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The words kept echoing in her head.
“In thirty-six days… No, this will happen after the operation fails, so it will be thirty-eight days from now. On that day, Alphonse Vladimir will die.”
Like a stubborn stain on a white shirt, it kept surfacing again no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. A grim prophecy that her son, whom she loved more than anything in the world, would meet his end.
“Haaa.” Alina deeply sighed and sat up from her sleeping bag.
The faint, stale rubber smell unique to military tents tickled her nose.
They had camped out on the clearing in front of Spica’s temple. Spica had offered her a spare room inside, but Alina had refused and chose to stay in a military tent they had pitched.
“It’s just nonsense…”
Forcing herself to erase that lingering voice, she set a kettle of water atop the stove in the center of the tent. Ordinary tents wouldn’t have the space for a stove, but she could afford such a luxury in this custom one for high-ranking officers.
Alina drank a cup of hot black tea to steady her nerves.
Slurp.
For some reason, she couldn’t taste it at all.
Impossible.
Drinking...
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