Chapter 99

“What’s gotten into you, speaking your mind so boldly?” Serin asked, quickening his pace to catch up with Elena.

At some point, he had begun using honorifics when addressing her.

It must’ve been by His Grace’s order, Elena thought, glancing back at him.

“I struggled to make this decision, so I won’t take it back,” she said firmly. “And even if I tried, His Grace wouldn’t let me.”

Serin gave a dry chuckle, his expression tight. “It’s not about whether he lets you or not. Someone might have to die because of this.”

He smiled faintly, one corner of his mouth twitching with unease. “Still… even when he completely loses control in a fit of rage, the moment he hears your voice, he calms right down…” His voice faltered, and he came to an abrupt stop.

Elena slowed as well, turning to face him.

“That must’ve just been a coincidence,” she replied.

“A coincidence?” Serin scoffed, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

He let out a weary sigh. “I’ve served His Grace for years, and not once has he listened to a word I said…”

“But from what I’ve seen, he discusses every important matter with you,” Elena said gently. “That must mean he trusts you deeply. I really admire the bond you share.”

She remembered once being jealous of that closeness between them.

Her words seemed to ease something in Serin. The tension in his shoulders softened, just slightly.

“…But will it really be alright for the two of them to be left alone in the dining room?” she asked after a pause. “I don’t mind you seeing me the rest of the way, but maybe you should head back.”

After the earlier commotion, dinner had resumed under a thick, uneasy silence. When Elena rose to excuse herself, Kennard had ordered Serin to escort her to her room.

“If I send you off alone and go back, how am I supposed to deal with the consequences?” Serin said, glancing at her with a furrowed brow.

“What about Cura?” Elena asked.

“She should be waiting in the room.”

Without waiting for a response, Serin resumed walking, and Elena quietly fell in step behind him.

The corridor connecting the dining room to the main staircase stretched alongside the rear garden of the castle. One entire wall was open to the night, framed by evenly spaced round columns that held up the high ceiling.

Though it was already late, the garden was unusually bright—torches burned in tall stands, casting long, flickering shadows.

“Careful with that! You’re tilting the weight this way!” a voice barked in the distance.

Elena turned her head. Amid the glow of torchlight, servants were hauling crates and packages across the stone paths. Some carried boxes so large they looked like they could crush someone beneath them. Others worked in pairs or trios to move heavier loads, their movements practiced but tense. Attendants moved briskly among them, giving orders and correcting mistakes.

Serin followed her gaze. “They’re preparing for tomorrow’s departure to the capital,” he said.

“What are they loading?” she asked.

“Mostly provisions,” he replied.

“Do we really need that much?”

“The capital’s far. We have to be ready for anything—food, weapons, you name it.”

Even as they neared the staircase, Elena’s attention kept drifting back to the garden. Something about the scene—the urgency, the scale—unsettled her. She couldn’t bring herself to look away.

When they reached her bedroom, as Serin had said, Cura was already inside waiting.

As soon as Elena stepped through the doorway, Serin gave a short, almost perfunctory farewell, like someone completing a task. Then, without another word, he turned and jogged back down the corridor, his footsteps echoing against the stone.

He was probably uneasy about leaving Kennard and Marten alone.

I hope nothing goes wrong, Elena thought, watching his figure recede into the distance.

After a long moment, she turned and stepped into her room, closing the door behind her.

Even after bathing with Cura’s help, Kennard still hadn’t returned.

Saying she wished to rest early, Elena dismissed Cura and slipped into a robe over her chemise. She stepped out onto the terrace, the glass doors clicking shut behind her. The cool night air wrapped around her like a veil, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the bath.

Leaning against the railing, she looked down at the garden below. Torches flared throughout the wide, meticulously kept grounds.

Normally, only a handful of lights were lit for the guards on night duty. But tonight, the garden glowed with movement—servants and soldiers scurried through the shadows, busy in unseen corners of the castle, just like the workers she’d seen earlier carrying supplies out back.

A quiet sigh slipped from her lips.

Haah…

She tilted her head upward. The sky was blanketed with heavy clouds, the moon almost entirely obscured. With not even the faintest breeze, the clouds hung motionless, turning the night into a still, painted scene.

Kennard’s voice echoed in her memory.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

His angry outburst in the study played back in her mind—the moment she told him she would go to the capital as ordered by the Emperor.

“But if I don’t go, Count Remid will be the one punished,” she had said softly, trying to reach him through his fury. “His Grace was willing to kill his closest friend just to protect me. I can’t just stand by and let that happen. And if Count Remid fails to bring me, he’ll face the Emperor’s wrath for something that isn’t his fault.”

Kennard had looked ready to explode, but Elena had stood her ground. Her body trembled beneath her gown, and her heart wavered with fear—but she had masked it all, delivering her plea as calmly as she could.

She had only met Marten for the first time that day, but through Cura, she already knew that he and Kennard had been close since childhood.

She couldn’t allow someone like that to die at Kennard’s hand—especially not because of her.

And yet, despite her resolve, fear still gnawed at her.

This wasn’t a request from just anyone. It was a command from the Emperor himself.

Marten may not have been a soldier, but the summons was no different from one issued for a criminal. The proof lay in the letter that accompanied the order: a written permission authorizing Marten to execute her on the spot if she refused to comply.

Still, there had to be a reason the Emperor had sent Marten—someone with close ties to Kennard—instead of a colder, more impartial enforcer. Perhaps it was because she was seen as one of Kennard’s own, someone they couldn’t punish too severely without consequence.

Elena stood motionless on the terrace, her gaze fixed on the cloud-covered sky. Time slipped past unnoticed.

Then, a familiar scent reached her, and moments later, the bedroom door opened behind her with a soft creak.

She turned her head slightly as Kennard stepped into the room, eyes sweeping the space. When he saw that she wasn’t inside, he moved toward the glass doors—and found her standing there.

“There you are,” he said quietly.

In a few swift steps, he crossed the distance between them. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head as he pulled her into his arms.

Elena melted against him, pressing her face into his chest and circling her arms around his waist.

“What if you catch a cold?” he murmured, brushing a hand gently through her hair before pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

“I just came out a moment ago,” she replied.

“Liar,” he said softly. “You’re freezing.”

“You know I have a low body temperature,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest.

Kennard said nothing more. He simply tightened his hold on her, as if trying to chase away the cold with his own warmth.

“Hold on a second.”

Kennard, who had been silently holding her, stepped back slightly, his hands resting firmly on her shoulders. Reaching into the pocket of his frock coat, he pulled something out and held it toward her.

Elena’s eyes widened. “This is…”

In his palm lay a small flute, no larger than a pinky finger. Both the flute and its delicate chain were crafted from pure gold, with a neat row of crimson rubies embedded along its body.

She recognized it immediately.

Kennard had once given it to her just in case—a quiet promise of protection. She had used it only once, the day Carmen was poisoned with Banachi because of Hazel. Since then, she’d assumed it was lost forever.

She hadn’t expected he’d kept it.

“There was blood on it,” Kennard said softly, “and some scratches. So I had it reworked.”

Just as he said, the flute now gleamed in the torchlight—its surface smooth, newly polished, almost more pristine than she remembered.

Picking up the chain, Kennard gently placed it around her neck. With one hand, he gathered her hair and slipped it free from under the chain, then smoothed it down with careful fingers.

Elena looked down at the golden flute now resting against her chest and cupped it with both hands.

“Not for a moment will I be away from you,” Kennard murmured, his voice quiet but steady. “I’ll always be right by your side.”

He lifted her face, his palms cradling her cheeks, thumbs brushing lightly against her skin.

“I hope you’ll never need to use it,” he continued. “But if something happens and I’m not there… don’t hesitate. Blow it. No matter where I am, I’ll come running to you.”

The calmer and gentler his voice became, the more Elena felt the sting in her nose and the burn in her eyes.

She clenched her jaw, fighting to keep her emotions in check. She managed a faint smile, tugging at the corners of her lips. But no matter how hard she tried, the tears began to well anyway.

Kennard’s golden eyes, watching her intently, darkened like the night surrounding them.

Elena parted her lips, trying to say she was fine—but no sound came out. She knew that if she said even a word, the tears she’d been holding back would fall all at once.

“It’s okay to cry,” Kennard said softly. “When you’re in pain, cry. When you’re angry, yell. Let it out. And if you hate me… tell me.”

“Your Grace…” Elena whispered, her voice trembling as she finally spoke his name.

“Don’t hold it in anymore,” he pleaded. “Please… stop making things harder on yourself.”

The anguish in his voice was too much to bear. Seeing the pain twist across Kennard’s face, Elena could no longer keep it in. Her eyes squeezed shut—and at last, tears spilled down her cheeks.

Kennard leaned in, his lips brushing against her eyelids with the tenderness of a falling petal. He kissed the tears as they slid down her lashes.

“If only I’d found you just a little sooner…” he whispered, his voice laced with regret, his lips damp with the tears that had trailed down her skin.