Elara's "illness," under the "care" of Frau Helga and the numb physician, persisted in a state of neither improvement nor decline. She still received only meager amounts of food and hot water, her body chilled from the deliberate weakness, but at least she was temporarily freed from heavy labor and... temporarily distanced from the capricious Duke Reinhardt.
She naively thought that a great lord like the Duke might truly not care whether his insignificant "Object Seven" lived or died. Perhaps Frau Helga hadn't even reported her "illness," or perhaps the Duke had heard and simply scoffed.
However, on the third afternoon of her feigned illness, just after she had forced down the bitter herbal tonic and was curled up in bed trying to ward off the discomfort in her stomach and the unease in her heart with sleep, a steady, familiar footstep, accompanied by a cold, powerful aura, appeared without warning outside her tower cell door!
Elara's heart stopped instantly!
That footstep... that aura...
It was Duke Reinhardt!
Why was he here?! Shouldn't he be dealing with military affairs, or maneuvering among the great nobles?! Why would he suddenly appear at the door of his lowly prisoner's room?!
Immense fear washed over Elara like an icy tide! She even forgot she was still "sick," jolting upright in bed, staring in terror at the heavy oak door.
The door wasn't pushed open immediately. An suffocating silence fell outside. Elara could hear her own heart pounding wildly against her ribs, and felt a tangible, scrutinizing gaze from beyond the door.
He knows! He must know! He knows I'm faking! Is he here... to punish me?!
Elara's body began to tremble uncontrollably, her face turning even paler from fear than she had deliberately made it!
Just as the silent pressure was about to drive her mad, creak, the lock turned from the outside.
Frau Helga's eternally cold face appeared in the doorway. She stepped aside, bowing her head respectfully.
Then, that figure, like an emperor of the night, slowly, with unquestionable authority, stepped into the small, dim cell.
Duke Reinhardt.
He wore well-fitting black riding attire today, his boots polished to a high shine, a simple yet clearly valuable longsword hanging at his hip. He wore no gloves, his long-fingered hands with calloused tips hanging loosely at his sides. He was incredibly tall and imposing, almost touching the low ceiling. His presence instantly made the already small space feel even more oppressive, more suffocating.
His gaze, like the sharpest ice blade, immediately fell upon Elara, curled into a trembling ball on the bed.
There was no anger in his eyes, no disgust, only... a profound coldness and inquiry, like examining an interesting object.
Under his gaze, Elara felt like a prisoner stripped bare, exposed naked in a snowstorm. All her pretenses, all her thoughts, were laid bare.
She didn't even dare meet his eyes, burying her head deep in her knees like an ostrich, futilely trying to hide from that omnipresent, terrifying gaze.
The Duke didn't speak immediately. He just stood there, like a judge, silently watching her. The air in the room seemed to solidify, time itself stopping.
Elara could feel his gaze linger on her for a long, long time... It seemed to be scrutinizing not just her "condition," but... dissecting her very soul.
Just when Elara thought she would be trapped forever in this silent judgment, she caught, with extreme subtlety... a fleeting, almost imperceptible disturbance in the Duke's breathing?
Was it her imagination?
Or... had her current state—vulnerable, helpless, like a startled bird—touched some... hidden corner deep within him?
Elara didn't dare be sure, didn't dare dwell on it. Because the next second, the Duke's cold, steady voice, devoid of any warmth, sounded like the tolling of her doom.