Night Talk on the Archangel

Natarle's words on the bridge—"I only hope you can tell the difference between the proper occasions"—followed by her exhausted, pained admission, "I already knew. That you two are in love with each other," felt as though several more knives had been driven brutally into Murrue's heart.

There was no anger or accusation in her tone, only helpless calm and sorrow. That made Murrue feel even worse, even more guilty.

She shut her eyes in pain, feeling warmth well up from deep within them.

This powerless situation filled her with an intense, indescribable pain.

She was loved by the man Natarle loved, and that man had only just kissed her—this was the cruelest reality before them.

If that was the case, then no matter what she said or did to Natarle now, it would only tear open Natarle's wound again and hurt her even more, wouldn't it?

Her concern for Natarle would instead seem more like condescending charity and mockery.

At this moment, every attempt at making amends became pale and powerless, even carrying a trace of hypocrisy.

Murrue's heart was completely swallowed by that sense of powerlessness, and breathing became even more difficult.

She could feel a faint ache in her stomach, something like a spasm, signaling the immense unease in her heart.

Murrue's thoughts were still tangled in struggle, her guilt toward Natarle nearly devouring her. Her vision blurred, and she could barely hear the sounds around her.

Just then, she felt Mu's hand gently settle on her shoulder again, carrying a warmth and strength unique to him.

At her ear was Mu's understanding, accepting voice, as though he were pulling her back from an abyss into reality. "Murrue."

That call seemed to carry some kind of magic, instantly cutting through Murrue's chaotic thoughts and snapping her drifting consciousness