Chapter 67
The commander instinctively knew he had to beg. Covered in blood, he slammed his head against the floor. The sticky crimson pooled on the once spotless surface.
Cyrone frowned, clearly annoyed by the commander’s incessant pleas to be killed.
“I just can’t believe it. That’s why.”
He let out a faint breath and brushed his disheveled bangs back, revealing eyes so clear and piercingly blue they almost hurt to look at. After steadying his shaky breath, Cyrone slowly lowered his gaze.
“Say it again. Who did what?”
With an expression that said he simply refused to believe the words, Cyrone repeated his question. Yet the commander’s answer was always the same.
“The Miss… Please… please just kill me!”
Cyrone looked down at the commander who kept begging to be killed, letting out a low laugh filled with bitter mockery.
“Do you think I’m stuck here because I can’t kill you?”
The coldness in his voice made the commander mutter the same desperate plea like a madman. Noticing the scene, Nielsen gave a subtle nod, and silently the servants entered to restrain the commander. His limp body was dragged away as he cried out in protest.
“The scar, the scar on the back of the hand. That’s who took the Miss!”
Suddenly, the noisy chaos ceased and an oppressive silence filled the room.
“…So Elia.”
Cyrone, still pacing, seemed oblivious to the commander’s absence, muttering the same phrase over and over. His laughter grew louder, the once composed sparkle in his eyes now twisted beyond belief.
“Look at me, watching this nonsense unfold.”
Cyrone turned to Nielsen with eyes so cold they were no longer human. Knowing it was best not to intervene, Nielsen quickly collected himself, planning to immediately order the gates sealed and have anyone with even the smallest scar on their hand gathered at the residence.
“A scar, a scar. Who the hell is that? Who dares?”
Cyrone paced the filthy floor, unable to calm down. The blood spilled from the commander’s cheek soaked his footsteps in a mess.
“They always pick the prettiest way to do things.”
His hollow laughter suddenly stopped. Cyrone’s face hardened coldly, and he bit his lip softly, muttering in distracted, “How amusing.”
“Yeah. So now you want to play me, huh?”
The face that once looked like a graceful painting was torn apart in an instant.
* * *
“Close the gates immediately. Bring me the records of all who entered and left the palace since noon. Anyone with even the smallest mark on their hand, bring them to the residence.”
When Nielsen gave the order, the knights’ eyes widened in shock. What was going on in the middle of the night? Their faces showed confusion and disbelief.
“What are you waiting for? Want to search the whole place together?”
With Nielsen’s shout, the knights scattered like waves. Holding his head from a pounding headache, Nielsen leaned against the wall for a moment. Camille approached quietly and broke his thoughts.
“What about His Highness?”
“…”
Camille shook her head without a word. Nielsen sighed heavily and ran his hand roughly through his hair. The night was filled only with the deepening sighs of innocent people.
* * *
Cyrone ran down the stairs of the underground castle like a madman, searching every corner of the garden connected to the palace. Every place Elia might stay, every place she frequently visited, Cyrone searched them all and tore them apart.
But Elia was nowhere to be found. Nowhere.
“She’s not here? Not here?”
Cyrone clenched his teeth and spat out the words. The cold night air stung his face. His blue eyes were bloodshot, as if they would soon spew red blood.
“Why isn’t she here? Why the hell isn’t she?!”
He raged like a madman, then laughed, then his expression crumpled as if on the verge of tears. The name Elia slipped from his lips with desperation.
The garden of the palace, long untouched by human hands, was overgrown with thorny branches. The sharp thorns scratched at Cyrone’s neck and tripped his steps. Blood dripped steadily, but he didn’t even realize if it was his own. He felt no pain at all.
“…Answer me. Please.”
No matter how much he searched, there was no sign. No matter where he looked, she was nowhere to be seen. Whenever he chased what seemed to be her shadow, it was just a moonlit illusion.
Cyrone stood there, dazed, not even knowing how far he had come.
The bright moonlight quietly illuminated his shabby figure. Cyrone stared as if that moonlight was Elia’s face. Then, like a man possessed, he plunged back into the thicket and ran.
The cruel night deepened like that.
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