The castle corridors in the early morning were still steeped in lingering cold.
As usual, Megrie left her room and headed toward the main hall, prepared to receive Nata's orders for the day.
Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor.
Just as she turned past an archway—
A hand shot out from the shadows and clamped over her mouth.
The grip wasn't brutal, but it was firm enough to stop her from calling out.
Megrie's body tensed instantly. She struggled on instinct, only to be swiftly pulled into the darkness beside the corridor.
"Shh—it's me."
A low, urgent voice brushed against her ear.
She froze for a fraction of a second—then recognized it.
With a sharp movement, she tore his hand away and stepped back, putting distance between them.
The figure standing in the shadows was Loya.
"What are you trying to do this time?"
Her tone was calm, but edged with unmistakable caution.
"I won't hurt you," Loya said quickly, lowering his voice. "I just… had to tell you something."
Megrie didn't answer. She only watched him.
Loya drew in a breath, as if bracing himself.
"Mother plans to marry you off—to Oshen Fortress."
"Oshen?"
Megrie paused slightly, the image of the eastern coastal stronghold flashing through her mind.
"Yes." Loya's voice tightened. "She's going to use your identity as the city lord's daughter… to trade for wealth from their lord."
A short, humorless laugh escaped Megrie's lips.
"She really dreams big."
Loya's fists clenched at his sides.
"I don't know when she'll make her move," he said, voice trembling with urgency, "but I can't just stand by and watch you be traded away like an object."
Megrie looked at him, a thought flickering through her mind.
Perhaps… he was the only one in this castle who still had a conscience.
Her voice softened slightly.
"Loya, thank you for telling me. I'll be careful."
"That's not enough."
The words burst out of him.
He stepped forward, his voice shaking but firm.
"Being careful isn't enough. You have to run, Megrie. I'll help you escape."
She blinked.
"Escape?" she echoed, her tone unusually composed. "And go where?"
The truth behind her father's death remained unknown.
Nata had paid no price.
How could she leave?
And even if she did—where would she go?
Loya faltered, words failing him.
"Anywhere," he said at last. "I believe in you. Wherever you go… you'll live better than this."
Silence hung between them.
Then Megrie lifted her gaze.
"Loya," she said quietly, "I need to ask you something."
Her voice was soft, but impossible to ignore.
"What do you know… about my father's illness?"
Loya's heart lurched.
"I… I don't know."
"You do."
Her eyes locked onto his.
"Tell me. Please."
It wasn't an accusation.
It was a request.
His breathing faltered.
"I only heard it from Gray…" he admitted finally, his voice thick with unease. "The city lord didn't die of illness. He was poisoned."
Megrie's fingers tightened slightly.
"What kind of poison?"
"I don't know," Loya said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I just know… it wasn't natural."
His voice dropped, barely audible.
"Looking back now… I think I might have been part of it."
Megrie didn't blame him.
Instead, she reached out and gently took one of his hands.
The gesture was soft—so soft it stunned him.
"Loya," she said steadily, "just tell me this—
What did my father look like when he was sick?"
"Anything you remember. Anything that felt wrong."
That was enough.
Loya met her gaze—and saw something there he had never seen before.
Certainty.
He drew in a breath and began to remember.
To revisit what he had once chosen not to see.
"…At first, no one thought anything was wrong," he said slowly. "He was just… tired."
Megrie nodded for him to continue.
"He used to wake before dawn—reviewing ledgers, inspecting the granaries. But later… he couldn't sit for long. He'd lean back, pressing his temples, saying his head felt heavy."
He paused.
"Not sharp pain. More like… something pressing down inside his skull."
Megrie's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Then his appetite changed," Loya continued. "He couldn't eat much. Not completely refusing—but after a few bites, he'd feel nauseous."
"Sometimes just smelling food made him turn pale."
He gave a bitter smile.
"Mother said it was stress."
His voice dropped.
"Then his hands started shaking."
Not violently—but subtly.
A teacup would tremble against his fingers.
His handwriting would waver.
"He noticed it himself," Loya said. "Once, he stared at his own hand for a long time… like he wasn't sure it belonged to him."
Megrie's fingers tightened.
"And?"
"His skin changed," Loya said. "The color darkened—not pale, not healthy either. At night, he'd sweat heavily, but still feel cold."
He lowered his head.
"One night, I passed the study and saw him wrapped in a coat, shivering."
It wasn't cold.
It was something inside him breaking apart.
"Later…" Loya's voice grew quieter, "he started losing track of time."
Sleeping during the day.
Wide awake at night.
"He would suddenly ask me, 'Is it morning… or night?'"
"Sometimes he repeated the same sentence… as if he'd forgotten he already said it."
Megrie's breathing slowed—almost imperceptibly.
"In the end… he could barely walk," Loya said, swallowing hard. "His legs gave out. He couldn't stand steady—like his strength was being drained little by little."
"But—"
He looked up at her.
"He never had a fever. No visible injuries."
"Doctors came many times. Every time they said the same thing—chronic weakness, old age, overwork."
Loya's nails dug into his palms.
"But thinking back now… it was too slow."
Too controlled.
Not sudden—
But deliberate.
Measured.
Like someone had been feeding him something… dose by dose.
Megrie listened in silence, her mind already assembling the clues.
Pressure in the head.
Loss of appetite and nausea.
Fine tremors.
Skin discoloration, night sweats, chills.
Cognitive confusion.
Muscle weakness.
She didn't voice her conclusion immediately.
Instead, she slowly released Loya's hand.
"Loya," she said, calm but certain, "what you told me is important."
He blinked. "It is?"
"It is."
She lifted her gaze—clear, sharp, unwavering.
"This isn't a natural illness."
"It's not simple aging either."
Her voice lowered, edged with quiet steel.
"These are symptoms that were… fed into him."
From outside the corridor, a bell suddenly rang—calling the maids to assemble.
Megrie turned to leave. Just before stepping into the light, she paused and spoke over her shoulder.
"The one who poisoned him didn't just want him dead. They wanted him to die without anyone noticing."
Her voice was calm—but chilling.
"Only one kind of person could do that—
someone who had constant access to his food."
And—
someone who understood timing…
and dosage…
perfectly.
Loya stood frozen in the shadows, cold sweat trailing down his neck.
He watched Megrie's straight-backed figure disappear into the light—
and knew.
The fragile illusion of peace within this castle…
was about to be torn apart—
by the hands of the very girl they thought was powerless.