Alia remained silent for a long time before finally speaking. Her voice, softer than usual, carried a fragile gentleness, as though she feared that even a breath too heavy might shatter the vulnerable atmosphere between them.
"It's all right," she whispered, her eyes meeting Marcellus's with rare sincerity and warmth. "When all of this is over, Livia will come back. You'll still have a chance to make amends… I only hope that when that moment comes, you'll be able to let go of your pride and your stubborn dignity, and treat her well—never betray her again."
Her words held comfort, yet they also carried the weight of entrustment. To Marcellus, it sounded almost like a farewell.
He froze for the briefest of moments, then smiled. The smile was calm and steady, with no trace of hesitation. "Don't worry," he said firmly. "I will."
That single sentence—simple, effortless—struck Alia like a blade to the heart. She had thought she had already let go, that she had accepted all of this as a temporary passage, a twist of fate. But upon hearing his answer, she felt a sharp pain, as though something deep inside her had been pierced without mercy.
The ache swelled within her chest, bitter and suffocating. She realized then, with a pang of clarity, that in Marcellus's eyes there had only ever been Livia. His expectations, his longing, even his response to her now—it was all because she had invoked Livia's name.
And herself? She was nothing more than a shadow passing through his darkness, a companion meant to guide him through this turbulent stretch of fate, destined to vanish when the dawn returned.
Her lips curved into a faint smile, but behind that fragile expression was pain so sharp she could scarcely breathe. Again and again she reminded herself: This is better. This is how it should be. Everything will return to its rightful place. Livia will come back, he will find redemption, the family will regain its honor. And I… I will simply fade away, quietly, as if I never existed at all.
But what she did not see was the fleeting spark in Marcellus's obsidian-dark eyes. Beneath that steady surface flickered a hidden tenderness, a carefully buried affection that belonged to her alone. He suppressed it fiercely, burying it so deep it almost seemed not to exist.
He said nothing. Perhaps the time had not yet come. Perhaps he feared that once revealed, the fragile balance between them would shatter into fragments. Or perhaps there were truths he had yet to confirm for himself.
And so, silence once again filled the room. Two people—one believing she had already let go, the other hiding his feelings deep within.
Alia, though her heart still ached faintly, had already accepted most of the truth. She straightened her posture, gathering her emotions, and forced herself into composure. There was still much to be done, and she would not let her turmoil sway her now.
"From what we've seen," she said in a low voice, her gaze calm yet grave, "Livia must have sensed something was wrong back then. I suspect she, too, was influenced by the Holy Grail, her mind twisted by its power—that's what led her to break with you so completely."
Marcellus's eyes trembled at her words. He did not respond right away. Instead, he fell into silence, gripping the sheet so hard that his knuckles turned white.
"You're right," he said at last, his tone low and bitter. "But not entirely. Yes, the Grail's influence was undeniable, like a shadow that loomed over us… but if that were the only reason, perhaps we would never have reached such a desperate end."
He suddenly lifted his head, and in his eyes burned a torment that cut like fire. "The true reason… was me. My inaction. My silence. I had chances—so many—to explain, to lay bare the truth. And yet, I chose silence. I chose to hide. At that time, I let my so-called pride blind me. I thought I could not allow myself to appear weak before her."
His voice thickened, rough with emotion, as his chest heaved with the force of everything he had suppressed. Years of guilt and regret, locked away like caged beasts, burst free at once.
"If back then I had set aside even a moment of pride, if I had bowed my head and told her the truth—told her of my fears, my struggle—then perhaps she would not have fallen into despair. Perhaps she would have stood beside me, and together we could have faced the Grail. We might never have reached that day of final rupture."
His eyes were bloodshot now, his expression twisted by pain so raw it stripped away all pretense. In that moment, he was no longer the heir of a great house, no longer the stoic, unshakable nobleman. He was simply a man—a man who had lost his beloved, lost his redemption, and could not forgive himself.
Regret cut into him like a dull blade, slowly, mercilessly, tearing his heart apart.