Elara's "illness" didn't last long. After two days of drinking the suspicious, bitter herbal tonic, and with Frau Helga's "inspections" becoming more frequent, her gaze growing sharper, Elara knew she couldn't keep up the pretense any longer.
Continuing the act would likely lead to exposure, and the resulting punishment would be far beyond what she could endure. Moreover, the Duke's continued "indifference" made it crystal clear that trying to test him, let alone influence him, through such means was futile.
Thus, on the third morning, Elara made a "miraculous" recovery. Though her face remained pale (a result she deliberately maintained), she was able to get out of bed and "voluntarily" informed the serving maid that she could start undertaking some light duties.
Frau Helga made no comment, merely giving her a cold glance before assigning her a task even more arduous than before, though temporarily sparing her the duty of polishing weapons in the study—cleaning the floors of all the castle corridors.
This was exhausting drudgery. Blackstone Keep's corridors were long and numerous, the floors made of cold, hard flagstones. It required endless, forceful scrubbing with heavy mops soaked in cold water to even approach the standard of "absolute cleanliness" demanded by Frau Helga.
Dragging her still somewhat weak body, Elara silently began her work. Knight Kaelen, as always, shadowed her from a short distance, "monitoring" her every move.
Just as Elara was scrubbing a section of corridor near the main keep's grand staircase, a low, magnetic voice—one that instantly froze her blood—suddenly drifted down from the stairs above:
"It seems the castle's herbs... are indeed remarkably effective."
Elara's body went rigid! She didn't even need to look up to know who it was!
Duke Reinhardt!
He... was here?!
Elara's heart hammered wildly against her ribs; immense fear made it almost impossible to breathe! He knew! He knew she had been feigning illness! His words were clearly mocking her!
She immediately dropped the mop, falling to her knees in terror, burying her head low, her body trembling violently from fear. "Your... Your Grace..."
Footsteps descended the stairs, unhurried, yet carrying the heavy pressure of a mountain, step by step approaching her. Finally, a pair of gleaming black riding boots, adorned with silver spurs, stopped right in front of Elara.
Elara could even smell the familiar scent emanating from him, that mix of pine and coldness.
From above, the Duke's voice came, level yet carrying an all-seeing coldness: "Lift your head."
Not daring to disobey, Elara raised her head very slowly, trembling. She saw the Duke looking down at her, his face expressionless, but his deep, cold eyes clearly reflected her current wretched state, like a lamb awaiting slaughter, and... held a minuscule trace of cat-and-mouse amusement and mockery.
"Tell me, Object Seven," the Duke's voice was soft, yet pierced Elara's eardrums like an ice pick, "how many days were you 'ill'?"
Elara's mind went blank! He knew everything! How should she answer? Admit she was faking? Or continue lying?
"An... answering Your Grace..." Her voice trembled uncontrollably. "This servant... this servant was indeed... unwell... these past few days..." She tried to bluff her way through with vague words.
"Oh? Unwell?" A cold curve touched the Duke's lips. "How 'unwell'? Shall I have the physician come and 'examine' you more thoroughly?"
Elara was terrified! She knew what the Duke meant by a "thorough examination"! It held no good intentions! She shook her head frantically. "N-no! No need, Your Grace! This servant... this servant is well now! Truly well!"
"'Well'?" The Duke's gaze fell on her still-pale face, and on her lips, pressed tightly from nervousness, still bearing the faint scar, his eyes growing somewhat deeper. "You don't... look it."
He suddenly reached out, his gloved fingers once again gripping Elara's chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His grip wasn't forceful, but held an irresistible control.
"It seems I have given you too much 'freedom'," his voice was like a lover's whisper, yet carried a suffocating danger, "allowing you time... to think things you shouldn't, do things... you shouldn't."
Elara stared at him in terror, not knowing what awaited her.
The Duke said nothing more, just held her gaze with his cold eyes for a long moment. That stare felt like it could freeze her soul, crush it.
Then, he released her chin, straightened up, and spoke to the statue-like Knight Kaelen beside them in an extremely flat tone, as if announcing a trivial matter:
"Watch her. I do not wish... for a next time."
"Yes, Your Grace," Knight Kaelen bowed slightly, his voice low and respectful.
The Duke didn't spare Elara another glance. He turned, walking with steady steps down the corridor. His tall, imposing figure was like a moving iceberg, radiating a hopeless chill.
Only after the Duke's figure had completely disappeared at the end of the corridor did Elara collapse onto the floor as if drained of all strength, gasping for breath, her back soaked in cold sweat.
She finally understood.
Duke Reinhardt hadn't been "indifferent" to her, nor had he "forgotten" her. Like a god on high, he saw everything—all her struggles, all her petty schemes! He knew she was feigning illness, knew her inner defiance, perhaps even knew about her unrealistic thoughts of escape!
But he didn't punish her directly, didn't expose her.
He merely used this method, like swatting a disobedient pet, to warn her again, push her into deeper fear and despair! To make her understand that no matter what she did, she could never escape his control!
This failed attempt utterly crushed any remaining illusions Elara held about the cruelty of reality and the disparity in power. She felt like a moth crashing against an iceberg, destined only to be shattered.
Yet, strangely, after enduring this torment akin to death by a thousand cuts, within Elara's heart, besides fear and despair, there arose... a minuscule trace of resilience, one that surprised even herself?
Yes, resilience.
Like wild grass trampled underfoot, even when crushed beyond recognition, as long as the roots remained, as long as there was a sliver of sunlight and water, it would never give up growing.
The Duke was an iceberg, a demon lord, the master of her everything. But she, Elara, was absolutely not a doll to be crushed at will!
She might not be able to resist immediately, might not be able to escape immediately. But she could... endure, learn, and... wait.
Wait for an opportunity, a real chance to break free from this iron cage!
Elara slowly picked herself up from the floor, retrieving the mop. Her movements still trembled with fear, but her eyes were firmer, colder than ever before.
The tip of the iceberg had been revealed, and she, the resilient grass in this abyss, was just beginning to show her tenacious life force.