“…What the hell is taking so long?”
At the entrance of the Third Outer Castle, Marien huddled against the chilly night air, her arms crossed and her feet tapping anxiously.
She had been left waiting without a word from her lady, who had said she would attend to some duties alone. The burning concern in her heart was palpable.
What could possibly require such an extensive delay?
Unease washed over her as she felt her tired legs tremble, ready to give way at any moment, yet she was left with no choice but to wait for her lady, who stubbornly rejected any company.
Since having met Lord Gelwood, the lady had not seemed quite herself. One side of her cheek flared bright red, and her eyes, lost their usual focus, appeared vacant. Despite repeated suggestions for her to rest, she insisted on taking care of some business herself.
“It’s getting colder…”
Then, finally,
*Drip.*
Suddenly, a light drizzle began, and Marien quickly fished an umbrella from her belongings.
Though it was just a simple wooden frame with cloth draped over it, it was enough to keep off the light rain.
“Lady—!! Where are you—!!”
And so, Marien dashed about the expansive Grand Ducal residence, frantically searching for her lady.
“Huh… Huhh…”
Lumia, in the middle of the street, wept without even knowing why.
She wept amidst the falling drizzle, tears streaming down her cheeks while cradling the ointment handed to her by Elden.
Whether it was rain or her tears that dripped onto the ointment container was uncertain.
His indifference hurt.
Now that everything seemed to have ended, the help that had come felt like a bittersweet lament for a monster who had turned into a monster while trying to capture one.
And it was agonizing to think that this assistance might be proof that his transformation had been genuine.
If I had accepted the change he had all along while denying it and looking away, things could have turned out differently; that thought grated at her soul.
If only she had focused on the three bugs rather than obsessing over a singular loach, she might have avoided this catastrophe.
Through the quietly held Grand Ducal Betrothal Contest, she would have escaped from hell.
She wouldn’t have had to feel the crushing weight of her emotions, the relentless powerlessness.
How foolish to have believed that the nature of humans could never change; only now did she grasp how naive and ridiculous that belief was.
The meaning of her tears must have captured all of that—
The madness born of foolish obsession, regret, despair, and self-loathing.
She finally realized that she had been the real fool, as she had trampled over her self-esteem while thinking others were the foolish ones.
After crying for quite a while, Lumia wiped her tears away.
Before she knew it, she was completely soaked—
Her hair.
Her clothes.
Her face.
Her neck.
Her hands.
And.
Her heart.
*Click.*
She opened the lid of the container filled with ointment.
It was a pristine, white, semi-solid balm.
It starkly contrasted with the pitch-black gloom that had swallowed her heart.
It was as dazzlingly white as the snowfields of the northern regions.
It felt far too excessive for her sullied self.
She unwound the bandage wrapped around her left hand.
Looking down at the scar left from that fateful day.
The four vivid scratches from fingernails, still fresh and unhealed, were a glaring reminder of her transgressions.
She scooped some ointment with her index finger, dazedly applying it over the wound. The sensation was sharp and stinging.
That stinging was welcomed.
Because she was a terrible person who deserved to feel pain and suffering.
The pain felt during the healing was, in fact, a reminder of what a sinner ought to face.
Heh.
With a grin, she extended her left hand forward, tilting it at an angle.
The raindrops began to wash away the ointment she had applied.
Did a sinner like her deserve healing at all?
With a misguided start, she had inflicted immense suffering on Gelwood, and soon, her father too would experience the bitter pain of his youngest daughter’s disgrace.
Moreover, if this continued, she would render the grand parade being prepared for herself and the winner of the Grand Ducal Betrothal Contest a useless endeavor, bringing great disappointment and hurt to the Northerners who awaited the celebration.
The children would cry, and the adults would be somber.
The cheerful memories shared during conversations about the Betrothal Contest would be shattered, and the anticipation for the next event would vanish.
Thus, she would become a sinner guilty of greater wrongs than Deron and his entourage.
To do this, she had sent letters directly to the Caelid Duchy and the Rosfell Marquisate.
For herself to heal was akin to avoiding the consequences of her sins.
If one commits a crime, one must face the penalty for it.
She had told Deron and his group that, yet here she was, seeking refuge from her own punishments.
It was no different than repeating the foolish past.
The four scratch marks would serve as a lasting reminder, a mark that she was no different from them for her entire life.
Heh.
“Yes. I’m just… garbage, like them.”
With a scoff, Lumia watched the ointment wash away.
She wished it would wash away completely; along with her foolish desire to dream of healing.
And with it, her naïve belief that she was any different from them.
Just then, the rain that had been washing away her ointment abruptly stopped.
“……”
She looked up.
There stood Elden, holding an umbrella.
She was now facing him, who had blocked the raindrops that were washing away her ointment.
He was looking down at her with a smile.
What could it mean?
Why had he blocked the rain?
Why had he prevented her from turning her scars into indelible marks of regret?
Why stop her from washing away her unforgivable sins?
Had he only glanced her way when it was convenient for him while completely ignoring her when she was in need?
Why?
What on earth?
Why did he keep making her feel wretched?
Had he trampled on her hands reaching for help in the academy, only to now halt her from discarding the very help she held?
As if there was no further need for indignity.
Did he want her to keep the ointment on?
To let the wound heal cleanly?
To refrain from wallowing in self-loathing while looking at her scars?
To not reject the help he had finally extended to her?
But she was a sinner who had brought disappointment and pain to her family and the Northerners.
A sinner unworthy of being part of the Winterfell Grand Ducal family.
How could someone like me heal from my wounds?
How could I stand up after shattering the joy of everyone in the Grand Ducal Betrothal Contest?
Upon reflection, it’s all my fault.
It was wrong of me to attend the academy despite the warnings of my family, putting myself at the risk of that curse. It was wrong of me to endure the harsh treatment I received there. It was wrong to have graduated after all that. It was wrong to have decided to use the Betrothal Contest, knowing full well it was a sacred tradition of my family and a grand festival for the Northerners. It was wrong to have prevented your withdrawal, and ultimately, it was wrong to have struck your cheek.
And now, I would be committing a great wrong against my father and the entire populace.
There’s no longer any way to hide, and frankly, I don’t even want to anymore.
The charade of nobility has crumbled; I am no different from Deron, Blund, and Kyle—just a piece of garbage.
No.
Perhaps I’m even dirtier than they are.
There is only one thing I wish to convey to you.
Following his silent smile, I forced a bright smile of my own.
I presumed my dry eyes might swell with tears again.
Raising my hand toward the scratch on his right cheek, I quietly confessed.
Just a few days ago, I never would have imagined saying this, even in my wildest dreams.
“…I’m sorry, Elden.”
His smile wavered.
His face blurred.
Soon.
“Ah, Lady—! Pull yourself together—!!”
Thus, Lumia lost consciousness, her cheerful smile still on her lips.
The Elpherion Kingdom.
It reigned over the northwest of the Tmirias continent and held the most significant influence among the five kingdoms that governed the land.
The second most powerful kingdom after the ruling Ateria Empire.
In the south of the kingdom lay vast fertile plains with an unending supply of food; the west bordered a sea rich in resources; the east yielded valuable minerals with every mining project; and the north, blessed with superior technology, thrived amid barren conditions thanks to the export of warm products and robust ice.
In addition, the well-established education in the capital, alongside the strongest military might, was governed by the righteous King of Elpherion, making it a pleasant place to live.
Of course.
Just because resources were plentiful and life was comfortable didn’t guarantee peace.
Although the kingdom presented a peaceful exterior, like human greed, the intrigue within the noble society was rampant.
Those who had would exploit those who had less, a trait stemming from a long history of humanity, and the underground networks that originated in ancient times only grew more cunning and wicked as time passed, spreading their roots wherever people lived.
And then there was Winterfell in the Northern Regions.
At one of the secret syndicates located there, an irresistible, substantial request arrived from an anonymous client.
[Lumia Winterfell]
It was a request wishing for eternal darkness for a name that had just now seen the light of the world.
It was vengeance born of vengeance.
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