“I converted some of the jewels into money. You’ll need living expenses right away.”

“Ah…”

“How does it feel? To be the wealthiest person in this village?”

Sveta opened the sack slightly and peeked inside. Dazed, she replied.

“I never imagined it would be this much.”

“I only sold two rings. There’s still plenty left. I’ve stored the rest of the jewels inside for now.”

If he were to sell all of them, would this small house be filled to the brim with money? The image drifted through her mind, and she stared blankly into space.

“I see…”

She had no idea that the jewelry Aiden had given her was so valuable.

Then again, she remembered how her adoptive mother had sold rings and necklaces following Baron Luce’s disappearance.

Recalling the small pouch Dalia had received in exchange for those jewels made the heavy sack before her seem even larger.

“Is there nothing in particular you wish to do with this money?”

Henrik set the sack on the floor and smiled gently.

“No, not yet.”

“Then tell me—what will you do from now on?”

“Hmm…”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sveta lowered herself into a chair.

She carefully rested her cane against the table, then leaned slightly toward Henrik, who sat across from her.

“I plan to look for work.”

“With this much money?”

“I once had jewels too—yet I was locked away inside. I want to live differently now.”

A flicker of sympathy passed across Henrik’s face.

“Shall I help you look for work? Is there anything you’re particularly good at?”

“Laundry.”

It was the one thing she felt confident about. Not because she was good at it, but because it was the only task she could complete without being told off.

But would anyone in a village like this even need a laundress?

“Ah. There are no nobles here wealthy enough to hire one. And with your leg still unsteady…”

They were back at square one.

Perhaps embarrassed by the sudden gloom, Henrik took another sip of tea.

He had been absentmindedly tracing the rim of his cup when he suddenly saw someone walking out of the bedchamber.

Someone was walking out of the bedchamber.

Sveta quickly rose and grasped her cane. Limping slightly, she smiled faintly.

“Yvetsa, did you sleep well?”

“More or less.”

Yvetsa scratched at her roughly tied hair and looked toward Henrik.

“Oh—Henrik. This is the friend I told you about. Yvetsa, say hello. This is my friend, Henrik.”

Henrik laughed quietly at the sudden change of address.

Then he looked suspiciously at Yvetsa’s blue-grey trousers and baggy shirt.

Yvetsa gave him a curt nod and promptly took a seat at the table.

Sveta hurriedly poured tea into a third cup.

Lifting the steaming cup slightly, Yvetsa began.

“You called me a friend, so I’ll say this—I don’t have friends.”

Henrik frowned at the bluntness of her tone. Yvetsa continued, unbothered.

“But I am hiring. If you want to work at my dress shop, you can.”

“Truly?”

“I don’t say useless things.”

Could things truly fall into place so easily?

It was hard to suppress the smile threatening to break free. Sveta’s cheeks twitched.

“Come to my place tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Yvetsa!”

“It’s nothing.”

After gulping down her tea, Yvetsa stood. Stretching her long limbs, she added,

“I’m not fully sober yet. I’m going straight home to sleep, so there’s no need to follow me. Don’t get up for nothing.”

Ignoring Henrik entirely, she disappeared out the front door in an instant.

Henrik stared after her in confusion.

“She lives next door. I think she got drunk last night and mistook her house for mine. Somehow, we became friends.”

“I see. Still… a woman who dresses like a man running a dress shop—isn’t that rather suspicious?”

“…Is it?”

She hadn’t seemed strange.

She was perhaps a little abrupt, but she offered her a job, gave her seeds for the garden, and even repaired the creaking steps at the back door.

That made her a good person.

Satisfied with her own reasoning, Sveta smiled brightly at Henrik.

“Viscount Meriner, would you like more chocolate?”

“From now on, call me Henrik. And yes—I’ll have more chocolate.”

Her heart felt light and almost weightless.

This calm, steady existence seemed too good to be true, as if it could disappear at any moment.

She rose to her feet.

Perhaps too quickly.

A sharp pain suddenly seized her left calf, as though it were being wrung out.

Her body lurched to one side, unable to find its balance, and she fell.

The chair caught her leg as she fell, crashing to the ground.

The sack of money beside it overturned next.

Gold coins scattered across the floor, rolling in every direction.

Among them, a large leather pouch fell heavily, making a dull thud.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. It happens often.”

Though her leg trembled violently, Sveta answered as though it were nothing.

“I can get up on my own.”

As she pressed her palms against the floor, preparing to push herself up, she felt something brush her fingertips.

A brooch had fallen from the leather pouch.

It spun once, then twice, before coming to rest.

At its center, a large emerald caught the light and flashed brilliantly.

For the briefest of moments, a faint trace of musk drifted through her senses.

It felt as though a firm, smooth chest lay beneath her hand. The memory of skin — firm as a shield, yet impossibly smooth — rose in her mind with startling clarity.

Sveta’s breath caught.

Flustered, she could not understand why such an image had surfaced.

Biting down on her lip, she quickly sat up straight.

‘Don’t think about it.’

She shook her head forcefully.

The sweet scent that had lingered at the edge of her senses dissolved at once.

***

At the end of summer, the rainy season arrived without fail.

The steady patter of rain blended with the voice of a middle-aged woman.

“I wish to return to my hometown.”

“……”

Aiden looked down at Madam Nora in silence.

‘Was she always this thin?’

Perhaps worry had hollowed her out. The skin beneath her once-rounded cheekbones now appeared gaunt.

This woman had once served Lady Luce.

Aiden himself had formally hired her into the House of Strilland to attend to Sveta.

She was now a maid in the ducal household.

With no mistress left to serve, it would have been appropriate to assign her to other duties.

Instead, however, Nora had expressed her desire to resign.

Aiden spoke in a dry tone.

“Receive your severance from the head maid before you leave.”

Nora bowed deeply.

“Thank you, my lord.”

At Aiden’s slight nod, Dennis, who had been waiting behind him, stepped forward.

“I will have a carriage prepared.”

“How could I possibly… ride in the noble carriage of the ducal house? It is far too much for someone like me, my lord.”

“You were her person. It is only fitting.”

“……”

“The aide will explain the details.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Nora bowed once more in obedience.

“…The sun is setting.”

Even through the rain, a streak of orange twilight crept stubbornly through the curtains.

‘I must… return to the bedchamber…’

Clenching his fist tightly, Aiden turned away, leaving Nora behind.

***

Even at night, the Duke’s bedchamber was as bright as midday.

Hundreds of candles burned around the bed.

Their flames seemed to wail.

Ivan sighed and carefully opened the drawer.

“When did he finish it?”

The vial that had once held the sleeping powder was empty.

He silently refilled it with the fresh supply he had brought.

Then his gaze drifted to a pale green bottle tucked away in the far corner.

Inside was the distilled essence of the Etilia flower, which only bloomed in January, high in the Valter Mountains.

This potent poison had been discovered relatively recently and was circulated in secrecy.

From childhood, heirs to the ducal house were trained to ingest small amounts of toxins to build up a resistance to them.

Therefore, it was not unusual for the duke to keep several vials of poison in his drawer.

However, considering Aiden’s recent state…

‘It would be better to remove it.’

The moment Ivan reached for the bottle—

a hoarse voice drifted from within the bed curtains.

“…Ivan.”

“Yes? What is it? Do you need more?”

“The sedatives.”

Ivan’s eyebrows drew together sharply. The sleeping powder was no longer enough — he was asking for stronger tranquillizers.

He didn’t like it, but he answered anyway.

“…I’ve replenished them.”

Carrying the tray of medical tools, he approached the bed.

Aiden lay there languidly. Under the flickering light, the contours of his face were gaunt—far too gaunt.

“Let me see your hand. I need to disinfect it.”

“……”

A gaze as dry as a riverbed turned towards him. Aiden held out his hand, expressionless.

A cut, about two knuckles long, ran along his palm.

Ivan’s chest tightened.

Pressing his lips together, he quickly cleaned the wound and applied ointment.

Even as Ivan wrapped the bandage around it, Aiden remained as still as a corpse.

“…Are you all right? You don’t mind if I touch you?”

“Of course not.”

“It seems much improved…”

“……”

“Truly, Aiden. Do you remember the treatment we did before? Compared to then, this is remarkable progress.”

Instead of answering, Aiden let out a faint laugh.

It was bitter.

From Ivan’s perspective, it was clear that Aiden’s obsessive aversion to contamination had lessened.

Perhaps this was because he had been covered in filth — the entrails and blood of beasts, and mud — while slaughtering wolves in Shadow Gorge.

‘I should be relieved… so why does it feel like my insides are burning?’

Ivan let out a quiet sigh and lowered his gaze to his big hands.

Not a single inch of skin was left unmarked.

It seemed as if his body had been stitched together from scars. Even the back of his neck bore the deep imprint of an animal’s bite.

Ivan knew that beneath his immaculate clothes, the rest of his body would be the same: his back, chest, abdomen and legs.

No part of him had been untouched by violence.

“Why haven’t you been using the oil for the scars?”

“There’s no need.”

Aiden turned his head.

His dark, empty eyes drifted blankly across the ceiling.

It was painful to watch.

The man who had always seemed like an unyielding shield or a fortress wall now lay broken before him.

In a hoarse voice, Aiden spoke.

“Tell me a story.”

“…What kind of story?”

“How was she that day?”

“That day…?”

“The day I lost my child.”