Even if you commit a crime, do it in Blachnatt.
It was a common saying that succinctly captured the nature of the Blachnatt family, which was known for treating criminals more humanely than any other among the ten noble houses of Farsade holding judicial authority.
Perhaps the frail woman locked in the iron cell did not see it that way.
It was merely better treatment than she would have received elsewhere, but a prisoner was still a prisoner.
The sight of the woman sitting on a hard cot, her disheveled hair hanging long and motionless, was difficult for anyone to perceive as normal.
Beside the Duke, who stood upright and imposing before the iron bars, the warden bowed at a perfect right angle.
“From our preliminary inquiries, aside from working as a nurse at a small clinic near Lindkoem Forest… regrettably, she has not spoken a word, so there are no other materials worth referencing.”
To the warden, who was well past middle age, having the head of the house personally visit exerted far greater mental pressure than an inspection by the Imperial Correctional Bureau.
After all, it was not the imperial family holding his leash, but their master, Duke Blachnatt himself.
It was undoubtedly the greatest test of nerves in the warden’s life, especially since rumors from Conwell painted the new Duke as a ruthless perfectionist compared to his late father.
“Did you torture her?”
“She refused to speak, so… a little…”
The warden’s face tightened, but he confessed without a single lie.
She was the sole suspect, yet she stubbornly refused to confess to the crime. Consequently, they had subjected her to various interrogation methods, and for the past three days, they had kept her entirely deprived of sleep.
Perhaps he had acted out of sheer panic upon hearing that the Duke was personally coming to Lindkoem…
Casar clicked his tongue softly. No wonder she showed no signs of life and seemed utterly devoid of spirit.
“Bring her out.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
When the two guards stationed before the cell unlocked the door and stepped inside to drag the woman out, she—who had sat as still as a corpse until that moment—resisted with sudden ferocity.
“Let go! Do not touch me!”
Casar silently watched the scene unfold, his eyes narrowing as he noted how she staunchly slapped away the guard’s hand reaching for her right arm.
“Did you lay hands on the prisoner?”
“N-No, absolutely not! I only pulled her arm a little! Prisoners who come to a place like this never listen, do they? S-So… that level of physical contact is standard procedure…”
A young female prisoner, her ears wrapped in bandages, stood there while the guard offered pathetic, slovenly denials. The picture was painfully clear.
Casar let out a faint sigh and stepped into the cell.
At the sight of him entering, not only the warden but the guards inside and even the woman froze in surprise. While no one dared to utter a sound, Casar spoke in a low, measured tone.
“Name.”
Unintimidated by the cold gaze looking down at her from above, the woman slowly raised her head and met his eyes. Her golden irises seemed to glow with a fierce, quiet light even within the dim shadows of the dungeon.
“…Scathach.”
Her voice was as smooth and resonant as a piano melody.
That was the exact moment he belatedly realized this was the face of the girl he had searched for so long. An electric pain shot through him, as though his heart had plummeted into a bottomless abyss.
The girl from Lindkoem Forest whom he had sought so desperately now stood before him as a mature woman—though hardly in a sound state.
She was a prisoner in the underground dungeon of Lindkoem, suspected of being his father’s mistress and the one who had murdered him.
Through her tangled ash-gray hair, unwashed and neglected, her fair, smooth skin was still visible.
Her rebellious amber eyes glared at him with unyielding defiance. Ironically, the long, fluttering brownish eyelashes framing them caught his attention instead.
Casar, who had been staring at her face as if completely entranced, finally stirred when she flinched and stepped back.
“Speak. Did this man touch you?”
The woman, like a cornered wild animal, did not drop her guarded expression, but she slowly nodded. It hardly mattered whether the guard’s offense was great or small.
Casar smoothly drew the revolver from his holster at his waist and leveled it straight at the guard, his eyes never leaving the woman.
“Cover your ears.”
With a terrified expression, the woman squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands over her ears. The guard could no longer offer excuses; paralyzed with absolute terror, he wet himself on the spot.
Bang!
The bullet grazed perilously close to the guard’s bandaged ear before embedding deeply into the stone wall. The trembling guard dropped to his knees, utterly shattered.
“Anyone who touches a prisoner from this moment on will face summary execution.”
There was no need for idle threats.
The Duke’s flat, dry voice and chilling crimson eyes had already frozen the very air in the room.
The single gunshot echoing through the sunless underground prison struck a deep chord of terror into every inmate held within the Lindkoem mansion’s dungeons.
From that day on, the guards and even the warden remained permanently on edge, proving that the lesson had not been lost on anyone.
In the private bedroom, the woman emerged from the adjoining bathroom, gently guided by the servants’ hands, and met Casar’s gaze.
There were plenty of dresses left behind by Iriel in the mansion, but the staff had evidently judged it improper to dress a criminal in a noble young lady’s wardrobe. Instead, she had been given a large, plain nightgown that hung loosely on her frame.
Before ever confirming the suspect’s identity, upon hearing that she was a young woman, Casar had intended to use gentle, conciliatory measures.
However, seeing her freshly bathed and soft, stepping out into the bedroom wearing his oversized gown, Casar realized that the one desperately struggling to keep his composure was himself.
Standing right before his eyes was the very woman who, since the autumn they first met when she was sixteen, had haunted his thoughts at every waking moment.
The hair that had looked entirely ash-gray in the gloom of the prison now revealed its true shade: a delicate blend of soft brown and cool ash, just as he remembered from her youth.
As the flickering candlelight in the bedroom touched her hair, it shimmered with golden highlights that mirrored her eyes.
Perhaps she found him terrifying, sitting calmly to read documents after firing a weapon without hesitation. Or perhaps the vague anxiety of standing in a man’s bedroom while wearing such attire made her linger awkwardly near the door even after the servants withdrew.
Her wide, expressive eyes were filled with tension, yet she stubbornly refused to look away. Casar met her gaze directly, sighed, and rose from his desk to approach her.
She flinched, her small frame retreating instinctively.
When he took another step closer, she frowned deeply, glaring up at him with renewed wariness.
As the distance between them closed, a heavy, artificial scent of roses drifted on the air.
No matter that she was a prisoner, because the Duke had ordered her brought to his private quarters and she possessed striking beauty, the staff had likely assumed she was meant to serve as his mistress.
The cloying perfume was irritatingly strong. Yet, despite himself, he could not stop breathing it in.
Her damp amber eyes locked onto his once more. Keeping his original purpose in mind, Casar maintained eye contact and spoke clearly.
“Take it off.”
The woman shook her head, a natural reaction.
“I am not going to touch you.”
One of her eyebrows arched in sharp suspicion. Casar reached down, unholstered the revolver—which still carried the faint scent of gunpowder from the dungeon—and held it out to her.
“If I touch you, shoot me.”
“Even so…”
Was her voice always like this? The words flowing from her peach-colored lips were more pleasant than any melody he had heard in his music classes.
Gently removing her hand from where she clutched the collar of the nightgown—taking care not to use force—Casar placed the heavy revolver directly into her small palm.
“…”
“I mean it.”
Judging that she was holding the weapon firmly, Casar’s hand moved toward the loosely tied ribbon at her waist.
As he slowly began to untie the cord, a dizzying scent washed over him again: a subtle, intoxicating blend of the artificial floral perfume and her own natural skin scent.
Perhaps it was because he had spent years surrounded by the testosterone-heavy environment of a military academy, but he was entirely unaccustomed to such closeness.
As the pure white skin hidden beneath the oversized gown began to be revealed, Casar felt a muscle twitch in his brow.
Unexpectedly, the woman offered no physical resistance as he removed the garment. She merely trembled slightly, gripping the revolver’s handle like a lifeline until the gown slipped entirely from her shoulders and pooled on the floor.
Thud.
Her delicate, beautiful curves were exposed against the backdrop of the fallen fabric. Though she still wore a thin white chemise, the material was sheer enough to be translucent, stimulating the imagination far more powerfully than complete nudity would have.
Damn it.
Casar forcibly dragged his crimson eyes away from her voluptuous figure and focused instead on a faint, pale scar crossing her collarbone. Sensing the shift in his gaze, the woman flinched and shrank back.
“The scar is smaller than I remember.”
“…?”
Her large eyes looked up at him in confusion, as if she had no idea what he was talking about. It was clear she did not recognize him at all.
“You…”
Never mind. This was no time for reminiscing.
Besides, she was the very same woman who had fled without leaving her name the moment her injuries had healed.
Casar forced his eyes away from the mark, stepped back a few paces, and looked over her body with a clinically detached expression.
Or at least, he tried to appear detached. Even now, he knew he could never truly be indifferent to her.
Across her pale skin, countless bruises in shades of blue and purple bloomed, impossible to conceal even beneath the thin chemise.
Yet, despite it all…
She is breathtaking.
Even though prison rules strictly forbade guards from touching inmates, he suddenly understood why the guard had lost control. She possessed a beauty that could make any man forget himself.
It was absurd, and yet, a cold anger flared in his chest—an urge to drag the cowardly guard back into the room and put a bullet straight through his head.
His gaze drifted downward, catching sight of deep, dark bruises along her thighs, accompanied by the faint, horizontal marks of a whip.
Without a word, Casar picked up a jar of soothing ointment from the side table and stepped back toward her.
“This must have hurt.”
He knelt on one knee before her, carefully applying the cooling ointment to her bruised skin. At his touch, her body trembled lightly, accompanied by a stifled sob she tried desperately to hold back.
He asked no questions and continued to tend to her wounds in silence. Seeing the still-unhealed cuts on her fingertips required every ounce of his self-control to maintain his composure.
By the time he had redressed her in a clean gown, the woman had stopped crying, sniffing quietly as she obediently followed his lead like a compliant child.
Perhaps exhausted from days of sleep deprivation, she occasionally drifted off, her eyelids drooping as if she might collapse at any moment. Watching her made him question the very point of what he was doing.
“Sleep first. We will talk later.”
The woman shuffled forward under his guidance, but suddenly halted mid-step.
“…My necklace.”
“Necklace?”
The woman stared up at him and nodded firmly.
They had kept her awake for three days straight, leaving her thoroughly exhausted, yet she still had the presence of mind to remember her possession. Her amber eyes held his gaze with a stubborn clarity that compelled him to look back.
Freed from her earlier tears, her moist eyes resembled polished amber stones.
Looking closely, the smooth bridge of her nose and her natural, bow-shaped lips possessed a quiet allure that tempted him to touch them.
The woman swayed unsteadily, snapping Casar out of his reverie. He reached out just in time to catch her. Her waist was so slender it felt as though it might snap beneath his fingers.
“Careful.”
“The necklace… please give it back…”
“I will find it for you. Just sleep now.”
Frowning slightly, Casar easily scooped the exhausted woman up into his arms.
Offering no further resistance, she nestled instinctively against his chest, letting her head rest over his heart.
To be precise, she had simply passed out from exhaustion. She did not move at all as he laid her gently down upon the bed. Even then, perhaps as a lingering side effect of the sleep deprivation, her heavy eyelids fluttered slowly, fighting to stay open.
“Close your eyes.”
The woman gave a weak nod and obediently shut her eyes as Casar gently smoothed his palm over her eyelids.
Was she really the same age as me? Her youthful features were one thing, but her current vulnerability made her seem much younger. It was likely just the toll of the torture she had endured.
Casar let out a quiet sigh, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders, accompanied by a wave of self-mockery. He was going to extraordinary lengths just to secure a single statement from a prisoner.
By the following evening, the woman had slept around the clock and still showed no signs of waking.
Casar’s crimson gaze shifted toward the silver tray resting on the table, where a particular item lay gleaming.
The necklace brought by the warden earlier looked far too expensive for a nurse working at a humble clinic near Lindkoem Forest. It featured a delicate pendant shaped like small wings, hovering over a spherical ornament etched with intricate patterns.
“It was confiscated at the time of her imprisonment. I was told it is a keepsake from her mother.”
Should I be grateful that it is her mother’s keepsake rather than a gift from my father to his mistress? Casar mocked himself inwardly, reaching out to pocket the necklace.
He turned to the door, addressing the shadow waiting outside.
“You may go.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
The warden bowed nearly at a right angle, unable to meet the Duke’s eyes, and backed quickly out of the study. Considering the psychological impact of a single gunshot, his methods had proven remarkably efficient at securing absolute obedience.