Grant me Your Grace Chapter 104 - Side Story

 

“Meow— Meow—”

 

“Are you hungry, Map? Alright, hold on—I’ll get your milk right away.”

 

Bertha, who had been sprawled almost flat on the floor playing with the little serval kitten, sprang to her feet in an instant.

 

Just last night, she had flinched at the sight of its leopard-like grace, too wary to come near. 

 

Yet today, she had already given the tiny creature the name Map and was rolling around on the ground with it, utterly enchanted.

 

Bertha hurriedly filled a bowl to the brim with milk and carried it over. 

 

Map bounded toward her on those impossibly long legs, lapping eagerly with soft, greedy chup-chup-chup sounds, the milk disappearing in delighted gulps.

 

Bertha watched, completely spellbound, her eyes shining with pure, unguarded love.

 

“I thought this place was only full of frightening things—wild dogs, vultures, dangers lurking everywhere… How could something so beautiful end up all alone?”

 

“Maybe it got injured and fell behind the pride… so the mother had no choice but to leave it. I’ve heard that in the wild, if a cub can’t survive on its own, the mother has to abandon it, no matter how much it hurts.”

 

“Oh… my heart.” 

 

Dahlia’s gaze grew misty as she looked at the kitten.

 

“Poor little thing. Still so young, still needing its family so desperately…”

 

The quiet murmur slipped from Bertha’s lips as she gazed at Map, and something in Dahlia’s eyes softened, shadowed with shared sorrow.

 

Bertha, too, had been bound to Moron because of her—unable to return home, separated from her own family for months now. 

 

Though Dahlia had quietly begged Hissin and learned that Bertha’s loved ones were all safe, that knowledge could never fill the hollow ache of absence, the kind of longing words could never fully capture.

 

“I’m sorry, Bertha.” 

 

Dahlia’s voice trembled, barely above a whisper. 

 

“Because of me… because I dragged you into this place, you can’t even see them.”

 

The thought that she was the reason Bertha couldn’t hold her family pierced Dahlia like a quiet blade. She bowed her head, guilt pooling in her chest.

 

Bertha’s eyes widened in surprise. She waved her hands frantically, cheeks flushing.

 

“No—no, Your Highness, please don’t say that! Even back in the imperial palace, there were times I couldn’t go home for over half a year. I’m not a helpless kitten like Map, you know.”

 

She forced a playful lilt into her voice, trying to lighten the air.

 

“Some of my friends back home are already whispering about betrothals, can you believe it?”

 

Yet even as she teased, Dahlia’s remorseful gaze didn’t lift. 

 

Sensing the weight still pressing on the princess’s heart, Bertha quickly changed the subject, her tone softening with gentle concern.

 

“Oh—right. You said when we first found this little one, its leg was badly injured, didn’t you? …Did Your Highness heal that wound yourself?”

 

The question hung between them, tender and intimate, as if asking not just about the kitten—but about the quiet, selfless care Dahlia poured into everything and everyone she touched, even when no one asked her to.

 

The room seemed to still for a moment, filled only with the soft lapping of milk and the unspoken pull of two hearts quietly reaching toward each other amid the vast, lonely wilderness.

 

When Dahlia learned she was not truly Khankundra’s blood daughter but a descendant of the Hinna people, the revelation reached Bertha as well.

 

The skin affliction that had tormented her mistress all this time—the angry red spots that bloomed without warning—was, in truth, the hidden price paid every time Dahlia healed another. 

 

When Bertha finally understood, she had wept uncontrollably that day, great heaving sobs that shook her small frame until there were no tears left.

 

They had also told her the one thing that could soothe the marks—Hissin’s presence. His nearness alone could calm them. 

 

Yet even knowing that, Bertha lived in quiet terror—every hour wondering when the next crimson bloom would rise on Dahlia’s flawless skin, afraid that this time it might not fade so easily.

 

“Are there… still any spots left?” 

 

Bertha asked, voice small and trembling as she anxiously scanned Dahlia’s arms, her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone. 

 

“You’re really alright now, aren’t you, Your Highness?”

 

Dahlia gently extended one leg, smooth and unblemished as new-fallen snow, letting the soft lamplight glide over it.

 

“See? Nothing at all.” 

 

Her voice was warm, reassuring. 

 

“Yesterday, when I healed Map, Hissin was right beside me the entire time. The marks didn’t even have a chance to appear—he quieted them before they could rise.”

 

Bertha’s brows knit together, worry still clinging to her like morning mist.

 

“Only he can do that? No one else—not me, not anyone?”

 

Dahlia gave a faint, helpless smile. 

 

“It seems that way.”

 

Her divine power had awakened for the very first time the night she fought to save Hissin’s life. 

 

Perhaps it had been the desperate, aching wish to keep that boy breathing that shattered the ancient seal inside her. 

 

And perhaps—though she could only guess—because Hissin had been the first to taste that newly born power, flowing straight from her veins into his, some invisible bond had been forged. 

 

Maybe that was the key that let him erase the crimson debt her healing always demanded.

 

There must be more to it, she thought privately. 

 

But almost no records of the Hinna remain… and whatever fragments survive are probably buried somewhere deep in Baran’s archives.

 

Dahlia let the corner of her mouth lift in the smallest, quietest smile as she ran gentle fingers over Map’s soft fur. 

 

The kitten purred, blissfully unaware of the weight of the conversation.

 

Then Bertha blinked up at her with those wide, guileless eyes and asked the question that struck like sudden lightning.

 

“So… how exactly does Lord Levitzenna calm the red spots?”

 

Dahlia froze.

 

“Wh—what?”

 

The innocent curiosity in Bertha’s voice only made the silence that followed feel heavier, thicker.

 

Everyone knew—though no one ever said it aloud in polite company—that Hissin banished the marks through touch.

 

When the spots were faint, the brush of his fingertips alone could sometimes soothe them away. But never—not once in all the times it had happened—had he stopped at mere contact.

 

The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with something unspoken, something dangerously intimate. 

 

Dahlia felt heat rise beneath her skin—not from any fresh mark, but from the memory of his hands, deliberate and slow, tracing paths only he knew how to follow. 

 

The way his breath would catch, the way his gaze would darken, holding hers captive as the crimson slowly, reluctantly faded beneath his palms.

 

She swallowed once, twice, searching for words that would not betray the sudden, unsteady rhythm of her heart.

 

Bertha waited, head tilted, still perfectly unaware of the storm she had stirred with one simple, childlike question.

 

And Dahlia could only stare back at her, cheeks warming, pulse loud in her ears, wondering how on earth she was supposed to answer without letting the truth slip free—without letting the depth of what Hissin’s touch truly meant spill into the open air between them.

 

He had, without fail, used those crimson marks as the perfect pretext—his hands roaming every inch of her body with slow, deliberate intent. 

 

There were countless nights when he parted her thighs and pressed himself so deeply inside her that the heat of him seemed branded into her very marrow. 

 

Sometimes she almost wished it would end with only lips and tongue; at least then the shame might feel less consuming.

 

But how could she ever confess such things to Bertha?

 

“I-It’s, um… well…”

 

Dahlia swallowed hard, forcing the flush of embarrassment down as though she were explaining something innocent to a five-year-old. 

 

Sweat prickled along her hairline.

 

“Just… holding hands. That’s all.”

 

“Holding hands?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

She nodded quickly—too quickly. 

 

“When the red spots appear, if Hissin holds my hand, they fade right away.”

 

“Even when they’re all over your body?”

 

“Y-Yes… even then.”

 

Dahlia curved her lips into the brightest, most reassuring smile she could muster and blinked rapidly, willing her expression to look natural. 

 

Bertha studied her for a long, searching moment, then gave a small, trusting nod and turned back to stroking Map’s silky back, apparently satisfied.

 

At that exact momen,t the door opened with a soft knock.

 

Hovan stepped inside, his smile easy and warm as summer dawn.

 

“Bertha,” he said gently, “they’ve just finished with the horses. If you still want to practice riding, would you like to come with me now?”

 

The sudden sound of his voice made Bertha startle. 

 

Color flooded her cheeks in an instant—vivid rose against her pale skin. She scrambled to her feet, tripping over her own haste.

 

“Y-Yes! Yes, I’ll come! Today I’m definitely going to hold the reins all by myself!”

 

Hovan’s eyes softened, the smile deepening. 

 

“I’m looking forward to it.”

 

The simple words sent another wave of heat across Bertha’s face, darker this time, impossible to hide. She busied herself with gathering her things, movements quick and flustered, pretending nothing was amiss.

 

For so long, she had refused even to glance at Hovan—branded him a traitor in her heart and turned her back whenever he drew near. 

 

But the truths that had come to light since then had slowly dissolved every last trace of resentment, every misunderstanding. 

 

Now, bit by bit, she was letting him back in.

 

And Hovan, in turn, had begun teaching her—patiently showing her how to ride, which wild plants were safe to eat, how to move quietly through the grasslands so the world didn’t startle at her passing. 

 

Hours spent together had woven something new between them: not quite forgiveness yet, perhaps, but the fragile beginnings of affection, of trust.

 

Dahlia watched the exchange with a quiet, knowing smile curling her lips. 

 

There was something achingly sweet in the way Bertha’s usual composure unraveled around Hovan now—something that made the room feel warmer, softer.

 

Map gave a tiny, protesting meow as Bertha straightened.

 

“I’ll be back soon, Map!” the girl called, already halfway to the door. 

 

She glanced back at Dahlia with bright, earnest eyes. 

 

“Your Highness—please take good care of him while I’m gone!”

 

Dahlia’s smile widened, tender and full of unspoken fondness.

 

“I will. Go on—have fun.”

 

Bertha flashed one last radiant grin before disappearing after Hovan, the door clicking shut behind them.

 

In the sudden stillness, Dahlia exhaled slowly.

 

The memory of Hissin’s hands—his mouth, his body claiming hers under the guise of “healing”—still lingered beneath her skin like banked fire. She pressed her thighs together unconsciously, pulse fluttering low in her belly.

 

And yet here she sat, alone with a purring kitten and the echo of innocent questions that had come far too close to dangerous truths.

 

She leaned down, resting her cheek lightly against Map’s warm little head, and whispered to no one,

 

“How am I ever supposed to explain him… when even I can barely look the truth in the face without burning?”

 

Dressed in riding attire chosen for ease and freedom of movement, Bertha bowed deeply to Dahlia.

 

“Then I’ll be off, Your Highness! If you find yourself bored, please come to the riding grounds!”

 

“Be careful and come back safely.”

 

Bertha had just started toward the lakeside path when she suddenly spun on her heel. She returned to Dahlia’s side and, leaning in close—her breath a warm whisper against the princess’s ear—murmured,

 

“And, Your Highness… next time, you can simply tell me outright that you’ll be sleeping in Hissin’s chambers.”

 

“Wha—?”

 

“I’m old enough to understand these things, you know. I even went through my coming-of-age ceremony two years ago.”

 

To Your Highness’s eyes, I must still look like that seven-year-old little girl. 

 

With a playful shrug, Bertha dipped into another quick bow and finally set off along the lakeside trail.

 

Last night, too, Dahlia had slipped away to Hissin’s room—leaving the sleeping Bertha and Map behind. Now her face burned scarlet, a vivid crimson that rivaled ripe pomegranates. 

 

Overcome with embarrassment, she buried her heated cheeks against Map’s soft fur.

 

“Haa… I’m mortified.”

 

“Meeow—?”

 

Utterly oblivious, Map—his little belly swollen round with milk—proudly pressed his paws against Dahlia’s flushed cheeks, kneading them gently as if to comfort her.

 

💫

 

Dahlia dipped the reed quill into the inkwell with a soft clink, then laid a fresh sheet atop the towering stack of documents. 

 

Amid the mundane administrative notes of Mohron, her own tiny, meticulous annotations crowded the margins like whispered secrets.

 

She sorted them once more, categorizing each with painstaking care. 

 

The chaotic mountain of papers gradually submitted to her touch—bound neatly with thick cord, transformed into orderly bundles.

 

She was deep in review and classification when a knock—tap tap—sounded at the door. 

 

Hovan entered, setting before her a cup of cool jasmine tea and a small plate of dried figs. His tone carried gentle reproach.

 

“You should take breaks, Your Highness. Lunchtime passed long ago.”

 

“Has it really gotten that late already?”

 

Dahlia glanced at the hourglass in surprise; more than half the sand had already trickled away. 

 

Lost in the rhythm of organizing, she had let time dissolve entirely.

 

Hovan cleared a path through the document piles for her comfort, then idly scanned the stacks she had so carefully arranged.

 

“Is this truly so enjoyable for you? Just looking at it gives me a headache.”

 

“Even back when I was a priestess, administrative duties always gave me endless grief, Hovan.”

 

Dahlia smiled softly and took a slow, savoring sip of the still-warm jasmine tea. 

 

The ache in her chest had dulled to a faint, lingering tenderness, yet it was enough—enough that she could now speak of those long-ago days in Baran without the old grief rising to choke her. She had traveled farther from that past than she once believed possible.

 

Hovan watched her a beat longer than necessary. 

 

His gaze lingered on the gentle curve of her lips, on the way lamplight caught in the faint rose still blooming across her cheeks. Then the corner of his own mouth lifted—small, private, warm with memory.

 

A flicker crossed his expression; he tilted his head as though listening to something only he could hear. When he looked back at her, his smile had deepened into something quietly radiant.

 

“Lord Levitzenna will return soon,” he said.

 

Dahlia’s eyes brightened. 

 

“Did Hissin tell you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Through the sacred thread that bound their hearts in sworn covenant, the message had reached him wordlessly.

 

 Dahlia felt the same invisible tug now, a soft pulse of warmth blooming behind her own ribs. 

 

A slow, helpless smile unfurled across her face.

 

Five full days had passed since Hissin left with the Moon Lions to forage for grain, dried meat, and whatever else the increasingly strangled supply lines could no longer provide. 

 

The longer the siege dragged on, the more frequently—and the longer—he was forced to vanish beyond the city walls. 

 

Each absence carved itself deeper into her; even a handful of days now felt like a small, private wound.

 

“I hope today they found land that pleases him, at least a little,” she murmured, almost to herself.

 

Hovan’s voice came quieter. 

 

“…One can only hope.”

 

Land.

 

The single word slipped between them as a stone dropped into still water. 

 

Dahlia’s smile faltered; worry crept in at the edges, shadowing the soft glow that had lit her expression only moments before.

 

She lowered her gaze to the teacup cradled between her palms. 

 

Steam rose in fragile spirals, curling like the unspoken question that lived constantly now between her and Hissin.

 

How many more times must he ride out searching for a place safe enough, fertile enough, hidden enough—before the war finally swallows even the possibility of escape?

 

The silence that followed was thick with everything neither of them dared name aloud. 

 

Yet in that quiet, the space between their bodies seemed to hum—charged, tender, alive with the weight of too many partings already endured, and the greater, more terrible one they both secretly feared might one day come.