It was Isolet. He leaned against the railing, looking down at the rain-soaked Kyrie.

“Come up here.”

It was the first summons she’d ever received. Kyrie climbed to the second-floor terrace, still covered in mud. Up close, Isolet had grown a bit taller than a year ago. But those cold eyes remained unchanged.

“You’ll need a name.”

“…”

“‘Kyrie.’ In the ancient tongue, it means ’mercy.’”

Mercy. An ill-fitting name for a hunting dog learning the art of k*lling. Isolet tossed her a wet towel and added:

“It means you should show no mercy to enemies, but serve me with merciful loyalty.”

“…Understood, Your Highness.”

Kyrie spoke for the first time. Her voice carried a metallic rasp. Isolet smirked as he looked at her torn hands.

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s bearable.”

“Liar. Your hands are trembling.”

He set down his teacup and said indifferently:

“Grow up quickly. You’re still too soft to be my sword.”

After that day, Kyrie learned to hide her pain. If he hated softness, she had to become steel. A weapon without blood or tears, existing solely for him.

Long ago—well, during that assassination attempt etched clearly in her mind.

The power struggle for the throne was fierce, and his half-siblings constantly sought Isolet’s life.

That night, an assassin infiltrated Isolet’s bedroom.

While the duty knights collapsed from poisoned wine, a blade slipped in like a shadow, targeting the sleeping boy’s throat.

Clang!

The metallic sound tore through the silence.

When Isolet opened his eyes, red blood scattered before him like rain.

“Grrk…”

It was Kyrie. She’d grabbed the assassin’s blade with her bare hand. The sharp steel dug into her palm down to the bone, but she didn’t let go. Instead, she charged at him in that state.

With the dagger in her other hand, she slashed the assassin’s throat. A clean strike without hesitation.

The assassin collapsed with a thud.

The bedroom filled with the stench of blood. Only then did Kyrie release the blade. Blood dripped from her mangled hand, soaking the carpet.

Isolet sat on the bed, watching the scene. His face showed no terror. He slowly stood and approached Kyrie.

“…Kyrie.”

“Don’t come closer. I’m filthy.”

Kyrie stepped back. She feared her blood would soil the noble prince’s nightclothes. But Isolet didn’t stop—he came forward and firmly grasped her blood-soaked hand.

“Your Highness…!”

“Stay still.”

Isolet tore the sleeve of his white nightshirt and wrapped her hand. The white cloth turned red instantly. What trembled wasn’t Kyrie’s hand, but Isolet’s.

“Why did you block it with your bare hand?”

“I… didn’t have time to draw my sword.”

“Your hand could’ve been cut off.”

“Better than Your Highness’s throat being slit.”

At Kyrie’s matter-of-fact answer, Isolet raised his head. His blue eyes rippled with emotion—anger, relief, or perhaps something deeper, impossible to discern.

“…You.”

Isolet bit his lip, then released it.

“You are mine. Your body, your blood, your life.”

He growled like a beast, though his voice still held youthful tones.

“So don’t treat yourself carelessly. If anyone’s going to break you, it’ll be me.”

That night, Isolet couldn’t sleep. He stayed by Kyrie’s side all night, watching her bandage herself. It was the first moment the young lord showed ‘obsession’ toward his tool.

Time flowed cruelly.

Isolet shed his boyish appearance and grew into a young man. His height soon surpassed Kyrie’s, his shoulders broadened, his features sharpened. He became the most beautiful and threatening man in the empire.

Meanwhile, Kyrie remained in the same place.

She was bland and unchanging like an ageless tree. Her world consisted only of protecting Isolet.

But cracks began in unexpected places.

“Kiki.”

When they were alone, Isolet often called her that. In the office with no one around, or in his bedroom late at night.

“Your Highness. Please use the proper form of address.”

“It’s just the two of us here.”

Isolet looked up from his documents at Kyrie standing like a shadow by the door. His gaze was no longer that of a cold observer. It was sticky, persistent, yearning.

“How long are you going to stand there? Come sit down.”

“I’m a guard. I’m more comfortable standing.”

“Kyrie.”

Isolet rose from his seat and approached. He strode forward and cornered Kyrie against the wall. The gaze that once looked up at her now looked down.

“Do I still look like that brat to you?”

“…No.”

“Then why do you still treat me like a child? Why won’t you change?”

Isolet’s hand stroked Kyrie’s cheek. He traced her roughened skin, sun-darkened nape, and countless scars with eyes mixing pity and desire.

“I want you… to stop getting covered in blood.”

“Are you telling me to die?”

“No. I’m telling you to live by my side as a woman.”

Kyrie’s eyes wavered.

Woman.

To her, that was a strange and dangerous word.

“I am a sword. Not a woman.”

“A sword can’t hold me at night. A sword can’t bear my children.”

“Your Highness!”

Kyrie recoiled in shock and tried to push him away, but Isolet’s strength already surpassed hers. He buried his lips near her ear and whispered:

“When we go to the Empire… I’ll change everything. Even if I can’t make you my consort, I can at least keep you by my bedside.”

His plan was calculated and selfish. He loved her. 

But that love wasn’t respect for an equal person—it was closer to a collector’s desire to display his possession in the safest, most splendid place.

Kyrie felt fear.

The moment he saw her as a woman, her usefulness would vanish.

Having lost her value as a ‘sword,’ she’d become nothing but a lowborn mistress. And someday when he grew tired, she’d be discarded.

What she feared was abandonment.

Being thrown back onto that pile of corpses from ten years ago, into that loneliness where no one would come for her.

So she clung to her sword even more desperately. It was the only way she could remain irreplaceable to Isolet.

* * *

The flashback ended with a cold droplet.

Kyrie stared at her face reflected in the blade. Nothing had changed from ten years ago. Her eyes still starved, still struggled to survive.

The moment she let go of her sword, she’d lose her reason to stay by Isolet’s side. She couldn’t become a flower. She was a weed, a beast, a blade. A sword drawn from its sheath only rusts and gets discarded.

Kyrie slowly but firmly pulled her hand away.

“I must decline.”

“What?”

“I am Your Highness’s knight. If the reason you’re taking me to the Empire isn’t for my usefulness as a guard, then I’ll remain here right now.”

Isolet’s brow furrowed. The expression of a wounded beast. He seemed lost between anger at having his goodwill rejected and frustration at not understanding her.

“You really… never listen to me. Do you even know how much I’ve thought about this for your sake?”

“I don’t want to know. Your Highness, telling me to abandon my sword is like telling me to cut off my arm.”

Kyrie picked up the whetstone again.

Scrape. Scrape.

With her answer, their conversation severed.

Isolet glared at the top of her head for a long while before roughly turning and leaving. His retreating military boot steps carried anger.

Only then did Kyrie raise her head to watch his back. Her vision blurred. She indifferently wiped away the droplet that had fallen on the blade.

He still didn’t understand.

That this worn sword was the only thing she could give him. That if even that was taken away, she’d truly become nothing—he didn’t understand that wretchedness.

* * *

The procession was shabby. The escort force sent by the Empire was splendid, but Isolet’s carriage at the center was old and creaky. It looked like a prisoner being dragged in golden chains.

Kyrie sat beside the driver’s seat, not inside the carriage. Isolet had ordered her to come inside, but she refused using ‘a guard’s duty’ as an excuse. She couldn’t endure the t*rture of breathing alone with him in that cramped space.

The northern wind was harsh. The cold striking her cheeks became a comfort instead. Physical pain made excellent anesthesia for forgetting heartache.

The carriage window opened slightly, revealing Isolet’s silver hair.

“Come inside.”

“I’m fine.”

“Planning to freeze to death?”

“I’m from the North. This cold is no different from a stroll.”

Isolet clicked his tongue and shut the window. Bang. Beyond the closed window, she seemed to hear his sigh.

The procession crossed the snowfield toward the border. Wheel tracks left long marks in the snow before disappearing under fresh snowfall. Like their past.

The incident occurred in a narrow gorge just before crossing the border.

The sky was overcast, and sheer cliffs surrounded them on all sides. Kyrie instinctively sensed danger. No birdsong. Even the wind had died. Excessive silence. It was a harbinger of death.

“Stop!”

The moment Kyrie shouted, black shadows rained down from the cliff tops.

Arrows.

“Ambush! Protect His Highness!”

The imperial knights raised their shields in panic. The sound of arrows striking armor rang out noisily. Horses screamed and reared.

But the real threat wasn’t the arrows. White shadows rose from the snow amid the chaos. Assassins in snow camouflage. They moved with chilling silence and speed.

Their target was singular. The old carriage.

“Your Highness! You mustn’t come out!”