"I only hope…" Alia spoke slowly, her voice light but weighted with something that had been pressing against her heart for a long time, "that I can still feel that strange pull. If I do, I'll be able to find the Holy Grail more quickly. Only…"
She stopped. A faint crease formed between her brows. In the depths of her eyes flickered exhaustion, and the struggle of someone caught between truth and concealment.
At last, she lifted her gaze toward Marcellus. It was as though she had finally gathered enough courage to peel back the secret she had kept hidden:
"I once said that whenever I encountered the Grail, fragments of my own memory would return to me. That was a lie."
The words struck with the force of a blow. Marcellus's expression stiffened, his pupils contracting slightly. But then, as the first wave of shock passed, thoughtfulness overtook his face. He seemed, on some instinctive level, to have already guessed this truth.
Alia exhaled softly. Her gaze dimmed, but in that dimness there was also clarity and an unwavering resolve.
"The truth is, when I touch the Grail, I see fragments of Livia's memory—not my own. I don't know why this happens, but it is real. The last time, what I saw was her memory… of the moment she laid eyes on you in that shameful, twisted state."
Her voice lingered in the air like smoke, unraveling pain that had no words, pain she cut open bit by bit for him to see.
"This time," she murmured, her tone unfocused, as though half lost in a dream, "if I touch the Grail again, I believe I'll see more of her memories. Perhaps… I might finally understand what she truly thought, deep inside, when she looked at you in that strange, terrible form."
Silence fell. The kind of silence so heavy it made the beat of one's heart sound deafening.
Marcellus's breath stalled in his chest before slipping out in a slow exhale. He looked at Alia—those eyes of hers, resolute yet sorrowful, unwavering yet edged with quiet grief. His lips moved as if to form words, but in the end he only let out another long, weary sigh.
"I don't know either," he admitted softly, his voice threaded with a bitterness he could not conceal. "Perhaps all of this—your revival, her coma—is bound together by the Grail in ways we cannot yet see."
He raised his head, forcing calmness back into his gaze. It was the look of someone who had reached the end of hesitation, who had accepted that no matter what awaited, it must be faced.
"Very well," he said at last, his tone gentle yet firm. "I will await it. Whatever memories, whatever truths come forth, I will not turn away. Thank you… for telling me."
Though his words carried little outward emotion, there was in them the weight of resignation, of a man who had finally stopped struggling against the tide and chosen instead to meet the unknown head-on.
Alia saw the expression on his face in that moment, and her heart stirred with an inexplicable ache.
"…Then I shall prepare to depart." Slowly, Alia rose to her feet. Her expression had settled into one of tranquil resolve, the kind that comes only after countless moments of thought. "This time, I will not bring anyone with me. I've realized more and more that the fewer people there are, the easier it is to keep control. The more companions, the greater the uncertainty. With numbers comes chaos."
Her voice was steady, but her words carried a blade's sharpness, every syllable weighed in careful analysis.
Marcellus, his hands folded upon his knees, nodded gravely.
"You're right. And more than that—around my family's burial grounds, there are no strangers. The area is guarded only by veterans who have served the house for decades, men whose loyalty has long since been carved into their bones. They will not betray. I have already given my orders. The story we will tell the outside world is simple: that you, troubled by the family's recent misfortunes, wish to visit the ancestral graves and pray for the blessings of your forebears."
His tone was steady, his words laced with the confidence of one born to an ancient house—someone for whom arrangements and authority came as naturally as breathing.
Alia arched a brow, a wry curve tugging faintly at the corner of her lips as she looked at him.
"So you truly believe in such things," she teased softly. The words carried a hint of levity, even curiosity, but lacked any true edge.
"You really think others will believe it? This talk of seeking ancestral blessing?"
Marcellus's mouth curved into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. Yet behind it lingered an unmistakable gravity.
"Of course they will. Especially now. After all—once one knows the Grail exists, what in this world can truly be called impossible? If you yourself can return from death, then to them, ancient rites and whispered prayers feel only more plausible. More natural."
The remark struck Alia unexpectedly, as if it brushed against some hidden nerve. Her expression faltered for just a breath. Then, with a soft sigh, she lowered her voice.
"You're right. I ought to be more careful with my words."
Her gaze dimmed with a complicated mixture—part irony, part self-reflection, part quiet sorrow. The words left her lips like something light and passing, yet the weight of them hung in the air, heavy and inescapable.