Phield had quietly modernized the maid's dress: the skirt now skimmed mid-thigh, sleeves cropped short, baring the smooth, porcelain expanse of her legs. It wasn't quite the full fantasy—no silk stockings to complete the look—but the sight of that flawless skin was more than pleasing enough.
"It fits," Ashina said at last, the suspense finally too much. Her voice carried a brittle, mocking edge, as though she'd already pierced his intentions. "My lord… what exactly do you want from me?"
The maids had whispered that her duty was to share his bed. Yet she couldn't quite believe it. Humans loathed demi-humans; her ears and tail branded her as corrupted blood—a devil's get sired on some beast, something vile and unclean.
"Of course it's to help settle my lands. I already told you," Phield answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Seeing the doubt etched across her face, he sighed and rubbed his brow. "Let's just eat first. We'll talk over food."
The word eat alone was enough to still the tremor in her hands. Hunger clawed viciously at her insides, sharp and relentless.
Phield's situation was already precarious. His siblings' disdain was a constant, petty poison—he could bear that. But Count Kote's health ebbed day by day, and soon the vast estate would be divided. By imperial law, even the least-favored legitimate child held an ironclad claim.
Large domains were always fractured to keep any single heir from growing too powerful.
Which meant his brothers and sisters had every reason to wish him dead.
The meal bell sounded moments later. Two composed maids entered, bearing platters of glazed pork ribs swimming in spiced sauce and warm honey bread that filled the room with irresistible sweetness.
"Ashina, you have—"
Phield turned, words faltering. She had vanished. "Hey—where'd you go?"
"Here," came a small, hesitant voice from the corner.
Ashina sat on the bare floor, knees tucked beneath her in a childish squat, back pressed tight to the wall as though trying to disappear into it.
"What are you doing down there?" Phield asked, genuinely startled.
"I'm… sitting. Waiting for food." Her ears flattened. "Did I do it wrong, my lord?" Fear flickered anew in her crimson eyes.
Phield crossed the room in swift strides. He took her wrist—gently, yet with quiet insistence—and drew her up. Her skin was cool, trembling faintly beneath his fingers. He guided her to the table and settled her into a proper chair.
"Sit here. We eat together."
She perched on the very edge, barely letting her weight rest on the seat, gaze locked on him as if awaiting the blow that would punish her daring.
"You're… serious?" she whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. "I'm really allowed to eat this?"
Phield opened his hands in helpless invitation. "Yes."
Only then did she dare reach out. A tentative bite—and flavor burst across her tongue like sunrise after endless night. Rich meat, fragrant spices, warm fat. Her starved senses reeled; tears welled unbidden at the corners of her eyes.
She forgot caution, forgot shame. She tore into the ribs with desperate hunger, sauce staining her lips, licking every drop from the plate as though it might vanish. Three full racks, five loaves—until her belly swelled round and tight beneath the dress and she finally sagged back with a shuddering breath.
Phield watched her, a soft, paternal warmth spreading through his chest. He hid his triumphant grin behind a gentle smile.
Eat well, little wolf. Grow strong for me.
Ashina wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, ears standing proud and alert for the first time. A shy, sated glow lit her face.
"Phew… even if I died right now," she murmured, voice thick with wonder, "I'd die grateful."
"No need to tempt fate," Phield said, lacing his fingers and leaning back in his chair. His tone carried a new gravity, a quiet promise. "I intend to raise you into a Divine Chosen."
He chose the word raise deliberately—never hinting at the panel only he could see.
Ashina's ears drooped. She folded in on herself, gaze dropping to her lap, shoulders curling as though to make her smaller.
"You'll be disappointed, my lord," she said, so softly it was almost lost. "The chance is almost nothing… and I'm only a demi-human. No human lord has ever bound a contract with one of us." Her voice grew smaller with every word, centuries of scorn and rejection echoing in it. "We're unclean. No one would ever want to."
The last words came out barely a breath, heavy with the weight of a lifetime believing them true.
According to the chronicles, the grander and more prosperous a city, the more likely it was to produce a Divine Chosen. Yet even in Golden Eagle City, only three had appeared in the past century—two born to noble houses, one to the clergy.
For demi-humans, the odds were cruelly slimmer. They had no mighty kingdoms, no thriving metropolises. Mere survival was often a daily struggle.
Phield gave a quiet, confident chuckle. "How will we know unless we try? I believe I can raise you into one."
If he failed, he'd likely die in the cursed lands anyway.
Ashina licked a lingering trace of sauce from her lips, eyes still soft with lingering bliss.
"Well… if it means more meat like that," she murmured, "I'm in."
The next ten days passed on the road. To rebuild her strength, Phield stopped at every town along the way, loading the wagons with fresh meat, nutrient-rich potions, and restorative tonics for her.
Ashina soon realized he was utterly serious.
Beyond food, he spent a full hundred and fifty gold on purifying draughts and awakening crystals—essential supplies, he'd learned, for anyone hoping to carve a living from the Nightfall Domain.
At last they reached the final bastion before the northern frontier.
Baron Bull's Kazan Fortress—a grim stone citadel wedged against towering mountains, built to hold back the corrupted horrors, beasts, and savage orcs that spilled from the north.
"Goddess of the Bitter Winter, hear me," Ashina whispered from her perch in the wagon, pressing her palms together in silent prayer to the White Wolf deity. "Let me become a Divine Chosen."
These past days felt like a dream she feared waking from.
Riding in a fine carriage, eating glazed ribs until her belly ached with fullness, tended by maids—even if those maids served grudgingly and muttered complaints under their breath.
It was paradise compared to the cage. She reached up and touched her forehead, half-expecting fevered delusions.
The one thing she couldn't fathom was the precious potions Phield pressed on her. No tale ever spoke of Divine Chosen forged by swallowing elixirs.
"Maybe it's some dark ritual," she muttered to herself, ears flicking nervously. "But… even if he means to offer me to a demon, it almost feels worth it." She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. "What am I saying?"
Still, guilt gnawed at her. "I truly hope I awaken," she whispered again, more earnestly. "Otherwise Lord Phield will be furious—or heartbroken."
Steward Kaor let out a heavy, despairing sigh. "Never thought my last visit to Kazan Fortress would be like this."
Phield ignored the melodrama. Reining in his horse, he leaned over and lightly tapped Kaor's shoulder with his riding crop, curiosity sparking. "You came here often before?"
Kaor rolled his eyes. "Often enough. You were always sending your allowance here—donating to the villagers, or slipping it into Baron Bull's private coffers so he and his men could drink, feast, and gamble the nights away."
Phield's mouth twitched awkwardly. He'd forgotten just how saintly the original owner had been. With an embarrassed shrug, he forced a grin. "Well, at least Baron Bull will welcome us with open arms, right? The locals will sing our praises. Passing through Kazan Fortress from now on should be a breeze."
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