Her eyes were not dull.

Nor did she seem foolish.

When she crossed boundaries in front of a noble such as Eldrian, it did not seem arrogant, but rather a sign of her strength.

Although she moved with a kind of careless ease, Eldrian could find no real weakness in her. There was no angle, no opening, no moment when he could imagine defeating her, regardless of how or when he attacked.

And yet…

She was adorable.

There was something almost childlike about her.

A sharp gaze pricked at his senses. Eldrian turned from Lesta and met Nestor’s gaze.

Standing with his arms crossed behind the sofa opposite, Nestor glared at him, clearly displeased. But when their eyes met, his expression softened.

“You don’t seem to like me.”

“That’s not it.”

“You’re staring awfully hard.”

“My eyes have never been called kind.”

“Or are you worried I might try something indecent with your commander?”

Nestor tilted his head slightly, then straightened again.

“I’d be more worried for you, my lord that you might be the one who ends up on the receiving end.”

He sounded perfectly sincere. After that, his hostility faded, and Eldrian decided that he must have misread the earlier glare.

Just then, Lesta returned, having shouted her order for tea. She dropped down onto the seat opposite him with a soft thud.

Eldrian took in the sight before him. Her small face was framed by vivid, blood-red hair, and her eyes were a clear turquoise, shining like sunlight on the sea.

They were unforgettable eyes — bright, transparent, and untouched by malice; like an innocent child’s.

‘No… impossible.’

She was the Mercenary King. No one could rise to such a position without ambition or blood on their hands.

‘Still, I might be getting far too fond of this woman already.’

For some reason, she didn’t feel like a stranger. Perhaps it was because of her turquoise eyes.

They were the same shade that she had once glimpsed behind a silver mask on a blood-soaked battlefield years ago, but what lay within them now was entirely different.

Back then, those eyes had been empty.

The battlefield had been drenched in the blood of men and monsters alike, yet there hadn’t been a flicker of humanity in those eyes – not fear, not fury, not even the faintest spark of will to live.

They had shone cold and lifeless, like glass marbles set into a doll’s face.

Only the color was the same as Lesta’s now; everything else had changed.

‘I need to get a hold of myself.’

Beauty had always been one of the oldest and most potent strategic weap*ns, and Eldrian knew that he was dangerously close to succumbing to its power.

Even though Lesta harbored no such intention, he was deeply unsettled by the inexplicable pull he felt towards her.

He sat up straight, waiting for her to speak. Yet, to his surprise, the woman he had thought so impulsive simply studied him in silence — composed, patient, and unreadable.

The room remained still until Toma, who seemed hard of hearing, entered, carrying a steaming pot of tea.

The moment he set it down, Lesta growled.

“I said cold tea, Toma. Cold.”

“Ah…”

The exasperation in her tone was so sharp that Eldrian burst out laughing.

“Ha ha ha ha!”

Lesta, Toma, and Nestor all turned to look at him. He knew it was rude to laugh so loudly in front of others, but he couldn’t help himself.

Only after Toma slipped out of the room awkwardly and backwards did Eldrian manage to stop laughing.

“Forgive me,” he said, still catching his breath. “I think I was the only one here who was nervous.”

“You don’t seem nervous.”

Lesta replied dryly.

“I’m more delicate than I look. And really, hot tea is fine. Thank you.”

He poured himself a cup of coffee, lifted it to his lips and took a sip. If only he had understood the difference between the expensive and cheap varieties, he would have chosen well. The aroma was rich and deep.

“It’s excellent.”

“I’m glad.”

Lesta answered curtly.

He set the cup down, gazing briefly at the amber liquid that still rippled inside then spoke, his tone suddenly measured.

“Do you know how much tax the citizens of Blackwood pay each year?”

Lesta didn’t respond.

“Sixty percent of their income.”

Most territories in the Empire collected no more than thirty per cent.

Those who raised the tax rate to fifty per cent under various pretexts were condemned as tyrants, yet nobody dared to openly criticize Blackwood, who had long collected sixty per cent.

“Even if people resent it, they can’t speak out. Blackwood is too popular. Last year’s drought killed countless villagers through starvation, yet the number of his soldiers continued to rise. Becoming a soldier means you get enough to eat.”

“……”

“Then the soldiers are thrown into the labyrinths. Even when the master is defeated, the monsters inside remain deadly. The soldiers die like dogs, but Blackwood smiles because every labyrinth yields valuable treasure — even death is profitable.”

He raised his gaze and met Lesta’s eyes.

“But no one condemns them for it. Because Blackwood gave this era its hero—Dominic.”

“……”

“It’s convenient, isn’t it? Soldiers dying in droves and taxes so high that a whole province could starve — as long as it’s for the stability of the Empire. As long as it’s to control labyrinths and monsters, everything sounds noble. And when they say it’s all in support of Dominic, the hero who fights for the Empire and its people with his sword, everyone applauds.”

His voice remained calm, but each word carried a quiet, simmering rage.

Lesta was genuinely taken aback. She hadn’t expected him to speak so candidly or to cast aside his political façade and reveal such unfiltered contempt for Blackwood. She had assumed he would probe her first, testing her with questions rather than exposing his stance so openly.

“Dominic was a hero. Two—no, three years ago, he truly was.”

The words hit her like a heartbeat in her chest.

‘Three years ago. The summer of 1022.’

Until that day, the one breathing behind the silver mask had been Lesta.

“After he returned with the Scales of the Great Being, he needed time to recover. Once he had recovered, he became vice-commander of the Imperial Knights and never returned to the front lines. Well, except recently, when he went to the labyrinth where Helros was said to be. The motive behind that is so transparent it’s almost insulting.”

“Too many people can’t see through motives that transparent.”

At that, Eldrian nodded slightly.

“You’re right. Some people can see through it, like me. But there aren’t enough of us. There are too few of us to make our voices heard. The rest will turn a blind eye, even if Blackwood seizes the throne. At this rate, it will become theirs.”

He spoke about treason as calmly as someone might comment on the weather.

“Lesta, I’m not speaking out of jealousy or rivalry. If Blackwood takes the throne, this continent will be in great danger.”

Lesta’s gaze drifted to his hand as his long fingers idly traced the handle of his teacup.

Then she spoke, her tone cool and edged.

“First of all, stop calling me ‘Lady’.”

She had only ever been called that in mockery.

She had only ever been addressed as ‘Lady’ when being mocked by the Blackwoods or when trading insults with hostile mercenaries. Hearing Eldrian say it so earnestly now made her skin prickle. Such a sweet, graceful word didn’t suit her at all.

“All right. Then what should I call you? You’re not my commander, so I’d rather not call you “Captain”.”

“And I’d rather not hear ‘Captain’ from someone like you either. Just call me Lesta.”

She had lived most of her life without a name. Even when she infiltrated enemy lines for Blackwood, was captured and tortured, and returned bleeding but victorious with vital information; even when she led the first Labyrinth conquest, making the Silver Mask of Dominic a household name across the Empire; even when she led monster hunts and returned covered in wounds to Blackwood’s so-called paradise — she had been nothing more than it.

‘That thing.’

Even after they had rejected her, she never thought she would be given a name. But Hans and Marta, two kind and gentle souls, had done just that.

“You don’t remember your name? Then… would you let us choose one for you?”
“How about Lesta? It means ‘unbending.’”

Lesta.

From the moment she was given that name, her world began to open up. It was as if the curse of the dark god that had held her captive for so long had loosened its grip, allowing light to seep through the cracks. For the first time, she could see the beauty that had always surrounded her, as well as the little things that make life worth living.

That was why she loved hearing her name. Hidden within that single, steadfast word were Hans and Marta: the warmth of their hands, the gentleness of their smiles, and their unwavering belief that she deserved to exist.

No matter how merciless the world became and no matter how hard it tried to break her, as long as that name remained, she would endure. Because within it was love, and love was stronger than any curse.

“Lesta, do you have a surname?”

His voice pulled her back from her thoughts.

Meeting his gaze, she answered quietly.

“I do. Lesta Ernel. That’s my name.”