Of course, either way, it’s impossible. If dead people could come back to life, Sehera would be turned upside down.

However…

‘She said she was Belle…’

Liam wasn’t someone who could lie to Cassian. Cassian’s eyes sank darkly.

It was something to ask Lumière about, and the woman she had brought.

* * *

‘It hurts.’

Injuries always hurt more the next day than on the day they’re received. In the morning, Gwenael, unable to even think about getting out of bed, grimaced.

In that short time, he had been beaten thoroughly everywhere. He was really pounded well.

‘That lowborn bastard.’

Gwenael ground his teeth. It was irritating enough to be humiliated by that half-bred Duke, but even the Emperor openly took his side.

‘And yet he calls himself a meritorious subject.’

Though he knew they favored him because he was a meritorious subject, he couldn’t help grinding his teeth. After all, he was still just a half-bred commoner.

Just as Gwenael’s eyes blazed with his clenched fist,

“Monsieur.”

At the servant’s call, Gwenael raised his voice nervously.

“What!”

“Mademoiselle Laure has come.”

It was an unexpected visit. Staring at the tightly closed door, Gwenael asked stupidly.

“…What?”

“Shall I show her in?”

Gwenael unconsciously jumped up from his seat. He straightened his disheveled clothes.

“Y-Yes.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the door clicked open.

Her bright golden hair, half-tied up, was the first thing he saw. Perhaps because of the color that shattered transparently in the morning sunlight, everything around seemed to brighten.

Could even a person’s way of walking be so enchanting?

Her floating steps moved gracefully. The woman’s eyes rolled innocently as she approached Gwenael.

“I couldn’t just stay still, knowing you suffered because of me.”

A pleasing voice rang out. Her trembling hand caressed the bruise around Gwenael’s eye. Tears welled up in her clear eyes.

“……”

It was laughable. Gwenael, momentarily holding his breath, unconsciously gulped.

He knew that Madame Marguerite was exceptionally beautiful. Though they weren’t close, he had seen her a few times. When Astaire would boast, he had often felt envious.

Yet only now did he truly understand.

Why Astaire went mad and died doing strange things. Why he gave everything, including his liver and gall, and ultimately his life.

Because at this moment, Gwenael felt he could do the same.

The woman kept murmuring.

“Are you feeling alright? You weren’t seriously injured, were you?”

“I-I’m fine.”

“Thank goodness. Really, thank goodness.”

Her voice was soft and laced with emotion. At her tearful whisper, Gwenael swallowed a groan internally.

‘This is crazy, this is insane.’

This was quite a peculiar guilt. It was a matter of instinct rather than emotion.

Humans were aesthetic beings. They were always vulnerable to beauty, whether in living things or objects.

Meanwhile, when someone universally beautiful was tearing up, it made Gwenael himself feel like a bad person for causing it.

Even the Holy Father would turn around in this situation, swallow a groan, and smack his lips in regret. Then he would lament why he had chosen the path of priesthood.

“I hope I haven’t come at a bad time? When you should be resting…”

“No, I’m glad you came. Truly.”

Gwenael muttered and unconsciously reached out his hand. The woman’s cheek, which he expected to be soft and warm, was surprisingly cold.

Unlike with Liam’s hand which she had pushed away in startlement, she didn’t push away Gwenael’s hand. She just watched his actions with large, moist eyes.

That small difference strangely stirred his heart. Gwenael whispered softly.

“Mademoiselle has no reason to feel indebted. I did it because I didn’t particularly like Liam de le Blumir to begin with.”

“Ah…”

The woman’s large eyes sparkled. She murmured in a slightly subdued voice.

“You said that then too, that the Duke was a half-breed.”

“Yes. But don’t think too much about it. It’s not like it has any special meaning.”

Gwenael paused briefly.

Unlike his fluent language, this was a moment when he realized the woman before him was from a foreign country. The story of Blumir was one of the scandals that no noble in Sehera could be unaware of.

“Blumir was originally of Sehera’s bloodline. Madame Marguerite was the last descendant of one of the nominal royal families. The current Duke is adopted. If he hadn’t been a meritorious subject, he couldn’t have held that position.”

As a result, opinions about Liam were ambiguous. Half said he was ungrateful to those who had taken him in, while the other half said he had still protected Blumir from disgrace.

However, in Gwenael’s view, no one was luckier than Duke Blumir.

He was adopted into the Blumir Duchy and by chance gained the title of Duke. In fact, it was unprecedented for such a high title to be inherited by someone not of blood relation.

That made it more disagreeable. He wanted to somehow return him to where he should have been.

“Mademoiselle Laure.”

“Yes, Lord Gwenael.”

“There will be an Imperial joust soon.”

Gwenael whispered carefully. A joust was an event where nobles competed for entertainment, a mounted lance competition where victory was achieved by unseating the opponent or making them drop their weapon. It was one of the events hosted by the Imperial family along with hunting competitions.

Originally, it was a bloody battle between knights with lances, but at some point it became a sporting event casually enjoyed by young noble men. Still, being an equestrian sport, it was a dangerous competition where injuries occurred from time to time.

In Astaire’s time, the winner of the joust was always Astaire. There was no bloodier battle more suitable for Astaire, who enjoyed blood.

“Duke Blumir will also participate as a rider… I need to teach him a lesson there.”

Gwenael admitted it. He couldn’t beat that rough commoner in skill.

But winning wasn’t the only form of revenge.

Gwenael added a sly smile.

“It would be nice if you would tie your handkerchief to the tip of my lance, Mademoiselle Laure.”

Noble ladies would tie their handkerchiefs to their lovers’ lance tips before the competition, praying for their martial fortune and victory.

In the past, Madame Marguerite would always tie her handkerchief to the tip of Astaire’s lance with an anxious face. But there were many who enviously watched even such scenes.

This time, Gwenael would be at the end of those numerous gazes.

“Gladly.”

Valentine smiled brightly. It was exactly what she had hoped for.

* * *

That day, Valentine embroidered a handkerchief for the first time in a long while. It was nothing special, just the letter B in Sehera’s cursive script.

She used to embroider the same thing for Astaire as if it were a ritual. When he first saw this embroidery, Astaire had asked.

‘Why B instead of V?’

She couldn’t honestly answer that it was B for Belle. If he heard those words, she felt Astaire would immediately change and cut off both Valentine and Cassian’s heads, and even burn down the beautiful Blumir.

‘Because I’m a Blumir.’

‘A Blumir.’

Though he nodded as if he understood, Astaire had grabbed Valentine’s chin. Forcing her head back, he asked rather fiercely.

‘Until when will you be a Blumir?’

‘Forever, until I close my eyes.’

His gaze was peculiar as he watched Valentine whisper in a lonely tone.

‘The fact that I am Valentine of Blumir will never change.’

…Thinking about it now, that day, Astaire must have been testing Valentine.

If she had whispered asking for a chance to be called Madame Sehera, or if words about taking another’s surname had slipped out, Astaire would not have trusted Valentine. She might have fallen from that dangerously thin tightrope.

It was the only moment when her blinding feelings had actually helped.

Then suddenly, she sensed a somewhat cold temperature at her fingertips.

Emerging from her brief reminiscence, Valentine stared at Lucifer who was pressed against her side. His crimson gaze was fixed on the handkerchief while holding her hand.

“Why? Do you want one too?”

Lucifer firmly shook his head. Valentine tilted her head.

“Then why are you looking at it like that?”

“Have you forgotten the pain?”

Valentine’s gaze slid down smoothly. The needle was piercing her fingertip instead of the handkerchief.

Finally realizing the pain, Valentine moved her fingertip. It was an innocent action, like a child taking their first steps and wobbling toward the world.

Drip, drop. Blood trickled down the thin needle. Valentine’s eyes appeared lifeless.

“…Oh right. It hurts.”

A red flower of blood bloomed on the handkerchief. It spread vividly, like paint dropped in water.

Valentine extended her bleeding finger to Lucifer. A natural command fell from her lips.

“Lick it.”

The demon’s crimson eyes lowered deeply. His long eyelashes settled densely on her pale skin.

As if he had been waiting, he took her finger in his mouth. His hot tongue entwined with the wound, feeling his cold breath climbing up her palm.

He licked her moist flesh and up her skin. The soft tongue wrapping around her finger swallowed what had been thinly flowing. He greedily explored her cold flesh and vitality.