A Morning of Regret and a Father’s Cold Ambition

Drip.

Saranya awoke from her slumber, wiping the dew from her face, and immediately turned to glance at Kaelan sleeping beside her.

Hmph, still not awake.

Kaelan’s breathing was even, her arm tucked behind her head, her eyelashes fluttering, adorned with clear droplets of water.

Saranya breathed a sigh of relief, her gaze drifting to Kaelan’s right ear, where a faint bite mark lingered.

Staring at her mistress’s delicate little ear, a pang of guilt struck her.

Last night had not ended pleasantly.

She had, in a sense, half-forced Kaelan, claiming authority over her ear. Kaelan had initially resisted, but as Saranya’s tongue offered its meticulous service, Kaelan’s expression had gradually softened, melting away her initial refusal.

Thus, through their personal test, they had proven the common perception of mixed-blood elves to be true.

Her mistress’s earlobe was indeed incredibly sensitive.

The sight of Kaelan’s crumbling expression from last night—half-resisting, half-indulging, knowing it was wrong yet still succumbing to the pleasure—was something Saranya doubted she would ever forget.

Yet, even she hadn’t anticipated the extent of her own surging desire afterward, how brazen she would become.

Leveraging her physical advantage, she had ambushed and pinned Kaelan down, roughly tearing away her magic robe, pulling it down even to the perilously intimate triangular region of her lower body. Her mistress’s soft, pure abdomen had been exposed to the air, and Saranya had touched and tasted it thoroughly.

It was fair to say that if Kaelan hadn’t forcefully demanded a halt, and if Saranya hadn’t retained a shred of reason, they truly would have crossed the final, intimate boundary.

Observing her mistress’s indignant gaze, she recalled a classic line:

“What I give you is yours; what I don’t give you, you cannot seize.”

Indeed, what she had received was merely her mistress’s so-called “reward.” Kaelan had been warning her not to forcibly claim what wasn’t hers.

Looking at Kaelan’s serene sleeping face, Saranya felt a deepening wave of shame, raising a hand to cover her face.

“Oh no…”

She regretted it profoundly; Kaelan must surely despise her now.

****

In the central district of Vero City, within the Moonscarred Sanctuary, stood the clergy residence.

A man lay upon a bed, dark red bandages spiraling from his thigh all the way up to his head. His few remaining strands of hair drooped limply, poking out from the gaps in the bandages, hanging down feebly. Beneath him, the luxurious silk sheets were saturated with bodily fluids and pus, emitting a foul, putrid stench.

At the bedside, Paresha held a clean bandage, gently stroking Westir’s forehead, signaling her intention to replace the soiled dressing.

“Brother…”

Between the gaps in the two strips of cloth, Westir’s eyes snapped open. His pupils first dilated, then frantically constricted to pinpricks. He began to tremble with grief and indignation, emitting hoarse whimpers, yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not articulate a complete word.

“I know you’re in great pain, please bear with it, please…”

Haggard from a sleepless night, Paresha’s face was drawn. Seeing her brother in such a state, her swollen eyes once again filled with tears.

“I’m so sorry, Westir, I’m so sorry…”

She had lost count of how many times she had apologized to her brother, knowing that no number would ever be enough. If only she hadn’t insisted on leaving the city, if only she had listened to her brother and not entered that church, if only her strength had been greater, like Miss Haia’s…

From childhood, everyone around her had assumed she was adopted, suspected she was illegitimate, and some even rumored she was Bishop Doron’s young mistress. Only her brother had never cared about such whispers.

Her brother was different from her; he was pious, learned, and wise. He had always loved to immerse himself in the Sanctuary’s library, but to be with her, he had gradually developed the habit of carrying books everywhere. He disliked conflict, becoming flustered at the slightest danger, yet he had tolerated her willfulness, venturing into peril with her without a single complaint.

All of this was her fault; her recklessness and arrogance had harmed her brother.

“Knock, knock, knock.”

The door was rapped, and Paresha quickly wiped away her tears, hurrying to open it.

It was Bishop Doron, her father.

Doron’s expression was colder than usual. He walked to Westir’s bedside to check on him, offering a few low words of comfort, then turned to face Paresha, his two white mustaches trembling slightly.

“Father—”

“Say nothing. The immediate priority is to help you pass the priestess election as quickly as possible. As for Westir… he is clearly no longer suitable to be a candidate for bishop of the Sanctuary.”

“What…”

“Lucius, it’s alright, come in.”

A young man entered the room, appearing at first glance to be a refined nobleman, though his attire was excessively flamboyant, like a strutting peacock.

Paresha frowned slightly; she didn’t much care for this person.

“This is Lucius from the Wynshire family. You should know that his father is Vero’s governor and a member of the Autonomous Council, and the Wynshire family has made very generous contributions to the church’s cause.”

‘Contributions’? Paresha thought. More likely, it meant bribing high-ranking Sanctuary officials for sordid exchanges of interest.

“So?”

Paresha looked at the man named Lucius, her expression somewhat rigid.

“Lucius is learned and talented, having read no less than Westir. His father, Governor Pavol, and I have discussed it, and Pavol has agreed for him to stay in the Sanctuary. From now on, he will replace Westir in tutoring you.”

Lucius bowed to Paresha, taking a few steps closer, as if anticipating something.

According to etiquette, Paresha was likely expected to extend her hand for him to kiss, but she did not.

Lucius was to stay in the Sanctuary… Did that mean this man was to replace Westir as a bishop candidate?

“Father! What about Westir?!”

Doron’s face darkened, his brows furrowing into a deep沟:

“Westir has indulged you far too much!”

“You can’t do this to my brother!”

“Do you think I want to?! Paresha Greystone, mature a little! Someone *must* occupy this position. It cannot be anyone else; it *must* be someone I choose, it *must* be someone from our Greystone family!”

‘Must be… someone from our family’? Did that mean her father intended to legitimize her as his daughter, to have her and Lucius…

Upon realizing the implication of his words, Paresha’s face drained to a stark white. Behind her father, her brother lay motionless on the bed, his eyes wide with despair.

Lucius grinned at Paresha, his expression a mixture of delight and triumph:

“Paresha, I am deeply saddened by what happened to your brother. It’s not your fault…”

That hypocritical tone…

Paresha frowned, her face etched with revulsion:

“We have only just met. Please do not address me by my first name.”

“In any case, you young people should get to know each other. Lucius is your new teacher, and he can also become an excellent fiancé. There is no one in this world who could care for you better than he.”

Doron tossed out the words, then exited the room without a backward glance.

The incident with Westir had occurred yesterday, and Doron had already taken action today. Clearly, her father was more concerned with the succession of his power than with familial affection.

“Paresha, even if you act like this, it won’t change anything—”

“No, don’t come near me!”

Paresha stood up, retreating a few steps closer to her brother.

“I am a very good person, believe me. My family is wealthy, and I can teach you many things. You can ask other young ladies; those noble ladies all enjoy spending time with me…”

Lucius twitched the brim of his golden hat, the feather ornament on it standing erect in the air, swaying proudly.

“No! Get out of this room!”

Paresha backed away, clutching her chest in anguish.

She felt utterly disgusted.

Lucius, unwilling to give up, took another step closer. Paresha caught a whiff of his pungent cologne and felt an urge to vomit.

“Paresha, we can take our time getting to know each other, you—”

“I don’t want to!”

“My father knows a very famous person. He can cure your brother.”

“…”

Paresha hesitated this time.

“How… how can he cure him? The doctors in the Sanctuary said my brother is lucky just to be alive; it will be very difficult… for him to recover.”

“That person, he is not a doctor.”

Lucius lowered his voice, settling himself at the table and patting the chair beside him, a disingenuous smile plastered across his face.

“You sit here first, and we can have a good chat. I’d like to learn more about you…”

Paresha turned to look at her brother, bit her lip, and finally walked forward, taking a seat in the offered chair.