Chapter 88 A Temple to Cleanse the Mind
The temple air was freezing. Sharp. It bit straight into the bone. The capital was still sleeping, but Claus was already here. The space was hollow, a tomb of marble and silence. Thick incense hung in the air, cloying, suffocating, clinging to the stone walls like a bad memory.
He didn't come for peace. He didn't come for god. He came to dump his baggage, but the weight remained. His head? A riot.
Ilse's voice, nagging, sharp, kept cutting through his thoughts. Then Didier's condescending laughter. Then that moronic plan to turn Gisella into a puppet queen. It was all piling up. A rot in his gut.
He finished his rituals. A hollow performance. He stepped out, desperate for air, but the courtyard offered no escape.
She was there. Lysandra. Dressed in white, standing like a statue. An angel designed to make fools like Didier swoon.
"Duke?"
Her voice was low. Too soft. Forced.
She moved toward him, elegant, predatory.
A smile, perfect, practiced, chilling, was plastered on her face.
She bowed. Deep. Then she looked at him with those clear eyes, watching him like he was a deity descended from the heavens.
Beneath that gaze? Madness. A hunger. A desperate, clawing need to be the only thing standing next to him.
"You look tired," she whispered.
She took a step closer. Her hand reached out, hovering. She wanted to touch the small scar on his temple, that mark she treated like a holy relic.
"Is there some inner wound bothering you?" Her voice dripped with false concern. "I can help. My healing magic could ease your burden."
Claus stepped back. Hard. The recoil was instinctive.
He thought of Didier. The scheme. The idea of Gisella as a hollow doll, while this woman pulled the strings. Looking at her, he saw nothing but filth. A dirty, calculated move that would poison the empire. He knew the truth; they were having an affair behind Gisella's back. It was repulsive.
Lysandra didn't back down. She stared, that adoration intense, almost burning. "This world... this place, it feels too small for you. Your strength, your aura... it shouldn't be wasted on such trivialities."
"Not necessary," Claus cut her off. His tone was flat. Dead. "I'm not wounded."
She didn't budge. She gazed up at him, eyes shimmering with forced tears. "I've heard so many stories about you. "I pray for you. Every night. Every candle I light is for your safety. Can't you feel it, Duke? This... It's not just fate. We're connected."
Claus stared. Unmoved. He didn't buy the gentleness. It was a mask, paper-thin.
His mind betrayed him, drifting to Ilse. That girl was a disaster. Loud. Rude. Had zero manners and an ego that could bruise. But Ilse was honest. She didn't wear a mask. She didn't pretend to be an angel.
"Thank you, Lady Lysandra," Claus said. Cold. Final. He didn't even blink, his gaze stripping away that angel act. "Save your prayers for Didier. He's the one who actually needs them. Not me."
He didn't wait for a response. He spun around, boots clacking against the stone as he strode away. He didn't look back. He didn't wait. He spun around, boots clacking against the stone as he strode away. He didn't look back.
Lysandra stood frozen. She tracked his retreating, a ghost of her teenage self flashing through her mind.
Claus. The untouchable. Her idol.
When she first met Didier, she'd played the part, convinced that the weak-willed younger brother was the perfect bridge to get to him. But today? Today he looked right through her.
The admiration on her face twisted. Sharp. Then, it darkened into something jagged. Something possessive.
She wasn't watching a man walk away anymore. She was watching a target. A prize.
"You don't need to answer now," she whispered, her voice a serrated edge. "But know this, Duke. Not a single person in this kingdom understands you the way I do."
She stayed there. Still. Feeding that hungry, violent gaze on his shadow, unwilling to let him slip away again.