TMBIPYMEN Chapter 21

Marchioness Hymierd's eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Ridgecarse, you say? I haven't heard of that place. Is it somewhere interesting?"

Laila recognized the lack of genuine interest in her tone, but decided to maintain the conversation politely regardless.

"As I mentioned, Ridgecarse is a very small village. It probably isn't even marked on maps. People work all year round. Some of the better-off families keep sheep, but there aren't many of them."

The Marchioness hummed thoughtfully.

"Did you raise sheep as well, Miss Laila? I've always wanted to try animal husbandry."

Yustar interjected playfully.

"Animal husbandry? I never knew you harbored such dreams, Hymierd."

The Marchioness replied smoothly.

"A widow tends to have many dreams, Your Highness."

Laila found herself glancing at the Marchioness's face before quickly looking away. But the Marchioness had caught that flicker of attention and smiled—the smile of someone who enjoyed throwing off-hand remarks and savoring others' discomfort.

"You seem surprised that I'm a widow."

It was clear the Marchioness Hymierd possessed considerable range. The dignified, somewhat intimidating presence she'd shown at their first meeting was genuine, but there seemed to be another side to her—something sensitive, almost flinching like a wounded creature.

That sensitivity appeared to breed cynicism, which then transformed into a difficult sort of mischief.

Laila considered her response before nodding honestly.

"You look far too young for it."

The Marchioness laughed—a sharp, brief sound that didn't seem hostile but was enough to make Laila flinch.

"That's kind of you to say. Though widowhood has nothing to do with age. It's fate, after all. Fortunately, I'm not the sort of widow who drapes herself in mourning garments and endlessly caresses her husband's portrait."

Yustar observed the Marchioness carefully, a subtle smile playing at his lips. She recognized his intent immediately and returned to her usual elegant manner.

"That was an inappropriate topic for a dinner table. I apologize, Miss Laila."

"No, it's fine."

Laila replied flatly, though her insides remained unsettled.

The Marchioness's demeanor troubled her, yes—but there was something worse. As the night deepened, as the darkness accumulated beyond the windows, the air itself within the palace seemed to thicken and darken.

With each passing moment, Laila's gaze drifted more frequently toward Yustar. It wasn't only the air that was growing heavy.

Soon she wouldn't be able to breathe properly at all…. Yet Yustar appeared entirely unaffected, and even the Marchioness Hymierd seemed unbothered.

"Laila?"

Yustar finally turned to her, having been discussing livestock farming with Hymierd.

He saw at once that something was wrong. Her face had gone pale, and she was visibly struggling not to gasp for breath.

"What's the matter? Are you unwell?"

"I… it seems I am. If you don't mind, may I step outside? I'd like some fresh air."

"I'll come with you."

Laila shook her head.

"No, it's fine. I can go alone. I won't go far."

She finished speaking and pushed herself up from her chair, fleeing across the long dining hall. Her footsteps echoed briefly before fading into silence.

The Marchioness watched the empty chair for a moment, then set down her utensils.

"It's the first time I've seen Your Highness show such concern for a particular person."

Now her voice held no trace of mischief or cynicism—only the measured, formal tone characteristic of the capital's nobility.

Yustar regarded her with eyes that were gentle but distant.

"She's a special person. I think you'd understand that."

"Of course I understand. I would never doubt whatever Your Highness chooses to do. You know that, don't you?"

"I know well. I'm grateful to you for it, always."

Yustar lifted his glass, half-full of wine. The Marchioness watched his smile steadily, then lifted her own glass and clinked it softly against his.

As the wine slid down her throat, she felt a familiar ache somewhere in her body. It was the pain that came from long absence—something she recognized but had never learned to accept, no matter how many times she'd felt it.

"Since she'll be staying at the palace for some time, I need to ask a favor of you."

The Marchioness's fingers traced the rim of her glass in thought.

"Should I teach her court etiquette?"

Yustar laughed.

"No, that's not necessary. Just make sure she's comfortable. She's not accustomed to a place like this."

"No one could become accustomed to this place. Did you see her earlier? Running out the way she did? I endure it myself, barely. At night, even this beautiful place becomes somewhere one desperately wants to flee. The nights here are dangerous. Officials assigned to permanent posts have felt the urge to flee when darkness falls."

The Marchioness felt goosebumps rising on her concealed forearms beneath her sleeves. The nights of Sierrow Royal Palace were something perilous. Even the most steadfast administrators felt compelled to escape when darkness came.

She continued, "That young lady is supposedly a real witch. I wonder if she'll be able to endure this place. You seem to regard her as someone special, Your Highness, but to me she's merely a young woman. Yet to her misfortune, she's gifted with sensitivity to such things. By tonight, she'll sense the wrongness here. The moment her head touches the pillow, she'll feel it—that vague dread that makes you afraid to open the wardrobe, that terror you knew at five or six years old when you couldn't bear to look beneath the bed."

"She'll be fine. If she were staying here alone, I'd be concerned. But I won't be leaving the palace tonight."

Ting—a very small sound rang out in the quiet dining hall. The Marchioness had flicked her fingernail against the glass. The thin crystal trembled.

With her expression hardened, jaw set, the Marchioness spoke.

"Your Highness, though I know it's presumptuous and impertinent, I must say something."

"It would be better if you didn't, Marchioness."

"His Majesty is now beyond saving."

Yustar's fingers came down sharply against the table's edge. The Marchioness saw the napkin trapped beneath his hand.

As his fingers moved, the napkin crumpled uselessly. Yustar's face showed no trace of anger, yet his gesture's intent was unmistakable.

"You're free to pity me, but don't project that onto me. I believe I told you that before."

The Marchioness pushed back.

"I'm not the only one concerned for the kingdom and the Crown. You should understand that."

"I understand very well. But that, too, is your freedom—or yours collectively. It's not my concern. My brother will improve with time. When he holds the state wedding, an heir will be born. That throne will belong to that child. It won't be mine."

"Your Highness the Crown's Blood!"

"We're done with this conversation, Marchioness."

Yustar wiped his mouth with the napkin and instructed the servants to clear the plates. The Marchioness sighed in resignation and fell silent, though she showed neither fear nor discouragement.

She would raise this topic again. If King Ode Haienmorik truly recovered to his former self, it would be fortunate. But if he didn't?

"Laila's taking a long time."

"Shall I send someone to look for her?"

"No, I'll go myself. But first, dessert. The head chef prepared pastries, didn't he? You do enjoy those."

A nearly imperceptible smile touched the Marchioness's lips—a true smile, for the first time that evening.

"You still remember old things about me."

"Don't I anymore?"

"You still do, but today I'll take my leave. I should check that Miss Laila's bedroom has been properly prepared before I return home."

Yustar nodded. The Marchioness kept her head bowed until his footsteps had faded into the distance. Only then did she raise her eyes.

As she turned toward the lamp-lit corridor, her long hair shifted slightly in his wake—like the shadow of a solitary, powerful predator crossing stone and mountain ranges.

She had known long ago that she could never possess him. A widow who had lost her husband. A traitor who harbored dreams of drawing down a sick king and seating in his place the man she couldn't stop adoring.

A high-ranking official who bore responsibility for all the royal household's affairs. There were many words that could describe her, but none of them reached toward Yustar.

Yet the Marchioness had always been satisfied with her place. To serve him, to be near him in the capacity of a trusted advisor—that was enough.

And yet watching his retreating figure always carried with it a thin, persistent pain. As though she'd swallowed something caustic; her throat constricted, her breathing caught.

Once outside the dining hall, Laila drew in a deep breath, desperately seeking cleaner air. It still didn't feel fresh, but it was at least better than the suffocating atmosphere within the palace.

'What on earth….'

She had never experienced such a sensation before. This heaviness of air was unprecedented. It made breathing difficult and her mind anxious. As if….

I'm holding a box full of scorpions and writhing insects. Laila thought. Fat, plump things that would burst yellow fluid if squeezed, their legs churning desperately. A small box like that. The feeling of clutching it, terrified of when the lid might open. Or the fear that she herself might be pulled inside….

She walked through the garden without properly registering her direction. The light spilling from inside the palace's corridors made the exterior nearly as bright as day.

But the darkness where light didn't reach seemed dangerous as an assassin. She half-expected black claws to suddenly shoot out and rake across her heart.

"This place is strange," Laila murmured to herself. But once the words left her mouth, they became clearer in her mind. She spun around to face the palace fully. The lights illuminating the corridors seemed to flicker like conscious creatures stirring to wakefulness.

"This place is strange," she said again, her voice firmer this time.

That was when it happened.

—Then come here, child. To somewhere safe.