“…Yes.”

The man replied awkwardly, as if he did not know how to answer. Areos let out a satisfied laugh.

“If you’d like to use her mouth, I’d be happy to let you. I’ve spent some time training her.”

“Ah, no, that won’t be necessary.”

Cyrene closed her eyes for a moment before opening them. She understood only too well what those words meant. She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved that she had been spared the humiliation of being forced to please another man, or horrified that such a suggestion had even been made.

“Pity, you missed your chance to try them.

The man’s grip on the documents in his hand tightened slightly, crumpling the papers. Moments later, a maid entered the room and took Cyrene into an adjoining chamber to help her straighten up. The maid smoothed her dishevelled hair, offered her a damp towel and straightened her clothes. But the feeling of the sticky liquid running down her legs still felt as strange and uncomfortable as ever.

When Cyrene returned to the room, her appearance now outwardly tidy, both Areos and the man turned their eyes to her. The Crown Prince waved his hand dismissively, clearly uninterested. Cyrene bowed slightly in acknowledgement. But the gaze that lingered on the exposed curve of her br*ast was not Areos’ – it was the other man’s.

She fled the room as if running, her steps hurried and unsteady. For the first time, she was aware of the stares of the two knights stationed at the door. Their eyes glittered uneasily, filled with a gleam of excitement, as if they had been stirred by the sounds of panting and moaning they had undoubtedly heard all day. The realisation sent shivers down Cyrene’s entire body.

She pressed her lips together and walked away quickly. If she had once been a mere ghost in the Crown Prince’s palace, what was she now? It felt as if everyone she passed was watching her, their eyes stripping her n*ked. Cyrene broke into a run, her footsteps echoing through the corridor as if she were trying to escape herself.

***

“Haah… haah…”

She was gasping for air, as if coughing up blood. She had no idea where she was going – she had just run blindly and found herself in the garden. There was nowhere to run. She couldn’t leave the Crown Prince’s palace and she didn’t really know where else to go.

Cyrene began to walk slowly through the garden, her steps heavy with exhaustion. She knew that even this place wasn’t safe from watchful eyes. The memory of the gardener – the one whose tongue and hand had been severed – lingered painfully in her mind, even though she could no longer remember his name.

She knew it was the only place where no one would openly stare at her for the time being. The garden, vast and sprawling, became her refuge, and Cyrene walked aimlessly in circles. Like a small animal running endlessly on a wheel, she circled the large garden again and again.

After countless rounds, she came to a halt and stood motionless. The absurdity of it all struck her – this endless wandering. Once she had thought of herself as an ornament, something pretty to be displayed, a doll that should stand quietly by.

But what was it now? A more useful decoration? A slave? Or perhaps something less than human – a mere animal? Slowly, Cyrene made her way to the iron fence. She looked up at the towering spikes that seemed to reach endlessly into the sky, sharp and unyielding, before gripping the cold bars with both hands.

Five years old. That was how old she was when she was first brought here by the Crown Prince’s hand. Since that day, she had never stepped outside the fence. Cyrene stared blankly beyond the bars, her eyes empty. A few passers-by glanced at her, whispered to each other and hurried away as if to avoid her presence.

That was to be expected. Who wouldn’t run when they saw severed tongues and hands reduced to lifeless chunks of flesh?

…Do you want to leave?

She asked herself the question, but could find no answer. Cyrene gripped the iron bars tightly, her hands shaking. The remaining traces of s*men, which she hadn’t been able to clean properly, soaked into her underwear and trickled uncomfortably against her skin.

“Ugh…”

A small grimace formed on her face at the uncomfortable sensation. The pleasure had been overwhelming, almost insanely good, but this – this was something she despised. The damp fabric, the sticky feel – it all made her skin crawl.

Cyrene crouched down, curled up in a ball, hugging her knees and burying her head. No one paid her any attention.

No, that wasn’t quite true. They deliberately ignored her. They knew better than to get involved with someone like her – it would only bring trouble.

She stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity. Then the shadow of someone standing nearby fell on her.

“Are you alright?”

A voice – an unfamiliar one. Cyrene ignored it completely. She wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone without Areos permission. She wasn’t allowed to touch anyone either. She squeezed her knees tighter, pretending not to hear, hoping he would go away.

She couldn’t help wondering who had spoken to her, but instead of looking, she buried her head even deeper, pretending not to hear. Cyrene thought the man would just go away, but the shadow cast over her refused to go away.

“Are you crying?”

The question pierced her resolve and she couldn’t hold back any longer. Slowly, Cyrene lifted her head and looked up at the man, who seemed towering from her position. With the light shining from behind him, she could only make out his thick, golden hair shimmering faintly.

He stared at her for a moment, as if frozen, before leaning down slightly.

“It’s good you’re not crying.”

Why should that be a good thing? Areos always found it amusing when Cyrene cried, often enjoying it. There were times when he deliberately pushed her to the brink until she burst into tears.

Cyrene rubbed her cheeks with her palms, as if to erase any trace of emotion. The man stepped closer and she noticed his eyes – dark, almost black. They reflected her image clearly, trapping her completely in their gaze.

Cyrene was certain he didn’t know who she was. That had to be the reason he had approached her. If he had known, he would never have spoken to her like that.

Was it lucky that the iron bars separated them? The close spacing of the bars made it almost impossible to reach through. At least there was no danger of her hand being cut off.

“My name is Cyrene.”

The man tilted his head slightly, as if puzzled, clearly not grasping the meaning of her words.

“A beautiful name.”

Cyrene fell silent. Was there really anyone in the Imperial City who didn’t know who she was? Though she had never ventured outside, even strangers visiting the Crown Prince’s palace usually avoided her gaze and kept their distance. This suggested that at the very least, her name must have been known beyond these walls – along with the story of the gardener who lost his tongue and hand.

She watched the man quietly. There was something familiar about him, something that stirred a longing she couldn’t place. Beneath the golden lashes of his slowly blinking eyes, his dark pupils sparkled faintly, catching the light.

“My name is Ilion.”

Cyrene murmured the name, repeating it softly to herself. She didn’t dare say it out loud for fear that speaking it would trigger another terrible event. Ilion lowered his head slightly, his movements calm and deliberate.

You don’t feel unfamiliar…

She was sure it was the first time she’d seen him. But why did it feel so familiar? Cyrene stepped closer to the iron bars, drawn in by an inexplicable sense of comfort. She found it strangely reassuring how clearly her reflection appeared in his dark eyes.

Her lips parted slightly as if she were about to say something.

“Your Excellency!”

A voice called from the distance, growing louder as someone hurried towards them. The man who had introduced himself as Ilion straightened and stood upright.

Cyrene gripped the bars tightly as the approaching figure shot her a murderous glare.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The man, his face pale with fear, grabbed Ilion and pulled him back a few steps.

“Don’t even talk to her.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s her! That woman!”

That woman.

Cyrene let out a laugh, a dry chuckle that pierced the tense atmosphere. The man who had dragged Ilion away paused, his face momentarily expressionless, before shaking his head quickly as if to shake himself out of it.

His brief lapse in composure quickly turned to renewed caution as he glared at Cyrene once more. Ilion, however, simply watched her with quiet curiosity before offering her a faint, amused smile.

“And who exactly is this woman?”

“The woman… that woman.”

The man who had hurried over did not even mention Cyrene’s name. Ilion, guided by the desperate hand that gripped his arm, lowered his head with silent grace as he was led away. Cyrene tilted her head, straining to see past the iron bars.

Soon the two figures were out of sight. She murmured Ilion’s name softly, letting the syllables linger in her mind. Ilion. She thought his golden hair shone with an unusual brilliance.

This is the first time I’ve seen someone smile like that.

Cyrene pressed closer to the bars, the cold metal brushing against her cheek. Areos had been the only The only one who ever responded to her presence, the only one who truly acknowledged her, Ilion’s smile remained etched in her mind, lingering like a faint echo.

But then, unbidden, the memory of blood-soaked hands surged forward. Startled, Cyrene sprang to her feet, her heart pounding. She prayed desperately that such a moment would never happen again – not this time.

Thinking of Areos – her god, her saviour, her master – Cyrene slowly stepped away from the bars. She could feel the glances following her, their watchful eyes scraping over her face as if scrutinising her every move.