Chapter 21

Edith ran, breathless.

The footsteps of the pursuing Stifts sounded so close she thought they might swallow her whole at any second.

Here and there she could hear shouts—“Stop! Halt!”—along with piercing, loyal cries.

If not for the heavy rain, darkness, and the vast, labyrinthine city hall, she would have already been shot down by their guns.

Thankfully, Edith knew the ins and outs of the city hall better than anyone.

She weaved between buildings, darting down alleys, barely keeping ahead of her pursuers.

But she could feel her luck running out.

As the chase dragged on, more and more Stifts joined the pursuit.

Realizing Edith was cleverly using the buildings and alleys, they began to set up blockades, tightening the net around her.

She could sense them on every side.

“Haah… Haah…”

Her breathing was raw and ragged, her throat burning from the sharp, cold air.

Somewhere along the way she’d lost a shoe, and the rough ground scraped her bare foot with every step.

But worst of all was the blood pouring from her arm—where a bullet had grazed her, staining her fist red.

Still, she ran on, as if she couldn’t feel any of it.

Then, suddenly, she stumbled—tripping over something she couldn’t see.

“Ah!”

A scream ripped from her rain-soaked lips.

She didn’t fall, but one of the Stifts, rounding the corner behind her, spotted her at that very moment.

“There she is!”

The sound of boots pounding against the ground came from all sides—behind, ahead, even to her left and right.

Her golden eyes darted frantically in the darkness, fear and desperation twisting together.

A hundred different thoughts flashed through her mind, but before she could grasp any of them, her body was moving again—toward the only direction where she couldn’t hear footsteps.

Her lips trembled as she bit down hard.

She knew what was waiting at the end of this path. A wall—a dead end.

She couldn’t stop, even knowing it was futile.

She knew that this desperate run might only buy her a few minutes, a few seconds.

But she couldn’t bring herself to give up.

‘Leon!’

In the midst of her frantic fear, her child came to mind, and tears pricked at her eyes.

Her Leon—her precious child, never forgotten, not for a moment.

She’d risked everything—not just for patriotism, but for her child.

For her child who was born a Berg and would grow up a Berg.

‘Please take care of Leon.’

Edith’s prayer for those left behind burned in her heart, mingling with her tears.

At last, she reached the wall that blocked her path.

Her desperate feet slowed, like the hands of a broken clock, until they finally stopped altogether.

As she stopped, the raucous sounds of her pursuers faded as well.

For a moment, the world was silent, like the night before a storm.

In that quiet, the sound of a gun being cocked echoed with frightening clarity.

“Hands up. Turn around slowly!”

Her bloodless hands broke through the curtain of rain, reaching for the sky.

Edith closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

She had thought she would be terrified, but standing here between the wall and a line of guns, she felt oddly calm.

Exhaling a long, shaky breath, she slowly turned around.

In the darkness, at least a dozen Stifts’ eyes glinted back at her.

Their stares were as cold and hard as the barrels of their guns.

They closed in, step by step, still holding their guns ready.

When they had come close enough, one of them rushed at Edith and grabbed her arm, wrenching it upward.

He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back.

Even though she didn’t resist, his grip was merciless.

Would they take her to a camp? Interrogate her first? Or just kill her right here?

As she was dragged along, a thousand thoughts ran through her mind.

Bang!

A single gunshot rang out.

Suddenly, Edith lost her balance and tumbled to the mud-soaked ground.

But it wasn’t because of her.

The Stifts holding her had dropped, collapsing suddenly.

It took Edith a moment to realize what she was smelling—metallic, iron-heavy blood. It was his blood, pooling where they’d both fallen.

“We’re under attack!”

The guns, which had been pointed at Edith, all swung to face the direction of the shot.

There, a man dressed in black from head to toe was approaching.

***

Time seemed to slow, almost to a halt.

Each time the silenced gun flashed, a Stifts’ blood mixed with the rain and ran across the ground.

The man moved as if he’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times—each motion precise, clean, and sharp.

When he emptied his gun, he tossed it aside without a second thought and pulled a dagger from his coat.

He became even faster, even quieter.

Everywhere he passed, a Stifts fell—his blade driving into their necks, their hearts.

Edith, watching it all, suddenly reeled.

If not for the wall at her back, she would have collapsed.

Was it blood loss? Or the brutal scene unfolding before her?

Her body was icy cold, trembling without end.

Her senses began to fade; the rain blurred her vision like a water-stained painting, her ears ringing as if she were submerged in a deep lake.

Finally, the sound of rain faded completely, leaving only a distant, unreachable silence.

The world shrank to only the two of them.

The man’s face was still hidden by shadow.

His breathing was rough, like a predator at the end of a hunt.

Edith could barely stay upright, bracing herself against the wall as he slowly approached.

“Do you have a death wish? You should know when to stop.”

His voice was low, brimming with anger.

Still, the words barely registered.

The sound of his voice—it was so familiar, so achingly familiar that she could hardly believe it.

He stopped, just a breath away.

His eyes—gray and clouded like the sky, eyes she knew better than anyone.

The only person in the world who could make her stop breathing just by looking at her.

Emotions she’d tried to bury began to rise, one after another.

No way. Is it really—

Edith reached out, her pale hand trembling in the rain.

Her fingers inched toward the man’s mask.

Just before she touched it, he gently wrapped his large hand around hers.

For a moment, their eyes met, something unspoken passing between them.

He didn’t stop her.

At last, Edith’s trembling hand lowered his mask.

“…You, how—”

Her voice, barely forced out, sounded as fragile as shattered glass. Between them, their breath fogged the cold night.

For a moment, neither moved.

Zechart, too, was overtaken by a feeling he couldn’t name.

He raised his rain-soaked hand and brushed it gently across her pale cheek.

Somewhere deep inside, he was grateful for the rain.

Her skin was too delicate for his bloodstained hand to touch.

“Edith.”

Her name, never spoken aloud before, finally slipped from his lips.

At that, Edith’s golden eyes, which had been shaking so wildly, slowly regained focus.

The grip of the man’s hand on her cheek tightened.

Tears welled in her eyes and began to fall, streaming down her cheeks, her nose, over her lips—like rain.

When his hand finally touched her lips, Zechart felt a crack run through the hard shell of reason that always enclosed him.

Through that fissure, emotions he couldn’t name began to pour out.

“Edith.”

He called her name again and, a bit desperately, bent his head down.

The hand that had been cupping her cheek now pulled her nape closer.

The distance between them vanished, and their lips collided, hungry and desperate.

He’d thought she might push him away, refuse him.

But instead, Edith clung to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and rising on tiptoe.

Her lips, chilled and bloodless, he kissed with aching need, drinking in her warmth as if to bring her back to life.

A soft gasp—half a moan—escaped her, making the last remnants of his restraint crumble.

He forced her lips apart, slipping his tongue inside, hungrily seeking her wet, trembling tongue.

Every part of her, pressed against him, shuddered with emotion.

Zechart held her even tighter.

He knew they couldn’t possibly be any closer, and yet his thirst for her only grew.

As he devoured her, Edith began to gasp for air, breathless from the intensity of it.

With every greedy pull, faint whimpers escaped her.

The wild, almost feral kiss finally ended only when she collapsed limply in his arms, spent and breathless.

Only then did Zechart’s fevered black eyes notice her injury—her arm was bleeding so much that their feet were standing in a pool of blood.

Without hesitation, Zechart scooped Edith into his arms.

“…Mac…”

Lost in a daze, a faint voice slipped from her lips as if wandering through a dream.