I’m a Former Saint Exiled to the Forest, but for some reason, the Cold-hearted Magician keeps visiting me. - Chapter 6

That evening, after Leticia had left without stepping inside the house, there was another knock at the door.

Evelyne, now a bit more cautious, opened it. This time, it was Serge.

She sighed in relief but quickly noticed his usually neat black hair was slightly disheveled.
“I heard Saint Leticia came to visit,” Serge said.

“My, you’re quick to hear things. She did, indeed. As feisty as ever. I still don’t understand how she manages to hide it so well in public,” Evelyne replied.

Before she could offer him tea, Serge’s gaze shifted to her cheek.
“Did she strike you?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Evelyne said lightly. “It’s not the first time an injured person has flailed and accidentally hit me. I’m used to it. Anyway, Serge, it’s late. You should stay for dinner.

I’ve even started baking bread—it’s quite filling. Have a seat, and I’ll bring something for you.”

As she spoke cheerfully and moved toward the kitchen, Serge grabbed her wrist.

His touch startled her—he was someone who never initiated physical contact. Feeling his firm grip, Evelyne stopped in her tracks, surprised.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“My cheek? No, not at all…”

But Serge’s fingers brushed over the back of her left hand, where the brand marking her as a criminal was burned into her skin.

He had undoubtedly seen the mark before, yet he had never acknowledged it. Evelyne had taken advantage of that, pretending it didn’t bother her.

But now, he brought it to the forefront. The sensation was like sandpaper scraping against her heart’s tender places.

Swallowing her discomfort, Evelyne forced a smile.

“It’s really nothing. See? I can move my hand just fine now. You’ve seen me cooking so many times—I’m completely fine! Unless… are you so worried that you’d like to help me out in the kitchen?”

She tried to joke as she attempted to pull her hand free, but Serge’s grip remained firm. His unexpected strength reminded Evelyne of the disparity between them. Her heart skipped a beat.

Confused, she kept up her playful tone.

“Wow, bold! Serge, what are you planning to do, holding onto me like this? Are we about to enact some scandalous story where a man and a woman, alone together, can’t possibly avoid—”

“Don’t,” Serge interrupted, his voice low and serious.

Evelyne froze. Something about his usual steady violet eyes felt different.

“You’re always smiling,” Serge said.

The suddenness of his words caught her off guard. Yet, for once, Serge seemed unusually talkative.

“The more I investigated, the more I saw how unfairly you were treated. The church that used you as a figurehead, the careless way they discarded you—it was all so egregious. And yet, the you I know… you always worked sincerely to save others.”

“Well, it was my job,” Evelyne replied, trying to keep the conversation light. “And besides, most of the people I met on the field were nice. Leticia’s role as the church’s poster girl seemed a lot tougher than mine.”

“Your pain is your own,” Serge said firmly, cutting through her attempt to downplay it.
“That’s something you once said to me.”

Evelyne’s forced smile faltered. She remembered those words vividly.

Back when Serge was the target of endless gossip and slander, Evelyne had grabbed him by the collar and yelled at him. Serge’s stoic and rational demeanor often alienated others, making him an easy target for venting frustrations.

Evelyne had been furious—especially when she realized that Serge endured it all in silence, prioritizing the well-being of his subordinates because they had families to support. She couldn’t stand by and let people tear him down without understanding his reasons.

Now, Serge was using her own words against her.
“You suppress your emotions,” he said, his tone calm yet piercing. “You’ve been branded, cast out, and left here to fend for yourself. There’s no way that doesn’t hurt.”

His violet eyes locked onto hers, leaving Evelyne unable to escape his gaze.

“Does it hurt?” Serge asked again, his voice resonating deeply.

“Of course it hurts!” Evelyne shouted, finally breaking free from his grip.

Clutching her branded hand tightly, she tried to suppress the vivid memories.

She remembered being restrained, her arm forcibly extended as the red-hot iron pressed against her skin. The pain was searing, but the despair was worse.

She remembered the accusations, the betrayal from people who once smiled at her, and the anger she felt at the sheer injustice of it all.

“It was unbearable!” Evelyne cried. “I was scared, angry, and I kept asking myself, ‘Why me?’ I purified those battlefields. I calmed the hatred of Fafnir. I healed the sick and wounded on the front lines. But every miracle I performed was attributed to someone else, decided by the church! So what am I, now that I’m here? I gave everything for others, and all I got in return was this brand! Why didn’t anyone help me?”
“…Eve,” Serge murmured, his voice soft but steady.

Hearing her name spoken like that brought her tangled emotions to the surface. Evelyne let out a bitter laugh, wiping away her tears.

“I didn’t run because I had nowhere to go. I thought, ‘This is fine.’ It’s not like anyone remembers me anyway.”

“I remember you, Saint Evelyne,” Serge said, his voice resolute.

His words, spoken with sincerity, pierced her deeply.

“Even if you acknowledge me, it’s too late,” Evelyne whispered, her despair welling up again.
She looked at him—the royal court magician, admired and respected by all—while she was a disgraced criminal.

Their statuses were worlds apart.

“I appreciate your kindness, Serge La Sorcellerie. But you are a noble figure, and visiting a criminal like me will only tarnish your name. It’s best that you stop coming here,” Evelyne said formally, drawing a deliberate line between them.

Serge stood silently, his expression unreadable. Evelyne was certain he would understand and leave. She had made up her mind to abandon this place and find a final resting spot for herself.
But before she could move, Serge stepped closer.
Before she could react, she felt herself enveloped in warmth.

It took her several seconds to realize—Serge had pulled her into his arms.

“I refuse.”

“…What?”

“I said, I refuse.”

Evelyne froze at the unexpected declaration. Of all the things Serge could have said, this was the most incomprehensible.

Her attempt to struggle stopped as she looked up at him. Despite the absurdity of his actions, Serge’s face remained as composed as ever. Yet, there was something unfamiliar in his violet eyes—a depth she couldn’t understand.

This wasn’t the Serge she knew.

Her heart raced, and in her confusion, she couldn’t avoid him as his face moved closer.

Their lips met, and Evelyne trembled slightly.

His lips were surprisingly soft and warm.

But just as she began to process what was happening, a faint magical circle appeared in her periphery. A strange heaviness began to settle over her mind, her consciousness blurring.

He had cast some sort of spell.

“S-Serge…”

“I’m sorry… I will take responsibility,” he said quietly.

Responsibility for what? The question formed in her mind but never made it to her lips.

Evelyne’s vision darkened, and she lost consciousness in Serge’s arms.