After darkness had fallen all around, the Nissan huts, shaped like split cylinders, stood in neat rows across the barren wasteland of Evan Bacher. Though their intimidating appearance resembled that of an endless cemetery, the soldiers actually using the barracks felt no particular awe.
A young soldier carrying a dim lantern paused abruptly in front of one of the huts during his night patrol.
“…”
Nissan huts assigned to Imperial officers were constructed with extra layers of sheeting compared to regular barracks, making it utterly impossible to hear any conversation or sound from within.
Yet the soldier fixed his gaze on the ground, straining to catch any noise emanating from inside the hut through the silent winter wind, so quiet even the chirping of insects was absent. Naturally, he heard nothing at all.
However, he knew well that just because something could not be heard did not mean nothing was happening.
True to his intuition, deep in the dead of night when everyone else should have been asleep, a kerosene lantern inside the Farsade Imperial officer’s hut flickered, casting a vivid crimson glow. Though Evan Bacher remained relatively mild even in winter, the heat radiating within the hut left no room whatsoever for the cold to seep in.
Creak, creak, creak.
With the rough grating of a makeshift wooden bed and muffled, sharp whimpers being forcibly swallowed deep in her throat, the woman clawed a red streak down the man’s back before collapsing away from him.
At the same moment, the man let out a coarse exhale against her neck, pressing his full weight down onto her with a faint smile playing across his handsome features.
“I told you not to hold back.”
He kissed her glistening, sweat-dampened skin, tenderly, over every mark blooming like crimson petals.
She exhaled a breathless laugh, sweet and soft.
“You are all sweaty.”
“I know.”
His low, velvety whisper against her ear, murmuring, “That is exactly why I am losing my mind,” with his head buried in her neck, instantly flushed her cheeks anew. It amused him, and pleased him immensely, that even in the dim light, he could clearly see where his marks had stained her fair skin.
As he kissed every inch of her pale flesh, she twisted her body, stifling a moan. She did not seem to realize how much more provocative that was. He had truly intended to let her rest now, but if she kept this up.
Her breath hitched as heat surged through her once more. Nearing the edge of her endurance, she gasped out.
“You said this was the last time.”
“So, do you dislike it?”
Though her amber eyes shimmered with reproachful tears, she shook her head earnestly, and seeing that, he could not help but smile. He did not need to ask; her reaction told him clearly enough that she wanted him too.
“Good girl.”
He dove back into her, as delicate as morning petals moistened by dawn’s dew, indulging his desire once again. Though she was untouched before him and had no prior experience, each of her movements, ethereal, as if about to dissolve into pure white light, drove him mad with a sinful sensation that he might very well go blind from its brilliance.
Of course, her face and figure were perfectly to his taste, making her far too precious to keep merely as a mistress.
“Do you love me?”
Yet whenever she asked this question after their intimacies, nestled in his arms, he gave the same unwavering reply.
No, Scathach. I do not love you.
“Liar.”
With tears welling in her eyes, she denied his gentle, affectionate kiss and the words that came with it, just as she always did.
Scathach.
Soft chestnut hair with a faint ashen hue that glimmered like gold in sunlight, and amber eyes mirroring the setting sun. A fairy-like girl he had found one day in the woods of Lindkoem.
He had first met her seven years ago, in autumn when he was sixteen, accompanying his father on a fox hunt in Lindkoem Forest.
“Now that Lindkoem belongs to our Blachnatt domain, you must learn to govern it well as its future lord.”
His father spoke proudly as they toured the newly acquired territory, but Casar felt nothing. He merely accepted it as another duty assigned to him, nothing more.
“I will keep that in mind.”
Duke Blachnatt, thoroughly pleased by his sole heir’s composed and graceful demeanor, gave his shoulder a light pat, but Casar continued scanning the forest with his usual detached expression. Even if presented with something new, it was unlikely anything would truly spark his interest.
According to his mother, he had always been this way since early childhood, so much so that she had affectionately complained he had never once shown a genuine smile.
Soon parting from his father to track foxes alone through Lindkoem Forest, Casar’s crimson eyes caught a slight movement among the autumn leaves and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
Crackle.
Hearing the bullet gnaw into a tree trunk, Casar clicked his tongue in annoyance, staring down at the breech-loading musket in his hand. No matter how precisely aimed, the bullet flew wildly off course the moment it passed its effective range.
With signs that the cold war with the Teshia Empire would drag on indefinitely, firearms needed urgent improvement.
Mong!
Lost in thought, Casar fished a pre-cut leather patch from his pocket to reload his cartridge, when a black puppy suddenly bounded up and barked at him. Since it was not a fox, Casar quickly lost interest and slung the reloaded musket over his shoulder.
The puppy whined, frustrated by his indifference, then trotted a few steps ahead before barking again, and again upon returning, as if urging him to follow.
Mong mong!
With a sigh, Casar turned his horse in the direction the tiny dog indicated, but refused to dismount and chase after it into the thicket.
“Consider yourself lucky I do not enjoy dog meat.”
He soon regretted walking away, because the little dog had bitten his horse’s hind leg, forcing Casar to struggle to calm the panicked animal.
“Sigh. You are really something.”
After soothing the agitated horse and tethering it to a tree, Casar approached the puppy, which had been kicked away and now trembled beneath a tree stump.
It did not seem like any bones were broken. Had it just fainted? Or worse, died?
Mong!
“Still alive.”
The jet-black puppy, seemingly unwilling to give up, shakily pushed through the underbrush. Casar sighed once more and reluctantly followed, muttering threats the animal could not understand: if this turned out to be nothing, the pup would be in serious trouble.
Pushing through the brush behind the dog, he found her, leaning against a large tree, her pure white dress soaked in blood, turning slowly toward him with a pale, exhausted face.
If I had ignored that little dog and left back then, would I still have fallen in love with you when we met again?
Sunlight filtering through the leaves illuminated her hair in the same golden hue as her reproachful eyes, though her true hair color, swaying gently beneath shadowed shoulders, was a curious ashen shade.
Her face was unfamiliar.
He never forgot a face once seen, especially not as the sole heir of House Blachnatt, who accompanied his father on every tour of their territories. A face like hers would have been unforgettable.
“Who are you?”
His question came out rougher than he intended, and the girl stared at him in exasperation before sharply turning her head away.
“Why are you bleeding?”
Ah.
Casar realized she sat precisely where he had fired moments earlier, and noticed the fresh bullet mark on the large tree trunk behind her, along with scattered wood fragments.
“You were hit by shrapnel?”
The girl scowled, parting her small, plump lips slightly.
“Just go. I hurt myself alone.”
At the time, he had not consciously noted how lovely her voice was, but her calm tone, contrary to her fragile appearance, left a lasting impression.
In hindsight, perhaps he had been imprinted by her from that very first moment, but then, she had seemed merely a strange girl, too stubborn to ask for help even on the brink of death.
“They must have warned you not to enter the forest on hunting days.”
“I will leave soon. Once the bleeding stops. Nix, come here.”
Despite using polite speech, her eyes showed no submission, and Casar could not help but chuckle. Besides, with her face growing visibly paler, how could she possibly leave alone?
Though his father always ensured villagers stayed out of the forest on hunting days via official notices, if this girl died from his stray shot, it would become his problem, especially with the commoners’ rights movement, which had begun in the Bacra class, gaining nationwide momentum.
He knelt beside her, where she clutched the trembling black puppy to her chest with a wan face.
“Move your hand. If you keep pressing like that, I will have to dispose of your corpse soon.”
“…”
She glared at him with those beautiful eyes, but obediently pulled her hand away. Fresh blood immediately gushed from the wound she had weakly covered with her soaked dress.
He removed his hunting jacket, sliced off one sleeve of his shirt with a pocket knife, and tightly bound her collarbone area with the makeshift bandage, applying firm pressure.
“It hurts.”
Tears finally spilled from her eyes. She had been biting her lips so hard they had turned white.
“Bear with it. This is how we stop the bleeding.”
Even then, his build was larger and sturdier than most boys his age, so lifting her frail form felt effortless. He carried her out of the thicket while she wept uncontrollably.
He hated tears.
Noble girls he had been forced to socialize with always burst into tears over trivialities, leaving him flustered, whether because he was not affectionate enough or did not play with them.
And inevitably, it was Casar who received lectures back at the ducal residence about a gentleman’s duty toward ladies, though he had never once considered those little girls true ladies.
That is why it felt strangely unbothersome to have this girl crying in his arms.
“It is alright. I will take you to the hospital. Just hold on a little longer.”
His unusually gentle reassurance reached her even as she nodded, and the sweet, intoxicating fragrance drifting from her made his solar plexus tingle the entire walk.
Her scent, sometimes like flowers carried on the breeze, sometimes like ripe fruit, felt utterly unlike the perfumes of noble young ladies or aristocratic women he had encountered at obligatory social gatherings.
Casar kept the girl awake as she kept dozing off, rushing her not to the ducal residence but to the nearest hospital. When told she needed an emergency transfusion, he readily offered his own arm.
Who would not recognize the rare raven-haired, crimson-eyed boy as the Blachnatt heir? Probably only Loegal, the passionate, forward-thinking physician then deeply immersed in medical research, would have dared draw his blood to transfuse it into a commoner girl.
Relief washed over him when the doctor confirmed their blood types matched. Her pallor had grown too severe to ignore.
After watching color slowly return to her cheeks, he spent several hours at the hospital until the shrapnel removal surgery concluded, returning to the ducal residence only in the dead of night, bringing along the small black puppy that had been whining restlessly outside the hospital.
His disappearance during the hunt had thrown the ducal household into chaos, and for the first time in his life, he received a fierce scolding.
He lied about losing his musket left behind in the hospital room, claiming he had gotten lost when asked where he had been, offering excuses nobody believed.
At dawn, Casar returned to the hospital carrying a bright yellow freesia bouquet, repeating to himself over and over that he had come only to confirm whether the girl had lived or died.
“Nix!”
She seemed far more delighted to see the black puppy he had brought than him.
Watching the tearful reunion between the girl and her dog after just one night apart, he tossed the bouquet onto her bed.
“The doctor must be skilled.”
“Thank you. I heard you gave me a blood transfusion and covered the hospital fees.”
Casar turned away, having been momentarily spellbound by the girl’s silky hair spilling forward as she bowed her head in gratitude.
“No need to thank me. I am the reason you got hurt.”
That was all he believed then, about why he had visited her every morning for days afterward like it was a routine, always bringing flowers to check on her.
Only when the time neared for him to leave Lindkoem and enroll in the officer academy did he realize he had never learned her name.
The very day he had finally resolved to ask her name,
was the day he learned you had vanished overnight, despite no mention of discharge the previous morning,
and heard from the hospital staff that only his own name and address remained on the admission form, with no trace of yours or where you had gone.
Perhaps that was when you first took hold of my thoughts. And that day marked the first time you ever ran away from me.