The sword gleamed coldly in the morning light.
It had slain dozens of monsters that night, yet not a single drop of blood lingered on the flawless steel. The blade was immaculate—hungry, patient, ready.
Raizen closed his eyes.
He could feel his master's dark energy thickening around him like a gathering storm, pressing against his skin with almost physical weight. This was how death announced itself in the presence of Calix Benvito.
"Your Highness!"
A voice—high, desperate, *terrified*—burst through the suffocating pressure.
Calix's crimson gaze shifted.
A bloodied hand was clutching his sleeve.
His eyes traced the path from those slender, wounded fingers to the fragile wrist, then upward over the torn fabric to the shoulders that trembled with barely contained terror. Asella's face had gone completely white, drained of every trace of color.
"This wound will heal quickly," she said, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. "Therefore—*please*—"
She shook her head, still gripping his sleeve, her blue eyes enormous with fear.
"Sister! Where are you?"
Asella jerked at the sound, her head whipping toward the ruined carriage. In her shock and exhaustion, she had completely forgotten that Mariel was still hiding beneath the blanket.
"Marielle!"
She scrambled toward the wreckage, her movements frantic despite her injuries.
"I'm sorry! Were you very frightened?"
"No... not at all." But Mariel's eyes had fixed on her sister's hands—on the blood, the torn flesh, the bandages that hadn't yet been applied. Her small face went pale with horror.
Asella quickly tucked her hands beneath the blanket, hiding them from view.
Calix watched this exchange in silence, something shifting behind his impassive expression.
*A child shouldn't witness an execution.*
His eyes narrowed as he reached his decision. With a soft rasp of metal against leather, he sheathed his sword.
"I forgive you this time." His voice was flat, devoid of the rage that had filled it moments before. "But be more careful in the future."
Raizen raised his head, bewildered.
He had heard the princess's plea—had understood that she was begging for his life. But had the Grand Duke ever granted *anyone's* request? Had he ever shown mercy when punishment was warranted?
The Archduke was not lenient with his subordinates. He made no exceptions. Justice in his household was absolute and unyielding.
Yet now...
*Something has changed in this man,* Raizen realized with sudden clarity.
"Bring the medicine," Calix ordered.
Raizen rose from his knees and hurried to obey.
"Take the child somewhere safe," came the next command, as soon as the steward returned with the dead physician's medical bag.
"Your Highness." Asella's voice was thin but steady. "The demonic beasts—I don't want Mariel to see their corpses. It would be better if she stayed with me. I can endure this. There's no need to waste time on—"
"The bodies have already been removed." Calix cut her off, but his tone held no sharpness. "The girl won't see anything. I promise."
Asella hesitated, searching his face for deception. Finding none, she finally nodded.
Raizen gathered up the small, silver-haired child and carried her away from the wreckage. Within moments, only two people remained in the shattered remnants of the carriage: Asella and Calix.
He extracted what he needed from the medical bag—cloths, a needle, tweezers, bottles of various liquids—and waited as a guard brought clean water. Then he reached for Asella's hand.
"*Ah!*" The cry escaped her before she could stop it, sharp and involuntary, as the water-soaked cloth touched her raw flesh.
"Does it hurt?"
"No. I'm sorry... I..." She bit her lip, struggling to compose herself. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," Calix muttered, and continued his work.
Asella watched him in bewildered silence as he carefully wiped each of her fingers with the damp cloth, then moved methodically to the back of her hand. His movements were precise, efficient, but also *gentle*—far gentler than she would have expected from hands that had just slaughtered monsters.
He picked up the needle and held it over a small flame until it glowed.
"If you want," he said, "I can relieve the pain first."
"There's no need. I'm fine."
"I'll have to dig into the wounds to remove all the splinters." His crimson eyes met hers, steady and serious. "It will be painful. Are you certain you can handle it?"
Asella hesitated, unable to formulate a response.
She couldn't understand this man's intentions. Why was he tending to her himself when he could easily have delegated the task to his servants? What could he possibly want from her?
*Don't be fooled,* she warned herself. *He's not kind. I'm nothing to him—less than nothing. This could be a ploy, a way of lulling his victim into false security before the trap springs shut.*
*Don't trust him, Asella. Don't lose your head.*
*Remember: he is your enemy.*
"Tell me if it becomes unbearable," Calix said, and began extracting the splinters with heated needle and tweezers.
Each sliver of wood he removed sent fresh jolts of pain through her hand. But she had endured worse—*far* worse—and so she kept her face still, her breathing steady, her screams locked behind clenched teeth.
When the last splinter was finally extracted, the sharp, stabbing agony faded to a dull, manageable throb.
"This should help." He uncorked a small bottle, wet a fresh cloth with its contents, and dabbed it gently across her wounds.
Asella had braced herself for the familiar burn of alcohol—the only disinfectant Philip had ever provided. Her body tensed in anticipation of that searing, white-hot pain.
It never came.
Instead, a cool, soothing sensation spread across her skin. The pain didn't intensify—it *receded*, fading like morning mist beneath the sun.
She opened her eyes in shock.
*It doesn't hurt at all.*
This was her first encounter with proper medicine—with disinfectants and painkillers enhanced by magic, designed to heal rather than merely prevent infection. The relief was so immediate, so complete, that she could hardly believe it was real.
"Does it hurt?" Calix asked.
"No."
He raised an eyebrow. "You say that as though it's pleasant. Perhaps I should have left the splinters embedded in your flesh?"
"No, that's not—" Asella flushed, flustered by the strange remark. She had no idea how to respond to *teasing*. Was he teasing her? She couldn't tell.
Meanwhile, Calix had turned his attention from her wounded hands to her face. His gaze held hers with unsettling intensity.
"You're accustomed to pain," he observed quietly. "Aren't you."
It wasn't a question.
Their eyes locked, and Asella felt as though she were staring into the gaze of a wild predator. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Some primal instinct whispered that if she so much as flinched, he would seize her by the throat.
His eyes weren't merely red—they were *dark*, like pools of thick, congealed blood.
Calix studied his wife's face in silence. He knew the peculiar effect of his gaze, how it could freeze people in place like rabbits before a wolf. But he made no effort to soften it.
She wasn't wearing her veil, he noticed. The marks from Philip's blow had nearly vanished, thanks to the healing treatments she'd received before their departure.
*So white.*
The thought surfaced unbidden.
Her skin was fine and pearlescent, almost luminous in the early morning light. Her long silver hair cascaded around her shoulders like threads of moonlight. And her eyes—those eyes were blue as mountain lakes, clear and deep and utterly unlike anything he had ever seen.
She was his complete opposite.
*Were there other people like her in the world?*
"Don't worry." He returned his attention to the bandages, wrapping them carefully around her hand. "I'm skilled at treating wounds. On the battlefield, I often had to do everything myself."
He kept his voice matter-of-fact, hoping it might reassure her.
"People die every day in war. I can extract not only splinters, but blades and arrows as well. I've cauterized wounds without anesthesia to prevent festering." He secured the final bandage with practiced efficiency. "There. I'm almost finished."
When he was done, Asella's arms were wrapped in white cloth from the elbows to the fingertips—a wild feast of bandages that left only her joints visible.
"Be patient for a few days," he said. "As soon as we arrive in the principality, I'll summon a priest to complete your healing."
Asella nodded mutely.
Calix noticed beads of sweat forming on her forehead—evidence of the pain and strain she had endured without complaint. He reached into the inner pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a handkerchief.
It was black silk, plain and unadorned. No embroidery, no ornamentation. Just a square of dark fabric.
The simplicity of it seemed *strange* somehow.
Asella instinctively extended her hand toward it—then froze when she realized he had no intention of giving it to her.
Instead, he leaned forward and touched the silk to her forehead himself.
"I'll help."
Asella flinched back, an instinctive recoil. "I can do it myself."
"And how will you manage that?" A faint, sardonic smile flickered across his lips.
She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Her hands were wrapped so thoroughly in bandages that she could barely move her fingers. She had no counter-argument, and they both knew it.
Seeing her hesitation, Calix took it as permission to continue.
He leaned closer, and that sweet, unforgettable scent—the one she had first encountered on their wedding night—filled her consciousness once more. The smooth silk glided gently across her skin, absorbing the perspiration from her brow.
*What is this feeling?*
His touch sent a strange warmth spreading through her body. Heat rose to her cheeks—an unfamiliar flush that had nothing to do with fever or exertion.
Desperate to regain her composure, Asella bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood.
"Everything is fine. Thank you, Your Highness." She pulled away stubbornly. "I can manage myself."
Calix regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he pressed the handkerchief into her bandaged hands.
Asella accepted it carefully.
"Thank you. I'll... use it. And return it to you later. Definitely."
But even as she spoke, her fingers were merely fidgeting with the edge of the black silk, toying with the fabric rather than bringing it to her face.
Calix watched her play with the corner of the handkerchief, and understanding settled over him like cold water.
*She won't use it.*
*She doesn't want it because it's mine.*
And for reasons he couldn't name, that realization left him feeling *unbearably* bitter.
---
"Your Highness! The barracks are prepared."
Calix rose at Raizen's report, brushing dust from his coat.
Asella looked up at him, confusion evident in her blue eyes.
"I intend to remain here for some time," he explained.
"But... why?"
Dawn had broken fully now. The sun was climbing above the mountain peaks, promising a fine day—perfect weather for travel.
"We must wait for reinforcements from the capital. And there are wounded who need rest before we can safely move them."
"Oh." Asella's gaze dropped. "I didn't think of that. I'm sorry."
"You also need a new carriage."
"A carriage?"
"Yes. This one is completely destroyed."
"But we could ride on horseback. I'm capable of—"
He clicked his tongue sharply. "With hands like *those*?"
Asella looked down at the elaborate bandages encasing her arms. It was difficult to imagine gripping reins, let alone controlling a horse for hours on end. Her heart sank with the realization that she was nothing but a useless burden.
"The crossing for me and my men typically lasts up to ten hours without rest," Calix continued, his gaze traveling over her frail figure with something that might have been concern. "Your body couldn't endure that."
It was difficult to believe she was truly Adele Chartreuse's daughter. She was *tiny*, even compared to southerners, who were naturally smaller in stature. The suspicion that she had been systematically underfed in Philip's household had now solidified into certainty.
Without conscious thought, Calix made a silent vow: *Philip will answer for this. One day.*
"The barracks aren't especially comfortable," he said aloud, "but they're better than a shattered carriage. Can you walk?"
"Yes," Asella answered.
But it quickly became clear that she could not.
Her body was too tense, too exhausted, too traumatized. Her legs refused to obey her commands. And with her arms bound in bandages, she had no way to brace herself or push herself upright.
*And this woman wanted to ride a horse?*
Calix's brow furrowed as he watched her struggle. How could anyone endure so much without complaint? The realization of how *patient* she had learned to be disturbed him deeply.
*What did she have to survive to become like this?*
"It can't be helped," he said, and moved toward her with clear intent.
Asella jerked back as though struck by lightning.
"I'm only going to carry you to the barracks." He sighed, looking into her wide, frightened eyes. His voice softened despite himself. "That's all."
And there it was again—that strange, uncomfortable feeling settling in his chest.
It was something he had never experienced before. It took him a moment to identify it, and when he did, the recognition startled him.
*Regret.*
*Why was I so harsh with her when we first met? No wonder she's terrified of me. I've done nothing but confirm her worst fears.*
*I was only trying to help just now. But she's already too frightened—and I've only added to her fear.*
*Why did I have to intimidate my future wife like that?*
*What a fool I've been.*
"Please," he said quietly, and the word felt foreign on his tongue—unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable. "Let me help you. I'm asking."
The silence stretched between them, fragile as spun glass.
Finally, her voice came—soft, even, barely above a whisper:
"...Fine."
Something loosened in Calix's chest. A strange lightness bloomed there as he gathered the quiet little woman into his arms—a subtle warmth whose meaning he couldn't yet discern.
But it was there.
And for the first time in his life, Calix Benvito found himself wondering what it might become.