The moment her words faded, silence claimed the room.
Alia did not speak again. She tilted her head slightly to the side, her fingertips tapping lightly against her knee. Her eyes, however, drifted downward and settled upon a faint patch of light on the wooden floor, as though she might find her answer hidden there.
Marcellus did not break the stillness. He simply watched her, the glow in his eyes flickering in and out like an unsteady flame—caught between thought and restraint, as though words hovered on the edge of his lips but refused to leave.
Time seemed to stretch unbearably long, so much so that even the air itself grew thick. Outside, the night wind rustled through the branches, the faint soughing blending with the flicker of the candle flame. Shadows wavered across the walls, drawing uncertain patterns between the two of them.
When Alia finally lifted her gaze, she collided directly with Marcellus's. For a brief instant her heart tightened, struck by a soundless chord. Their eyes locked in the dim light, neither hurried to look away.
In their stares lay scrutiny, inquiry, and emotions too deep to name—reined in, yet impossible to deny. A muted understanding hung between them, heavier than spoken words.
In that silence, each of their thoughts churned like hidden currents beneath the surface: Alia weighed the dangers and uncertainties of the path ahead, while Marcellus turned over and over the cruel capriciousness of fate.
At last, Alia exhaled softly, a breath that broke the standoff of silence. Her gaze remained on him, yet her tone gentled, smoothing like a calm river.
"…Very well. Then it is settled."
She said nothing further. Instead, she turned on her heel, her steps sharp and decisive as she left the chamber. The door shut behind her with a quiet click, the sound echoing faintly down the empty corridor like a lingering aftertaste.
The room plunged into quiet once more. Marcellus remained seated at the bedside, his gaze fixed upon the closed door, as though through the wood he could still trace the outline of Alia's departing figure. After a long moment, he let out a slow breath, as if expelling some unseen weight that had pressed heavily against his chest.
He did not lie back down. Instead, bracing himself on the bedframe, he pushed himself upright. The hospital robe hung loosely from his frame, giving him a frail, almost out-of-place appearance. Yet his posture gradually straightened, and a grave solemnity etched itself between his brows.
The candlelight trembled in the draft, casting his elongated shadow against the wall—thin, unyielding, almost austere. With his hands clasped behind his back, he paced the room, each step slow, deliberate, and heavy. The floor beneath his feet seemed to groan with the weight of his thoughts.
"The Grail… Livia… Alia…"
He mouthed the names again and again, rolling them quietly across his tongue. Each repetition darkened the look in his eyes, tightened the knot of his brow. His expression was not one of mere confusion, but of deduction—of piecing together fragments, of following the tangled thread of some hidden truth.
It was only when the wind outside rose, shaking the branches against the window, that Marcellus finally stopped pacing. He stood motionless before the window, candlelight illuminating the sharp line of his cheek. A cold resolve seemed to settle upon him, carved deep into his features. A decision had taken root within him. Yet even with that resolve, the heaviness did not lift—it pressed down silently upon his shoulders, a burden that words could not dissolve.
Night fell thick across the land. The air beyond the window was heavy with damp earth and grass, carrying the scent of soil newly kissed by dew.
Far away, Alia walked alone, her steps slow but unwavering, until she stood before the gates of her family's graveyard.
The gates loomed tall and severe in the night. Black iron bars, mottled with rust, rose like a wall against the dark. Ivy wound up their surface, the leaves quivering faintly in the wind, whispering like voices from another time.
The graveyard stretched beneath a pall of shadows. Only scattered stone lanterns lined the path within, their dim glow pushing back the darkness just enough to guide the way—light and shadow broken, unsteady, like a dream that might dissolve if touched. Towering firs stood sentinel around the land, their overlapping branches weaving a silent barricade. They were barriers, but they were also guardians.
At the entrance waited the gravekeeper. He was an old man with hair turned wholly to silver, his back bent with the weight of years. Yet the lamp in his hand—though its light was dim and yellowed—did not waver, not even in the restless wind.
He did not question her presence, nor greet her with idle chatter. He only watched as she approached, his eyes wary, but filled as well with a muted reverence.
When the flickering light revealed her face clearly—the face of the mistress of the house—he bent deeply at the waist. The bow was not forced, but borne of genuine respect, as though in her bloodline and her fate lay something greater than himself, something he could only honor.
"My lady," he rasped, voice hoarse and controlled. He did not probe, nor did he hinder her path.
Alia inclined her head, her expression calm. Yet deep within her gaze burned a restrained sharpness, a will she no longer sought to conceal. Without pause she crossed the threshold of the iron gate.
The gravekeeper stepped aside immediately, head lowered in silence, paying his respects not with words, but with stillness. He watched without watching, his silence the only blessing he could give, as she stepped into the land of her ancestors—the place of blood, of lineage, of secrets that endured beyond generations.
The gate closed behind her with a low, thunderous clang, as though the world itself had sealed shut. The sound reverberated through the night, a boundary drawn between the living and all else.
The air inside grew thick, carrying the weight of years long buried. The silence of the graveyard pressed around her, dark yet steady. And though her figure was soon swallowed by the shadows of trees and stone, her steps did not falter. She walked on, resolute, into the heart of darkness.