[WARNING: VIOLENCE, GORE, SEXUAL THEMES]
"I see. They're good friends with the church…" Van murmured, exhaling as he spoke to Marcy.
But his gaze had already shifted—locked onto Amoria who drew near with Lalyn.
His expression didn't change.
But for a brief moment—his fingers curled slightly at his side.
A small pause. A shift in his breathing.
Something in his eyes hardened—then smoothed over almost instantly.
"Van? You here?" Marcy's voice pulled him back.
He blinked.
"What is it?" His voice was steady. Unchanged.
Marcy frowned slightly but continued. "They have to be killed, Van," she said, blunt as ever. "They'll just be pardoned if we let them be."
Van inhaled, "Fine," he exhaled evenly, then, turning to her—
"I'll handle it."
A beat. A pause so small it was almost imperceptible.
"And… do me a favor."
--- LATER ---
"You're so forward," Amoria murmured, eyes flickering between their entwined arms as they navigated the capital's streets toward the Holy Church. "Was it really that important to talk to me?"
"It was, among other things," Van replied, his tone unreadable.
Amoria tilted her head. "Other things? We're not talking right now?"
Van offered her a small, knowing smile.
"Later. Right now, I know you're occupied, so I'll just escort you."
"...I see." She lowered her gaze, a solemn smile playing on her lips.
A minute of silence passed between them, their footsteps echoing against the stone streets.
"How are you feeling?" Amoria finally asked.
"I feel fine," Van said simply.
"Van." Amoria sighed, tightening her grip around his arm slightly. "If you're really going to walk with me like this… holding my arm this way—can you at least be truthful?"
Van's expression didn't shift.
"I feel normal," he said. "But the reason I hold your arm and escorting you isn't because I need a heart-to-heart. Or because I want to tell you how I felt having to kill them."
Amoria pressed her lips into a thin line.
"Then why?" she asked, voice quiet. "To make amends for yesterday? To... Maybe apologize for disrespecting the Goddess's will?"
"No." Van shook his head, not missing a beat or even questioning Amoria's fixation over the Goddess. "I just want to be here for you. You've carried quite a lot, haven't you?"
A slight tremor ran through her fingers as she clenched her free hand into her gown.
"...What's that supposed to mean?" she whispered, frustration creeping into her voice. "Just... why are you so cryptic?"
Van studied her for a beat longer, his gaze subtly shifting—just for a moment—to a spot slightly above her head.
"It means Magus controlled you," he finally said, voice softer. "But despite that, you fought him off until the bitter end. If only he didn't exist… I bet we'd still be together today."
"Don't say that." The rejection was instant, sharp. "He still gave me Liz. He made me strong. And… while crude, and questionable, he was still there for me." Her grip tightened against his sleeve.
"You weren't. You were only part of my life for a fraction of what he was. Despite everything, before you ran."
Van inhaled deeply, as if steadying himself.
"Right. I almost forgot, you—"
"...I what?" Her voice was wary, her body tensing.
Van examined her carefully.
"...Nevermind." His voice was quiet. "Just know that everything is going to be okay."
Amoria exhaled sharply, turning her gaze away from him.
'Really... What is it with him today...?' she thought, feeling an odd mixture of exasperation and something else she couldn't quite name.
'The years have been rough for you, haven't they?'
She scoffed internally, her mind running bitter. 'You can't see beyond yourself. Saying something so careless, when you don't know the extent of others' anguish... Saying those words.'
And yet, his touch felt warmer this time.
A memory flickered—the way he had responded when she questioned whether the Brayles should be killed. While everyone else had judged her, he hadn't.
Despite her conflicts, despite her doubts—she clutched his arm tighter.
Then, her voice broke the silence.
"Say…" Amoria murmured. "How did you know the Duke was guilty? That Bernard was the one controlling our girls?"
Her grip on his arm tightened.
"I have to know, Van. For me, and for Liz."
Van met her gaze, carefully weighing his words.
"Bernard boasted about it to Michael next to me, thinking I was some weak idiot," he finally said, his expression unreadable. "I guess Untrusted worked in my favor, huh?"
Amoria's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Is that… the truth?" she pressed.
"100%." Van nodded. "I also told Marcy to keep Michael at the Guild. I still need to debrief him." His voice remained steady.
"It's your kid, Amoria. And you." His tone deepened. "When something this grand is tied to either of you, I won't pull any punches if it means keeping you safe."
His words should have sounded reassuring.
But they felt hollow.
Then again… so did everything else he had told her in this timeframe.
Amoria lowered her gaze.
"I see… It's tragic, in a way... Your passive, again. And Marcy said that Melanie had a panic attack when she saw all that blood, and couldn't breathe... Good thing that it wasn't anything serious." she murmured. "The poor girl."
"But I'm grateful. Thank you. Really..."
Then, the church came into view. A grand, gothic monolith of stone, towering above the city like a monument to faith and control. It was reminiscent of the one she had taken Van to before—to remove the runes Salem had carved into his body.
But this one was far, far bigger.
Dozens of priestesses and women in modest yet ornate robes moved in measured steps, their hushed voices weaving through the air. They gathered at the foot of the massive, open doorway, their presence both serene and suffocating.
Amoria exhaled.
"Well… you escorted me." Her voice was quieter than before, almost reluctant.
Slowly, she let go of his arm—a hesitation in the movement, as if she expected him to hold on.
Van didn't.
"I have," he affirmed, his tone steady. "I won't be gone for long. And I won't leave until I've resolved your issues. Don't worry."
"Okay," Amoria murmured.
But she was already drowning out his words, dismissing them as empty reassurances, as nothing more than an attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity; as she's well aware Van has lots of insecurities. And she currently didn't have the capacity to bear them.
She gave him a hollow smile, one that never reached her eyes, and turned away—disappearing into the sea of priestesses.
Van remained outside, watching her go.
His gaze darkened.
Not at her.
At the church.
------
When Van returned sixteen years later, my knees gave out beneath me. Because... it wasn't just that he reminded me of Magus.
It was that I could love him, despite what the Goddess urged me to do. To me—he represented freedom... And healing. That I could heal his heart. With him, I truly felt like a priestess every time I gave him attention and care.
I thought that if you came back… if I just saw you again—I'd finally be free.
Like that time, when you rescued me.
Like that moment, when you pulled me from that cursed place, where all my past party members died.
But, Van—I'm still standing in that trap.
And you… you can't see it. So you can't save me. You're not there with me, so I can't help you either...
And I know it's not your fault, because you've been through so much, you can only see your own wounds. Your own suffering.
That's okay.
Amoria clutched her knees, burying her face against them; surrounded by darkness and corpses.
But Van—if you keep telling me that you're here for me, when you can't even see me… When no one can… I'll just raise my head in expectation.
And when I do—when I reach for that light—I'll only see the darkness again.
So please… Don't give me hope.
Just let me starve in peace.
----------------
Amoria stepped into the cathedral, letting out a slow, deep sigh.
Without hesitation, she reached for her robe—slipping it off her shoulders, letting it fall open.
The heavy fabric pooled at her elbows as she stepped forward, her bare skin prickling against the cool air. She left it hanging by the door.
Her eyes were vacant, hollow as she walked down the aisle—past dozens of rows of benches, past the towering statues of saints and the Goddess herself.
With each step, the scent thickened in the air.
Sweat. Musk. Sex.
The faint burn of aphrodisiac incense lingered at the back of her throat.
At the end of the hall, just a few meters from the grand altar, she lowered herself to her knees.
Slowly, she bowed her head.
"I greet the Grand Bishop," she murmured, her voice flat, empty.
The answer was not words.
It was the sound of wet, squelching flesh meeting her ears. The heavy, labored breathing of bodies in motion.
She didn't have to look up to know what she would see, but she was given no choice.
"Look up." The command came, and the crest on her breast burned. A sharp, searing pain. A reminder. A leash.
Her head snapped upward. The sight before her was one she had seen too many times before.
The Grand Bishop sat at his throne—surrounded by flesh; a woman knelt between his legs, her head bobbing rhythmically.
Two more curled into him, perched on either of his knees, licking at his face and ears.
Another stood behind him, her hands digging into his shoulders, massaging his tension away.
And above them all—the great statue of the Goddess loomed.
Watching.
Always watching.
"Good evening, Bishop," Amoria murmured, her voice soft, lifeless. "How are you feeling today?"
Her tone was even, but her gaze betrayed her for a single second— flickering toward the woman at his lap. The Bishop exhaled a deep, satisfied sigh, leaning back as his fingers combed through a woman's hair.
"You tell me how I feel, Amoria." His eyes were already on her. Cold. Expectant.
"You failed to stop their deaths," he said, lazily rolling his shoulders. "Duke Von Brayle was a good friend of mine." The air tightened. A muscle in Amoria's jaw twitched, her body tensing instinctively.
"I'm... terribly sorry, Bishop," she whispered. "I really tried, but… if I pressed any harder, the others would have grown suspicious." Her fingers curled into her lap.
"Please..."
The Bishop let out a long, heavy sigh—as if she were exhausting him.
"Haah… just tell me." His voice was smooth, but beneath it, there was something sharp. Something dangerous.
"How did Van Hellix know about their involvement? That they were the ones responsible for the branding?" His eyes narrowed slightly. "Be truthful. That's an order."
A jolt of pain.
The crest on her skin burned—a violent, scorching heat spreading through her chest.
Amoria swallowed hard.
"...He confidently stated that Bernard boasted about it to Michael, believing him to be a weakling due to his Untrusted passive skill," she said, her voice steady despite the pain.
"He trusts me. His trust in me seems to have deepened for some reason. He wouldn't lie."
For a long moment, the Bishop said nothing. Then, he exhaled sharply.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
"I see." His fingers tapped against the armrest of his seat.
"So, in the end, it was all due to the brat's incompetence and need for validation." A slow smirk curled at his lips.
"How dull."
The Bishop let out a slow, languid breath.
"Fine. I forgive you..."
Amoria exhaled, a quiet, trembling sigh of relief—
"But the Goddess won't."
His voice was smooth, almost gentle, but his gaze glowed unnaturally, pinning her in place. Her breath hitched—Her pulse pounded in her ears.
"No..." She let out.
"Though, don't you worry." His lips curled, as if amused. "She doesn't claim too high a payment." He tilted his head.
"She just wants you to dedicate yourself fully."
Amoria swallowed hard.
"Please," she whispered. "Please… at least let her recover—"
"Seventeen soon, isn't she?" The Bishop tapped a finger against his chin, as if in thought.
"Ripe…"
His eyes flickered with something darker.
"Ripe indeed to be a servant of the Goddess. To devote herself… just like her beautiful mother." His smirk deepened. "Who is, unfortunately…"
He sighed theatrically, shaking his head.
"Starting to grow too old for the Goddess's tastes." The words dug into her.
She then snapped.
"YOU DON'T NEED LIZZY!" Her voice rang through the cathedral.
Her fists slammed against the marble floor, shaking with fury.
"You have ME." Her breathing was ragged, desperate. She staggered to her feet, staring him down, her eyes wild with emotion.
"I am prettier than MOST—NO, ALL women in THE CAPITAL!" She threw her arms out, gesturing to herself.
"Even at my age, I remain youthful! More vibrant than ANYONE!" Her voice cracked.
"I take care of myself JUST FOR YOU. YOU DO NOT NEED LIZZY. She doesn't need to join the chur—"
"Silence." The word cut through her like a blade.
Her body seized as her lips snapped shut against her will.
The Bishop rose from his chair.
The women surrounding him stepped aside silently, their movements graceful, practiced.
His footsteps echoed against the cold marble as he strode toward her.
He stopped before her.
"Kneel." Came the order.
Her body betrayed her.
She sank to her knees, her breath trembling as her eyes met his obscene member before her.
She refused to look.
But she could smell it.
"You dare raise your voice at me?" His voice was calm. Soft.
Almost... Mocking.
"Here… in the Goddess's abode?"
Amoria's fingers dug into her lap. Her head bowed slightly, but her shoulders shook.
"If the next words out of your mouth are not a profound apology to both me and the mighty Goddess, I will rethink what to do with your precious daughter." A pause.
"Speak."
A shudder ran down her spine. Slowly—deliberately—she bowed her head, pressing her forehead against the cold floor.
Her voice came out as a whisper.
"Please… please…" Her shoulders trembled.
"Oh, Grand Bishop…"
Her voice quivered.
"I'm sorry for disrespecting you." Her fingers curled, nails pressing into the marble. "But please…" Her voice cracked.
"You have me. Please… let her be a child for a little longer… Please…"
She begged. The Bishop once more let the silence afterward linger in the air.
Then—
"You vile woman."
Amoria barely had time to react before he bent over her, his hand catching her chin effortlessly.
His fingers tilted her face up, forcing her to look into his deep, indulgent stare.
"You say this…" His thumb brushed against her cheek.
"…As if I were some cruel man."
He smiled, his voice lulling her into a false sense of calm.
"As if I concern myself with such earthly things as vanity."
His hand lingered for a beat too long, then—he leaned closer.
So close, she could feel his breath against her ear.
"But…" His voice dropped to a whisper.
"You are growing old."
A violent shudder ran through her. His fingers trailed away—cold, detached.
He straightened, his smile widening.
"And your daughter…"
His voice was smooth, almost amused.
"She's really ripe, you know?"
A quiet, lingering sneer followed as the Bishop licked his lips.
"Really… truly… ripe."
'No.'
'No… NO.'
'Lizzy… NO.'
'Please… Please… Anyone…'
Amoria broke into a cold sweat, her pulse pounding as the room began to spin. Her vision blurred at the edges.
'Save me…!'
'PLEASE—'
"The reason I didn't kill Bernard right away..." A voice rang through the cathedral. Cutting. Sharp. Decisive.
"Who—!?" The Bishop snapped toward the source.
Behind Amoria, at the doorway—he stood.
The same bloodied armor, still soaked from the massacre at the Von Brayle estate. But now—his face was no longer hidden.
Van's gaze swept the room—past the women, past the young girls amongst them, eventually landing on the Bishop.
His voice remained even. "... Was because I believed myself to be strong enough to solve this while managing to retain Melanie's innocence."
'Van..!'
Amoria's breath hitched as light returned to her face. She looked up from her knees, still trapped in that dark place—that deathtrap where she had believed no one would ever reach her.
But there he was. Reaching for her, all over again.
"You came for... me..?"
And in an instant, everything he had told her earlier struck her.
He had meant every word.
He could see her.
"VAN... HELLIX!"
The Bishop's voice rang out, filled with fury.
Van barely acknowledged it.
"That almost got her killed. Letting Bernard live, being considerate toward others while destroying your enemies almost got her killed." he continued. "And she was saved by sheer luck and convenience… And I—"
He lifted his sword.
"Never make the same mistake twice."
Van's eyes glowed.
The sword left his hand, bulleting through the air.
Steel tore through flesh.
The Bishop choked as the blade pierced his chest, impaling him against the Goddess's statue.
Blood trickled down the pristine marble.
"GAAAHHH!" He coughed, thick red spilling from his lips.
Van didn't move. His gaze remained fixed.
Behind him, Amoria staggered to her feet, compelled by the crest.
"HEAL THE BISHOP!" she shouted, her bare chest rising and falling with panicked breaths.
Her arm snapped forward, palm raised at Van. "STOP THE INTRUDE—"
"Rest for now, Amoria." Van's voice was soft.
In a blink, he appeared before her, pressing his thumb into the space between her shoulder and neck. The tension left her body as her limbs went limp.
For a brief moment—just before she slipped into unconsciousness—her face almost looked peaceful.
She surrendered to sleep.
Van turned back to the scene before him; the Bishop, pinned.
The women shielding him, bodies pressed against him in a final, desperate act of worship; most definitely due to the mark; he reasoned.
Van took a slow, deliberate step forward.
"I wanted to be sure." His voice was measured, composed.
"I escorted her here and decided to watch. To see if you had a trick up your sleeve before I intervened."
The women struck him, fists slamming against his armor, against his body, but he treated them as nothing. Like air. Like ants beneath his boots.
Unflinching. Unrelenting.
He moved them aside with the ease of brushing dust from his sleeve.
"But after a while…" he sighed, his expression unreadable. "I guess I snapped a little bit."
His gaze fell upon the Bishop, watching him drown in his own fear.
"So, instead of just killing you outright," Van tilted his head, his eyes gleaming in the dim cathedral light.
"I took away your ability to command."
The Bishop flinched.
Van stepped closer, his words sharp as a blade.
"Because I wanted you to feel it." His fingers twitched.
"Really…"
Van crouched.
"Really feel it." He growled.
And then he grabbed the Bishop's inner thighs.
The man screamed as Van began to pull.
Teeth crunched as the Bishop clamped his jaw down too hard, breaking them from the strain.
The first thing to snap was the tendons beneath his groin. The wet, ugly pop of muscle separating from bone.
The second was his scrotum, tearing open.
Blood spilled freely now, coating the floor beneath him, thick and steaming.
Then his groin. His rectum. More flesh split apart, wet and raw. The air filled with the scent of copper and filth as the Bishop lost control of his bladder.
Still, Van kept going.
Skin. Flesh. Bone.
The pelvis cracked open next.
His spine strained, his ribs bending, his organs spilling onto the blood-slick floor.
A single squelch.
Then another.
By now, the loyal women had stopped fighting.
They stared. Watched in horror.
One gagged. Another dropped to her knees, retching violently.
He was NEVER this angry before.
And he reveled in it.
The Bishop was still alive when his belly button split apart, his intestines slipping free from their cage of flesh.
The air was thick with death.
The scent of blood overpowered the incense of the aphrodisiac.
His inner skeleton was now visible. Spine. Pelvis. Ribcage. Shaking. Bloody.
And still, Van continued.
A final howl. One last wretched, strangled breath came from the Bishop.
The tear reached his chest.
The heart split.
A second passed. Then another.
The Bishop slumped. Unconscious.
Van watched. Waited.
Then, at last, he ended it.
With a single, decisive movement—Van ripped the body in two, tossing the halves aside.
The women didn't look at the Bishop's mangled corpse, they looked at themselves.
The slave crests on their breasts… were gone. The women were awestruck, thunderstruck, and terrified.
Van's gaze fell on Amoria as her breath hitched in sharp, uneven gasps.
Van could see it clearly.
A Veil of smoke choked her, coiling around her throat like a noose, from Van's perspective.
A deadman's switch, just like what Bernard did to Melanie in his final moments.
Only this one had been there for far, far longer. The Bishop had made sure—long ago—that if he couldn't have her… no one would.
A Veil of dense pink mist spiraled around her head, blinding her.
The same one he had seen around Marcy. Around Lalyn. Faintly, even around Melanie.
This was it, he concluded.
The aura of Magus's mind control.
A Veil that had long since overstayed its welcome.
"Leave. All of you."
He didn't need a slave crest to command them. They bolted.
And then—only he and Amoria remained.
Van bent over, fingers curling around her head.
"[Hard Swing.]"
He cast.
-------------------
"Stay back!" She shouted, gripping her scepter and pointing it at him.
"R-relax! I'm here to help!" he said, raising his hands slightly.
The girl didn't lower her guard. Her robes were soaked in blood, her expression hard and untrusting.
"Help me? Are you an idiot!?" Her voice was sharp, exasperated. "Do you not see what this place is!?"
She gestured at the runes encircling her.
He glanced at them, then scratched the side of his helmet as if trying to scratch his head through it.
"Sorry… I can't read runes all that well. What is this place, then?"
"A death trap," she said flatly. "I've been stuck here for days. My… all my teammates died in this dungeon."
There was no grief in her voice—just exhaustion.
"Sorry to hear that… Must be rough," he muttered, lowering his gaze.
She scoffed. "Aren't you apathetic."
"I didn't know them," he admitted. "I can't feel sorrow for strangers, but… just, sorry."
She studied him for a moment, as if debating whether to respond.
"Anyway," he continued, "how do I get you out?"
"You can't. So leave."
She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "It's called a death trap for a reason. If I step past these runes—or do anything to them—I die on the spot. Same goes for anyone else."
"I see…" he exhaled, then, without hesitation, sat down and opened his bag.
Her brow furrowed. "…What are you doing?"
He rummaged through his supplies. "What happens if I toss you some bread or meat?"
He pulled out a sandwich.
Her stomach growled. Loudly.
A flash of annoyance crossed her face.
"Really?" She tilted her head slightly, almost amused by his forwardness. "I can't leave. Doing me any favors like that would just prolong my suffering. You'd be better off throwing me some poison. You seem like the type."
"Just eat," he said, tossing her the sandwich.
She caught it—almost too quickly—then stared at it in disbelief.
Her gaze flicked back to him.
His gear was pristine. Not the kind worn by someone who had braved a dungeon like this.
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you a bandit?"
Still clutching the sandwich, she watched him carefully. "Your buddies will start asking questions if you don't get back to them."
"…" He remained silent for a moment, then shrugged. "Probably."
She scoffed. "Then what is this? Why are you staying? You won't get my items even after I die."
His response was calm, almost indifferent. "Maybe I just want some company that can't run away from me. Someone who's got no choice but to focus only on me." He exhaled. "I'm selfish like that."
She stiffened.
"Anyway," he continued, "cut the tough girl act. If you really wanted to die so badly—or be handed poison—you'd have already taken a bite of that sandwich, wouldn't you?"
Her expression faltered. "…What?"
Without answering, he removed his helmet and took a deliberate bite of his own meal.
Then, he reached into his bag and pulled out a fresh sandwich.
"Here," he said, tossing it to her.
She caught it instinctively, blinking in surprise.
'He anticipated I'd be distrustful…?' she thought, staring at him.
'Well, as expected. He did admit to being a bandit.'
After a moment, she tossed back the first sandwich he had given her earlier.
"Eat that one instead," she said flatly.
His expression didn't change. "…No. Then I'd die from the vicious ant venom I laced it with."
Her eye twitched.
"…Forget it. I'm not hungry." She scowled, throwing the uneaten sandwich onto the stone floor.
"That was a joke—"
"I don't care." Her voice was sharp. "I don't trust you. And if you're the type to joke about something like this…" She exhaled, gaze cold. "You deserve not to be trusted."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, he sighed. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm new to this. Even after all this time."
Without another word, he took another sandwich from his bag, unwrapped it, and took a full bite.
Then, he tossed it back to her.
She caught it again, hesitating.
"…" Her eyes flickered between him and the food.
"Only because you ate it first," she muttered, finally taking a bite.
The Next Day
"You again?" she muttered, eyeing the armored figure as he settled onto the ground, opening his bag.
"What can I say? My life lacks excitement." He shrugged before tossing her a piece of meat.
She caught it but didn't eat it right away, her gaze narrowing.
With a sigh, he reached into his bag, took out another piece, and took a bite in front of her—chewing, swallowing. Then, without a word, he tossed the half-eaten portion to her.
She watched him for a moment before finally taking a bite herself.
Two Days Later
"What did you bring me today?" she asked, this time with something close to anticipation.
"Braised wyvern tail with spiced root vegetables," he said, unwrapping a portion of meat glazed in a rich, dark sauce. The aroma of roasted herbs and smoked marrow filled the air.
Her eyes lit up. "Ooh!"
Without a second thought, he took a bite first, then tossed the rest to her.
She sniffed it suspiciously before taking a tentative bite. The meat was tender, rich with the flavors of fire-roasted herbs and aged spices.
"...This is actually good," she muttered, chewing thoughtfully.
A Week Later
"Tell me about the outside," she said suddenly. "I miss it a lot, after all."
"Green. Green, and more green," he answered, almost dismissively.
"That's boring. I don't care about that. Tell me about the birds, the trees, the wind…" Her voice carried a rare spark of excitement.
"Uh… they exist?" he replied.
She stared at him, exasperated. "Seriously?"
"I don't like it that much, I suppose." He looked down, absentmindedly picking up a stone and tossing it at the nearby wall.
"I like it here more," he added after a beat, glancing around the cavern.
She let out a short laugh. "Why? Is it the gloom? The spiderwebs? The rodents? The scent of rotting corpses?" she teased.
He didn't answer right away.
Then—
"You."
She blinked.
"...What?"
Her head tilted slightly as she studied him, as if trying to decipher his meaning.
"Is this a confession? Have you fallen for me?" she asked. "Because even if it is, you can't touch me, you know. Or even get near me. Not that I'd let you, even if you could."
"Correct," he said, his voice quiet. "But you're here. Even if you can't leave, you listen. You talk to me. You… look at me." He lowered his gaze.
"Sorry," he cleared his throat, "My 'bandit' buddies need me. I'll leave."
And then he was gone. For two days, he didn't return.
She had food—more than enough—but that wasn't what she found herself longing for.
It was his presence.
She realized that in the same way he had relied on her, she had begun to rely on him. Not for survival, not for protection, but for something quieter—something deeper.
Comfort.
Even if he wasn't physically wounded, she could feel it—her words had a way of soothing him, of healing him in a way she had never quite experienced before.
And as a devoted priestess, that feeling, with him… felt fulfilling.
When he finally returned, she looked at him—her gaze expectant.
He unpacked his bag as if he had never left. His movements were slower, his posture heavier. More sluggish. More discouraged. He pulled out a sandwich, about to take a bite before tossing it to her.
"Stop."
Her voice was quiet but firm, making him pause, subtly turning his head toward her.
"You don't have to… do that anymore. Not with me."
She reassured him, her voice softer now.
And when she saw it—his slight gasp, the way his eyes widened just a fraction—she felt it again.
Her words healed him.
And with him…
… It was intoxicating.
Before long, she wanted to touch him herself.
"There's… something I haven't told you."
She shifted, sitting closer to the runes than ever before. He did the same on the other side.
"This death trap… it can be solved. Somehow." She exhaled deeply, as if the words themselves carried weight.
"…Then why haven't you said anything?" He inquired.
His reaction wasn't what she expected. It wasn't hopeful, or eager.
It was disappointment.
Why?
"Because… it requires a life. A sacrifice. If I die, the runes will die… but if someone from outside steps onto them and dies… I'll be free."
Her lips tightened as she recalled her fallen party. "I'm a devoted priestess of the Goddess. I didn't want someone else to die, too…"
"I see." His voice was quiet.
"I can get you out. Don't worry."
His tone should have been reassuring. But something about it was wrong.
"What's wrong?" She asked.
She was less worried about his certainty, more worried about that look of quiet defeat on his face.
She had assumed he meant to bring someone else—someone to serve as a sacrifice.
And yet, even knowing that, even realizing what he might intend…
She was still that desperate to feel him.
To heal him, once more.
"There's… a man out there. My party leader." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "He has this… effect on women. I…"
"Why, aren't you bold." Her tone was almost amused.
"You already assume I'm yours, that you're worried about me being stolen away?" She teased, a playful glint in her eyes.
He lowered his head, his fingers clutching at his sides.
"Don't worry."
Her voice softened, dipping into something almost tender—softer than the bread from the sandwiches he had given her.
"No matter what… I'll be with you." She assured.
And after a moment of silence, he spoke.
"Okay. Then…" He stood up, and stepped onto the runes.
"WHAT ARE YOU—!"
Before she could finish, his body hit the ground, lifeless. The runes glowed brightly, flaring one final time before fading into nothing. She was free.
And he was dead.
Shock swallowed her whole. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her knees buckled, lowering her toward him—toward his still body.
But before she could touch him, his body dissolved. Armor, flesh, everything. It all dissipated into thin air.
"Wha—?"
Before she could even register what had happened, he reappeared. Standing before her, intact, as if nothing had happened.
"I guess this place registered as a safe zone," he mused, dusting himself off. His gaze flicked to her, studying her reaction. "Even with you in it. How weird."
He stepped closer, lowering himself to one knee. He reached out, offering his hand.
"H-how… is this possible…? Is… this a dream…?" Her voice trembled, her wide eyes shining with disbelief.
Van smiled—a weary, yet warm smile.
"I'm Van." His hand remained outstretched.
"Nice to meet you."
"Haaah… Haa…" Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling as if she had just surfaced from deep water.
"I-I'm… Amoria…" She exhaled, a warm, trembling smile forming on her lips. Relief flooded through her as his touch steadied her, as if grounding her in reality.
She stepped forward, over the runes that had once trapped her, and he led her out—out of the darkness, out of that suffocating, endless night.
And finally...
Her eyes opened.
She blinked, adjusting to the dim candlelight of the church. His face was the first thing she saw.
Youthful. Unchanged— The same face he had worn back then.
Her breath caught in her throat as she stared, mouth slightly agape. He held her, his black hair falling slightly over his eyes as he gently tilted her head upward, his fingers entwined in her golden hair, supporting her.
"Van…"
The name left her lips in a whisper, her voice barely audible, trembling.
"I… see you…"
Tears welled, blurring her vision before spilling freely, tracing warm paths down her cheeks, dripping onto the marble floor.
"I saw you moments ago…" She choked out, her voice raw, filled with something she couldn't quite name. "But… it feels like forever…"
Her fingers trembled as they reached for him, pressing softly against his cheek, tracing the contours of his face as if to confirm he was real.
"I finally… see you…"
A broken sob escaped her lips, and then—
"You're so beautiful," she whispered tenderly.
Van's breath hitched. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable, his voice barely above a rasp.
"Amoria…"
She tilted her head slightly, searching his eyes, her own gaze filled with quiet anticipation.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice soft, her thumb grazing against his cheek in gentle reassurance.
His lips parted. A pause.
Then—
"When Magus did what he did to you. To us… when you… and I were... Betrayed, I met the Demon Lord."