It was three days later when Lucas finally regained consciousness.
By some stroke of luck, his vocal cords had escaped permanent damage, leaving his speech largely unimpaired. The aftermath of the wound, however, surfaced in an unexpected way.
Lucas had no memory of how he had been hurt. While he had not forgotten everything, a significant gap seemed to have opened in his life from the age of sixteen onward.
“Considering that his cervical vertebrae were nearly crushed, it is nothing short of a miracle that the consequences are limited to this,” the High Priest said with a sigh of relief after thoroughly examining Lucas’s condition.
“In the worst case, he could have suffered total paralysis or cognitive impairment so severe he could no longer tell right from wrong. In Lord Lucas’s case, however, there appear to be no lingering symptoms beyond this partial memory loss.”
Murmurs of relief rose from those gathered around the bed. Yet Lucas himself seemed unable to accept the High Priest’s verdict.
Lying crooked against the pillows, his frame gaunt, Lucas grimaced and muttered under his breath.
“My head feels like a jumbled mess, as if someone hacked it to pieces. What part of that is a miracle?”
His voice had grown lower and raspier than before. A deep crease settled between his brows, clearly vexed by the change.
“Even my voice sounds like this.”
“I thought you were going to die.”
Raina, who had been sitting beside the bed weeping the entire time, blew her nose into a handkerchief.
“I was terrified you wouldn’t be in your right mind even if you woke up. I’m just so grateful it only left you slightly stupider than usual.”
Lucas glared at his younger sister through narrowed eyes.
“Is that supposed to comfort me?”
Though he clicked his tongue in disbelief, he gently stroked the head of his sister, who could not stem her tears.
Varkas, who had been watching from the doorway, stepped toward the bed and spoke.
“Do you truly remember nothing of how you were injured?”
Lucas looked up at him, bewildered. His eyes, usually a bright amber, were clouded with a dull, muddy brown.
“I…”
As Lucas strained to sift through his memories, he abruptly clutched his temples and let out a low groan.
At that, Raina jumped up and threw her arms around his head.
“You don’t have to remember!”
Whirling on Varkas, she snapped sharply.
“Lucas was unconscious for nearly fifteen days and has only just opened his eyes! Is there any reason you must force him to relive the moment he nearly died right now?”
Flustered, Lucas tugged at his sister’s sleeve to hold her back, but Raina stood her ground.
Varkas looked down at them with his arms crossed over his chest, then stepped back from the bed with a low sigh.
“Rest until you have fully recovered. Baredon will handle your duties for the time being.”
The crease between Lucas’s brows deepened again. He seemed barely able to recall what duties had been his to begin with.
Watching his brother’s face glisten with cold sweat from the blinding headache, Varkas turned and left the room without another word.
In the corridor outside, vassals drawn by the news of Lucas regaining consciousness had gathered in clusters.
Varkas brushed past them indifferently and started down the stairs. It was then that the Head Maid called out urgently to halt him.
“Your Grace.”
Varkas paused on the final step and looked back.
The sturdy woman hurried forward, her face taut with strain, and spoke with caution.
“Now that Lord Lucas has awakened safely, will you lift the Grand Duchess’s confinement?”
Varkas frowned.
Having spent the past several days harried by vassals demanding harsher retribution for the Grand Duchess, a sharp rebuke slipped out instinctively.
“Since when has the Head Maid held the station to question how the Grand Duchess is handled?”
At the cold reprimand, the woman’s square shoulders stiffened.
Varkas cast a chilling glance over her pale face before turning to continue down the stairs. He intended to cross the hall and leave the castle, but the Head Maid rushed after him once more.
“I—I know I am overstepping my bounds. But…”
Having dared to bar his path, she faltered, her face pale with dread.
Varkas looked down at her with undisguised annoyance.
Lacking the courage to meet his eyes, the woman kept her gaze fixed on the floor, the words tumbling out of her in a rush.
“I bring this to you because I fear something terrible will happen if the Grand Duchess is left as she is. Could you not reconsider her situation?”
Varkas’s brows rose at the unexpected plea.
No one in this castle looked upon Talia with favor, viewing her as the root of every disaster that had struck in succession. This Head Maid was no different.
Though she had never displayed her disdain as openly as the vassals, he knew she found the Grand Duchess repellent. He had retained her solely because she had never neglected her duties.
To begin with, few could bear to serve Talia, who bristled like a hedgehog, wounding anyone who drew near.
For that very reason, he had chosen attendants known for immense patience and a relentless sense of duty.
The Head Maid had been among those handpicked. For such a woman to step forward in desperation meant something grave was amiss.
His expression turned severe, his tone darkening.
“What is wrong with her?”
“Ever since she was moved to the Annex… she has refused to eat.”
At the hesitant reply, Varkas’s face twisted slightly.
Clenching his fists, he stared out past the frost-bitten garden. Near the gates, his men stood waiting in line for his departure. He was due in the council hall this morning. A mountain of administrative affairs awaited him, including the appointment of new lords to oversee the Northeast. He had no patience left to indulge her tantrums.
He replied coldly.
“It is hardly the first time the Grand Duchess has starved herself.”
The Head Maid pressed her lips into a tight, hard line.
Turning his back on her, he stepped toward the outer doors.
“Leave her be. She will tire of it soon enough.”
As his boot touched the steps outside, her voice rang out behind him, sharp with distress.
“It is not like before! I have risked your displeasure to report this only because the matter is dire!”
Varkas froze in his tracks.
The woman hurried to his side, her expression grim.
“According to her personal maids, she has not swallowed a single drop of water, let alone food. In the past, she would at least take mead or dried fruit, but now she ingests nothing at all. If she remains like this, I fear something catastrophic will happen…”
Her voice trailed away into heavy silence.
He stood rigid, like an animal caught in a snare, eyes fixed on the frozen ground.
How long did he remain there? In the end, he spat a low curse and spun around.
“Tell the vassals the council is postponed.”
He strode straight past the main castle toward the Annex on the northern edge of the fortress.
Past the outer structures that hemmed the inner bailey, a three-story building nestled in the rear garden came into view.
Startled by the Grand Duke’s sudden appearance, the guards stationed outside scrambled to push away from the wall and snap to attention.
Varkas swept past them and entered the building. Just inside, young maids were clustered together, trimming produce.
“Where is the Grand Duchess?”
At his curt demand, the maids jumped to their feet as if struck by a whip.
“W-we greet Your Grace.”
Bowing her head hurriedly, one maid stammered out an answer.
“Her—Her Grace is in the bedchamber on the second floor.”
Varkas took the wooden stairs two at a time. At the end of the narrow corridor stood the bedroom door of red mahogany.
He reached out and pulled the latch.
With a low creak, the interior of the dim room emerged through the widening seam.
He strode straight to the window and ripped open the heavy curtains. The winter sunlight cut through the glass, falling across the bed. When Varkas turned to look, his breath caught in his throat.
In mere days, she had wasted away to nearly nothing.
He took in the paper-white face, stripped of all life, the fragile neck lined with prominent blue veins, and the sunken frame swallowed by the tangled folds of her dress. A strangled rasp forced its way past his lips.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
The woman, sprawled like a discarded doll, slowly lifted her heavy eyelids. A sudden chill swept through his limbs.
After staring at him with eyes as bleak as a tomb, she lowered her gaze again. Turning her back to him, she murmured in a voice that seemed ready to crumble into dust.
“…Leave me be.”
At the sight, the anger he had held in check violently erupted.
He seized her shoulder and hauled her roughly around to face him.
“I asked you,” he snarled, “what do you think you’re doing?”
The woman did not flinch. She merely stared back with vacant eyes, as though she could not comprehend why he was so furious.
END