The air in the study was heavy.
Lord Wilhelm sat in the chair directly across from the doctor, with Lady Roswitha and Sophie flanking him on either side. I stood a short distance away. I had been summoned to this meeting because I had remained by Lord Rein’s side throughout the entire journey from the villa back to the mansion.
The doctor standing in the center of the room lowered his eyes to the papers in his hands. He was the personal physician for the House of the Count, and he had been caring for Lord Rein since the day he was born.
“I shall now present the results of my examination.”
The doctor began to speak in a clinical, dispassionate tone.
“First, regarding his limbs. His left hand has been lost from the shoulder down, and both legs have been severed from the hip. The right eyeball is missing, and the socket has been sealed shut. The cross-sections of each injury appear to have healed completely.”
“His height and weight are difficult to gauge accurately due to the missing limbs, but he appears to be physically comparable to a seven-year-old. It seems he has undergone almost no growth since his kidnapping three years ago. Additionally, his hair has turned white from the roots. While I suspect this is the result of extreme stress from his ordeal, the exact biological cause remains unknown.”
“The torso shows extensive scarring from burns. However, these do not appear to be typical heat burns; rather, they seem to be marks left from using fire to cauterize deep lacerations made by a blade. These wounds are deeper than they appear on the surface, with many reaching the muscle layer. Based on the degree of fading and hardening of the scar tissue, I estimate at least two years have passed since these injuries were sustained. There are no particular issues with the skin outside the injured areas, though it is exceptionally pallid, likely due to prolonged deprivation of sunlight. As for his internal organs, no abnormalities were found.”
“The vocal cords and larynx show no physical damage. According to the report from Mira, a very brief vocalization was confirmed at the time of rescue, but it appears he is unable to speak unless driven by intense emotion. I have diagnosed this as psychogenic mutism.”
The doctor looked up from his papers. His expression signaled that the report was finished.
Lord Wilhelm’s expression remained stone-cold throughout the entire briefing. Lady Roswitha was the same. The only sound in the room was a faint, rhythmic creaking from somewhere. Only Sophie had looked away, keeping her head bowed halfway through the report.
“...What of his groin?”
Lord Wilhelm’s voice was low, as if squeezed from his throat.
The doctor paused for a fraction of a second.
“There is no damage. His development there is appropriate for his age.”
Silence fell once more. A faint air of relief seemed to drift through the room, but it was instantly shattered by Lord Wilhelm’s next words.
“...I am well aware of that woman’s proclivities from my intelligence reports. She likely left him untouched only so she could enjoy him once he had matured.”
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. I felt a wave of dizzying rage surge within me.
“...Doctor.”
Lord Wilhelm turned his attention back to the physician.
“I want your frank assessment. Is the restoration of his limbs, his eye, and the burn tissue impossible through conventional medicine?”
“It is impossible,” the doctor replied instantly.
“The regeneration of lost limbs or organs, and the treatment of sealed, aged wounds, cannot be achieved through standard Recovery Magic or potions. If any hope exists, it lies only with the legendary potion known as an Elixir, or the Restoration Magic of a Saint. While there have been a dozen or so confirmed cases of Elixirs throughout history, they are, as you know, extraordinarily difficult to obtain.”
“And the psychogenic mutism?”
“That is not a physical ailment. It is a realm that even the magic of a Saint cannot reach. He will require a safe environment and time.”
Lord Wilhelm nodded slowly.
“The request to the Church has already been made. If all goes as planned, she should arrive in about half a month.”
“Understood. I shall conduct the handover once she arrives. Now, if you will excuse me.”
After the doctor left, no one moved to stand for a long time.
“...Until the treatment is complete, we will strictly limit who is permitted to see Rein. I am also imposing a gag order regarding his condition.”
“The kidnapping is public knowledge. However, if the details of the torture leak out, it will jeopardize the boy's future. Rumors would spread—questions about his mental stability, or his ability to produce an heir. Even if he is perfectly healed, such talk would put him at a severe disadvantage in both politics and the marriage market.”
Lord Wilhelm’s eyes swept across everyone in the room.
“To the outside world, our official explanation is that we ‘bought him back from a slave trader.’ Not a word is to be spoken about the circumstances of the rescue or the torture. Similar instructions have already been issued to those who participated in the operation.”
Lady Roswitha gave a small, firm nod.
“Besides, I am certain the boy would prefer to meet people only after he has been restored to his proper form.”
“Indeed. For the time being, the only ones permitted near him are myself, Roswitha, Sophie, Mira, and the healer....Mira.”
Lord Wilhelm called my name.
“Y-Yes, my lord.”
“Will you continue to stay by Rein’s side?”
It wasn't really a question; it was a confirmation of my intent. My answer was already written in my heart.
“Of course. I have no intention of ever leaving him. Never.”
Lord Wilhelm gave a small nod.
“...I’m counting on you.”
I straightened my back, feeling the immense weight of the trust he was placing in me.
◇◇◇
The carriage swayed rhythmically.
Outside the window, unfamiliar scenery flowed past—the gentle, rolling slopes of the hills, open pastures, and the thatched roofs of distant villages. The rural landscape of eastern Farden was serene, and the motion of the carriage was so slow it felt almost boringly peaceful.
I rested my chin on my hand by the window frame, staring blankly at the passing world.
A gust of wind blew in, brushing golden strands of hair across my face. Irritated, I smoothed it back and tucked it behind my ear.
I adjusted the collar of my vestments. My body had begun to develop a little earlier than other girls my age, and the robes tailored by the Church didn't fit quite right. They were likely designed with an adult's proportions in mind; the shoulders were too wide, and the hem was too long. Blue eyes, cheeks still rounded with youth—no matter how I looked at it, my face was far too young to be called a Saint. The Church always made sure I had “attire befitting a Saint,” but there was nothing to be done about the fact that the person inside felt entirely unbefitting.
In the seat opposite me, the accompanying monk was dozing off. The gentle swaying of the road must have lulled him to sleep. It was easier when he was out like that. When he was awake, he would constantly speak to me out of a sense of obligation. Saint, how are you feeling? Saint, is there anything you require?
Saint.
I had been called by that name for six years.
Back when I was in the Church’s orphanage, the sister who cared for me had an old, jagged scar on her hand. I had always been fixated on it, and one day, I instinctively took her hand in both of mine and prayed for it to heal. The sister let out a scream. When I pulled my hands away in a panic, the scar had vanished.
A child of the orphanage became a “Saint” overnight. I never knew my parents; all I remember is the head of the orphanage telling me “Congratulations” with a deeply troubled look on his face.
The Church raised me with meticulous care. They educated me, fed me, dressed me in fine clothes, and told me, “You are a special child.” His Eminence the Cardinal would present me to the masses and smile, declaring, “This child is a miracle of Viviana.”
A miracle.
Every time I heard that word, I felt a gritty, unpleasant sensation in my chest.
What kind of miracle is a power that demands such a price from the patient?
I have treated over a dozen patients.
Only a few have ever seen the treatment through to the end. Most could not bear the pain halfway through and begged for me to stop. If they asked me to stop, I stopped. I never forced them. I would simply move on to the next person.
There were those who endured it until the finish. There were those who offered words of gratitude. They said, “Thank you.”
But their eyes were always filled with terror. Their bodies would stiffen the moment they saw my face, like a conditioned reflex. No matter how much they claimed to be grateful, their fear was real.
That was why I stopped trying to befriend my patients. It was better for everyone involved to maintain a distance from the start.
The carriage hit a small bump. The monk let out a soft grunt before falling back into a deep sleep.
My patient this time was a ten-year-old boy.
The son of the Count of Werl. He had been abducted by an enemy nation at the age of seven and held as a slave for three years until his family bought him back. I hadn't been told the details of his condition yet. I was simply told there would be a handover from his physician upon my arrival.
Ten years old.
Two years younger than me.
—Could a ten-year-old child really endure this treatment?
I doubted it. They would likely reach their limit during the very first session. They would grow terrified, they would cry, and eventually, they would tremble at the mere sight of me. Children were always the most fragile.
It would probably end halfway through again. And I would have one more child looking at me with eyes full of terror.
I already knew that was how it would go.
The carriage crested a final hill.
The view opened up, revealing a grand mansion in the distance. House Werl. Inside that house was the child I was meant to heal.
—Just once. Just once, I wished someone would smile at me without fear after the treatment was over. I wished someone would look at me as a person, not as a Saint.
I shook the thought from my head and closed my eyes.
The carriage began its descent, moving slowly through the peaceful countryside toward the mansion.
◇◇◇
Upon arriving at the mansion, I received the medical briefing from the primary physician.
—I had been told he was used as a slave. But these records...
This was not the toll of forced labor. Why on earth would anyone do this...?
After the briefing, I was shown into the Count’s study. Looking at my face, the Count seemed to read everything in my expression.
“Rein was... subjected to torture for three years by the woman who purchased him.”
His voice was quiet, nearly a whisper.
“A gag order is in place. To the public, we have said only that he was bought back from a slave trader. Because you are his healer, I am telling you the truth, but I expect you to keep this in the strictest confidence.”
“...I understand.”
That was all I could say before leaving the study.
The moment I reached the hallway, I found myself grinding my teeth.
To a child. To a seven-year-old child, for three entire years. To hurt him until there was nothing left...
My vision blurred. I didn't know if it was rage or grief. I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. I didn't know the name or the face of the person who had done this. I didn't want to know. If I did, I would find myself thinking thoughts utterly unbefitting a Saint.
I took a deep breath. Exhaled. Once more.
—Please, let him endure it.
I wanted this child to endure the treatment. I wanted to heal everything. I wanted to give back every single thing that had been stolen from him.
Lady Viviana. Please, give this child the strength to survive the healing.