“Does he hurt you often?”

“I don’t know.”

Come to think of it, Areos did not like to leave marks on her skin. When she was younger, even a small fall would have made him lash out at the maids. While he didn’t mind leaving red marks with his own touch, he was always the one to apply medicine when a real wound appeared. 

But yesterday… that hadn’t been the case. 

What had been different? Was it because she hadn’t slept with Ilion? 

Cyrene turned her head and suddenly her face was inches from Ilion’s, their lips almost touching. 

She let out a shaky breath and Ilion took a deep breath, as if to steady himself. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. How long they stayed like that, she wasn’t sure.

When Cyrene moved a little closer, his big hand gripped her shoulder tightly.

“Wait, I have some medicine for that.”

The sound of him rummaging through his pockets came from behind her.

“You bring medicine?”

“It’s a habit.”

“Why?”

“Because fighting is my job.”

So the Marquis’ job is to fight.

The thought crossed her mind. She heard the faint clink of something small being opened, and then a sticky substance was gently applied to her wounds.

“It hurts.”

“It will heal quickly.”

“It hurts.”

“Perhaps you should ask His Highness to be more gentle with you.”

Cyrene flinched slightly at the touch of his fingers as he gently lowered the strap on her back. The slow, deliberate movements of his hand felt like they were spreading warmth over her skin, like flowers of heat blooming wherever he touched. For a fleeting moment, she thought it would be nice if her entire back was covered in wounds.

So Ilion would touch everything.

Turning her body to face him, Cyrene asked quietly.

“What if I get hurt somewhere else?”

Ilion hesitated for a moment, then closed the lid on the small jar he had been using and placed it firmly in her hand. It was a simple, unadorned jar – no intricate patterns, no beautiful designs, no gold accents. Yet to her it looked more beautiful than anything else.

As she opened it, a faint scent of herbs wafted out, mixed with something that reminded her of Ilion.

“You should use it for other places yourself.”

Cyrene looked up at him in silence. He seemed to move closer, then further away, and just as he seemed to move away, he moved closer again.

“Marquis Laska.”

Ilion’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You remember that?”

“Do I have to call you that?”

What do I remember?

Cyrene turned the question back to him. All she remembered was what Areos had said – how he had scolded her for calling Ilion by name and insisted she address him as Marquis Laska. The moment was vivid in her mind.

Ilion’s brow furrowed slightly, but he reached out and gently tucked her hair behind her ear. The small jar in her hand radiated warmth.

“Do you remember anything about your mother?”

“Creusa.”

Areos always called her that—Creusa. Sometimes with disdain, calling her a wretched woman or the wanton flower of society. Once, she had been the most beautiful Creusa, but even that phrase had faded from his lips over time.

Cyrene tried to recall an image of her mother’s face. All she could recall were light golden curls, similar to her own, and a dazzling smile. Her mother, lost when Cyrene was only five, had become a blurred figure in her memories. 

At her brief reply, Ilion’s expression changed into something difficult to decipher.

“Is that all you remember?”

“What else should I remember?”

Cyrene was about to ask him the same question. He made a short, contemplative sound before slowly brushing her hair back from her face.

“I suppose so. I don’t have many memories of my mother either.”

“Why? Did she die young?”

“She left me early.”

Cyrene looked quietly at Ilion’s face as he smiled faintly. There was something in his expression that seemed both sad and lonely. Perhaps he needed comfort. Cyrene leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“Cyrene.”

Ilion immediately pulled away from her, his face stiff with discomfort. Cyrene tilted her head in confusion.

“Why? I was comforting you.”

“Haah.”

Areos had ordered her to comfort him, yet it felt strange.

“His Highness has strange tastes.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, it’s not necessarily bad… but it might be.”

Cyrene reached out to him. When she tried to pull him into an embrace, his arm stopped her gently but firmly, accompanied by a gentle smile.

“I think Ilion is better than Marquis of Laska.”

“But His Highness told you to call me the Marquis of Laska, so do as His Highness wishes.”

“But I like Ilion.”

The words slipped out before she could stop herself, and she was surprised at her own honesty. She had never once disobeyed Areos’ wishes. She ate what he told her to eat, wore what he told her to wear and did what he told her to do. Her life had always been one where if Areos said the sun was the moon, then from that moment on the sun became the moon to her.

But why then, she wondered, was she so confused, standing up abruptly with no idea why she had said what she had?

“Cyrene?”

Ilion grabbed her hand and Cyrene jumped, quickly pulling her hand away. The sound of the slap echoed, leaving her own hand stinging and reddened.

“Are you all right?”

“Marquis Laska.”

She called him by the name Areos had instructed her to use: Marquis Laska. Marquis Laska. Every time she murmured it, a strange flicker of expectation appeared in Ilion’s eyes. 

The feeling was unsettling and slightly unpleasant. Cyrene couldn’t quite make out what he was expecting, but an instinctive warning flared up inside her, urging her not to think too much about it – just as it had with Areos.

“Ilion.”

“Ilion Laska. That’s my name.”

Every time she blinked, his golden hair seemed to shimmer. Ilion felt more familiar to her than she had expected. 

Why? 

It was as if she had heard the name before. Cyrene tilted her head, trying to make sense of it. From the moment she’d first heard it, there had been something strangely familiar about it, though she couldn’t explain why. 

“I’ll call you Ilion.” 

Even though Areos wouldn’t have liked it. 

She swallowed the words, unsure if it was because she was doing something Areos would not like, or if it was simply because of Ilion. Her heart raced.

She pressed her hand tightly to her chest, feeling a strange shift inside. It was as if more and more things were building up – things she couldn’t tell Areos. 

But she wasn’t completely unaware of it. 

Cyrene took another step towards him. Ilion let out a shy laugh, took a deep breath and nodded slowly. 

“You can call me whatever you want, but are you sure?

His Highness wouldn’t like it.” 

Her fingertips curled at the words. Areos wouldn’t like it. The thought sent a shiver down her spine – if she wasn’t actually trembling, it would have been a lie.Cyrene tightened her grip on her hand, the small medicine jar she was holding making a soft clink.

“It’s all right.

“Just don’t get hurt. Make sure you take the medicine. I’ll bring more next time.”

“Are you leaving?”

Cyrene grabbed his sleeve quickly, holding on as if she couldn’t bear to let him go.

“Stay a little longer.”

“I’m also in a position where I need to ask His Highness’s permission.”

Ilion smiled bitterly before gently removing her hand from his sleeve. Cyrene knew another man would come after he left. Everyone else seemed restless, unable to wait any longer, but Ilion always left so smoothly and quickly.

“Ilion.”

The moment Cyrene grabbed his sleeve again, Ilion bowed his head hastily.

“Your Highness, the Princess.”

Your Highness, the Princess.

The unfamiliar title caused Cyrene’s eyes to widen in surprise. She pondered for a moment who Her Highness, the Princess, might be and then, belatedly, lowered her head slightly. This was the first time they had met, but occasionally, very rarely, she had heard Areos mention her in a tone of irritation. Of course, her title was simply Princess, while the others referred to her as Her Highness the Princess.

The younger sister of His Highness.

The word younger sister—why did it feel so unfamiliar?

She, too, was Areos’s younger sister.

Does that woman, Your Highness the Princess, also have s*x with Areos?

As Cyrene lifted her head slightly, her gaze met the princess’s red eyes.

She flinched for a moment, then quickly looked down. Those eyes gave off the same chilling sensation, almost identical to Areos’.

“So you’re Cyrene.”

Boots appeared before her eyes – black leather riding boots. The handle of a whip was pressed firmly under her chin. As Cyrene slowly lifted her head, her body trembled at the sight of the red eyes staring down at her with a chilling intensity. 

The face beneath the black hair, which bore a striking resemblance to Areos’, also bore a striking resemblance to the Crown Prince’s. The fear that crept up her fingertips was one she knew only too well.