Chapter 87 : The Duel
This scent—it’s Marcas herb!
Roughly five years ago, a magician from the Mage Tower developed a sleep-inducing herb marketed for weight loss.
It quickly gained popularity under the promise that merely burning it while sleeping would cause one to shed pounds effortlessly.
But within a month, sales were banned after someone died using it in their sleep.
The real reason Marcas herb caused weight loss was that it repeatedly forced the user to relive their most horrifying memories in their dreams, draining their vitality.
After several nights of nightmares, one naturally lost appetite and grew anxious—leading to rapid weight loss.
The victim who died had been haunted by the worst moments of their life until they fell into a deep depression and ultimately took their own life.
Up until then, the results had been kept secret by satisfied users. But once a death occurred, the truth was exposed, and the magician responsible was expelled from the Tower.
One of the herb’s unmistakable features was its strong, sharp floral scent.
Aracila had participated in the Mage Tower’s full investigation at the time and had personally tested the herb. That’s why the smell wasn’t unfamiliar to her now.
She turned her head, scanning the room, searching for the source of the scent.
Soon her eyes fell on the candlestick placed on the nightstand beside the bed. The fragrance was wafting gently from there, filling the entire room.
Without hesitation, Aracila snuffed out the flame and grabbed the candle.
She brought it down hard against the floor, cracking it open. From within what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary white candle, a clump of tightly packed herbs spilled out.
Staring at Damian’s face—drawn and pale from relentless nightmares—Aracila bit down hard on her lip.
If he’d been sleeping under the influence of Marcas herb ever since arriving at the ducal estate, the nightmares would have been constant, which explained his growing irritability.
And why he now couldn’t easily wake.
They used something like this on Damian?
Fury flared in Aracila’s chest. She had to wake him, tell him what had been done, and free him from the herb’s grip.
She flung the windows wide open, letting the poisoned air escape, then grabbed his shoulders and shook him, forcing his upper body upright.
“Damian, wake up! Snap out of it—wake up right now!”
Even after his recent weight loss, Damian’s body was still heavy with muscle. Aracila grunted with effort, shaking him back and forth.
Finally, Damian’s eyes fluttered open slowly. His dazed gaze settled on Aracila.
“Oh! You’re awake!”
“…”
“Then look at this!”
Aracila, still breathless and flushed with urgency, shoved the broken candle pieces in front of his eyes.
“Do you know what this is? This candle was on your nightstand—there was Marcas herb hidden inside!”
Damian groaned as a pounding headache surged in the wake of abrupt waking. He pressed a hand to his forehead and winced.
He looked back and forth between Aracila and the lump of crushed wax and herb in her hands, then let out a long, heavy sigh.
“…What are you doing, my lady.”
“What do you mean, what am I doing? I helped you!”
Aracila replied proudly, her voice full of conviction. She was genuinely pleased with herself for identifying the scent and uncovering the cause of his nightmares.
“I’m certain the ducal household planted it. Oh—wait, I should explain what Marcas herb is. It was originally used for dieting—”
“Return to your room.”
Damian cut her off coldly.
Aracila blinked, frowning slowly in confusion.
“What? Wait, are you serious? That’s all you have to say after I saved you?”
She was incredulous. But what he said next was even worse.
“Don’t try to gloss over everything like this. I asked you to wait until I had cooled off. Was that so difficult?”
“No, that’s not what I—”
“A candle like that doesn’t matter.”
Damian spoke as if she were using this trivial candle as a ploy to weasel her way back into his good graces.
Aracila’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The realization that he hadn’t listened to a single thing she’d said left her bitter and hurt.
If I hadn’t noticed this today, she thought, someone would’ve kept burning that candle in his room—and no matter how long I waited, Damian’s emotions would never have settled.
Because the nightmares would’ve continued. Eating away at his mind every single night.
So no—waiting patiently wasn’t the right approach. Taking action was.
And yet, somehow, Aracila had become the one painted as impatient. But now her patience had truly run out.
“Words really don’t work with you, do they?”
She muttered under her breath. Damian responded wearily, rubbing at his temple.
“You’ve just now realized that? Please, just go ba—”
Whoosh.
Something flew at him. Aracila had thrown her shawl—still draped over her shoulders—directly at Damian.
He scowled as it landed squarely over his head. Irritated, he yanked it off and glared at her.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“That was in place of a glove.”
“…What?”
“I just challenged you to a duel, Sir Damian Vandemir.”
Among knights, throwing one’s left-hand glove was the formal way to issue a duel.
Aracila had no gloves, so she used what she had: her shawl.
“Are you serious?”
Damian blinked, dumbfounded. To be woken up and immediately challenged to a duel by his wife—it was almost comical.
But Aracila met his disbelief with dead seriousness.
“Do you know of a good, secluded place where we can fight without interruption?”
“Aracila—”
“If not, let’s just go behind the hill. I’ll be back in ten minutes. You’d better get ready too.”
With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room. Damian stared blankly at the shawl in his hands.
Was this… a real duel?
He had, at least once, imagined what it might be like to spar with her—mage versus knight. But he never thought it would come about like this.
Damian buried his face in both hands and sighed.
As if I didn’t have enough headaches… now even my wife…
The dreams of his mother, the more they repeated, the more they dredged up memories and emotions he had buried long ago.
Though he had worked hard not to show it, the truth was—Damian was suffering.
For others, memories of their mothers might be tender and warm.
But for him, they were a kind of hell.
And even if I did tell her all this… she wouldn’t understand.
Worse, it might backfire entirely.
The thought of such a reaction made Damian hesitant—afraid, even, to expose himself.
Sighing again, he threw on a vest over his shirt and belted on his sword.
Not long after, Aracila returned, dressed similarly, and holding a short staff like the one she’d used during the hunting festival.
This wasn’t a bluff. She fully intended to duel him.
Damian stared at her in stunned silence until she motioned with her chin.
“Well? Lead the way.”
“…Aracila, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“I won’t. I fully intend to beat some sense into that thick skull of yours.”
She smiled sweetly, but there was something mocking in her voice.
“Or are you just scared of losing to me?”
His face went rigid at that.
Her words had struck a nerve. In his pale golden eyes, a fierce glint of competitiveness sparked to life.
“Follow me.”
He strode out purposefully.
Leading her out through the back gate of the estate, he brought her to a wide, open field surrounded by trees.
It was far from the manor and rarely visited—an ideal dueling ground, free of accidental witnesses.
Once they reached a suitable spot, Damian turned back to face her.
“If this is a serious duel, then we’ll need rules.”
“There’s only one,” Aracila replied. “Whoever says ‘I surrender’ first, loses.”
There was no need for tedious formality.
She rolled up her sleeves and gripped her staff tightly.
Damian unsheathed his sword. Silver light gleamed along its edge as a sharp aura gathered.
“I won’t go easy on you this time. Be ready.”
“You sure talk a lot for someone who’s here to fight. Shut up and swing already.”
Without waiting, Aracila summoned magic to the jewel on her staff and fired.
At the same moment, Damian struck with his blade, sending out a powerful slash of energy.
The two forces collided in midair—exploding in a brilliant burst of light and force.
The duel had begun.
***
It was a ferocious battle between a Swordmaster and a future Tower Master.
For a long while, the two clashed as equals—neither able to overpower the other.
In the chaos, their hair became tousled, clothes disheveled, and both sustained minor cuts and scrapes.
The ground was torn up in places, and unfortunate nearby trees collapsed under stray blasts of power.
Aracila, determined to disarm Damian, relentlessly targeted his hands.
But Damian was no stranger to being attacked like this—he defended with practiced ease.
Still, the sheer strength of her magic—unlike any opponent he’d faced before—wore him down, bit by bit.
And then—
In a sudden shift, Aracila changed tactics.
Instead of going for his hands again, she feinted and lunged at his leg.
“……!”
In an instant, the binding spell coiled tightly around Damian’s legs, immobilizing him.
Off balance and stumbling, he had no time to react before Aracila charged at him full force and slammed into his body.
Thud!
What in the world…?
Damian was completely caught off guard. A physical tackle? In the middle of a magical duel?
He could’ve easily swung his sword as she closed the distance—but no matter how serious the duel was, he couldn’t bring himself to strike her.
Thump.
Damian fell flat onto his back. Reflexively, he dropped his sword and pulled Aracila’s head toward his chest to shield it as she tumbled down with him.
He winced at the pain radiating through his spine, but Aracila didn’t even pause. She immediately pushed herself upright and climbed atop him, pinning him down as she raised one hand.
Damian assumed she was about to cast a spell and lifted his arms to block the attack—
—but instead of conjuring magic, Aracila grabbed both his cheeks and pinched them hard.
“Mmgh?!”
“You idiot. You complete fool.”
Damian looked up at her with a baffled expression as she tugged mercilessly at his face.
Her lips were set in a pout, her hands pulling his cheeks wide with firm indignation.
“I’m going to keep doing this until you snap out of it.”
“Urgh!”
Damian reflexively grabbed her thin wrists—but released them just as quickly.
The slenderness of her bones made him hesitate to force her off.
He shot her a pleading look, asking her to let go, but Aracila paid it no mind. Instead, she tightened her grip, digging her fingers deeper into his skin.
For something so seemingly childish, it hurt. Badly.
In the end, Damian couldn’t take it anymore. Instinctively, he raised both hands and cried out:
“Okay!”
“…Was that your way of saying ‘I surrender’?”
“…Yes.”
But even after his confession, Aracila didn’t immediately let go.
She added one more condition.
“I’ll only release you if you promise to listen carefully to what I say.”
“…”
Damian bit back the urge to protest the shifting terms and nodded. His cheeks needed rescuing, no matter what it cost.
With one final twist, Aracila gave his face a sharp, punishing pinch and finally let go.
Damian, cheeks bright red, rubbed at them and tried to sit up—but Aracila pushed him back down by the shoulder.
“What now—?”
“Listen to me. Like this, Damian.”
Her soft lavender curls fell around his stinging face, brushing against his skin.
With the night sky full of stars behind her, her face—slightly dampened with emotion—looked strangely luminous.
She didn’t seem like she was about to cry, but there was a sorrowfulness there, something that tugged faintly at the heart.
And so, Damian stayed still and listened.
Aracila finally began to speak.
“I wasn’t the one who ruined your mother’s dress.”
Maybe it was because his face still stung, or maybe because he’d finally begun to cool down—but this time, Damian listened calmly.
“Lady Panning brought the dress—and the wine. She was opening the bottle herself and accidentally spilled it.”
“…”
“I didn’t know it was your mother’s dress. And I’m sorry for what I said earlier. Truly. I only spoke that way because I assumed the Duchess had put her up to it.”
When she’d said all she needed to say, Aracila climbed off of him. Damian slowly pushed himself up.
His eyes trembled faintly. Now that he knew the truth of what had happened, he realized something simple and shameful:
The one who’d truly made a mistake… was him.
If only he’d listened to her from the start, none of this would have happened.
He had let a misunderstanding fester, let his anger blind him—and lashed out with words that now returned to him like knives, cutting into his pride.
Running a hand over his face, Damian lowered his gaze and muttered an apology.
“I’m sorry. I—”
“I know. You probably couldn’t think straight because of the Marcas herb.”
Aracila pulled her knees up and plopped down beside him.
Just moments ago, she’d been fuming. But the moment she saw real remorse on his face, her anger had begun to melt.
She knew now that his cold, rigid behavior had likely been caused by the Marcas herb.
“Oh, so now I’m finally allowed to explain what it is?”
“…Yes. Please do.”
Damian—who earlier hadn’t let her get a single word in—bowed his head and listened.
Aracila chuckled softly and began to explain the effects of the Marcas herb in detail.
As he listened, Damian’s expression gradually hardened.
“…Damn it. I got played like a fool.”
He muttered it bitterly, disgusted with himself.
Aracila turned to him quietly, studying his face.
And then she asked….
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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