Loya stared at her for several seconds before finally breaking the silence.
"Lately, you..." He paused, as if weighing his words carefully. "You seem different."
Megrie didn't respond. She simply looked up at him, her expression serene. That very stillness made Loya feel increasingly uneasy.
"The hauling yesterday," he continued, his tone intentionally casual. "It must have been quite a strain for you, wasn't it?"
Megrie tilted her head slightly, as if debating whether the question even deserved an answer. "It was fine," she said. Brief. Direct.
Loya frowned. This wasn't the reaction he had expected. "You weren't like this before." His voice dropped an octave. "Before, your face would turn pale just from standing too long."
The words were meant to sound like concern, but coming from him, they felt like a reminder—a reminder that she was "supposed" to be weak.
Megrie finally let out a small smile. It wasn't a warm one. It was a cold, distant curve of the lips. "And?" she challenged.
Loya was stunned.
"And?" she repeated, her voice still calm. "Are you trying to say I shouldn't have any strength now?"
"That's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?" Megrie interrupted him.
She looked him straight in the eye, refusing to back down. "Are you trying to confirm if someone is keeping me? Or are you trying to ask if I've found... other ways to trade for a meal?"
Loya's face changed instantly. "You—!"
"Don't worry," she said flatly. "I haven't broken the castle rules, I haven't stolen anything, and I haven't sold my body."
The last few words were spoken very softly, yet they were heavy enough to make the air sink.
Loya opened his mouth, but for a moment, he didn't know how to respond.
Megrie didn't stop. "The things you're worried about," she said slowly, "actually have nothing to do with you. Whether I can eat my fill, whether I can survive, or whether I can haul heavy goods—" her voice wasn't loud, but every word was crystal clear. "None of it is something I need to report to you."
Loya's fingertips tightened unconsciously. "I just feel like you've been heading out often lately." He tried to regain control of the conversation. "It's dangerous outside the castle."
Megrie looked at him, and her gaze finally turned ice-cold. "Dangerous?" she whispered.
"To me," she said, "the truly dangerous place is the one that lets someone slowly starve to death while pretending it's 'for their own good.'"
She didn't name names, but the sentence pierced straight into Loya's heart. He stood there, his throat tight. Megrie had already looked away, preparing to leave.
"Loya." She stopped for a moment as she brushed past him. He instinctively turned back.
"You don't need to worry about what I'll become." Her tone was indifferent, marked by an irreversible distance. "The person you should truly worry about is the 'Megrie' you were used to—the one who let herself be slaughtered. She no longer exists."
With that, she didn't give him another glance and walked straight away.
Loya was left alone in the corridor. For the first time, he realized that what he wanted to grasp wasn't her secret. It was the figure walking away from his world—one he could never pull back again.
She didn't look back. Step by step, the sound of her shoes on the stone floor was light, yet more stable than ever before.
As Megrie walked, her heart was exceptionally quiet.
So that's how it is, she thought. She finally understood why she had been able to remain so calm just now.
It wasn't because she had become more aggressive; it was because she no longer expected to be understood. The old Megrie, even when ignored, ordered around, or stepped upon, still had a voice deep inside saying: Maybe one day they'll see me. Maybe one day I'll be acknowledged.
But at that moment, she knew with absolute clarity: that day would never come. Not because she wasn't good enough, but because this place had never intended for her to "live well."
In Loya's eyes, there was confusion, unease, and even a hint of being shaken. But none of that was what she wanted. She didn't want late-arriving concern. She didn't want understanding built on a sense of superiority. And she certainly didn't want that look of, "You've changed, so now I've started to care."
She slowly clenched her hand at her side. In her palm, the silver necklace pressed against her skin, slightly cool. It was a real weight. A proof of her choice.
I wasn't left behind. I walked out on my own.
This castle, this corridor, these people—they all belonged to the "previous Megrie." The frail, silent girl who was dictated to be hungry, to endure, and to bow her head.
She had already lived through the hardest part for that Megrie. The road ahead required no permission from them. She didn't need to look back to see who was watching, and she certainly didn't need to prove that she was "worthy" anymore.
She could cook. She could support herself. Step by step, she would expand her world to places even she couldn't imagine.
At this thought, the corners of her mouth lifted slightly. It wasn't a smile for anyone to see; it was the kind of smile that came from a personal resolve.
She would not look back. Because the direction she was headed was no longer on this path.