Gunmage
Chapter 157: A bitter remedy

Chapter 157: Chapter 157: A bitter remedy

It was infuriating.

No matter what I did, what tricks or schemes I employed, she always had a counter ready. I couldn’t gain a single advantage over her. It was maddening.

Though she was once a lowly maid, she was literate, could move with elegance when she wanted to, and bore the grace and poise of a noblewoman born to rule.

Lugh raised an eyebrow.

How Curious.

Although her words were sharp, her eyes betrayed something else, an undercurrent of admiration.

It seemed Isolde’s relationship with his mother wasn’t as simple as he’d initially assumed.

He inhaled deeply and released the breath in one slow exhale.

This only makes things more complex.

"As time went on"

Isolde continued, her voice deepening

"I began to understand exactly why Lucas was so deeply in love with her. It was just... there. That something. A quality I couldn’t compete with, no matter how hard I tried. And it irked me."

Her voice was level, but a bitter tint laced the edges.

"Even though I was younger... even though I had magic, even though I was the legitimate wife with hundreds at my beck and call, I always felt inferior."

Lugh’s expression hardened. He had no desire to let her reminisce further.

"Isolde"

He spoke, his voice low and impatient

"How exactly did my mother die? That’s all I ask of you."

The words struck something. Her mind reeled as memories of the past began to surface once more.

...

"Madame Freya has come down with an illness"

The maid reported, hands folded, voice trembling with restraint.

Isolde sat reclined on a plush velvet sofa, thumbing through a leather-bound book. Her expression barely changed.

"Then call a physician"

She responded coolly, eyes still on the page.

"We have, ma’am"

The maid replied.

"It’s... strange. Similar to the one you contracted after giving birth to young lady Lirienne."

The book snapped shut.

"Really?"

"Yes, ma’am."

Isolde was quiet for a moment.

"House Caldreth still has remnants of the primary ingredients needed to prepare the remedy."

"Then shall I go—?"

"No."

"Ma’am?"

"Stop worrying"

She said with a wave.

"That illness takes at least two to three weeks before symptoms worsen. I won’t let it reach that stage."

A cruel glint danced behind her eyes.

"But before then... let me watch her suffer for a bit."

"Uh... yes, ma’am."

Two days later, she paid Freya a visit.

The woman lay on the bed, her body weakened, but her eyes gleamed with that same mischievous light.

"Hey, Rabbit. How are you holding up?"

"R–Rabbit?!"

Isolde sputtered, a blush rising to her cheeks.

"How dare you!"

"Oh, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, honey"

Freya laughed, voice rasping. Her teasing gaze dropped, to Isolde’s hips.

"You’re just—built for this."

"Lecher! Shameless woman! I see you still have the strength to run your mouth. I was worried for nothing."

"Aw, were you worried about me?"

"Yes. Is there a problem with that?"

She asked—too aggressively. This woman always had a way of making her lose calm. Which, for those who knew Isolde, was actually a pretty impressive feat.

"No, no, I’m glad you came. But you don’t need to worry. I’m strong. This is nothing."

Isolde narrowed her eyes.

"Give it a week. I’ll see if you still feel that way."

"A week, huh..."

Silence settled over them.

Freya’s voice broke it, low and serious.

"Isolde... I’m sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

"For how everything turned out."

Isolde clicked her tongue.

"For stealing my husband’s heart?"

"I didn’t steal it"

Freya replied matter-of-factly

"It already belonged to me long before you came"

Isolde’s eyes widened

"You—then what about birthing him a child even when his legal wife was around"

Freya nodded her head.

"Hmmm. You’re right, that was really unfair to you. But I’m not sorry about that. Afterall, Lugh is just too cute"

Silence.

"...Then why are you apologising?"

Isolde asked. Freya tilted her head to the side contemplating.

"You’re right why am I apologising?"

Isolde was suddenly speechless.

"Unbelievable"

She muttered aloud prompting Freya to smile.

She spoke.

"My beautiful Isolde..."

Isolde cast her a wary gaze.

"...I have a favor to ask of you"

She would normally have brushed it off, but Freya’s voice seemed uncharacteristically serious.

"A favor?"

"I won’t be around for long. Take care of my son."

The room fell still.

Isolde’s jaw tightened.

"Take care of him yourself."

She turned to leave, but Freya’s pale hand shot out, gripping her skirt with surprising strength.

"I’m serious."

Isolde hesitated.

"...Fine. But there won’t be a need for that."

"Good. That’s good... I’m just going to rest a bit. See you later."

"...Yeah."

The moment she stepped out of the room, her shadows sprang to attention.

"Go to House Caldreth and retrieve the ingredients,"

She ordered, voice sharp.

"Summon every doctor, every apothecary you can find. Hurry."

Something gnawed at her. A sick feeling in her gut.

And she was right.

The disease progressed far faster than expected. By the next day, Freya was barely conscious.

Fortunately, Isolde had acted quickly. The medicine was prepared. The specialists arrived. For a brief moment, it seemed to be working. Her fever broke. Her breathing steadied.

But a week later—Freya was dead.

It wasn’t the disease that killed her.

It was the medicine.

A simple mistake, so simple that Isolde almost couldn’t believe it.

The remedy had once been used on her after her third delivery with no complications. But there was one crucial difference: Isolde was a mage.

Her bloodline, ancient and alien, allowed her to manipulate mana. She had also reached the realm of Anchor at eighteen.

Freya was a regular human.

Her body couldn’t withstand what had been designed for someone of magical constitution.

The doctors couldn’t be blamed. In House Von Heim, only mages held power. They had assumed Freya was one of them.

The only person who could’ve stopped it was Isolde.

But it had completely slipped her mind.

A human life lost... to forgetfulness.

She would never forgive herself.

...

Back in the present, Isolde’s eyes misted over, her soul bearing a familiar, suffocating weight.

She turned to face Lugh. Her voice came out strained, trembling beneath a mask of composure.

"She was sick"

She said.

"And I administered the wrong drug. That’s all."

"...That’s it?"

"Yes."

He exhaled, slow and heavy.

To the naked eye, Isolde looked fine. Poised and Cold. But through the truth-glimpsing Mawglass, Lugh saw something else.

Two thin lines of tears traced down her face.

He watched them fall.

"Were you... friends with my mother?"

"No."

He nearly smiled.

"You’re lying."

He turned to leave.

"Wait!"