Prologue

The thick navy curtains of the terrace were flung aside.

“You’ve come seeking me at this hour? Should I consider it an honor?”

Carleon pressed Shartiel against the glass doors of the terrace, trapping her neatly between his arms. With a swift tug, he pushed back the hood of her black robe, unveiling a cascade of thick, wavy pink hair.

Her crimson eyes flickered for the briefest instant, but almost immediately she lifted her gaze with proud defiance, meeting his head-on.

“I greet Your Highness, First Prince Carleon.”

With her back against the terrace window, Shartiel tilted her chin high to look up at the dark-haired man. He had just stepped out of the shower, a large towel hanging low on his hips and nothing else. A droplet slid from his damp hair, trailed down the strong column of his neck, then rolled over the tight muscle of his chest before falling away.

“Saint Shartiel,” he murmured, voice edged with derision, “did you come at this hour merely to exchange pleasantries?”

“That would be rather awkward timing, wouldn’t it?”

Her voice carried its usual mischievous lilt as she pressed a single finger against his chest, nudging him lightly away. His body was far too close, the damp heat of his skin threatening to soak through her robe and the thin nightgown hidden beneath.

‘Don’t falter. You came here prepared.’

She swallowed quietly, careful not to let him notice. His blue-gray eyes seemed darker than usual, but that hardly mattered. Tonight’s purpose demanded it.

“Those who come to me at such an hour rarely live to see the morning. They are branded assassins, and dealt with as such.”

“And yet,” she countered smoothly, “Your Highness has entered my terrace more than once—without permission.”

“I saved your life, if I recall correctly. I hadn’t expected reproach as payment.”

“Perhaps tonight I’ve come to save yours.”

Carleon tilted his head, studying her sharp replies, then released her from his arms. He crossed the room, tugged on the shirt tossed over the bed, and dropped lazily into the sofa at the center of the chamber, reclining as he regarded her.

‘How far does she trust me? Does she realize what I become around her—like a beast in heat?’

She must know. Experience alone had taught her he was weakest before her. That, surely, was why she dared such games.

‘I should have taken a sedative, not a mere sleeping draught.’

Even with the drugs dulling his veins, every cell in his body responded sharply to her presence. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, cursing his own reaction to even the faintest of her movements.

Her pink curls fluttered gently as she stepped toward him, and the scent of her body wrapped around him, stoking his pulse.

“Now then,” he said coldly, his eyes raking her from head to toe, “tell me the true reason you’ve entered my chambers. Surely not for holy prayers.”

It was a warning. Leave now—or bear the consequences.

“On the contrary,” she replied, ignoring it entirely, “I thought to break your curse, Your Highness.”

With deliberate slowness, she began unfastening the buttons of her robe.

‘Seductive. Brazen. That’s what I need to be.’

Her fingertips trembled despite herself. He would notice, she thought. He would laugh at her.

Many noble ladies had tried to tempt Carleon, so rumor said—women with bodies far more alluring than hers. Yet not even the boldest of them had ever made him so much as raise an eyebrow.

“Do you even know what it takes to unravel a royal curse?”

“Of course.”

Shartiel’s eyes curved in a sly smile, her lashes lowering as though she were chiding him. She slipped the robe from her shoulders, baring the sky-blue, scandalously thin dress she had worn beneath for this very purpose.

The robe fell soundlessly to the floor. Carleon drew in a sharp breath.

“Your Highness,” she whispered, “you’ve wanted me all along.”

“As if that were possible.”

“But I know. Every time you see me, your breath falters—deep, unsteady. Just like it does now.”

“Never imagined a saint would have such… conceit.”

For the first time, her confidence wavered. Why was he resisting? This was the same man who had once tried to steal a kiss the moment their eyes met—yet tonight he stood rigid, unyielding.

‘Is it because of those rumors with Ares? Does he think I’ve betrayed him? Was he watching all along, while I focused only on Ares at the altar?’

‘Then I’ll simply have to captivate him again.’

She slipped into his lap, straddling him, one finger trailing slowly down his neck. His perfectly controlled brow furrowed with a look of restrained torment.

‘There it is. Carleon—you’re already mine.’

With a sly shift, she eased back just enough to perch on his knees, avoiding what pressed between his thighs. His large hand shot up to steady her at the waist, holding her firmly in place. The heat of his palm seared into her skin, igniting the red flower etched at her side and sending a shiver through her entire body.

“So then…”

Her voice turned sultry, her fingertip lifting his chin. His gaze gleamed darkly, sharp with the promise that tonight she might succeed.

“I will break your curse, Your Highness.”

“You know what that requires, don’t you?” His voice was rough now, tinged with a bestial growl—the last warning he would give.

“I came ready for it.”

Her hand slid around his neck, the other pulling open his shirt.

“Do it with me, Your Highness. That—and my revenge, too.”

Pressing her body flush against his, she caught his lips with hers.

Chapter One

‘The smell of blood?’

Before Shartiel could fully gather her senses, the thick, suffocating scent filled her nose.

“Hush, my lady, hush…”

Erica, her nanny, dragged her back behind the heavy navy curtains, wrapping both arms tightly around her and clamping a hand over her mouth. Rain pelted the terrace outside, and Erica stepped further toward the wall, terrified that even a strand of Shartiel’s pink hair might slip into view.

‘What is happening?’

Blinking rapidly, Shartiel tried to focus. It was just like that night years ago—when a typhoon had raged outside.

Wind and rain howled through the shattered windows of the count’s mansion. Each flash of lightning illuminated the drawing room in stark white, laying bare the devastation within.

The sea’s briny tang, carried inland by the storm, mingled with the copper stench of spilled blood.

‘Father… Mother…’

Through the narrow gap between curtain and wall, Shartiel’s crimson eyes trembled. Inside the pitch-dark drawing room, where neither moonlight nor starlight could penetrate, two opposing groups of assassins—faces hidden, bodies wrapped in black—clashed swords with feral intensity.

The bodies of Count Nion and his wife lay crumpled on the floor alongside their servants. Blood seeped beneath the beige carpet and trailed toward the terrace doors.

‘A deathbed vision?’

Hot tears streaked down her cheeks. She scrubbed them away frantically with her sleeve, desperate not to miss a single detail of the scene before her—even as Erica’s hand still pressed firmly over her mouth to muffle any sob.

‘Of all things… why show me this again? Why must my last memory be the saddest of them all?’

If she were to die, she had wished it would be with joyful memories of her parents. But even that small wish had been denied.

“Master! We must retreat! More of them are coming!”

One side was being overwhelmed. Dozens of assassins encircled no more than five fighters.

“Damn it! Hold them off! Count Nion still draws breath!”

The leader’s snarl whipped through the room, though their numbers were too few to turn the tide in such a confined space.

“Master! The jewel—we’ve found it!”

‘The jewel?’

The cry rang sharp in Shartiel’s ear, cutting through the chaos. A man brandished a small chest aloft.

“Fall back!”

“Over my dead body!”

The storm drowned the clash of blades, voices rising and colliding with the roar of the wind.

‘They said Father is still alive!’

Shartiel swiped the tears from her face with both hands. Dream or vision, if she could only see his eyes one more time, hear his voice one more moment—

‘Please… grant me just one chance.’

Blood, mixed with rain, dripped from the curtain’s hem, splattering across the white leather of her shoes.

“Master, go first!”

The assassins surged toward the terrace doors—straight toward the place where she and Erica hid.

Blades clashed so close the curtain shuddered violently, soaked with rain and blood.

‘No!’

Shartiel dropped to her knees, clutching Erica tightly.

With a swift slash, the heavy curtain was severed, collapsing uselessly to the floor—exposing both of them in full view.

“You wretches! Heaven’s punishment will find you!” Erica shouted in fury, her voice breaking.

Shartiel gasped sharply as the gleam of a sword loomed before her eyes.

“Well, well. A rat in hiding.”

The voice that followed was colder than the steel.

“You’re the rats!” Shartiel spat, glaring at the man with her teeth clenched.

‘That sword… That’s the one. In my past life, it scarred my face, nearly blinded me in my left eye. I hovered between life and death for a month.’

Because of it, she had been unable to attend her parents’ funeral. Her uncle and his wife had buried them in her stead.

Her gaze lifted higher—to the man standing behind the blade. Their leader.

‘It’s him. He’s the one who stole the jewel. The one who slaughtered them all.’

Lightning blazed across the sky. In that moment, her furious red eyes met his calm, mocking blue.

“You…”

A flicker of surprise crossed his gaze, only to vanish.

At once, the assassin’s sword arced down toward her throat.

“Erica!”

“My lady!”

Shartiel squeezed her eyes shut.

Clang!

Metal rang against metal. Her eyes flew open.

“Master!”

The strike meant to sever her neck had been caught—by the blue-eyed man’s own blade.

“Leave them. What threat could vermin pose?”

“But, Master—”

“Withdraw.”

With thunder shaking the very foundation of the mansion, the blue-eyed leader vaulted cleanly over the terrace. His men followed without hesitation, vanishing into the storm.

“Master! They’re retreating!”

“Damn them! After them!”

The beleaguered group that had been holding out stumbled after, wounded but determined, leaping over the terrace rail into the night.

One man, the last to depart, paused suddenly and turned.

Lightning split the heavens once more. His cold blue eyes locked with Shartiel’s, still burning red with rage.

“Master, quickly!” someone called below.

He turned away and leapt after the others, swallowed by the dark.

Crash!

Another thunderclap jolted Shartiel to her senses. She scrambled to her father’s side.

“Father! Mother!”

They had said her father was still breathing. She could still speak to him. She could still tell him she loved him. She could still apologize for having disappointed him that day.

“Ah—ahhh! How could the gods do this to me!”

But the bodies were cold. No warmth remained.

Shartiel clutched their lifeless forms and screamed.

Once more, before her very eyes, her parents had been slaughtered. Once more, those she loved lay butchered before her.

Lightning tore the darkness apart, casting its merciless glare upon the blood-soaked drawing room.

Only two living souls remained there now—Shartiel, and Erica.

From the wall, the great grandfather clock tolled midnight, its heavy chimes resounding like an omen.

On the day of Shartiel’s second twentieth birthday—

***

“My lady, we’ll tend to the count and countess.”

At dawn, the storm had finally passed, leaving the skies clear and bright. Fred, captain of the household knights, had spent the entire night patrolling the estate and reinforcing defenses against the typhoon. Only when the sun rose did he return to the manor.

‘And what a sight awaited him.’

Swallowing his grief, Fred and the surviving knights began restoring order. Beside the bodies of her parents, Shartiel sat slumped on the floor, her crimson eyes glassy, unfocused.

“Send word… to the Imperial Palace. Notify them at once.”

Her lips were parched and cracked, her voice hoarse. One of the surviving maids knelt at her side.

“My lady…”

She was one of the few left alive in the mansion.

“My lady, please leave this to Captain Fred for now. You should return to your chamber and prepare for the funeral. Nanny, you too must regain your strength.”

At her words, Erica, the old nanny who had been sitting dazed beside Shartiel, gave a faint shake of her head and tried to collect herself.

“My lady, Annie is right. Leave this to Sir Fred for the time being… and at least change your clothes.”

“Yes…”

Shartiel answered faintly, without moving. Sunlight, heedless of the household’s sorrow, streamed uninvited through the shattered windows. It struck the shards of glass, scattering sharp glints of light into Shartiel’s weary crimson eyes.

‘Did I… come back to life? Have I returned to that night?’

She bit down on the inside of her cheek. The sharp sting, the faint metallic tang of blood—it was real.

“Shartiel, are you having stomach pains again?”

Her cousin Cordelia’s voice rang in her memory—the last words she’d heard in her previous life. Cordelia had been elated then, newly confirmed as the chosen consort candidate of Crown Prince Carleon.

After her parents’ deaths, Shartiel had suffered frequent stomach pains. Her body had weakened rapidly, confining her to bed. Her parents’ murder, the disfiguring scar that blinded her left eye, and the stripping of her right to inherit the title of count—blow after blow left her imprisoned within her own chambers.

Six months passed like that. Then, just as she had begun to gather the strength to reclaim the title, it happened.

Another bout of pain.

“Drink this and sleep a little. You’ll feel better after.”

She had always drunk what Cordelia offered during those attacks—castor oil.

“Why do you suppose His Highness Carleon chose you?”

“…What?”

Before she could respond, the cup slipped from her hand.

“Why you, and not me? Even with that hideous scar on your face?”

“Ugh—!”

Cordelia’s voice had continued, but Shartiel hadn’t been able to hear. Blood filled her throat, followed by pain so sharp it felt as if her insides were being torn apart.

That had been the last of her previous life.

‘What is that…?’

Her eyes, long fixed on nothing, shifted to her father’s right hand. Slowly, she reached out.

‘A cufflink?’

She picked up a golden cufflink, stained with blood. Her gaze sharpened as she studied it in her palm.

‘Exquisitely wrought—a pair of golden wings.’

It wasn’t a crest listed in any of the noble registers she had studied. But in recent years, many had bought titles through bribes to the Emperor. Perhaps it belonged to one such house.

‘How absurd… to come here to kill and wear something this fine. Unless…’

Her crimson eyes lit with clarity.

‘The murderers of my parents! If I can trace this crest, I can find them!’

At last, she understood why the heavens had given her a second chance. Shartiel closed her hand tight around the cufflink and slowly rose to her feet.

Through the crack of the door, Fred cast a glance into the ruined drawing room, then removed his cloak.

“Forgive me, my lady.”

He drew the heavy cloak over her head. It concealed her from head to ankle—along with her view of the carnage.

“Fred, what are you doing?”

“My apologies. I’ll carry you to your chamber.”

He lifted her into his arms.

“Yes, my lady, just until we reach your room,” Nanny Erica said softly, carefully adjusting the cloak to cover Shartiel’s face completely.

As Fred carried her down the corridor, the wet squelch of footsteps followed them.

‘Fool. Even by sound alone, I can tell what lies behind me.’

Inside the cloak, Shartiel clenched her jaw tight, swallowing the sobs that threatened to rise. Her eyes burned, but no tears fell.

‘I will not cry. Not until vengeance is mine.’

With each step Fred took across broken glass and pools of blood, Shartiel hardened her resolve.

She would find the man with those piercing blue eyes. And when she did, she would exact vengeance for her parents and for every soul lost in the manor that night.

***

That evening, once she had regained her composure, Shartiel entered the mansion chapel.

‘I will have my revenge. And when it is done, I will return here to light these candles again.’

She lit the candles that her nanny had prepared—candles she had never thought to light in her past life.

‘I must think carefully. What should I do first?’

Just as she began to suppress her rising anger and plan her next steps—

‘A draft?’

The wax-heavy flames wavered, then guttered. Her shadow flickered against the altar wall before the light died out completely.

“You little rat… you should have died already.”

Even before the last wisp of smoke faded from the extinguished candles, a blade glinted at Shartiel’s throat.