RIRAWN | Ch 17

Episode 17 

While Lindsay’s farm bustled with life that morning, the Perdeus townhouse in the capital was as silent as a grave.

The only master of the quiet estate, Michael Perdeus, squinted against the sunlight streaming through the window.

He hadn’t slept well—his mind had been tangled up in worry all night, and even now he had no clear answers.

His eyes shifted from the communication artifact on his desk to the servant standing guard outside the office.

“Aiden. Send word that I’ll be visiting Marquis Nofen’s house this morning. And prepare a carriage.”

The office door creaked open, and Aiden poked his head in with a mischievous grin.

“With the lace-covered carriage?”

At that joke, the maids cleaning the hallway froze.

They all knew the lace carriage—an eight-horse, lace-decorated coach once used by the late duchess.

Their faces drained pale at Aiden’s teasing.

Michael let out a quiet, weary breath, suppressing the urge to snap.

“No lace. A plain carriage. And call Orca to my office.”

“What, did that crazy mage cause trouble again? Didn’t he wreck something just last week?”

The truth was, Michael had summoned Orca to report on a job he’d given him at dawn.

Normally, he might’ve explained a bit, but he didn’t have the patience for small talk today.

“Aiden.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll go now. Going.”

At Michael’s hard tone, Aiden bolted out of the office before he could be scolded further.

Left alone, Michael reached into his coat and pulled out a pendant he always carried with him.

Once, it had been big enough to fill both his hands. Now, it fits easily in one.

His scarred hand opened the pendant.

Inside was a small, worn portrait of a little girl with delicate, fairy-like features. She was smiling brightly.

Michael stared at it for a long moment, his eyes tracing the fading edges so they wouldn’t crumble further.

He could see her so clearly—fiery red hair like flames, sky-blue eyes, and that pale face always smiling at him.

If it weren’t for her cruel illness, she would have shone brighter than anyone in high society, stealing the hearts of noble sons.

Just imagining it made his chest burn with rage, but that was only a dream now.

All he wished for was that she’d recover, spread her wings, and finally fly free of her cage.

You don’t have to stay by my side.

Even if you go to another man, my heart will ache—but I’ll let you go.

I just want you to live, Aria.

Michael’s eyes softened with painful longing.

He’d watched helplessly as the bright life faded from her face, day by day.

Aria always told him she was fine.

But to truly heal her, he needed help from a witch.

And for that, he couldn’t afford to risk her safety recklessly.

Knock, knock.

“Your Grace. Orca here. May I enter?”

Shaking off his thoughts, Michael closed the pendant and tucked it back against his chest.

“Come in.”

Orca entered, bowed, and went straight to the point—he hated wasting time. Michael appreciated that about him.

With Orca, there was no need for pointless flourishes.

“Have you found the source of the magic?”

“I’m sorry. Not yet.”

“What’s the range you’ve covered?”

“No matches among the mages registered in the capital.”

Michael’s jaw tightened as he rubbed his chin with a rough hand.

Anyone entering the capital had to pass inspection—noble, commoner, knight, even mage.

Anyone with high mana levels was flagged and forced to register with the Imperial Mage Institute.

That had been the Empire’s drastic response to repeated terrorist attacks by rogue mages.

So, if the witch’s leftover mana didn’t match anything in the registry, what did that mean?

“Could she have taken measures to avoid detection?”

“It’s possible, but unlikely. The more reasonable assumption is that she’s unregistered. The mana-orbs were only recently developed by the Institute—she probably never anticipated such a tool.”

Those orbs had been tested by Michael’s men already.

Their accuracy was reliable.

That meant the witch was probably an unregistered mage.

Michael reviewed what they knew.

The witch contacted brokers at least three times a week.

She could brew potions even Perdeus’ family mages had never seen.

She never panicked, no matter the situation—suggesting she had tricks hidden up her sleeve.

Most importantly, she had confidently claimed she could make the cure described in Marquis Nofen’s secret documents.

Even the person who gave Michael the documents had said it was impossible.

And yet this unknown, unregistered mage said she could?

The questions kept multiplying.

Orca, waiting silently, finally offered a suggestion.

“What about investigating the mages affiliated with the Mage Tower?”

“No. That’s too risky.”

Tower mages were the only ones exempt from mana registration at checkpoints.

But stirring up the Tower right now would be foolish.

The Tower Master, who’d stayed secluded for years, had recently reemerged in public—and rumors said he was in the capital for the Founding Festival.

Picking a fight now would be like poking a sleeping dragon.

Michael’s expression darkened.

Maybe he should just abandon the chase and focus on protecting Aria instead…

But then Orca cautiously spoke up again.

“Your Grace. Some mages can slip past the checkpoints.

And some fit the conditions you mentioned.”

“How would that be possible?”

“In the past, some tried to exhaust all their mana before the checkpoint. But since the detection devices were improved, that trick no longer works. However…”

Orca’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“There are mages born with extremely low mana reserves. Too weak to meet the detection threshold. They can’t advance as real mages, so they dabble in potions or sell cheap magical trinkets.”

Michael understood instantly.

“Alchemists.”

“Yes. They call themselves that.”

Michael’s gaze turned sharp.

A mage strong enough to keep up defensive barriers couldn’t possibly be that weak.

But he had no better leads, and right now, every possibility had to be pursued.

“Start over. This time, track the alchemists in the capital.”

“Yes, sir.”

Orca bowed deeply and left the office.

Michael’s eyes lingered on the clock hanging on the wall.

Then, as if making up his mind, he stood and left the office.

The maids who had overheard Aiden’s earlier joke were gone now, their cleaning done.

He walked alone down the long, empty corridor, his face unreadable.

He descended from the third floor to the first, where he finally encountered a nervous servant.

The young man flinched under Michael’s cold gaze, bowing low.

“The carriage?”

“R-ready and waiting at the main gate, sir. The coachman is prepared.”

The servant stammered, trembling pale.

Michael didn’t scold him—he simply walked past, heading toward the entrance.

The boy remained frozen in place until the butler came by.

“Thomson. His Grace has already departed. Get back to your duties.”

“Y-yes, Butler Antonio!”

Antonio sighed quietly as he watched Thomson flee.

Even after ten years, the wounds in this household hadn’t healed.