"Everyone in the castle turned into monsters. There were corpses and remains everywhere, and the power of curses and darkness was constantly eroding everyone."
She seemed to recall extremely terrifying scenes, her body involuntarily shrinking further, her shoulders trembling slightly.
Guilliman gently leaned the wiped Greatsword against the rock wall, a soft metallic scraping sound echoing.
He picked up the wineskin filled with water, walked over, and sat beside Roderika, maintaining a distance that wouldn't make her feel pressured, and said softly:
"Nightmares are everywhere."
"But you are safe now; I will protect you."
He offered the wineskin. Roderika hesitated, then timidly reached out her still-cold fingers to take it, carefully sipping a mouthful.
The warm liquid slid down her dry throat, bringing a hint of warmth that restored some color to her pale face, making her look even prettier.
"The Church of Elleh."
Guilliman continued, his tone as calm as stating a fact, not an invitation.
"There are high walls, companions, food, and... order."
He looked into Roderika's grey-blue eyes, which held the lingering emptiness after fear had receded, but also faint glimmers of light.
"That place is in need of residents like you. The warriors provide service, building a new home."
He didn't specify what, but Roderika's fingers, holding the waterskin, tightened slightly.
These words flowed into her cold heart like a warm current. More importantly, those deep, amber eyes watched her, without condescending pity, only calm acceptance and... something that made her heart flutter.
She was no longer a pitiful person slaughtered by monsters in Stormveil; she had a destination, the possibility of an identity, and even... a stronger impulse that overcame her timidity. She put down the waterskin, her fingers trembling slightly as she fumbled in her embrace.
Then, she carefully took out two objects: one was an exquisite bell, suspended by an old, thin copper chain, covered with dark green ancient carvings; the other was a fist-sized, thick glass container, inside which a translucent jellyfish, emitting a soft, ethereal blue phosphorescence, was curled.
As if determined, she held them in her palms and extended them towards Guilliman.
"These are the Spirit Calling Bell and the Jellyfish, Curara..."
"They should be able to help a warrior like you; they shouldn't be wasted on me here."
The girl's voice was very soft, with a hint of reluctance, clearly indicating that these two items she offered were quite precious to her.
Guilliman's gaze fell upon the strange gifts the girl held. The carvings on the Spirit Calling Bell seemed to contain ancient rhythms, and the ethereal blue jellyfish's ashes continuously floated in the container, evidently possessing some special power.
This was precisely the elden lord's strongest weapon, the Spirit Calling Bell, even joked by many as the elden lord and his Bell-ringer.
He reached out to take them, his fingertips inevitably touching Roderika's cold palm. She flinched as if burned, her cheeks quietly flushing two spots of red by the campfire.
"...A very special gift, Roderika."
He called her name, with seriousness.
"I will cherish it."
Outside the cave, the cold wind howled more fiercely, a wisp of icy air seeping through a rock crevice. The campfire, its dry wood nearly spent, began to flicker, its light dimming, and the chill once again began to invade the corners.
Guilliman picked up the thicker, short-pile-lined cloak-blanket he had been using as a bed.
"It will get colder at night."
He naturally unfolded the wide blanket, gesturing for the girl to move closer to him.
Roderika's body tensed imperceptibly, then she softly hummed "Mm" and moved, little by little, carefully leaning closer.
Guilliman covered Roderika with half the blanket, while he wrapped himself in the other half.
The blanket immediately filled with his body heat, dispelling Roderika's cold.
However, another "heat source" began to rise within her—the warmth emanating from the strong body of the man beside her, combined with his faint scent of sweat, leather, and tobacco, a masculine aroma.
This scent, in the desperate wilderness, was so distinct and heart-stirring.
She stiffly leaned against Guilliman's broad arm, clearly feeling the rise and fall of his chest with each breath.
Her heartbeat pounded in her eardrums, fast as if it would leap out. It was a mix of gratitude, dependence, and a nascent, unfamiliar, and even alarming longing—a tremor for a powerful yet gentle protector.
Roderika secretly lifted her eyes, quickly glancing at Guilliman's handsome jawline, then swiftly lowered them, her voice as faint as a mosquito's hum.
"...Thank you, Guilliman... Sir."
Guilliman seemed to sense her nervousness, his voice deepening slightly.
"Sleep. Dawn is coming. Don't worry, it's quiet tonight."
He adjusted his posture to make her more comfortable, one hand naturally wrapping around her back, resting on the blanket, forming a protective stance.
This slightly possessive posture was not urgent, but a gentle warmth like the embers of a campfire.
This action seemed to break Roderika's last inner defense. The hand covering the blanket, broad and calloused from a sword, transmitted its touch through the thin fabric, heating her nerves.
Long-standing fear and suppression found a crack at this moment, releasing not only gratitude and the will to survive, but also a girl's nascent emotions and the instinctive attraction of a young body to a strong member of the opposite sex.
In the darkness, Guilliman could feel the small body beside him no longer trembling; instead, there was a subtle but increasingly noticeable tension.
Then, her head slowly, almost tentatively, leaned against his shoulder. Her soft hair brushed against his neck, bringing a slightly itchy sensation.
The scent of the girl, mixed with dust, sweat, and her own faint aroma, like grass after a light rain, wafted into his nostrils.
Time flowed in silence and their respective darkness. The embers of the campfire occasionally made a final crackling sound. The ethereal blue jellyfish's light flickered faintly in the bottle.
After an unknown period, perhaps a few moments, perhaps a long time, a cool, slightly rough small hand, like a lost animal fumbling for its nest, hesitantly, slowly, touched the edge of Guilliman's other hand, which rested by his side.
That large hand, originally resting naturally on his leg, did not move away when touched, nor did it respond with enthusiasm; it merely turned slightly, palm upward, allowing the cool small hand to explore.
Roderika's fingers first curled, then, as if greatly encouraged, she slowly, one by one, intertwined her fingers with the open large hand, finally clasping them tightly.
The moment their palms met, a strange warmth spread from their touching skin. Guilliman could clearly feel her rapid pulse beneath her delicate skin.
Guilliman's deep voice sounded in the darkness, with a barely perceptible hoarseness.
"...What is it?"
Roderika's voice was almost a whisper, with a slight catch and determination.
"I'm still a little cold; I want to get closer to you."
Guilliman was silent for a moment. As a seasoned veteran of such encounters, he knew this was an invitation, an invitation from a frightened girl hoping for more warmth, more security.
Of course, he did not refuse; providing warmth to beautiful girls was something he had always done.
Guilliman turned his face, his hand actively intertwining with Roderika's fingers. In the faint light, he could see her upturned face; her eyes, previously filled with fear, now shimmered with moisture, shyness, anticipation, and a layer of courage like a burning sacrifice.
The moonlight fell on her face, coloring her paleness with warmth and a vivid blush.
He lowered his head. First, his forehead gently rested against hers, their warm breaths mingling. Then, his warm lips, with a comforting power, first pressed against her furrowed brow, smoothing away the etched lines of suffering; then, tracing down her delicate nose, they gently covered her lips, which were cool with tension but now trembled slightly.
This kiss was a gentle probe, and also a confirmation of her final wish.
The campfire embers, in the darkness, only their increasingly heavy breathing remained, the fierce heartbeats from their pressed bodies, and the rustling of the blanket.
Outside the dilapidated wooden hut, Dettlaff's figure stood in the shadows like a statue, oblivious to the warming atmosphere inside the cave.
Orianna had opened her eyes at some point. In the dim corner, her blood-red eyes watched the long-extinguished campfire ashes, an ambiguous expression on her exquisitely cold and beautiful face.
As she subtly twitched her nose, as if sniffing the increasingly strong human pheromones wafting through the air, she instinctively licked her own lips, a hint of desire in her eyes.
As a High Vampire, a powerful body naturally came with strong desires.
For this Witcher who could easily defeat her, even if there was no possibility of a female vampire getting pregnant, she would not refuse if he extended an invitation.
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