She knew this voice. She had never once forgotten this scent.

“It cannot have been a pleasant sight.”

Above the black leather glove that covered his wrist, thick muscles curved in elegant lines. Sveta’s gaze drifted upwards along them.

It was him.

He was the man she had once wished to see again; he had become her greatest longing.

Looking down into her wavering eyes, he murmured,

“That one was a barbarian. A survivor.”

The Bloody Saturday massacre was never forgotten by any royal house or noble family across the continent.

Last year, Duke Baiton of Prisada led an expedition to avenge his slain sister by crushing the Zloytans. It seemed that the rumors were true — that the nobles were still hunting down and executing the scattered survivors.

The knight wiped the blood from his blade and stepped towards them with heavy, deliberate strides.

“My lord, what about the rest?”

His eyes flickered from Sveta, who hung limp as a rag, to the dead man. Startled, his hawkish eyes widened as he waited for his master to respond.

“Leave it for tomorrow.”

“Yes, understood.”

At the order, the knight vanished from sight.

Sveta replayed their exchange in her mind. My lord. That meant this man was…

“…Are you, perhaps, the Duke?”

“You must be the daughter of Baron Luce.”

“Yes…”

She should have moved away, but her legs wouldn’t support her. Whenever she was under extreme stress, her ankle would always throb. That old pain clung to her like a brand.

Sveta tried to rise, but each attempt ended with her collapsing again.

“Are you unwell?”

“My ankle… it hurts a little.”

The breath that fell across her crown felt unbearably hot.

“I will send a physician.”

“…Thank you.”

But that afternoon, the one who came to her was not a physician. It was the Duke of Strilland himself.

“My lord Duke, there is something I wished to ask you. Please—spare the brown horse.”

The words tumbled out, revealing the thought that had filled her mind but which she had forgotten the moment she saw him. She knew it was rude. However, once she had found her composure, she could not stop worrying that the horse destined for sl*ughter would be gone by morning.

“…….”

Even before her earnest plea, his face remained impassive. Yet when she met his gaze, there was a sharp tension between them that set her nerves on edge. The air around them grew as cold as dawn’s mist.

“Please… do not kill it.”

“Hah…”

A heavy sigh escaped his crimson lips, sounding like a lament. The depths of his green eyes were dark and showed no sign of clearing.

Then the duke unfolded a rolled parchment.

There she was.

Beneath the striking image of Sveta, the name was carved in silence and finality: Beth Gould.

He fixed his gaze on her hair, wordlessly.

In the afternoon sunlight, it shone with the fiery radiance of a sunset.

This color was long associated with Hisendra, chieftain of the Zloytans, and his daughter Beth. Such hair was rare, though not unheard of. For that reason alone, he had never doubted her identity before.

But now, with the portrait bearing the name ‘Beth Gould’ before him, there could be only one conclusion.

Through the frost in his eyes, Sveta understood: He believed she was Beth Gould.

To deny it would be meaningless. Deep down, she knew there was no escape.

She quietly turned her gaze to the portrait in his hands. Her mind flickered back to the day it was painted: she had been dressed in Beth’s clothes, her hair had been dyed to match her coloring, and her expression had been carefully molded to mirror hers.

Beth’s parents had never commissioned a portrait of their real daughter. Instead, in preparation for disaster, they had left behind one of Sveta, created solely for Beth’s protection.

Thus, in the painted portrait, Beth Gould had pale, sky-blue eyes; porcelain-white skin; and full lips, rather than dark blue eyes, freckles, and a bold mouth.

The portrait was created by emphasizing the differences between the sitter and the model.

“A portrait. Of me…”

Sveta’s voice was calm. From the beginning, she had been raised to die in Beth’s place. This was hardly surprising.

But she did not want to show fear either. Death had always been so close. If she could not stay calm, she could at least pretend to be dignified.

Straightening her back, she lifted her chin.

“So, am I going to die now? Is that it?”

“…Tomorrow morning. In the forest.”

He turned away, leaving only those fragmented words behind.

Sveta raised her voice to his broad back.

“But please—spare that brown horse, my lord Duke!”

“…….”

He did not answer.

By evening, however, a physician arrived, saying he had been sent by the Duke.

Looking into the kind, unsuspecting eyes of the doctor, Sveta wondered if there might still be hope.

Perhaps she could live for a year.

Perhaps she could even experience happiness, if only for a moment.

◯◯◯

It was almost midnight the next day when Aiden remembered what had happened in the forest.

The woman who claimed to be the daughter of the barbarian chieftain and the foster daughter of Baron Luce… The woman who had described herself as both the lowest and the most noble of beings. Her gentle voice lingered in his mind, unsettling him.

“So, am I going to die now? Is that it?”

He hadn’t expected that response. He hadn’t expected anything, but this wasn’t what he’d imagined, either. She deserved to die, of course, and yet he found himself hesitating.

Although she was the daughter of a bandit, she had the bearing of a noblewoman. This fact unsettled him even more.

She was twenty-four. She could not have been part of the massacre.

And yet, hearing her call herself the daughter of Jace Gould had made him want to kill her outright.

At the same time, when he recalled her halting, limping steps, he wondered if perhaps, for now, she might be spared.

Such conflicting emotions were rare for him, and so Aiden, unusually, furrowed his brow.

“What’s got you thinking so hard?”

His personal physician, Ivan, rummaged through his large medical bag as he asked.

“Nothing.”

Ivan only shrugged and got to work, briskly rolling up his sleeves.

He placed several vials and jars of cream on the table and said,

“Ah, yes. The young lady you asked me to keep an eye on yesterday. She twisted her ankle, as if it had been deliberately injured over a long period. There was nothing I could do.”

“…Is that so.”

Although they were often dismissed as barbarians, the Zloytans were not just bandits.

Five centuries earlier, their ancestors had been the Imperial Knights of a fallen empire. When that mighty realm fractured, they refused to pledge allegiance to any kingdom. Instead, generation after generation, they clung to their warrior legacy, nurturing the dream of restoring their lost power.

Consequently, the daughter of their chieftain was raised with all the dignity of a princess from any realm.

Yet she was a princess with a crippled ankle.

The thought lingered in his mind, albeit briefly. After all, she was destined to die. She was nothing more than a tool to be used.

Glancing at Ivan, who was busy with his concoctions, Aiden said:

“I’m considering taking a mistress.”

“You?”

“Yes, me.”

In disbelief, Ivan’s eyes rolled back in his head.

His pale complexion shifted into something bizarre: flushed red and blanched blue all at once.

Was this reaction really warranted?

“I don’t mean to mock, but are you aware of what having a mistress actually involves?”

“…You think I don’t?”

“A mistress is… well, it requires physical intimacy. Between man and woman. To be blunt, it means sharing passion bare-bodied—”

“I know.”

Without hesitation, Aiden cut him off.

After all, his old friend was drawing attention to his affliction.

The world might call it an eccentric obsession with cleanliness, but it was severe enough to be classed as an illness.

This was why Aiden had summoned Ivan, to seek treatment.

“Here, I’ve prepared a stronger mix this time. Apply it.”

Aiden took a generous amount of the numbing ointment and rubbed it thickly onto his hands.

The ointment was quickly absorbed. If it was effective, it could be used daily.

“The phrasing may sound odd, but… now, touch me.”

Aiden’s gaze lingered briefly on Ivan’s plump, muscular arm before he placed his hand on it.

He could only endure it for a fleeting instant. An unpleasant sensation surged up from the crown of his head, crackling as it went.

“Kh…!”

Moments later, sweat began to drip down the nape of his neck. Harsh breaths tore uncontrollably from his mouth.

“Haa…”

“Should I try a different formula?”

Ivan’s face fell in dismay as he hurriedly began packing his bag.

Meanwhile, Aiden felt as though his palms were burning. The pain was so intense that he considered cutting off his own wrist to be rid of it. He repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists.

“We’ll try again in three days.”

Seeing the look on his master’s face, Ivan rose quickly. Aiden plunged his hands into the golden basin of water prepared at his side, silent.

“…But you, with a mistress? No one would believe it. Even that mad brown horse everyone talks about would laugh in your face.”

Half in the doorway and half out, Ivan lingered, mocking him while keeping a clear escape route at the ready.

“…….”

When no answer came, he slipped away like a man fleeing.

Left alone, Aiden reflected on his friend’s words. In part, he agreed with him.

His compulsion was not just an eccentricity; it was a mental affliction, far beyond his control.

Although nobody in this land would dare touch him lightly, he could not hope to spend his entire life sealed off from human contact. Even the briefest accidental brush against another person would leave him tormented, with the intolerable sensations gnawing at him for the rest of the day.

As he dwelled on this misery, an image rose unbidden in his thoughts: the woman, Sveta Luce.