Chapter 51
“Good. That’s a relief.”
The low, hushed voice cut through her thoughts.
Her wrist still throbbed where he held it twisted behind her back. Drawing her closer, almost as if to pull her fully into his arms, the man murmured,
“So it seems you didn’t stab me out of doubt over my promise not to harm Carlos.”
“…Please… spare the child.”
Her voice trembled, though she had already abandoned any hope for her own life. There was little left for her to cling to in a life that had been nothing but misery. But Carlos’s safety mattered more than her own.
If the Brant curse was patricide, then one day Carlos would be destined to kill his father, Franz. She had struck Franz in the name of protecting her son. But a man with a twisted mind might very well choose to eliminate the threat first.
“You said it yourself. Carl is my child, but he’s your child too.”
“……”
“He knows nothing about this. I acted alone. I’ll bear all the consequences, whatever punishment you choose, I’ll accept it…”
“…Foolish, pitiful princess.”
A sigh-like voice slipped from Franz’s lips.
Brunhilde flinched, shrinking slightly, unable to understand the reason for that tone. He drew her even closer, speaking as if to himself.
“You’ve misunderstood.”
“…What?”
“The curse of House Brant… isn’t nearly as simple as you think.”
She couldn’t understand Franz’s words at all. All she could feel was the warmth of his blood soaking through to her chest as she blinked in confusion. A faint murmur brushed her ear like a passing breeze.
“In this state… I won’t manage.”
He had intended to cut the chain of the curse by fleeing with her. But perhaps a god’s curse was not so easily broken.
He had lost too much blood. His vision was beginning to blur, chills already creeping in, but even so, he refused to show weakness in front of her. Releasing her twisted wrist, he let his hand fall.
Then, as if compelled, he traced his lips along her neck and ear, leaving marks behind. Drawing in a deep breath of the scent that had long stirred something restless within him, he whispered,
“Kiss me, Princess.”
“…What are you—”
“Didn’t you say you wanted to save Carlos?”
“……”
At her son’s name, her fragile shoulders stiffened.
For a moment, she stood frozen. Then, slowly, she pulled herself from his arms. Lifting her head, she looked into his dark eyes… and rose onto her toes to press her cold lips to his.
He tasted the same as the night before—strangely sweet.
As if seizing air underwater, Franz lingered, taking her breath, her warmth, before finally loosening his hold.
“Now go back to your room, Princess.”
“But—”
“I won’t kill Carlos. I swear it on the great god’s eye, if you need me to.”
He cut her off firmly as he was already nearing his limit. With a faint, arrogant tilt of his chin, he dismissed her.
Still filled with unease and doubt, Brunhilde turned away helplessly.
Franz watched her retreat, his gaze lingering on the red marks he had left upon her pale neck. Only after her presence had completely faded did he collapse, alone in the room.
“…Hah…”
It was a wound that could have killed any man.
No, even for someone of Brant blood, it could have been fatal. But he could not die yet. Not while there was still a fragile wish he had yet to fulfill, for that pitiful princess.
Forcing himself upright, he staggered to a chest and grabbed a vial of medicine. He poured an entire bottle of coagulant over the wound, then rang the bell on the table.
Moments later, Heen appeared silently, like a shadow.
Her eyes widened at the sight of her master’s condition, but she quickly composed herself and began treating the wound. Leaning into the touch, Franz drew in shallow, strained breaths and issued his command.
“Go. Keep an eye on the princess.”
In truth, it was the young beast of House Brant who would target his own mother.
* * *
Brunhilde was no longer in her right mind.
She stumbled all the way back to her room, not even bothering to hide the blood staining the front of her dress.
Even if she had succeeded in killing Franz, she would not have been calm. But now that her attempt had failed, her anxiety spiraled out of control.
Would he keep his promise?
Would he harm Carlos?
Why had he let her go?
What would become of her… of Carl now…?
“Mother.”
“…Carl?”
She had just reached her room, her mind on the verge of shattering, when a voice—one that should never have been there at that hour—called out to her.
Startled, she turned her head around.
In the dim room, lit only by a solitary candle, stood the son she loved more than anything, waiting beside her bed.
“W-why… are you here…?”
“Where did you get so much blood on you?”
Her words died as he cut her off. Only then did Brunhilde realize the extent of it, the blood staining not only the front of her dress, but even the hem of her skirt.
Her face went deathly pale. How could she explain this? How, how was she supposed to explain this?
Carlos stepped toward her, his expression tightening with sorrow.
One step. Then another. Driven by instinct, she took half a step back, but she could go no farther. He closed the distance until he stood right before her.
Looking down into her eyes, he asked—
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