Irene Decided to Die - Chapter 18
A sigh escaped her involuntarily, but she couldn’t stop her body from collapsing due to exhaustion. And finally, when darkness veiled her sight, she felt something gently catching her.
Burt carefully caught Irene as she was about to fall onto the bed, laying her down gently.
Throughout the day, Irene truly suffered in many ways. She had visited the goddess, encountered the high priest, and even had to converse with the duke.
It was clear her insides were rotted from all the stress, yet her attempt to hide it felt somewhat pitiful.
‘Pitiful?’
Burt sat by the bedside, watching Irene deeply asleep. Her brows furrowed as if she were having a bad dream.
He wished she could find some peace in her dreams, but it seemed that was not the case.
Burt touched her furrowed brow with his finger, then quickly withdrew it as if he had touched a flame. He felt a bit strange at the moment.
Traditionally, the kings of the north had been less emotional than other rulers. It was a repercussion of their powerful abilities that numbed their emotions, but he had never found it inconvenient.
After all, mimicking emotions wasn’t difficult for him. Therefore, he shouldn’t be capable of harboring any feelings towards Irene.
The feeling in his chest was oddly unsettling.
‘Am I sympathizing with the Saint’s heart?’
After all, kings were originally created to assist the Saint. Thinking of it that way made sense.
“Mmm.”
Irene continued to grimace and toss in her sleep. After watching her for another moment, he stood up, properly adjusted the blanket over her, and drew the curtains.
The room was enveloped in a soft darkness, and Irene’s expression seemed to relax a bit more. After ensuring she was more comfortable, he headed to his desk piled with documents.
He planned to get some work done before she woke up. That way, he would be better prepared to assist her properly upon awakening.
Once her body recovered a bit more, he wouldn’t be able to keep refusing meetings with other kings. The Saint had too much to do in order to restore the world to its rightful state.
Scratch, scratch.
The only sound in the room was the pen scratching against the paper as Irene slept quietly.
“This is it for now.”
The torturer said this as he lifted a whip with iron pieces attached to it.
Swinging it would mercilessly tear apart tender flesh. Imagining the impending pain made her body tremble uncontrollably.
‘No, this is a dream.’
Even with this thought, she couldn’t stop the shaking. Right now, she was nothing more than a powerless victim.
The realization twisted her insides. She didn’t want to be weak anymore. Even knowing it was a dream, she despised herself for quivering in fear.
‘I hate this!’
Irene clenched her eyes shut. But closing her eyes didn’t make the pain disappear.
A deep breath she had been holding burst out.
“Ah!”
When she opened her eyes, deep sea-colored irises were looking at her from close by.
“Are you alright?”
Seeing the hand paused above her, it seemed he had been trying to wake her.
“I’m fine.”
Trying to suppress the tears that were about to burst forth, Irene attempted to sit up. However, her exhausted body refused to cooperate.
‘I thought I was getting better.’
It seemed like she had reverted to her original state after overexerting herself for a day. After several attempts to get up, Irene found her body uncooperative and laid back down on the bed.
“May I help you?”
“There is no need.”
Despite her sharp tone, Burt’s expression remained unchanged.
His expression was always similar, like that of a person carved out of marble, cold and firm.
But now, that expression somehow felt comforting. After all, he would wear the same expression for anyone.
“Saint.”
She wished he would change the way he addressed her.
Even though she had come to terms with being the Saint, she did not like hearing the word. It reminded her of the numerous pains associated with it.
“My name.”
“Pardon?”
“Adress me by my name.”
She didn’t really feel like having her name called, but it was preferable to being called the Saint.
“Then, Lady Irene.”
Was it her imagination, or did the corners of Burt’s mouth lift slightly? Then, he continued speaking.
“Do not refuse help.”
Why? Her expression must have questioned his reasoning because he elaborated.
“After all, we have agreed to bear costs for each other. The journey ahead is long, and if you refuse even minor assistance, it will only become more challenging.”
He wasn’t wrong. Currently, the only person Irene could rely on was Burt, the King of the North.
She was aware that her ability to rest comfortably now was due to his efforts. He was warding off most of those harboring ill will towards her, including other kings.
Therefore, it seemed better to yield to some extent.
‘I still don’t want to meet the other kings.’
Unlike Burt, who was a bystander, they had actively tried to push Irene into an abyss.
‘How dare she attempt to harm Ramiel!’
‘Ungrateful for the goddess’s grace, coveting a position that isn’t hers.’
‘She will pay for this.’
Their voices echoed one after the other, sending shivers down her spine.
