SOTBW - 201

Boris sat demurely in his chair, carefully lowering his glasses. His violet eyes, reminiscent of the cosmos, reflected a heart that was painfully throbbing.

Najane’s heart resembled an old leather book left neglected in the elements—its worn-out pages fraying and tearing, leaking vitality through the cracks. Though Boris couldn’t determine exactly what had happened to Najane, it was clear her condition had worsened significantly compared to just a few days ago.

Boris gently stroked Najane’s cold hand. The mana pooled within her heart had diminished slightly, but there were no signs of it circulating through her body as it should have. It seemed she had forcibly expelled the mana from her body to use it elsewhere, unconsciously. How she managed to push out such densely frozen mana remained a mystery.

Whatever the incident was, this method of forcefully drawing power without allowing mana to circulate properly was detrimental both in the short and long term. A carriage could only run smoothly on well-maintained roads; even the sturdiest carriage pulled by the strongest horses couldn’t traverse a path buried under deep snow.

Najane had recklessly drawn upon her strength without attempting to circulate her mana, causing severe damage to her heart. Her body had already surpassed its limits, and now all that remained was collapse.

As a sacred ability user, Boris wanted to do everything he could for Najane—but there was nothing more he could do. Overwhelmed with frustration, Boris glanced to the side.

Though invisible to others, a woman stood beside him. She was a striking beauty with long hair the color of dry earth, exuding an aura eerily similar to Najane’s, though difficult to articulate.

Despite the Pope’s warning not to engage with the Absolute Will while in Noctis, Boris had chosen to converse with this presence precisely because of their resemblance. Though they didn’t look alike outwardly, when Boris imagined Najane’s face while looking at this woman, the similarities in their gaze and unique eye color became unmistakable.

The Pope had called this phenomenon “essence.” Just as disciples inherit their master’s beliefs, children inevitably inherit the essence of their parents.

In that sense, this woman shared a similar essence with Najane. But explaining that feeling in words was impossible—it was too elusive, too intangible.

Boris blinked wearily at the faint figure before raising his eyes to meet a sharp, piercing gaze.

Maximón stared at Boris with heavy, sunken eyes. Avoiding his gaze, Boris adjusted his glasses.

To be honest, Boris felt slightly uncomfortable staying in this mansion. He couldn’t shake off the chilling, eerie sensation lingering throughout the estate. Though Najane’s vitality had suppressed much of that unsettling atmosphere, Boris dared to assert one thing: the master of this mansion, Maximón, was definitely not human.

Humans couldn’t emanate such a disturbing presence—one akin to that of a moving corpse. The moment Boris stepped foot into the mansion, an unpleasant chill crawled up his spine. It was an indescribably repulsive and terrifying feeling, like witnessing a grotesque chimera—a creature with the body of a lizard and the head split between a cat and a dog.

That day, trembling with fear, Boris clutched Gwyneth’ hand as they entered the bedroom where the patient lay. Only then, upon seeing Maximón lying there, did Boris realize:

This is not a person.

This being was something stitched together from scraps, given life as if to mock the gods. Hidden within him was something that could transform into a monster at any moment—and the vessel containing it seemed perpetually on the verge of shattering.

Complex chains of energy tightly bound this “something,” preventing it from breaking free—but Boris knew that if it so desired, those chains wouldn’t hold for long.

Learning that this strange man was Maximón Elgort, the hero guarding Noctis Fortress, came as quite a shock to Boris. Sometimes, the affairs of adults left him perplexed. Ordinary people might not know what Maximón truly was, but Gwyneth, a sacred ability user, surely did.

The fact that Gwyneth acknowledged Maximón’s existence meant that he was necessary here. So Boris chose not to make waves. There were times when pretending ignorance was the wiser course of action.

“Najane…”

After a prolonged silence, Maximón finally spoke.

Boris hesitated, lowering his head.

“It’s… this knight… she won’t last much longer…”

“I know Najane doesn’t have much time left.”

Maximón’s voice trembled faintly. Though Boris feared what Maximón truly was, in that moment, he found himself wanting to see the expression in his eyes as he spoke those words.

At least, in Boris’s mind, Maximón was a monster—just as terrible a monster as Serith. If Maximón were truly a monster, he wouldn’t be capable of feeling emotions.

Summoning his courage, Boris turned to look at where Maximón stood. There, he saw a man whose face was soaked with tears. Though Maximón tried to suppress his sobs, his expression remained stoic, yet his dark green eyes brimmed with despair.

What stood before him wasn’t the monster Boris had imagined. It was simply Najane’s lover—a man who was profoundly, painfully human.

Maximón, unable to muster the courage to face eternal separation from Najane, pleaded with Boris through desperate eyes, as if begging for hope.

“Is there no way to heal Najane?”

“…N-no, there isn’t… My sacred abilities can’t do anything for this…”

At Boris’s words, Maximón wiped his face dry with trembling hands. As he rubbed his lips against his palm and gazed at Najane’s pale blue lips, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

“…How much longer does she have?”

The very question twisted Maximón’s face in anguish.

Hesitating, Boris gave a small, uncertain reply.

“A month… perhaps less than that…”

Though Boris’s voice was faint, Maximón heard it clearly. He opened his mouth as if to shout, demanding Boris not to lie, but then closed it without uttering a word.

Boris’s large, tear-filled eyes glistened. He was speaking the truth. Pressuring this young, small sacred ability user further would be meaningless.

Maximón turned away from Boris, clutching at his chest. It felt as though something scorching was flowing down his throat. He already knew—he could no longer do much for Najane. With his knowledge and power, he couldn’t extend her life any further.

He wished she could live until the flowers bloomed—pain-free, smiling often, spending her days peacefully in a room filled with things she loved, greeting each night with calmness. That was all he hoped for—but now…

Maximón felt his world, built on arrogance and deception, crumbling. The days when he had deceived Najane under the guise of love shattered like glass, crashing over his heart like a tidal wave.

His eyelids reddened slowly. He could do nothing. If extreme measures were necessary for Najane’s sake, the first thing that should be done was to execute Maximón Elgort himself.

Kneeling by the bedside, Maximón cradled Najane’s still-cold feet in his hands. Thinking of the day, not far off, when Najane would become so cold and never warm again, his throat tightened, making it hard to breathe.

Pulling her icy feet close to his chest, Maximón closed his eyes. He struggled to exhale the breath he had taken in. His throat felt blocked by an overwhelming weight of sorrow, making it impossible to make a sound. His trembling lips fought to hold back the sobs.

Resting his forehead against her cold ankle, he shuddered silently, like someone suffering from a long fever. Opening his mouth as if screaming silently, he then closed it again, like a person confessing their sins and awaiting punishment. Maximón swallowed every word he wanted to say to Najane, his body drowning in an indescribable sadness.

Watching Maximón’s torment, Boris covered his mouth with his scarf. The raw grief flowed into him. Maximón writhed in pain as though cutting himself apart with a blade, yet he refused to let the tears fall. Instead, he desperately swallowed every sound, careful not to disturb Najane’s slumber.

“…Will she suffer much when she takes her last breath?”

Though the question lacked a subject, Boris understood who it referred to and nodded solemnly, lowering his gaze. Maximón bowed his head deeply. Pain settled into his eyes, now devoid of all hope.

“What can I do for Najane…? What can I possibly do now?”

Maximón whispered desperately, as if praying to God. Boris, wiping away his tears, fidgeted with his small hands.

“All we can do is pray that she has good dreams… I’m sorry…”

Boris had intended to console Maximón but realized that no words would hold meaning for him, so he quietly excused himself.

Alone, Maximón remained motionless, holding Najane’s feet tightly in his arms. The sorrow that filled his body was unbearable. Though the end was approaching, he still couldn’t bring himself to accept it.

With trembling hands, he caressed Najane and pressed his lips to her cold foot. Her body temperature wouldn’t return. This wasn’t the time to be crying.

He wrapped a heated stone in a towel and placed it beside her. After filling the kettle hanging in the fireplace with water and slipping warm, dried socks onto her feet, he noticed how deathly pale her face had become.

No matter how he looked at her, she appeared to be someone on the verge of death. Maximón cupped Najane’s cheek with his warmed hands, gently stroking her frozen skin in an attempt to share his warmth. Tears welled up in his eyes.

For now, Najane would open her eyes again tomorrow or the day after. But one day—not far off—she would sink into a deep, unshakable sleep, like a tranquil lake that no longer ripples even when stones are thrown, unable to respond no matter how many times her name was called.

“…Najane.”

Maximón’s hands trembled as they cradled Najane’s face. The thought that this love was coming to an end left him with no choice but to cry. Realizing that the time he had left to care for her was so short brought tears streaming down his cheeks.

The tears Maximón shed fell onto Najane’s cool, pale cheek. He could no longer bring himself to say words like “I love you” or “I’m sorry.” Holding her motionless body close, Maximón swallowed the sobs that filled his throat.

In the distance, the sound of a trumpet signaled the call to depart for battle. But he did not go. He could not leave Najane alone.