Chapter 17 – My Puppetry Skills Are Excellent, Even If My Darling Is Unconscious

【Elizabeth PoV】

The demon threat turned out to be a stray shadow familiar, already dead by the time I arrived.

I stood at the east wall for ten minutes, glaring at the dissipating black smoke while my heart rate slowly returned to normal. Some idiot guard had panicked over a minor summoning remnant, probably leftover from last week’s cultist purge.

I was going to have words with Marcus about training standards.

The walk back to my chambers felt longer than it should have. Every step echoed through the empty corridors, my boots clicking against marble that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. Afternoon light streamed through stained glass windows, painting the walls in colored shadows that shifted as I passed.

The Hero was exactly where I’d left him.

His chest rose and fell with perfect rhythm, face peaceful and unbearably beautiful against the silk pillows. The blue pajamas had twisted slightly, exposing a strip of his abdomen. I pulled the fabric back into place with careful fingers.

“False alarm.”

I brushed his hair back from his forehead, letting myself enjoy the simple contact.

“Just a dead familiar. Nothing that could hurt you.”

A knock shattered the moment.

I turned toward the door, already preparing to verbally destroy whoever was stupid enough to interrupt again.

“What.”

“Your Holiness.”

Marcus’s voice carried an edge of panic that immediately set off alarms in my head.

“Bishop Arkwright is here. He’s demanding an audience with the Hero.”

My blood turned to ice, then immediately boiled.

Bishop Arkwright. Orthodox faction, old money, the kind of Church dinosaur who thought women shouldn’t hold positions of power. He’d voted against my Saintess appointment three times, citing some ancient text about divine femininity being too pure for combat roles.

I hated him with the intensity of a thousand suns.

“Tell him the Hero is resting—”

“He’s already in the solar room. He says if the Hero can defeat a Berserker, he can spare five minutes for the Church’s congratulations.”

Of course he did.

Arkwright was playing politics, using the public victory as an excuse to insert himself into my territory. If I refused to let him see the Hero now, after such a visible display of power, it would raise questions. Suspicion. The kind of attention I absolutely could not afford.

I looked back at the unconscious Hero, my mind racing through impossible scenarios.

“How long can you stall him?”

“He’s threatening to invoke visitation rights. I can give you maybe three minutes.”

Three minutes to make an unconscious man appear awake and functional.

Three minutes to pull off the most insane bluff of my entire life.

“Bring him to the East Salon. Tell him the Hero is finishing his meditation.”

Marcus hesitated for half a second, reading between the lines.

“Understood.”

His footsteps retreated down the hall.

I turned back to the Hero, my hands already moving through the motions of a high-tier spell. Divine mana flooded my system, sharp and cold and absolutely unforgiving of mistakes.

“I’m so sorry about this.”

I slipped my arms under his shoulders and lifted him effortlessly. His head lolled against my neck and I adjusted my grip, trying to position him in something resembling a dignified posture.

The East Salon was two doors down.

I kicked the door open and carried him inside, scanning the room with tactical efficiency. A velvet sofa sat near the window, high-backed and formal. Perfect. I deposited him onto it, arranging his limbs to look natural rather than corpse-like.

His head kept falling forward.

I grabbed a decorative pillow and wedged it behind his neck for support. Better. His eyes were closed but that was fine, I could work with that. I stepped back, assessing my work like an artist examining a sculpture.

He looked asleep, not awake.

I needed him to look awake.

My fingers wove through the air, tracing patterns that left glowing threads of mana in their wake. Illusion magic, the kind that required absolute concentration and would drain my reserves faster than any combat spell.

I started with his eyes.

The spell wrapped around his eyelids like invisible thread, gently pulling them open. His electric blue irises stared forward, beautiful and completely vacant. I layered another illusion over them, creating the subtle movements of a conscious person, the tiny shifts in focus that separated living from dead.

It looked real.

It looked terrifyingly real.

Footsteps approached from the hallway, accompanied by Marcus’s formal announcement voice.

“The Hero is in meditation but has agreed to a brief audience.”

No time.

I moved to the Hero’s side, positioning myself slightly behind the sofa. My hands rose, fingers splayed, invisible mana threads extending from each fingertip like puppet strings.

The threads sank into the Hero’s shoulders, his elbows, his wrists.

I’d practiced this spell exactly once, on a training dummy, three years ago. It was considered unethical to use on living beings, bordering on necromancy. The Church would excommunicate me if they knew.

I didn’t care.

The door opened.

Bishop Arkwright swept in with the kind of dramatic flair that absolutely screamed overcompensation. He was tall, rail-thin, wearing ceremonial robes that probably cost more than my estate. His face was all sharp angles and disapproving lines, like someone had carved a permanent scowl into human flesh.

He stopped when he saw the Hero, his expression shifting to something between respect and calculation.

“Hero Aurelius. What an honor.”

I pulled the mana threads gently.

The Hero’s head lifted, turned toward Arkwright in a slow, deliberate movement. The illusion over his eyes tracked the Bishop’s position. To anyone watching, it looked like natural human motion.

My concentration was already fraying at the edges.

“Bishop Arkwright.”

I stepped forward, inserting myself into his line of sight.

“The Hero is recovering from Divine Mana Exhaustion. He can listen but speaking is difficult.”

Arkwright’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his features.

“Mana Exhaustion? I heard he defeated a Berserker. Surely that wouldn’t—”

“He used a forbidden technique.”

I kept my voice level, channeling every ounce of political training into appearing calm.

“The kind that burns through reserves faster than they can regenerate. He needs rest, not interrogation.”

“Interrogation?”

Arkwright’s smile was thin and absolutely venomous.

“I’m here to offer congratulations. The Church is thrilled with his victory.”

He moved closer to the sofa, studying the Hero with eyes that saw too much.

“Though I must say, he looks rather… still.”

Panic shot through my chest.

I pulled the mana threads again, more forcefully. The Hero’s right hand lifted from the armrest, moving in what I desperately hoped looked like a casual gesture. I let it fall back down, praying it appeared natural.

“Deep meditation.”

The lie came out smooth as silk.

“He’s rebalancing his internal mana flow. Any experienced priest would recognize the signs.”

Arkwright’s gaze snapped to me, reading the challenge in my words.

“Of course. Though I notice the Saintess is quite protective of her Hero.”

The possessive pronoun hung in the air like poison.

“The Goddess entrusted him to my care.”

I stepped between Arkwright and the sofa, blocking his view.

“I take that responsibility seriously.”

“Admirable. Perhaps too seriously.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels.

“The Orthodox Council has concerns about the… intimacy of your working relationship.”

There it was.

The real reason for this visit. Not congratulations, not Church business. Politics. Faction warfare. Old men threatened by a woman with actual power.

“The Orthodox Council can submit their concerns in writing.”

I let ice creep into my voice.

“I’ll file them appropriately.”

Behind me, I felt the mana threads slipping. The Hero’s head was starting to tilt forward, the illusion on his eyes flickering. I adjusted the spell desperately, sweat beading on my forehead from the concentration required.

“Hero Aurelius.”

Arkwright raised his voice, speaking past me directly to the sofa.

“Do you feel you’re receiving adequate care?”

Oh, this absolute—

I yanked the mana threads hard. The Hero’s head jerked up, too fast, definitely not natural. I compensated by making him nod, a slow downward motion that I prayed looked deliberate rather than puppet-like.

“Excellent.”

Arkwright’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“And the Saintess’s methods of protection don’t feel… restrictive?”

“The Hero has full autonomy.”

My hands were shaking behind my back, the mana threads vibrating with the strain.

“He chooses his missions, his schedule, his—”

“Then perhaps he can speak for himself?”

Arkwright took another step closer.

“A simple yes or no. Are you content with your current arrangements?”

The room felt like it was tilting.

I had to make him speak. Actually speak. Not just nod or gesture but produce sound with vocal cords that belonged to an unconscious body.

This was insane.

I extended a new thread of mana, thinner than the others, invisible even to trained eyes. It snaked through the air toward the Hero’s throat, wrapping around his larynx with surgical precision.

Wind magic, the kind used by professional ventriloquists and theatrical performers.

I compressed his diaphragm with controlled force, pushing air through his vocal cords while manipulating the throat muscles to shape sound.

“Yes.”

The word came out rough, quiet, but recognizably the Hero’s voice.

Arkwright’s eyebrows shot up.

I nearly collapsed from relief.

“The Hero is content.”

I forced strength back into my voice, even as my mana reserves screamed in protest.

“As you can see, Bishop, your concerns are unfounded.”

Arkwright studied the Hero for a long, terrible moment. His eyes traced the stillness of his posture, the mechanical quality of his movements, the slight delay between question and response.

He knew something was wrong.

I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the calculation in his expression.

But he couldn’t prove it.

“Very well.”

He stepped back, adjusting his robes with deliberate slowness.

“Please inform the Hero that the Grand Cathedral requests his presence for the Victory Ceremony next week. It would be… unfortunate if he were too unwell to attend.”

The threat was crystal clear.

“He’ll be there.”

“Wonderful.”

Arkwright moved toward the door, then paused.

“Oh, and Saintess? The Council will be watching. Closely.”

He left without waiting for a response.

The door clicked shut and I immediately released the mana threads. The Hero slumped forward like a marionette with cut strings. I caught him before he face-planted into the coffee table, my arms wrapping around his shoulders.

My hands were trembling.

My entire body was trembling.

That was the most terrifying performance of my life. One wrong move, one slip in the illusion, and Arkwright would have called the entire Church down on us. Game over. Identity exposed. Whatever consequences the universe had planned for that scenario.

I lowered the Hero back onto the sofa, arranging him more comfortably.

“Never again.”

My voice came out shaky, barely above a whisper.

“I’m never doing that again. Next time someone demands an audience, they can fight me. I don’t care if it starts a civil war.”

The Hero’s face was peaceful, oblivious to the political nightmare I’d just navigated.

I sat down hard on the floor, my back against the sofa, my mana reserves at maybe fifteen percent. Using that level of sustained illusion magic was like sprinting a marathon while juggling chainsaws.

My head hurt.

My everything hurt.

But I’d done it. I’d protected him, maintained the illusion, kept our secret safe for another day.

Outside the window, the sun was starting to set. Golden light painted the salon in warm colors, peaceful and completely at odds with the panic still coursing through my veins.

I reached up blindly, finding the Hero’s hand where it dangled over the armrest.

“One week.”

I squeezed his fingers gently.

“I have one week to figure out how to get you to that ceremony. One week before the entire Church realizes something is very, very wrong.”

His hand was warm in mine, alive and perfect and absolutely, devastatingly unconscious.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think about how spectacularly screwed we were.