The Required Sacrifice

Former life. The third year of being the Duchess D’Arest.

Roselyn still remembered the exact color of the gown she wore that night—a deep crimson. Chosen by Derrick because he claimed the color made his wife look "exquisite to show off." She stood outside her husband's study door, waiting for nearly an hour before finally being permitted to enter.

Inside, Derrick sat behind his desk with an unlit cigar between his fingers. Beside him, a man unknown to Roselyn stood with his hands folded behind his back.

"Do you know why I called you?" Derrick asked.

"No."

"I heard an interesting rumor." He finally opened his eyes after leaning back with them closed moments before. "They say you married me not out of love, but because you wanted to be a Duchess."

Roselyn froze. "That is not true."

"Prove it."

Two words. Though spoken in a low, flat intonation, Roselyn's body began to tremble.

"How?"

Derrick slid a small box to the edge of the desk. Dark mahogany, devoid of any ornaments. "Open it."

Inside the box lay a small pocket knife. The blade was thin, clean, and gleaming under the candlelight. Beside it was a scrap of paper with a single sentence written upon it:

A woman who loves does not need her finger to hold power.

"Derrick!"

"You said you loved me."

“Yes, you are more important to me than my own life.”

"If that is true, this will not feel heavy. One finger. Your ring finger."

"I wear our wedding ring there."

The blue-eyed man smiled, casting a brief glance at the figure beside him before looking back at his wife, who appeared utterly paralyzed.

“The left ring finger, Rose. The very place you wear the ring of the mistress of the house.”

“This is madness.”

"This is proof." His eyes narrowed subtly. "Or did you actually desire power from the very beginning?"

The strange man in the corner of the room did not move, nor did he make a sound, merely observing like a statue. Meanwhile, Derrick waited with a patience that felt far more torturous than open rage.

It was at that exact moment Roselyn recalled how her hand moved on its own toward the box. The cold blade of the knife was now resting in her palm.

One finger. Only one.

Roselyn placed her left hand upon the desk. Her body shook uncontrollably.

"Are you truly going through with this?"

“I am not forcing you, Rose.”

The eldest daughter of Vogard smiled bitterly. Already driven half-insane by her devotion, she felt she had no choice but to follow her husband's whim.

The strange man stepped forward, took the knife from the Duchess's hand, and—

“Enough, I believe you," Derrick interjected before instructing the servant to clear the desk. He then departed after planting a brief kiss on his wife's forehead.

Two joints. Roselyn had watched her own finger be severed just to hear those words.

The blood was still flowing, and her lips were bitten raw from restraining herself from screaming. It was only after a single, final joint remained that her loyalty was officially acknowledged.

No physician was summoned that night.

No one asked about her condition.

Derrick never brought up the incident again. It was as though it had never happened.

Her finger healed, but it was no longer whole.

And every time Roselyn wore gloves to imperial galas afterward, she knew exactly why. It was no longer due to a fashion trend or the chilly weather, but because some things were far easier to hide than to explain.

The phantom pain from that past wound violently pulled Roselyn back to reality. She closed her eyes, squeezing her left hand beneath the table.

Her voice caught in her throat. She stared at the Pontifex, her eyes welling with tears. "How... how could you possibly know?"

The Pontifex showed no surprise at her emotional reaction. Instead, the old man's warm smile radiated a profound peace that gradually dissolved her rising panic.

"Time is a mysterious circle, My Lady," the Pontifex spoke softly. He placed a sacred piece of parchment onto the table, as if deliberately choosing not to prolong the fear of a woman about to start a new chapter. “Do not let fear consume you. Simply trust in the choice you are making now.”

"But what if my choice is wrong again?"

"In the past, you chose out of the fear of loss. Now, you choose because you know what you truly deserve to have, my child."

Roselyn looked down. “Does the Grand Duke know?”

“I will not speak of it.” Another gentle smile graced his features.

The Pontifex rose slowly from his chair, reaching for the wooden staff resting against the side of the table. After exchanging parting pleasantries, the man walked away, leaving only the fading aroma of incense lingering in the room.

Just as the two large doors swung open, Kaelus's figure was already standing at the threshold of the corridor, evidently waiting there the entire time. The silver-haired man's expression remained as unreadable as before.

“You look pale, Rose.”

Roselyn reached up to touch the large hand brushing against her cheek. She closed her eyes, leaning into the warmth.

“I am just a little tired, Kael.”

"That old man always knows exactly how to make people uncomfortable with his words," Kaelus remarked flatly. “But he harbors no ill intentions. I have known him since I was a child.”

“Did he ever say anything about me?”

“A very long time ago, he merely told me to wait. Perhaps he had a premonition that you would eventually choose me.”

The anxiety she had been holding back instantly dissipated. For a fleeting moment, the brunette had worried that her secret would be exposed.

Yielding to her emotions, she suddenly threw her arms around Kaelus, causing his body to stumble back slightly from the impact. However, the Grand Duke immediately returned the embrace, locking his powerful arms securely around her back.

“We are getting married soon, aren't we?”

“Yes, Rose,” Kaelus answered. His voice dropped into a raspy whisper right against her ear as his grip tightened around her. “But if you hold me this tightly, I might just move our wedding night forward.”