My Ruin to You - Chapter 77

“I present myself before His Grace, the Grand Duke.”

Kneeling on one knee in formal salute, Edan carefully set down the crate he had brought. He looked utterly exhausted. His armor was scratched and dented in places, as if he had endured great hardship, and dried blood and ashen dust clung to his gear like stains.

“You’ve been through much. But why have you returned alone?”

The Captain, anxiously scanning the ominous signs, was the one to ask. Edan stared at the crate before slowly speaking.

“We were ambushed at dawn. All are dead. I have no excuse.”

“That’s—impossible!”

The Captain’s expression crumbled into devastation. He started to raise his voice but, belatedly remembering Valen’s presence, clenched his fists instead. His knuckles turned white, nails digging into his palms until they paled. The unexpected tragedy struck Roseline like a blow as well. She covered her mouth with both hands—whether they were trembling or her entire body was, she couldn’t tell. The tips of her fingers shook violently in her blurred vision.

“Go inside.”

Valen unfastened his cloak and draped it around Roseline, then gestured toward the nearest barracks—the command tent. She followed him a few steps before abruptly stopping.

“I’ll go to Your Highness’ quarters instead.”

“And brood alone again, is that it?”

“…But—”

He wasn’t wrong. Left alone, she would inevitably imagine how—and why—they had died. But even so, wasn’t this too shameless? Who was she to barge into the military command tent and occupy a seat?

“This isn’t a request, so don’t trouble yourself over it.”

Her hesitation was rendered pointless. Valen steered her firmly inside. The spacious table at the center could easily seat a dozen, but only one chair was placed at the head—until the quick-witted Vice-Captain brought another to sit beside it.

“Sit.”

Valen even pulled the chair out for her, an excessive courtesy that only made her feel more awkward. Reluctant but polite, Roseline bowed her head slightly before sitting. By the time she settled, the Captain had also entered. Though many seats remained empty, he didn’t take one. When Edan thumped the crate onto the table, the Captain’s burning gaze of fury locked onto it.

“What is this?”

“The Marquis’ head.”

Edan delivered the shock in a hollow voice. The Captain narrowed his eyes sharply, hand braced against his hip, while the Vice-Captain clicked his tongue under his breath.

“…Hah. I suppose if the knights died, the Marquis stood no chance.”

What in the world is going on?

Roseline covered her mouth again. If she didn’t, she might blurt out questions she had no right to ask—What happened? When was the Marquis found? Why was only his head left?

Suddenly, she remembered the yellow smoke that had bloomed in the distant sky. Thinking back, it must have signaled the Marquis’ capture. It would be a lie to say she wasn’t resentful that Valen had known about it yet hadn’t breathed a word to her. But that was just the kind of man he was—sparing with words even when expressive, prioritizing action over speech when necessary. In some ways, he was Roseline’s exact opposite.

“……”

The moment she slowly turned to look at him, her gaze tangled with his cool gray-blue eyes. He was leaning back in his chair, one arm draped over the armrest, chin propped on his hand as he watched her. The ease in his posture was almost eerie.

“Now you’re biting your nails, too.”

Tsk. With a short click of his tongue, he straightened. At the same time, he took her hand and pulled it away from her mouth, resting it on his own thigh instead. Only then did she realize she had been chewing her nails.

“Open it.”

Valen, lounging deep in his chair, nodded toward the crate. The Vice-Captain stepped forward and removed the lid. As soon as he peeked inside, his face twisted slightly, and the metallic tang of blood seeped into the air of the tent. The Captain, hands braced on his hips, glanced into the box and then rubbed his eyes roughly, as if washing his face.

“Do you want to see?”

Valen stroked the back of Roseline’s hand as he asked if she wished to look at the severed head. After a brief hesitation, she nodded. Screech— The moment she pushed her chair back and stood, the contents of the crate came into view. Brittle hair, ashen-blue skin, a crushed face, and clotted blood clinging to the severed neck.

It was a ghastly sight, but there was no mistaking it—this was the Marquis of Brun.

“Hk—”

Nausea surged. Having eaten nothing and slept through the day, there was nothing to vomit, but Roseline stifled even the dry heave with her hand. More than the grotesque sight itself, what disgusted her was her own instinct to weigh her comfort against the reality of the Marquis’ head.