Chapter 5
‘…I should start investigating gods related to the moon or time.’
From a distance, a knight of the family, Sir Simos, spotted them. His expression stiffened as he strode over.
“Lady Dalia!”
“Sir Simos, good evening.”
“Yes, good evening.”
“Hey, Sir Knight. I’m standing right here too, you know? Don’t I get a greeting?”
“…Yes.”
The knight didn’t so much as glance at Latrice, the illegitimate child. Receiving only cold indifference, Latrice clicked his tongue in annoyance and vanished down the corridor with a disappointed look.
Simos frowned, scanning the dark hall into which Latrice had disappeared.
“But my lady, why are you here at such an hour? It’s very late.”
“…I had dinner with my parents.”
At the mention of the Viscount, Simos’s severe demeanor softened slightly. Still, he blocked the open path toward the garden and spoke firmly.
“Even so, please refrain from wandering alone at night. You should return to your chambers.”
Though phrased politely, his words carried the weight of an order—no doubt an echo of the Viscount’s command to keep a close eye on Dahlia.
“All right. I was just about to go back anyway.”
“Then allow me to escort you to your room. This way.”
“…Very well.”
Escorted—or rather, guarded—by Simos’s watchful eyes, Dalia returned to her chambers.
Since the library could not be accessed before dawn, she dismissed the maids and turned instead to the clock.
When closed, the clock’s cover gave it the appearance of an ordinary timepiece. But once opened, it revealed itself as something far beyond a mere mechanism—an artifact.
Through repeated experiments, she had learned that the longer she kept time frozen while the lid was open, the more her physical strength drained away. Though she couldn’t measure exact intervals, she knew that the longer the suspension, the harsher the aftereffects. Eventually, she grew so dizzy that the world spun around her.
She instinctively understood—if she stopped time for too long, she might collapse or suffer irreparable harm.
‘How far can I push it…?’
She turned to the mirror. Reflected back was a face even younger than her last memory before death.
The weariness and timidity lingered in her expression, but her cheek bore a thin red scratch—paper cut from when her father had hurled the gossip sheets at her.
‘So that burning sting really did leave a mark.’
Rummaging through the drawers, Dalia carefully dabbed medicine on the wound. Then, she straightened, forcing strength into her gaze as she faced her reflection. Her slouched back naturally straightened as well.
The weak girl who had once craved the scraps of her family’s affection was gone.
Recalling the vow she had made to the divine being—to live this life without regret—filled her with renewed resolve.
Where to begin? The thought was daunting, but thrilling as well.
‘The god said the Black Dragon is not an evil being…’
After deliberation, Dalia reached a conclusion.
‘It must be tied to my family’s threats—that if I refuse marriage, they’ll sacrifice me to the dragon. That’s where I need to start investigating.’
“This bastard again, trying to slap me with another fine! Outrageous, I say!”
The lumberjack who burst into the office full of bluster quickly shrank like a lamb when he spotted the young lady sitting with the forester.
“Lady Dalia? Heavens above—what brings you to a shabby place like this…?”
“I was waiting for you. Please, have a seat.”
With her own hand, Dalia poured him tea and gestured calmly.
Upon returning to the past, she had begun her investigation of the forest at first light. Hogan, this lumberjack, was the last one she hadn’t yet met.
‘Of all things… to be invited to a tea time with the lady herself?’
Wiping the nervous sweat from his palms against his trousers, Hogan risked a glance at the noble girl across the table.
“Don’t be so tense. I didn’t summon you today because of any violations.”
“O-of course! I swear, I’ve never done anything wrong. Never, my lady.”
Refilling his empty cup, Dalia added with a gentle but firm note:
“True. But you do understand that if you’re ever caught cutting a prohibited tree species again, it will end very badly, don’t you?”
“Y-yes, I understand…”
Like a scolded schoolboy, Hogan’s broad shoulders sagged.
‘The rumors were true—Lady Dahlia really has changed.’
She had long been admired among the townsfolk as the Viscount’s eldest daughter, known for stepping into her father’s stead and looking after the people’s needs. Unlike most nobles, she never shirked tedious or unpleasant tasks, nor the painstaking clerical work.
Yet charisma had never been her strength. If anything, she’d always seemed gentle, even fragile.
But now… something about her was undeniably different.
Though exhaustion etched her features—no surprise, given the way her fractured household forced her to shoulder endless burdens—she carried herself with a presence that demanded respect. It was hard to believe she was the daughter of the Viscount, a man known only for tantrums and empty arrogance.
“My lady, forgive me, but I truly don’t understand what’s happening here…”
“I simply have questions about the forest.”
“Oh? Well, if it isn’t about fines, then ask away! I know this forest like the back of my hand.”
Hogan thumped his chest proudly. Dalia’s eyes brightened at his eagerness.
“Let’s start with something simple. When was the last time you encountered an animal in the woods, and what was it?”
The truth was clear: just as the god had told her, no monster in the mountains meant her harm.
Since dawn, she had combed the library for texts on gods and dragons, then gone on to the forester’s hut to study records normally hidden from her. To access them, she had been forced to use the clock’s power.
Though easiest to operate under the full moon, the clock worked at other times too. Still, repeated use quickly drained her.
While recovering her strength, she also took the chance to interview everyone connected to the mountains. Their testimonies aligned with the written records, all pointing in the same direction.
The dragon had not been seen in countless years.
Disappearances and grim rumors about the beast were nothing more than inventions of Viscount Borbon—a scapegoat to keep his struggling subjects obedient.
The so-called “sacrifices to the dragon” were merely a smokescreen. In truth, the Viscount and his corrupt retainers had used them to cover up crimes such as embezzlement and human trafficking.
‘If my mother wasn’t offered as a sacrifice… then what in God’s name did that man do to her?’
Fury surged in Dahlia’s chest, but she forced it down, chilling it into steel. She couldn’t confront the Viscount yet—not until the time was right.
‘I have to plan carefully… otherwise I’ll vanish just like Mother, under the pretext of being a sacrifice. Or worse, be sold off to the Shiray.’
Still under constant watch, rash moves were impossible.
She was mulling over her next steps when she entered the drawing room at sunset—only to find an uninvited guest waiting for her.
“My dear, it’s been far too long since I’ve seen your face.”
The Viscountess, seated at the lavishly set tea table, smiled warmly at her daughter. The expensive tea set—one Dahlia herself had never been allowed to use—was laid out extravagantly before her.
“…Mother.”
“I’ve been waiting ages. You may have leave to come and go as you please, but a proper lady shouldn’t be roaming about until this hour.”
At her side, several hefty binders of documents were stacked high. Dahlia’s gaze lingered on them. The Viscountess fiddled with her hair, suddenly self-conscious.
“What brings you here?”
“Well, with you gone, someone must take charge of the household affairs. That responsibility falls to me now.”
“Of course.”
“…”
“So?”
Dahlia sat across from her, asking coolly. The Viscountess flushed. Dahlia’s composure—forcing her to voice her request instead of guessing it—was infuriating.
“…Help me.”
“With what? Father and you are both fully aware of all these matters. You only withheld them before, saying it was for my education.”
Yes—her father had said exactly that.
When the Viscount squandered money on useless projects or harebrained investments, Dahlia was the one left to clean up the mess. She had worked tirelessly to stave off ruin—rebalancing budgets, haggling with merchants, squeezing efficiency from workers, even finding ways to repurpose his wasteful pursuits.
At the same time, she had shouldered countless duties that should have belonged to the lady of the house.
They told her it was simply “training for her future as a wife.” That feeding her was a waste unless she earned her keep. That a child ought to repay her parents’ efforts with service.
And so Dahlia had spent her entire life being devalued while bearing the work of others.
At first, these responsibilities had been presented as lessons. But as her accomplishments grew, so too did the scope of her burdens.
Until, in the end, almost every task of a ruling lord fell upon her shoulders—except for the one thing withheld from her: authority, and the reward that should have accompanied it.
