Chapter 50
“If you live far away long enough, even longing will dull. Brunhilde, remember the humiliation of that day—when you dropped the orb into the black lake and spread your legs before me. If you truly love Carl, shouldn’t you at least free him from the fate that reduced you to such misery?”
Franz’s voice, as he claimed himself to be Carl’s parent as well, had a heavy resonance that sounded almost like sincere devotion to his son’s happiness.
If she hadn’t known about the curse of Brandt, she might have believed him. She might have nodded without question.
But as his words continued, the pounding of her heart gradually cooled, turning sharp and clear.
Brunhilde rested her head against his chest. Idly, out of habit, she touched her necklace again and asked, as if in quiet acceptance,
“Then… if we leave, Carl will truly be free from the family’s curse?”
“Yes. Completely.”
“And I’ll never be able to see him again?”
“Regrettably, that’s how it must be. Considering the conditions of the power, you must not meet him, not even by chance. Even if he seeks you out, you must never go to see—”
As Franz was answering, wrapping Brunhilde’s frail body in what seemed like a comforting embrace, his eyes suddenly flew wide open.
A cold, alien sensation—like metal piercing flesh—ripped through his spine.
By the time he reflexively shoved the princess away from his arms, a dagger—disguised within her ornate necklace—had already sunk into his chest.
Gripping the hilt with a slightly trembling hand, the princess spoke.
“As expected of Brant blood. That was a surprise attack, yet you reacted so quickly.”
“……”
Dark blood poured steadily from his chest, dripping onto the floor. Assessing the extent of his injury, she continued,
“Even so… that’s a fatal wound. Even if I missed your heart by a little, all I’ve done is delay your death by a few hours—”
“—Princess.”
Franz interrupted quietly.
His voice was calm, his expression unchanged, but heavier than before.
At the sound of it, Brunhilde fell silent.
He looked at her face in the brief stillness. Truthfully, the pain and blood loss meant little to him, not compared to the woman before him.
Despite her attempt at composure, her pale, delicate face couldn’t completely hide the flickers of fear and unease beneath. Naturally. No matter how badly wounded he was, he was still a man of Brant blood, while she was frail and defenseless. Even now, she couldn’t be certain she could finish him.
“Why did you stab me?”
His voice was quiet as he looked into her trembling violet eyes.
“Was my promise that I would do nothing to Carl so untrustworthy?”
Brunhilde was not someone who would raise a blade against another for her own sake.
Even if the man before her had violated her for twenty years, she had never once tried to kill him. The fact that she had resolved to spill blood now could only mean one thing.
Carlos. That was not a guess, it was certainty.
“…Even if you hadn’t told me, I already know what the curse of House Brant is.”
Perhaps because he hadn’t immediately struck her down, her fear eased slightly. Her voice steadied as she spoke, each word deliberate.
“Patricide.”
“……!”
“Am I wrong?”
Franz’s expression hardened in shock as she continued.
“I looked into your family’s history. Nearly every head of the Brant house died at the hands of his son. Which means…”
Her tone sharpened as she delivered the conclusion.
“In the end, Carlos will seek you out and kill you, his father.”
For a brief moment, Franz’s jaw clenched.
Not because of her conclusion, but because she used those words to distract him. Before she even finished speaking, Brunhilde lunged at him again, driving the dagger forward.
Thud.
The sound of steel sinking in was sickening. But not into flesh.
Despite his injuries, he was still a monster of Brant blood. He caught her wrist with one hand and twisted sharply, forcing the blade to veer off, slicing only through fabric.
Clang. The dagger fell from her grasp, unable to withstand the force.
Disarmed, she found her other arm seized as well. Franz pinned her in place, blood still streaming from the wound he had barely been holding shut.
Brunhilde stared at her stepson’s bleeding chest and thought,
‘Even after all that… I still failed.’
She had been prepared to die. If she could take him with her, that would have been enough.
‘Now, I’m going to die.’
The arrogant beast of Brant would never forgive her for raising a blade against him twice.
Would he cut off her head here and now? Drive a blade through her heart? Or expose her crime and execute her before others?
Or perhaps, something worse than death awaited her.
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