The Sand Bride - Side Story 2.26 - Nest

Nest

The low cawing of a crow echoed.

Hemor looked out at the devastation before her with a bored expression. The garden and manor, which had been in full bloom with green leaves and flowers until her arrival, were now so ruined that it was difficult to find even a trace of them.

Faint gray ash scattered into the air with the crackling sound of embers, occasionally mixing with the cries of crows. A sense of familiarity crept up her skin. Hemor adjusted her grip on her spear. The blade was glistening with blood and oil.

‘I should use a new spear.’

Hemor thought as much, frowning at the filthy spear. She would have to get a new, shiny spear when she returned. What should she carve on the shaft this time? As she looked down at the spear she was about to discard, she suddenly heard a baby crying.

The ear-splitting wail spread out as if the child were about to lose its breath, then stopped abruptly. It was clear that someone had covered the baby’s mouth. But the important thing was that Hemor had already ‘heard’ it.

And specifically, that the ‘sound’ was a cry.

Hemor frowned as she opened the door to a dilapidated, humble house.

“Shh, please…….”

The house, tucked away in a corner of the ruins, was so shabby it was a miracle it hadn’t collapsed yet. As Hemor’s shadow fell over the humble home, she heard a breath catch. It wasn’t a cry. It wasn’t a baby’s voice. It was the voice of a young man.

Hemor lowered her impassive eyes. There, she saw the corpse of a dead woman, a living baby, and a young man covering the baby’s mouth.

“…….”

In the bone-chilling silence, Hemor looked at the man’s bright blonde hair and pinkish eyes. She also looked at the flowerpot placed behind him. The flowers were the same color as the man’s hair.

‘I should carve those flowers on the shaft of my new spear.’

Hemor vowed with a smile.

Caw, the sound of a crow rang out again. It was the sound of a crow, having eaten its fill of the corpses, taking flight. Hemor tossed away the spear she had used for the last time and mounted her horse.

It was time to head to her nest.

* * *

Hemor liked beautiful things. Things that made her feel good just by looking at them. Keeping them piled up in her palace made her heart feel full. Karzhen, the only one she spoke to with honorifics, used to tease Hemor by calling her a ‘Crow,’ while others called her an ‘Eagle.’

They were nicknames with a wide gap between them, but both shared the commonality of describing her personality well—flying off somewhere and returning with spoils that caught her fancy.

Consequently, Hemor’s palace was the most cluttered place in the royal court, a chaotic mix of beautiful objects. Valuables were piled up like mountains, but beautiful vases were overturned on silk, and pretty ornaments she didn’t even wear were draped over magnificent ceremonial swords.

It wasn’t because the servants were lazy. Hemor hated it most when someone touched her things without permission, so no one dared to step forward to ‘organize’ them. And the same applied to ‘people.’

In Hemor’s palace, there were Gharyam locals, but there were also many Southerners. They were all, without exception, beautiful men. They were men who had entered voluntarily or for political purposes.

Since Hemor’s favor meant becoming a living power within that vast palace, they mixed together like Hemor’s belongings, pushing and obstructing one another.

Unfortunately, Hemor had no interest in such things. Her personality was such that once she placed either an object or a person in her palace, she didn’t pay much attention to them afterward. The palace was her nest, and whatever happened, it was just something occurring within the nest.

Hemor was kind to the beautiful men, but she did not harbor any deeper emotions. That kindness was merely a pure kindness born of her own pleasure, like looking at a sword sheath embedded with jewels or silk stamped with beautiful patterns.

That rule began to break the year Hemor returned after successfully carrying out a ‘warning’ sent to a Southern kingdom that had been caught pursuing rebellious policies against Gharyam.

She ruthlessly trampled the territory of a lord who was the king’s closest aide and a representative of the anti-Gharyam policy. Then, she collected the heads of the lord and his family, hung them on the tips of spears, and arrived at the capital of Gharyam.

The sight of the heads of two young men and a middle-aged couple, tied and tangled together by their hair, was hideous and gruesome, but the citizens of the kingdom cheered and scattered confetti, celebrating Hemor’s victory.

Hemor was merciful, so she even scattered gold coins taken from the kingdom to the commoners who filled the streets that day.

Among those shining gold coins and the hands reaching upward, the first to notice a Southern man staggering into the royal palace was Greta, who was watching Hemor’s procession from a high point in the palace.

Greta, who in those days still had to endure whispers calling her a mongrel because she lacked power, silently watched the procession of her sister, the eldest daughter, before closing the window.

A young man following near the middle of Hemor’s procession happened to stare at that window and couldn’t move for a while as if he were nailed to the spot, but soon moved his horse again to follow the procession.

“Sister!”