“Your love for him… it’s overwhelming,” Ange says, her voice low as she looks down, avoiding Liddle’s eyes. “I’ve been in love before. He came to my house one night and…” Her words tremble. “He was killed by them. I still miss him.”

  A tear slips down her cheek, and she brushes it away with the back of her hand.

  Liddle steps closer, her shadow crossing the dim light of the room. “I know how you feel,” she says softly. “Markus means everything to me. I can’t imagine going through what you did.”

  “Can you stop thinking about him for a minute?” Ange snaps—sharp, but not cruel. “It’s overwhelming. Your thoughts, your emotions… they’re spilling everywhere.” Her eyes narrow in a cold glare that makes Liddle flinch.

  “I’m sorry,” Liddle says quickly, her voice trembling. “I’m just so worried.” She steps forward and hugs her.

  Ange stiffens, then gently pushes her away.

  “That Marlion man tried to kill me too, once,” Liddle says quietly. “It’s terrible… I’m sorry.”

  Ange sighs, the sharpness in her gaze fading just a little. “So you really think that priest has your husband?”

  Liddle nods, her hands clenching. “He tried to make it sound like Markus was disappointed in me—but after everything we’ve been through, that can’t be true.”

  Ange lets out a slow breath as she slips on her shoes. Liddle glances down at her phone, quickly replying to a message before Ange speaks again.

  “Come on,” Ange says, extending a hand toward her. “You want to take him back, don’t you?”

  “Can we?” Liddle asks softly.

  “With your power, you can do anything,” Ange says, steady and sure.

  “Oh, stop it,” Liddle murmurs, glancing away with a shy smile. “I’m not that strong.”

  Ange gives her a long look. “You’re an ice demon, Liddle. Your power could make humans fear you—no one would dare hurt you again.” Her eyes flick to the faint scar on Liddle’s cheek. “It’s better than letting them cut you and walk away.”

  “Well…” Liddle thinks about what Ange says for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the floor. The idea of using fear as strength sits heavy in her mind.

  “Never mind,” Ange says briskly, turning toward the path ahead. “Let’s go talk to the priest. If he really did take him, then I’ll read his mind—and we’ll make a plan from there.”

  The two share a nod, Liddle’s love for Markus pulsing in her chest—strong enough that Ange feels it echoing in her own mind. For once, she doesn’t push it away.

  They step out into the cool night air. The forest is silent except for the soft rustle of leaves beneath their feet and the occasional croak of frogs hiding in the mist. Pale moonlight slips through the branches, tracing silver paths along the dirt road that leads toward the distant glow of the church.

  Neither of them speaks for a while. Liddle keeps her eyes on the road, clutching her Mahoishi close, her heart racing with every step. Beside her, Ange walks with quiet grace, her long coat swaying behind her, eyes fixed ahead.

  By the time the trees begin to thin, the church rises in the distance—its steeple cutting against the dark sky, windows faintly glowing like watchful eyes.

  Liddle swallows hard. Ange glances sideways at her, her expression unreadable. “Stay close,” she murmurs.

  Ange knocks on the heavy wooden door. A moment later, it creaks open and Priest Urban appears, his eyes narrowing in annoyance.

  “The next sermon isn’t for another hour,” he says curtly, already trying to shut the door.

  Liddle catches it with her foot. “Hi. I’m looking for my husband—you might know him as the Dragon Slayer. I last heard he came here.”

  Urban’s expression tightens. “No, I haven’t seen him. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He pushes the door closed with a firm shove until it latches.

  When his footsteps fade down the hall, Ange turns to Liddle, her face pale in the moonlight. “This is bad,” she whispers. “He’s been poisoning him—keeping him weak. The priest wants to break him, force him to use his magic for him.”

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  Liddle’s breath catches, her hands curling into fists. Then, with a surge of fury, she slams her fist against the door.

  It bursts open with a sharp crack, the hinges groaning. “Give him back!” she screams, her voice echoing through the church halls.

  Priest Urban’s expression twists with rage as he swings a punch at her—fast, deliberate. But before it can land, Ange’s hand shoots out, catching his wrist mid-strike.

  “Go,” Ange says, her tone calm but commanding. “The room next to the men’s bathroom—he’s there. I’ll hold him off.”

  Liddle nods once, heart pounding, and sprints down the corridor, her shoes striking the stone floor as the sounds of struggle erupt behind her.

  She reaches the end of the hall and grabs the handle—but the door won’t budge. Locked.

  “Come on!” she hisses, slamming her shoulder against it. The wood shudders but holds firm.

  She draws back, summoning frost along her hands, and strikes again. Cracks splinter across the frame, but still it refuses to break.

  A shout echoes behind her—a heavy crash, followed by the sharp ring of magic colliding. Ange is still fighting.

  Liddle’s eyes narrow. She turns, plants her feet, and unleashes a blast of ice behind her. The recoil rockets her forward like a cannon shot, splintering the door from its hinges as she bursts through in a spray of frost and shattered wood.

  “Liddle…”

  The voice is weak, strained between coughs.

  She freezes, her heart leaping. On the floor, half slumped against the wall, Markus coughs up blood, his breaths shallow.

  “Markus!” she cries, rushing to his side. She drops to her knees, wiping the blood from his cheek with her sleeve.

  He gives her a tired smile. “Liddle… what happened to you? That cut on your cheek—it looks deep.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she says quickly, her voice breaking. “We have to get you out of here.”

  Liddle slides an arm under his shoulders and tries to lift him, but Markus is lighter than he looks—his legs trembling, barely able to hold him up. He staggers, a cough tearing out of him.

  “Easy…” she whispers, bracing him. His skin is fever-hot under her cold hands. “You can barely stand. Okay.”

  She clenches her fist. A faint shimmer of frost spreads across the floor, ice rippling outward into smooth trails beneath their feet. With a steadying breath, she shapes the frost into a flat sheet and lifts it just enough to bear Markus’s weight like a fragile sled.

  His head lolls. For a moment his eyes flutter, then he slips away entirely, unconscious in Liddle’s arms.

  “Ange—let’s go!” Liddle calls, her voice tight.

  A shout erupts behind them; Priest Urban lunges forward, angry and sudden. Ange moves faster. She slides a leg between the priest’s and trips him, sending him crashing to the stone. Before he can scramble up, she steps close, pinning him with her body, one hand trapping his wrist against the wall.

  “If you send anything else after us,” Ange says, low and deadly, “I will make you regret it.” Her voice is cold, unyielding.

  Urban’s face twists—first with shock, then with a flash of something like fear. Ange doesn’t give him time to recover. When she finally releases him, she turns and moves to help Liddle lift Markus.

  “Easy,” she says more gently now, taking Markus’s shoulders. “We’ll carry him the rest of the way together.”

  Liddle snatches the potion from Ange’s hand and, with trembling fingers, tilts Markus’s chin up. “Please, hold on,” she whispers, then pours the glowing liquid slowly down his throat.

  The reaction is immediate. Markus convulses, a strangled cry tearing from his chest as his body arches against the table. His hands claw weakly at the air, eyes wide with pain.

  “Sweetie, it’s okay—it’s okay!” Liddle cries, forcing the rest of the medicine down. She climbs onto the table, pinning his shoulders to keep him from hurting himself.

  “It’s okay,” she whispers again, her voice cracking. A tear slides down her cheek and falls onto his skin.

  Eventually, Markus begins to calm. His breathing steadies, the tension easing from his body.

  “Liddle…” he murmurs weakly before his eyes flutter shut, drifting into a deep sleep.

  “He’ll be fine,” Ange says, wiping her hands on a cloth. “He just needs rest.”

  Together, they carry him upstairs and lay him on a bed. The room is quiet except for the faint sound of frogs outside the window.

  “Mind if I stay with him?” Liddle asks softly, brushing her hand across his forehead.

  “Do what you want,” Ange says, glancing toward the window. “It’s probably wise. I can sense we have visitors coming—and making sure he rests before he lifts that sword again will help.”

  “Visitors?” Liddle repeats, her ears twitching as she turns toward the faint creak of the front door below.

  “I’ve got the man who killed my fiancé locked in the basement,” Ange says flatly, eyes still fixed on the window. “And I think they’re trying to break him out.”

  Liddle blinks. “Oh. Well… that’s not something you hear every day.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Ange says, already heading for the door. Her tone is calm, but there’s a cold focus in her eyes. “You stay here and keep the wielder safe.”

  She steps into the hallway, the faint sound of her boots echoing down the stairs. A click follows as she locks the door behind her—sealing Liddle and Markus safely inside.

  Looks like I’ve gotten attached to that little demon, Ange thinks as she descends the stairs, each step echoing through the dim, narrow hall. The air grows thick—too thick—and a faint glow pulses from below, like something alive is waiting for her.