Chapter 68
Cyrone entered the room at dawn, when even the night stars had vanished. Staring at the empty bed, he felt as if something inside his mind snapped and broke. He had believed, prayed even, that when he returned, she was sleeping peacefully as if nothing had happened.
He sank down beside the bed, his hands stained with sweat and blood gently stroking the ownerless sheets.
“Damn it.”
In a trembling voice, Cyrone muttered into the emptiness. He pressed his swollen, bloodshot eyes shut, unable to sleep through the night.
“You’ll come back on your own feet.”
He quietly looked down at the blanket that had once wrapped Elia’s body. The traces remained, but the person was gone. Was he caught in a cruel dream that would vanish once he opened his eyes?
Cyrone let out a hollow laugh.
Everything about Elia was almost within reach, yet unattainable. Chasing after that end made his heart feel torn apart, raw. It was as if blood was leaking from his fingertips.
“Why aren’t you coming? I’m here waiting. Why…?”
Cyrone stared at the door, unable to comprehend, muttering broken words through his bruised lips.
“I want to kill you for real.”
He buried his face in the blanket scented with Elia’s lingering traces. Slowly, his scattered mind began to clear.
Suddenly, the door slammed open and Nielsen appeared, panting.
“Your Highness! We’ve found the one who took the lady away.”
Cyrone watched Nielsen, whose breathing was heavy from running. His once dim eyes are now sharp as blades. Without hesitation, Cyrone pushed past the rigid Nielsen and strode into the corridor.
Breathing in the chilly dawn air, Cyrone thought. It no longer mattered where this path led.
Just wait a little longer, Elia. I will follow you to the ends of hell itself.
* * *
“Ahh—!”
The man writhed in pain, but showed no sign of confessing. The guards who had tortured him through the night shook their heads in exhaustion.
“This is terrible. He should have talked before His Highness arrived.”
“Let’s save who we can. You have to speak for us to survive, damn it!”
One guard kicked the collapsed man’s back in frustration. A young slave attending the guards muttered quietly.
“But who is that woman locked up to cause all this fuss?”
“They say she’s the daughter of the Reiffers family.”
“…Ah.”
Only then did the slave seem to understand, nodding in agreement. The guards collapsed onto their seats, catching their breath. After breathing in the metallic scent of blood all night, their heads were pounding.
At that moment, the double-locked door clicked open.
“Y-Your Highness… we greet you!”
While assuming it was Nielsen, the guards immediately knelt as Cyrone entered. He ignored the saluting officers and strode straight toward the collapsed man.
“…”
Cyrone’s eyes immediately went to the man’s hand. It was bloodied, yet the scar was unmistakable.
Cyrone’s lips slowly hardened. It wasn’t just any scar, it bore the symbol of the eagle with outspread wings, the mark given only to the late Crown Prince’s army.
With a bitter smile, Cyrone lifted the man’s hair.
“Ugh—!”
“Who is your master?”
The man shook his head, refusing to answer. Cyrone slapped him roughly across the cheek.
“…Ugh!”
“Honestly, this is why bastards like you are useless. Too stupid to understand anything.”
Cyrone struck the man’s cheek again, muttering under his breath. The man’s hunched shoulders trembled under the unfamiliar pain, and even the guards bowed their heads before the fierce presence.
“Shall I tell you who your master is?”
“P-please… just kill me.”
Blood dripped from the man’s lips as he coughed. At that moment, Cyrone’s last shred of mercy snapped. Rising, he exhaled sharply, his face chillingly calm as he looked down.
Thud!
The man’s head hit the wall from Cyrone’s kick. The gruesome scene made the guards’ eyes tremble.
“If that’s your wish, I’ll grant it. But don’t expect mercy.”
Cyrone picked up a shard of glass from the floor. The jagged fragment gleamed sharply.
“Ahhh—!”
The shard pierced the man’s hand, tearing flesh. The man writhed in agony, the glass digging deeper, seeming to shatter his bones. The scar on his hand was torn apart, soaked in blood.
Cyrone relentlessly tore at it until the mark was unrecognizable.
“Cut his head and send it to the Damon family.”
Cyrone turned to the guards with a disturbingly gentle expression. The sinister aura made the guards blanch.
“Tell the Count it’s a gift from me, personally.”
Cyrone abruptly stood and left the room.
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