CHAPTER 43: VULNERABILITY

Levan noticed the spark of relentless curiosity in her eyes. Though he had no intention of revealing more than necessary, he relented enough to offer her a fragment of truth, something that might ease that questioning look on her face.

"When you spend days and nights handling cases born of human greed and cruelty, it is inevitable to encounter corpses — women, men, children alike," he said evenly.

She mulled over his words. Knowing his line of work, it was expected as much as it was unsettling. She asked, "...But what’s the need to strip them bare? If they are already dead?"

His brows drew together slightly, surprised by her lack of knowledge. "For autopsy," he answered, the word blunt but not unkind. "To determine the cause of death."

Her eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her flushed face. "Autopsy..." she whispered, as though the foreign word itself tasted wrong on her tongue. "But...aren’t priests the ones who tend to the dead? Back in Caelwyn, bodies are cleansed by blessings and prayers. To strip them without the deceased’s consent is..." She faltered, her voice softer now, "...it’s considered taboo."

Levan’s gaze lingered on her, calm but sharpened by memory. He had heard such words before. The Caelwynians placed their faith wholly in their temples, so wholly, in fact, that they trusted their lives and their deaths to the White Dragon’s blessings. They believed prayers could preserve the soul, that ritual could banish impurities, that incense and holy water alone could explain away the mysteries of death.

"It works, sometimes," Levan admitted calmly, shifting closer to tend back to her arms. "But not always. Not every death is clean, or simple, or merciful. Some are designed to deceive. Some too deliberate to be washed away by incense smoke and chants. Even your priests know this, though they may not speak of it openly."

Ilaria watched him move closer through the pillow. She had grown up believing her people’s ways were unshakable and absolute. Even her late mother, who used to bring her to the temples to offer incense and prayers had never spoken of such a thing. Yet here he was, speaking of truths beyond the reach of blessings and dragons.

He went on, "That is why autopsies are necessary. When the body carries secrets that prayers cannot uncover, we must search deeper. Whether or not the soul consents."

"Then?" Ilaria prompted. "...What happens after?"

It was a question born purely out of curiosity, but she did not expect for the silence to greet them this heavily; for him to slow his hands as if she had just struck somewhere she should not have touched.

She stared at him, the cold cloth forgotten against her burning skin. Something in his actions, which was measured and clinical did not match the shadow that passed through his eyes. For the first time, she saw him really still

, his hand finally pausing on her shoulder blades.

Silence fell heavy between them, and she realized he was thinking, truly thinking of something he could not easily speak of; perhaps it did not even crosses his mind until she triggered it.

When he finally moved again, it was slow and cautious. His gaze dropped to her collarbone, and he lifted the damp cloth once more, pressing it lightly against her flushed skin. The motion was careful, almost ritualistic, as if he was reminding himself of an older memory.

"You clean the body," he said distantly, "wipe them free of blood, of filth...of anything that would cling. You make sure no impurity remains before the earth takes them back. Only then can a proper burial be granted."

It ws in that moment that she knew he was not just speaking of random corpses he met everyday anymore. His hand lingered steadily against her, but his eyes...they were far away, so far away that she was not sure if she could ground him back to the present if she tried. This is the most vulnerable he had looked in front of her.

Because what she did not know; what he did not allow himself to say was that he had done it with his own hands once. That the body he had washed, stripped of stains, rinsed as though purging every trace of suffering, had been his own mother’s. He had ensured no evil touched her as she left this world, performing each stroke of cloth like a son’s last duty, even as grief carved him hollow.

Now, as he carefully wiped his wife’s skin, it was as if those motions echoed back through time.

Ilaria’s eyes slanted solemnly. Had she been blind, she would not have noticed the flicker of rawness in his eyes. Grief, maybe, or pain too old to speak of. But just as quickly, it was gone. Levan’s expression shuttered, every trace of that vulnerability sealed away behind the same impassive mask he always wore.

His movements resumed with calm precision, as though nothing had slipped through at all. Levan wrung out the cloth one last time, his motions unhurried. Then, with equal care, he folded it neatly and draped it over the rim of the bucket before casting her a long, measured look.

"Your temperature has cooled," he said, almost as if he was confirming it to himself. His gaze lingered on the faint flush still clinging to her cheeks, then it softened just barely. "How do you feel?"

"...I’m fine now," Ilaria said quickly, hugging the pillow closer to shield herself from the weight of his gaze.

Levan nodded, his thumb brushing along her chin to wipe away a stray droplet clinging there, as he reprimanded lowly, "Next time, you shouldn’t eat so carelessly."

Her lashes fluttered. "Carelessly...?" She blinked, mildly affronted. "But it was just macarons."

"Just macarons...yet you ended up uncomfortable for the rest of the evening."

She frowned at him. "W-what is that supposed to mean? It’s not like sweets are dangerous."

"They are," he replied without missing a beat. "Too much of anything is dangerous, and you eat them far too often. Your handmaiden told me you eat them everyday."

Ilaria puffed her cheeks slightly, feeling betrayed that Melyn would report to her husband, muttering, "...You make it sound like I committed a crime..."

Levan’s eyes flicked briefly over her expression. "Then stop looking guilty."

"I’m not guilty," she whined, burying her chin into the pillow once again.

Without arguing further, he picked up her discarded nightgown from where it had pooled on the bed and shook it once to straighten the fabric. Then, with the same precise calm as before, he held it open and draped it carefully over her shoulders.

"Arms," he instructed.

Her face turned scarlet, but her body obeyed before her mind could catch up. Once her nightgown was intact again, the soft fabric falling properly over her skin, she exhaled shakily in relief. No longer clutching a pillow for dear life, she sat there, small and fragile in the low lantern glow, her hair still mussed from all her flustering, her cheeks still flushed like ripened fruit.

Ilaria lowered her gaze, her fingers twisting into the hem of her gown before she dared to look up at him again. The heat no longer bothering her. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice soft and shy. "For taking care of me."

Her lips curved into a faint, genuine smile, the kind that carried no defiance or sulking, only warmth, perhaps timid, but unequivocally real. "You didn’t have to do so, but I’m still happy you did."

The sweetness in her tone contrasted so sharply with her earlier pouts that for a moment, it almost seemed to still the air between them.

Levan’s gaze lingered on her steadily, but inside his chest, something shifted. For a fleeting instant, the soft and unguarded expression on her face reminded him of the very first time he met her. She had been smaller then, bright-eyed, smiling up at him as if meeting him was the happiest thing in her world.

He had dismissed it at the time, but now...why did it come back to him so vividly?

His jaw flexed. Irrational.

And then, his eyes drifted lower, to the body that only moments ago had been bared to his touch. The memory of her skin against his palm and the heat rolling from her were still vivid in his touch. He swallowed once before schooling his face back into its usual composure. It was not like he was foreign to seeing women baring themselves to him.

So why is he like this?

Without a word, he reached forward, brushing her shoulders with a quick, impersonal motion, straightening the fabric of her nightgown. "It looks big on you," he remarked.

"Eh?" Ilaria blinked, then tilted her head down, staring at herself. Her fingers pinched at the loose neckline, cheeks puffing faintly. "I-is it? I thought it fit just fine..."

Why is he looking there of all places?

Her small pout returned, though softer this time, half embarrassed and half genuinely confused. She tugged at the fabric as if trying to prove it was not that loose at all, then glanced back up at him with wide eyes. "Does it really look that strange?"

Levan stared at her. His countenance betrayed nothing, but inside, a tight pressure was gradually building in his chest; a weird sensation close to a maddening mix of exasperation and something dangerously close to fondness. Too much. Far too much.

"...Tch." His brow twitched, and before she could keep prying, he unceremoniously cupped her face in one large hand, effectively silencing her.

"Sleep," he ordered firmly, like a man clinging to control.

Ilaria blinked up at him, her cheeks squished slightly against his palm. The sudden warmth of his hand on her skin made her heart stutter, but still she nodded faintly.

Not wanting the moment to end just yet, her voice muffled under his grip. "C’n shee y’ tomorr’w?"

Levan’s brows pulled together. "What?" He slid his hand aside, giving her space to speak properly.

Her eyes practically glowed as she repeated, clear and unashamed this time, "Can I see you again tomorrow?"

It was not meant to affect him; It was not even something he thought was possible, but his composure cracked, not visibly, but in the subtle stiffening of his shoulders and the faintest flicker in his eyes. He stared at her once again, unmoving, fighting the nonsensical constriction in his chest.

It was not that he did not expect the request. It was in the way she said it so brightly that made him question himself. The irrational tightness in his chest pressing harder, begging for release, but he clamped it down with practiced ease, giving her nothing but a curt nod. "Fine."

Her whole face lit up at that. "Okay~ Goodnight, husband!" she chirped, grabbing the pillow to her chest as if it was the happiest charm in the world.

Levan did not return the words. Instead, he took the jar containing a single chocolate macaron from the bedside table and turned on his heel, walking out of the room before she could notice the treacherous fold threatening to slip in his expression.