Swish. Shhk!

Though the night was still and the air unmoving, the training grounds echoed with the sound of steel slicing through wind.
Unseen enemies fell beneath precise, relentless strikes—each movement swift and unerring.

It was Laila, swinging her sword with a force sharp enough to cut through flesh just by sight alone. Her golden hair rippled like waves, following the elegant rhythm of her movements. Reflected in her silver blade were proud, serene eyes and a beauty so luminous that people likened her to the goddess of the moon.

But that was not how the world remembered her.

They called her the reincarnation of the Ancient Sword—a legendary warrior said to bring h＊ll itself upon the battlefield when she truly drew her blade.

So formidable was her skill that even the imperial court sought her loyalty. Yet, for reasons unknown, Laila remained steadfastly by Carlo’s side.

“Laila, I think that’s enough for tonight.”

Carlo brushed back his black hair, damp with sweat, his tone casual, his steps unhurried as he approached.

At the mere sight of him, warmth flushed across Laila’s face.

They said that meeting his eyes once was enough to make a woman fall in love. And so people called him the Bewitching Basilisk.

He stood tall, his body honed with muscle, his features so striking it seemed the gods themselves had sculpted him. But what truly made him irresistible was his charm—his disarming wit, graceful manners, and the teasing ease with which he walked the fine line between allure and audacity.

The man who sparked scandal with every young lady he met—
and the reincarnation of the Ancient Sword who guarded him.

They seemed a perfect match, and yet somehow, they didn’t.
The world could never stop wondering about the true nature of the bond between them.

“Carlo. When did you get here?”

Laila quickly sheathed her sword and grabbed a dry towel. Her palms were blistered, her hair damp with sweat, and her face bare of any makeup—an unflattering sight next to him. She covered her face with the towel as she spoke.

“A moment ago. I heard the sound of a blade when I came in.”

Despite her effort to hide, Carlo only smiled playfully and tugged the towel out of her hands.

“Ah—!”

He began to wipe her face with the ease of long familiarity.
Up close, his beauty was breathtaking. Every time his crimson eyes—brighter still against his pale skin—swept across her face, her heart gave a sharp, electric throb.

“…I can do it myself.”

She must reek of sweat. Embarrassed, Laila reached for the towel—only for Carlo to pinch her cheek instead.

“Stay still. You’ll make that face of yours even uglier.”

“It’s easy to accept when it comes from someone as handsome as you—but that doesn’t mean I have to like it, you know?”

He was the kind of man so handsome that noblewomen would line up, begging just for a single meeting with him.
So if he ever called someone ugly, one could only accept it as truth.

“Wow… I didn’t know you were capable of saying something like that.”

At Laila’s genuine remark, Carlo looked genuinely surprised. His crimson eyes widened for a beat before a bright, refreshing laugh escaped his lips.

‘Even his laughter has to sound that charming, huh?’

Laila turned her head away, feeling once again like the loser in the presence of the man she loved.

Then his hand brushed softly against her ear.

He was merely tucking back her disheveled golden hair, yet the gesture felt far too intimate—almost sinful.

“No need to be upset. I was only teasing. You really don’t see how beautiful you are, do you? It’s only because it’s you that I can joke like that.”

“…”

It was always in moments like this—
when she wondered if perhaps he did know how she felt.

When the ache of being seen only as a friend threatened to spill over, he would catch her heart with one offhand word or touch.

Yes, maybe he really did know.
After all, she’d been by his side as his loyal knight—and his friend—for seven long years.

Laila was simple by nature. The only person she knew was Carlo, and the only thing she knew how to do was wield a sword.
Hiding her tangled, aching feelings was something she was never good at.

Neither of them were born in the Cerclezia Empire.
Carlo was the young lord of a ducal house from the Adelina Empire,
and Laila—who had lost all her memories seven years ago in that very land—had followed the man who saved her across the border into Cerclezia.

No one had come looking for her.
No one had tried to help her recover her past.

There was no reason to look back—because for Laila, Carlo was everything.

“I should dye your hair again. The silver’s starting to show.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll do it for you.”
“No, that’s fine.”

She knew all too well how easily her heart could be shaken when he touched her.

For some reason, Carlo hated it whenever traces of her silver hair appeared.
He was the one who had suggested she dye it gold—something close enough to hide the gleam of silver—and Laila had agreed without hesitation.

When it came to Carlo, her answers never mattered.
He was her beginning, her world, her absolute.

Having never known what it felt like to love or be loved, she devoted herself to him completely—desperately.
Whatever words came from his lips, branded as her salvation, she obeyed without question.

“And now,” she murmured softly, “you don’t even let me dye it anymore.”

His voice carried a faint trace of hurt, and for a moment, Laila’s resolve wavered.
But she turned away, pretending not to notice, and began putting her sword back in its case.

“Let me see your hands.”

“…!”

She’d been hiding them since earlier, not wanting him to notice—but of course, he already had.

“Laila.”

She quickly clasped her hands together and took a step back, as if to say she would never show him. Carlo’s brow furrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his face—as though her retreat were an act of defiance.

“I’ll take care of it inside. You don’t have to worry.”

Her tone came out colder than she intended. It was her small, silent rebellion against his kindness—the kind that always felt too much like that of a lover, yet never quite was.

“Ah!”

Carlo strode forward in an instant and caught her hand before she could pull away.
She could have avoided his touch easily—she was a master swordswoman, after all.

But Carlo knew.
He knew that Laila could never bring herself to dodge the hand of the man she loved.

A heavy sigh escaped him.

“Ha… You tell me not to worry, yet your calluses are split and bleeding again?”

There were very few moments when the ever-composed Carlo Siren lost his smile.
And this was one of them.

Whenever Laila was hurt, whenever she was sad—
or whenever he was haunted by the ghosts of his past—Carlo always looked at her that way.

‘You act so kind… as if you’re the one in pain. But then why…’

She wanted to grab him, to beg him to stay—but she held herself back.
She already knew what kind of answer she’d get, and she didn’t have the strength to hear it again.

“Do you always carry medicine and bandages with you? Please, try not to get hurt anymore.”

Carlo treated her hand with practiced ease.
Laila’s relentless training always left her wounded, and tending to those wounds had long since become Carlo’s routine.

It should have been comforting—it always was.
But tonight, it hurt more than ever.

Her chest throbbed painfully as she shut her eyes tight, forcing out the question she didn’t want to ask.

“How was it today—with Lady Roselina?”

“….”

Carlo’s hands froze mid-motion, the sudden stillness sharp enough to make her shiver.

‘Why isn’t he answering?’

The longer he stayed silent, the more her heart burned.

“Did you… enjoy it?”

The words slipped out before she could stop them—
and Carlo’s expression twisted in response.

“She wasn’t feeling well today,” Carlo finally answered, sounding reluctant. “So we cut things short, and I escorted her back to the duchy.”

‘Cut things short? You mean your little date.’

“Your date with Lady Roselina… was it nice?”

“Laila.”

His voice hardened. That single word, paired with the sharpness in his eyes, was enough to make her chest tighten. It was the unspoken warning he always gave—don’t cross that line.

He could be endlessly gentle, making her believe he’d give her the world—
but when it came to this, his boundaries were carved in stone.

“Whatever I do with Lady Roselina,” he said coolly, “is none of your concern.”

He held her hands, wiped her face, worried for her—
and yet told her not to care.

Laila’s heart, which had held itself together all day, began to tremble.

“Why not? Because I’m just the captain of your knights? Because I’m no one—someone who’s lost her memories, her family, her home?”

“Why are you talking like that…!”

Carlo ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. It was a habit of his—a telltale sign of frustration or anger.

‘I notice every little thing you do—every habit, every sigh—and yet you don’t even care to ask why I’m this angry, do you?’

Normally, she would have backed down the moment he warned her. But tonight, something inside her refused to yield.

The man she loved had spent the day with a woman any man would lose his mind over—and she was supposed to smile and pretend it didn’t hurt?
No. Not anymore.

More than anything, she wanted to know the truth buried beneath his silence.

“Carlo,” she asked quietly, “do you really like Lady Roselina?”

‘Or is it because of revenge?’

“….”

The air grew heavy and cold. A muscle tensed along Carlo’s flawless brow, and the calm mask he always wore began to crack.

From beneath his crimson gaze, anger—old and deep—started to rise and spill forth.

It was the real Carlo, the one hidden behind the charming smile of a notorious flirt.