Damian pulled sharply on his horse’s reins, bringing it to a halt. The well-trained animal responded immediately, slowing gradually to a controlled halt.

The humid forest air was a far cry from the dry, biting atmosphere of the north.

Rustle.

The moment he heard the sound of crushed grass nearby, Damian raised his bow as though he had been waiting for it. In an instant, the tip of his arrow found its mark.

Then their eyes met.

Black eyes.

The stag had sensed him as well. It stopped and fixed him with a fierce, unyielding stare. The space between them was filled with silent tension.

The animal’s massive body stretched well over two meters in length. For a moment, its dark gaze flickered. In that tiny moment, caution — and the faintest glimmer of fear — was revealed.

As Damian studied it more carefully, he noticed crimson blood trailing steadily down from the creature’s powerful thigh.

He clicked his tongue softly.

The bowstring, which had been drawn tight only a moment before, slowly loosened beneath his fingers.

The ever-watchful stag seized the opportunity and vanished swiftly into the undergrowth.

Damian tightened his hold on the reins again, but there was no thrill of the hunt in his expression. He had only come because the imperial family was hosting the competition.

Nevertheless, he was renowned as the Empire’s greatest knight. It would hardly do for him to return empty-handed. He could have killed the wounded stag earlier, but that would not have been a true victory. Instead, he chose to ride on a little longer.

After some time—

— he sensed movement in the distance.

Damian brought his horse to a halt and listened as the faint vibration of approaching hooves travelled through the ground.

Steadying his breath, he drew his bow once more.

A stag charged straight towards him from afar. Damian did not move aside. He held his ground, his gaze fixed on the animal charging forward.

Its pebble-dark eyes burned with agitation. For a moment, he had a strange sense of déjà vu.

Then—

An arrow shot from somewhere unseen, piercing the stag’s neck cleanly. The beast cried out in agony and thrashed around violently as more arrows followed, one burying itself in its skull and another driving into its eye.

With a heavy crash, the stag collapsed. Startled by the thunderous impact, birds scattered into the sky in a sudden flurry.

Damian’s eyes remained fixed on the stag’s lifeless gaze until the very end.

Slowly, his attention shifted to the fletching of the arrow: Red fletching.

They were said to be the finest quality arrows, crafted from the feathers of a phoenix. They were so rare and expensive that not even high-ranking nobles could afford them.

“Oh dear. A moment too late.”

They belonged to Crown Prince Fabian.

He stepped on the cooling carcass in his polished shoes. The bloodstained leather had been spotless only moments earlier, but he paid it no mind.

Looking down, he saw the bite wound in the elk’s leg.

It was the same elk that Damian had spared earlier.

Had it been charging towards him in a desperate plea for salvation?

This thought flickered vaguely through his mind as Fabian’s voice cut in.

“Shall I give it to you?”

“That won’t be necessary. I don’t pick up what others discard.”

Ignoring the mockery in Fabian’s tone of generosity, Damian lowered his bow and turned to leave.

However, he was stopped in his tracks by Fabian’s next words.

“It seems you haven’t caught a single beast! Have you lost your touch while indulging in romance? Or does a blood-soaked killer simply consider competitions like this beneath him?”

Fabian smirked.

“Even so, these animals must be easier to hunt than the comrades who died back then.”

The indifference vanished from Damian’s face, replaced by something far darker. His golden eyes sharpened with an unmistakable intent to kill and settled on Fabian.

There was a time when Damian was known as a butcher.

He had slain men who had once stood beside him on the battlefield, cutting them down with his own hands.

That was five years ago.

Armed with nothing but a single sword, he spent years on the front lines. Every day was steeped in blood and despair. Slowly, and almost without him realizing it, his humanity began to erode.

As if that were not enough, supplies failed to arrive. There was never enough food to go around. As the number of wounded increased, those still capable of fighting were left to starve.

To secure provisions, Damian protected his comrades by day and hunted beasts by night to feed them.

But the situation only deteriorated further. Even he began to waver.

With his judgement clouded by exhaustion and desperation, he made a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He abandoned the most seriously wounded.

Those who could no longer walk met their end at his own hand.

Those who knew nothing of the circumstances did not see him as a hero, but as a merciless butcher thirsting for blood.

Damian bore the accusations in silence. It was only when the soldiers who had fought alongside him came forward to tell the truth that he was finally able to escape the disgrace.

Nevertheless, one fact remained unchanged: he had killed his own comrades.

Victory could not erase that reality. No triumphant outcome could ever justify the brutal path taken to achieve it.

He carried that guilt — along with the crushing weight of responsibility — deep within his chest. He sought out the families of the fallen one by one, offering his personal apology and ensuring that they would not be left to endure the rest of their lives without compensation or support.

So if others wished to call him a butcher, he did not care.

However, he would not allow anyone to invoke that past carelessly, reducing it to a joke or a weapon to be used against him.

At last, Damian parted his thin lips.

“Yes, after spending years rolling across blood-soaked battlefields, this all feels rather dull now. I earned more than enough glory, so I’m tired of it now and have little appetite for victory. If I had enjoyed a more comfortable campaign, perhaps I would find this peaceful hunt more entertaining. What a shame.”

Fabian had gone to war, too. Unlike Damian, who had claimed a decisive victory on the most brutal front lines, Fabian had been stationed near the capital, where supplies flowed without interruption and the threat of death was far less imminent.

No one dared to voice it openly.

But whispers existed nonetheless.

Those whispers wounded Fabian’s pride.

He no longer reacted like a sulking child when he was slighted. Yet he was still not the sort of man to let an insult pass unnoticed.

For the briefest of moments, his eyes narrowed as he fixed Damian with a sharp glare. Then, just as swiftly, a pleasant smile curved his lips once more.

Deliberately tilting his wrist so that it could be seen clearly, he withdrew the arrow from the elk’s body.

A handkerchief.

It gleamed with a muted shade of gold — neither ostentatious nor gaudy, but with the soft sheen of true molten metal.

It looked familiar.

Damian’s thoughts retraced themselves until they halted at a single memory.

The tent: Bel. The handkerchief.

For the briefest of moments, his golden eyes wavered.

Fabian did not miss it. The corner of his mouth twisted.

He had planned to reveal it once the competition was over.

Showing it sooner would hardly lessen the effect, though.

Damian’s gaze locked onto Fabian’s wrist and refused to leave.

“I received this.”

Surely not.

“Does it not resemble the color of my hair?”

Had Bel given it to him?

Damian’s mood darkened at once. He felt an inexplicable irritation twisting in his chest, mingled with a feeling that was dangerously close to jealousy.

He knew that Bel had prepared a handkerchief. She had tried so hard to hide it from him, casting him subtle glances as if searching for some sign. There was no way he could have failed to notice.

At first, the only emotion he felt was annoyance.

What audacity to prepare such a thing! Did she really think he would be pleased to receive it?

The idea was absurd.

So, deliberately and conspicuously, he accepted another woman’s handkerchief in front of her, to make his meaning clear: You are worth no more than this to me.

Yet perhaps the handkerchief had never been intended for him.

A faint scoff slipped past his lips. He could not tell whether it was directed at himself for misunderstanding or at Bel for daring to play such a calculated game.

“I would like to dedicate my victory to the lady who gave me this. Do you think this prey will suffice, Brother?”

A subtle ripple passed across Fabian’s handsome features.

Before Damian could respond, a voice rang out.

“Your Highness, Fabian! Are you here?”

The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. As Fabian turned towards them, the conversation dissolved, left unfinished.

Without another word, Damian mounted his horse.

His golden eyes gleamed coldly in the shadows of the trees.

***

Bwooo—

A grand blast of trumpets echoed through the grounds.

Bel, who had been engrossed in her reading, finally looked up from the page.

‘Has it already become so late?’

The sound of the trumpet signaled that the hunt was coming to an end.

This meant that Damian was about to return.

Bel slowly rose from her seat.

“Sophia?”

To return to the plaza, she needed the maid’s help. However, the maid who had promised to wait outside did not answer her call.

Bel slowly made her way towards the entrance of the tent. Perhaps her voice had been too quiet. She lifted the flap slightly and called for Sophia once more.

Only silence answered her.

Had the maid grown weary of waiting and wandered off? Bel bit her lip, feeling unease tighten in her chest. As she hesitated, the sound of a trumpet blast grew louder and louder, first once, then twice, then a third time.

Anxiety crept over her, urging her forward.

From here, it was ten steps straight ahead. Then turn left and walk five steps. Turn left again and you should see another family’s tent. If someone was there, she could ask them for help.

Whenever she visited an unfamiliar place, Bel made it a habit to count her steps. She carefully retraced the number and direction that she had memorized earlier when Sophia had guided her back.

Her pace was slower than usual.

When even the next inch of the path was uncertain, caution was paramount.

She took exactly ten steps and turned left just as faint voices reached her ears.

“Isn’t it shameless? I was utterly dumbfounded.”

“You mean claiming she gave the handkerchief? Exactly. I clearly saw Lady Olivia give hers.”

“She was shameless to begin with. A lie like that must be nothing to her.”

Bel took a step back.

No name had been spoken—but there was no doubt they were talking about her.

“She looked troubled, so the young lady covered for her. But if she had any conscience, shouldn’t she have denied it?”

And how pitiful that she just accepted it without correcting her. Maybe she was embarrassed because she couldn’t embroider, but still… her husband accepted another woman’s handkerchief.”

“But then again, what about the young lady who gave a handkerchief to a married man?”

Gradually, the voices grew fainter until they finally disappeared.

Bel stood still until she was sure they were gone.

Technically, she had not lied.

She had neither confirmed nor denied anything. She had simply been too stunned — too shaken by the thought that Damian had smiled when he received Olivia’s handkerchief — to set the record straight.

But most people took silence as agreement.

Whatever the reason, she had failed to firmly deny it at the time. She could not claim to be entirely blameless.

Bel turned away from the path leading to the plaza and retraced her steps towards the tent.

She already knew what kind of gazes awaited her if she returned.