscience ached.

The moment the rough, dry, lukewarm warmth around his hand disappeared, Sugar instinctively snapped his head up to look at Isaac.

Isaac, his foxlike eyes fixed not on the boy but on the brand near his ribs, tapped Sugar lightly on the nose and said:

“You said it hurts. It’s not because you’re holding my hand, but just in case.”

His tone was blunt, and his words could have sounded like an excuse, shifting responsibility away from himself.

But Sugar could only open and close his mouth, unable to speak.

Though it wasn’t as clear as Angveuh’s, Isaac’s gaze and gestures carried concern for him.

Surely Isaac must dislike me.

But since Sugar kept watching him nervously, Isaac finally sighed deeply and told him:

“It’s only because of orders that I’m by your side—you don’t need to look so anxious. Gods, this tiny thing, burdened with being some ‘ancient god’… ridiculous.”

Oddly enough, after saying that, the sense of distance vanished. He only looked uncomfortable when Angveuh pressed too close.

Come to think of it, the three of them being together like this wasn’t quite “ordinary,” but it was far more natural than before.

The moment that thought crossed Sugar’s mind, the brand suddenly flared with pain.

And yet Isaac smiled.

“You say it hurts, so why are you smiling? Is it not the brand but your head that aches?”

Startled, Isaac nearly took a step back, but he barely held his ground for the child’s sake. Angveuh chimed in:

“Sugar, are you okay now?”

“Yes. Yes.”

It was a lie. The brand hurt worse than when they had been holding hands.

As though it were threatening him—Will you still keep smiling between Isaac and Angveuh like this?

His ribs burned with searing pain, but the smile on Sugar’s lips didn’t fade.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, so… won’t you both hold my hands again?”

Then, shameless even to himself, he stretched out both hands toward Angveuh and Isaac.

But Angveuh hesitated. She couldn’t grab his hand as carelessly as before—not after hearing it hurt him.

Her hesitation lasted only a moment.

“Ah—!”

Isaac snatched Sugar’s hand first, then guided Angveuh’s hand onto the other.

Watching the faint tremor in Sugar’s eyes, as though he were enduring the pain, Isaac narrowed his foxlike gaze even further.

The child was already in pain before Angveuh touched him, even while insisting it didn’t hurt.

And yet he still wanted to hold their hands—there must be a reason.

Or rather…

Suppressing a sigh, Isaac felt a rare discomfort as he read the feelings Sugar couldn’t quite hide.

Yes. That was it, wasn’t it?

The way Sugar looked at Angveuh and himself—exactly the way he had once looked at the man connected to him by blood, before that man had been exposed as filth. It was the gaze one gives to family.

Angveuh might not have noticed, but Isaac had seen it at once.

Not just because he bore the name of Akendel and had spent a lifetime watching people—

—but because people know best what they themselves lack.

Though he carried the name, Isaac had been all but cast out by his family. His memories of nights spent crying over the thought of “family” were from long ago, in his earliest childhood.

That was why he recognized more keenly than anyone the look in Sugar’s eyes, that longing for family, the conflict and emotion bound up in it.

And when that gaze turned toward him—it felt unfamiliar, awkward, almost unbearably embarrassing, as if he wanted to pretend not to notice.

Yes, embarrassing. Without realizing it, Isaac nearly rubbed at the ticklish ache in his chest, only to recall he had no free hand. So instead, he opened his mouth:

“If it hurts, say so right away. I’ll always hold your hand.”

Reading the concern beneath his brusque words, Sugar smiled brightly.

“Even if it hurts… I like holding hands more.”

And in that moment—none of them noticed that the once sharply etched edges of Sugar’s brand had blurred ever so faintly, almost imperceptibly.

“Good. Then, two days from now.”

Olivia, having made her decision, moved her pen without hesitation. The official document was carried by a servant toward the palace where Greta resided.

“As Your Highness commands.”

Greta replied with a blank face, while Keslan, standing behind her, struggled to hide his complicated expression.

That night, after Olivia summoned Greta to the princess’s palace two days hence—

Greta was suffering the side effects of having overexerted her powers by turning Keslan into a puppet and erasing his memories.

On her bed, she would curl up stiffly, then suddenly stretch out, her hands and feet clenching so hard her blood circulation faltered, only to snap open again.

Unable to control her own body, she drenched the sheets with sweat, writhing in agony.

Only make one puppet. More than that is beyond control.

Her father’s voice, as if scratching against her cleansed ears, thundered from some distant place.

Soaked in sweat, enduring a splitting headache, Greta suddenly screamed unconsciously:

“Aaahhh!”

—Bang!

“What has happened!”

At her shriek, Keslan burst through the door without knocking.

He quickly scanned the room, taking in Greta’s half-unconscious gaze from the bed, then swept the surroundings for intruders or threats in the blink of an eye.

Finding none, he immediately shouted toward the hall:

“Summon the court physician!”

Servants hurried at his command, and before long the physician was examining Greta.

“For now, I’ve administered fever reducers and painkillers.”

Her screams had not ceased after the first outburst, echoing through the palace until she was sedated. Only then did the cries vanish.

The physician stepped out, wiping his sweat, while Greta lay drugged into unconsciousness.

“Thankfully, she has only fallen asleep for now. But if she worsens tomorrow, we must examine her in earnest.”

“Yes. I’ll inform you immediately.”

“Good, I’ll also alert my colleagues. We sometimes see such cases when diplomats first arrive at the Empire.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes, leaving their homelands can… well, cause strain.”

Though the physician explained further, none of it reached Keslan’s ears. His mind was elsewhere.

“…and if it were a tropical disease…”

“There’s something I wish to ask.”

Interrupting, Keslan’s voice cut off the rambling explanation.

“Ah—of course.”

“Is it possible… for someone to lose just part of their memory?”

“…Pardon?”

The question was so suddenly grave, yet so oddly out of place, that the physician wondered if he had misheard.

Though bewildered, Keslan pressed on, suppressing his own cautious nature:

“I asked whether someone could lose only a portion of their memory.”

“Well… yes. It is possible. As you say, partial memory loss can occur.”

Doctors even had a name for it: amnesia.

“After severe external shock, or traumatic psychological experience, parts of memory may indeed vanish—”

“No. That’s not what I mean.”

“…Excuse me?”

Keslan cut him off with a firm wave of his hand before he could finish.

“Not like that. Never mind. You’ve worked hard even at this late hour—please, you may go.”

Called here, asked a strange question, and then dismissed—the physician might have resisted, but he knew better.

This was a knight of the Empire—no, the famed successor to the knight commander himself.

When told to go, one went.

If she had shown signs of true illness, he would have insisted on staying. But, by chance, the knights’ medical examinations had been completed just days ago.

“…Very well then.”

As the physician departed, Keslan let out a long, heavy sigh and straightened his back.

No matter how troubled his mind, the discipline of a knight’s bearing would not crumble.

Yet he could not ignore the chaos in his thoughts. In a voice barely audible even to himself, he murmured:

“In the blink of an eye, hours had passed… and in that span, I remember nothing at all. That makes no sense.”