FSW Chapter 27

She glanced once at him on the ground, once at the group surrounding him, and her surprise rapidly lost all warmth. Her gaze turned frost-cold.

With an expression even he had never seen before, she strode forward and came to a stop directly in front of him. He struggled to his feet, but she didn't spare him a single glance—her attention fixed entirely on confronting the group.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

"Your Imperial Highness! We, we were just—"

Henry stammered badly in his flustered state. Morris quickly jumped in with an excuse.

"We were just having a conversation between fellow apprentices—"

"Is this how knights have conversations? Then I suppose when you speak with me in the future, you'll do the same thing."

"Absolutely not!"

"Why not? You just said this is how you converse."

They all pressed their lips tight as clams and glanced nervously at one another. In truth, they felt somewhat wronged—they believed all of this had been for her sake.

But not one of them dared voice that thought aloud. Her eyes had grown even colder. Her gaze swept slowly across each of their faces as if committing them to memory, then finally locked onto Morris.

"Sir Russell is my instructor. If he's a worthless bastard, then I suppose that makes me a f*cking idiot for learning from him."

"That's not what we meant!"

The crude words were almost unbelievable coming from the Empire's treasure. Shocked, they shook their heads frantically. Even waved their hands in desperate denial. But their frantic responses did nothing to cool Nishina's anger. Her flat warning aimed precisely at their throats.

"Insult him one more time, and I'll consider it an insult to me."

"..."

"Unless you want your tongues cut out, I suggest you be careful."

Lèse-majesté meant losing one's tongue. As Nishina pointed this out, the men's faces turned ashen and their heads dropped. They seemed to finally grasp the severity of what they'd done.

Leaving the trembling men where they stood, Nishina seized the wrist of the person behind her. Then she immediately left that unpleasant place.

All he could see was her back, but she was still seething—her breath came in angry huffs. Her stride was longer than usual.

He felt he should say something. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to speak. All he could do was follow obediently as she led him along. Only when they reached a quiet spot did Nishina release his wrist and whirl around. Then she exploded.

"Why did you just stand there and take that! Get angry, at least!"

The face that had been colder than ice now blazed hotter than fire.

He was genuinely bewildered. Lavis couldn't even begin to guess why Nishina was angry. He'd thought—she's so kind, she'll be sad when she sees my injuries. But the possibility of anger had never existed in his calculations.

Unable to comprehend, he simply kept his mouth shut. Watching him stand there in silence, Nishina's expression crumpled. Her deep blue eyes, which had been lingering on his swollen cheek and split lip, slowly filled with moisture.

"I told you I'd protect you. I said I'd punish anyone if you called me... I said to tell me about anyone who bullies you..."

Her voice caught. His mouth fell slightly open. Cold sweat broke out down his back and his mind went blank. His two hands twitched uselessly, not knowing what to do.

"This is so upsetting, I can't stand it..."

The tears pooling in her eyes finally fell, patter-patter, onto the dirt.

In that moment, his gaze as he watched her became strange. He didn't understand. From the first moment she'd extended her hand to him, she had been an unknown existence.

Each transparent tear that fell made his heart feel like it was splitting in two. Yet at the same time, something hot filled him from throat to stomach. This pain, this sensation—he'd never known them before. But all of it came from her. That much he knew. So then was it the same—this desire to wipe away those tears, this urge to beg her not to cry?

He clenched his palms, still covered in dirt from his fall. Even though he couldn't bring himself to reach out, he took one step closer without thinking. As if he couldn't breathe otherwise.

Desperate and yearning.

The heavy sword swung without cease. Limbs severed, screams rang out, blood sprayed. He drove the blade into a throat. The voice cursing desperately cut off in an instant.

Just now, one life had fallen into eternal sleep. By his own hand, no less. Yet he felt nothing at all. He roughly wiped the blood splattered across his face. Ahead lay only scattered corpses. Only then did he turn his senseless body around.

He'd only wanted to escape the lurid colors and nauseating stench. Hundreds of eyes filled with terror clung to him stickily.

The ones hurling stones called fear and disgust were none other than his own allies. The one who'd been called the demon's spawn was now called the Demon of Winter. It was a perfectly fitting epithet. Wherever he went, his essence remained unchanged—it seemed designed to brand that truth into him.

He dragged his bruised body forward, taking every stone those hundreds threw without flinching. It wasn't anything new. From his earliest memories, every gaze directed at him had been like this. Rejection was as natural as breathing.

He stared blankly down at his sticky hands. Drenched in blood, they were red. The same color as his repulsive eyes. This was definitely a disgusting color. So he could understand those stares. Just as he found these hands revolting, they must find his eyes equally so.

Still dripping blood, he shoved the sword roughly into his belt and limped toward the barracks. After stripping off his armor, he washed his filthy body in the lake behind the barracks. Even though he scrubbed until his skin felt raw, the stench of blood wouldn't fade.

Without even drying his damp hair, he collapsed onto his bedding. A helplessness that made it hard to move even a finger crashed over him. At times like this, he felt as if he were drowning, suffocating, unable to breathe.

He clutched at his constricting throat and forced himself to keep breathing. Not because of any instinct to survive. He'd lost long ago the only purpose that had made him swing his sword. He was too exhausted to cling to life with that alone.

The truth was, it didn't matter anymore. He wouldn't care in the least if the one with a blade in their throat was him. But still, he couldn't let go of the sword. Their desperate longing to return alive. Their hopeful expectations. Those things weighing on his shoulders were so heavy that even as something important inside him wore away to nothing, he still forced himself to lift the blade.

Because he was the only one who could die here and it would be fine.

When would he be able to breathe? No—when would things become easier?

He lowered his weary eyelids. Hid himself in the darkness that came. Only by dreaming of the end that would someday arrive could he finally fall asleep.

The child thought his luck was truly terrible. After being locked in that dim room for over ten days, he'd only wanted to see the bright sky for just a moment.

And his father had to catch him doing exactly that. Dragged along by a fistful of his unkempt hair, his scalp ached—but enduring pain was the child's specialty. Pretending nothing was wrong, he clasped his hands neatly together and carefully watched for signs. Most unfortunately, his father seemed to be in a very poor mood.

On days when his usually neat silver hair hung disheveled and his brow furrowed deeply, his father would strike the child's cheek with his heavy hand.

"I told you to stay out of sight!"

Bellowing all the while.

"Who gave you permission to crawl out of that room on your own?"

"..."

"Those bastards outside are already driving me crazy with their presumptuous bullshit, and now I have to look at your irritating face in my own house?!"

"I won't do it ag—"

In his anxiety, the child reflexively lifted his head. Ah, a mistake. The moment their eyes met and those red eyes flickered, he quickly lowered his gaze—but it was too late. His enraged father hurled the wine glass he'd been holding.

"You demon spawn! Keep your eyes down!"

Thwack.

The glass struck the child's head hard and shattered into pieces on the marble floor. The child clenched his teeth against the dizzying pain. Even though enduring pain was familiar, this hurt so much that tears threatened to spill.

To swallow back his crying, the child blinked hard. But somehow his vision kept blurring. Everything turned red—his forehead must have split open. Blood trickled down and dripped from his chin onto the floor. Drip, drip. Startled, the child's gaze rolled precariously.

He looked around desperately, but through his half-closed eyes he saw nothing but gazes filled with fear.

Not a single one of the many maids would look at him. In the face of their cold indifference, the child momentarily forgot even his pain. Somewhere inside hurt more than his bleeding forehead.

"Don't dirty the carpet—get out, now!"

At his father's furious command, the child bowed his body low and left the room.

The child staggered across the silent corridor. With each step, droplets of blood fell in a long trail—but he was too dizzy to wipe them up one by one.

Eventually, unable to go any farther, he collapsed in a corner of the hallway. Even breathing seemed difficult now. He gasped for ragged breaths and curled his body tight. He felt both chilled and feverish at once.

He couldn't tell his exact condition, but one thing was certain—he was in terrible pain. The tears he'd been holding back soaked both cheeks. Lest he upset his father further, he didn't even let out a sound. But if he could have, he would have clung to someone's pant leg and begged.

It hurts. Please help me.

Had his desperate wish somehow reached someone? At the presence that approached, the child struggled to lift his head. Silver hair identical to his own—but eyes of a completely different, dark color. His older brother. Relief and sorrow surged up simultaneously, and the child's lips parted of their own accord. Just before his tearful voice could spill out, a cold voice struck him first.

"It would be better if something like you just died."

At that contemptuous gaze, the child quietly closed his mouth. His brother soon left as if he'd seen nothing at all. The child followed his brother's retreating back with blurred eyes.

'Yes. That really would have been better.'

Swallowing the response he couldn't voice, the child shut his eyes—filled with both blood and tears.