08.

The cold gaze made Henesstia flinch, and Riad raised an eyebrow.

“Sleep here tonight.”

“…!”

‘Sleep here? In the same room?’

She glanced around, but there was only one bed. It was spacious, but that wasn’t the issue. The room was luxurious and comfortable, but with the most uncomfortable person present, it felt useless. Her own room would have been far better.

“P-please let me go back.”

“Planning to prepare a new dose of medicine? No need. I could introduce you to an excellent apothecary instead.”

“It’s not that…! It really is just my medicine.”

“I’ve never heard of my lady having any sort of illness. What kind of medicine is it that you need to bring it into my chambers? It must be urgent if you couldn’t wait to take it.”

If Riad hadn’t been standing there, Henesstia would have bitten her nails out of habit. She anxiously shifted her gaze.

“It’s just… a painkiller. I wasn’t feeling well.”

“You weren’t feeling well? In this summer heat?”

“I’m sensitive to changes in temperature. I caught a bit of a cold… I’m easily affected by the cold.”

That part, at least, was true. Born in winter, Henesstia had always been prone to catching colds.

Though the excuse didn’t really apply to the summer, she forced herself to lie. After all, it was true that she often fell ill during colder temperatures.

“I wasn’t feeling well today, so I brought the medicine with me.”

Riad narrowed his eyes, clearly not convinced. He let out a brief, derisive chuckle.

‘Who would believe that?’

Henesstia thought bitterly.

‘If I were him, I wouldn’t trust someone suspicious living in my house, either.’

Unconsciously, she bit down on the inside of her cheek, closing her eyes in frustration. There was nothing more to say.

No matter what reprimands or accusations he threw her way, it seemed best to stay silent from now on.

“…”

“…”

But the harsh words she expected never came. Surprised by the lack of violence she had grown used to, Henesstia cautiously opened her eyes. That’s when Riad moved.

The moment she blinked her eyes open, he leaned in close, his face suddenly inches from hers. Before she could react, he lifted her up effortlessly.

“If you have nothing more to say, then stop complaining and sleep.”

Riad gently set her down on the bed. He quickly discarded the blanket that had fallen to the floor earlier, tossing it aside and fetching a much thicker one from storage. It was clearly unsuitable for summer weather, but it was far heavier and much more comforting.

Henesstia, now buried in the heavy blanket, could only follow his lead, her head sinking into the pillow.

Even with her eyes open and blinking rapidly, the unfamiliar ceiling still seemed surreal.

For a brief moment, she wondered if he might sleep on the sofa, but Riad simply snuffed out the candles, pulled the curtains shut, and climbed into bed next to her.

Of course, it was absurd to think the Count would sleep on a sofa, where his legs would surely hang awkwardly over the edge. Regardless of that, it was unthinkable to have someone of his stature sleep in such a place.

“I-I can sleep on the sofa…” she muttered.

In the pitch-black room, she couldn’t see him, but the moment she shifted to get up, Riad grabbed her wrist without hesitation.

“I told you before—I don’t like repeating myself.”

With that, Henesstia found herself lying back down, her arm gently but firmly guided by Riad.

Her body, exhausted from the day’s events, sank heavily into the bed. She wanted to stay alert, but her body wasn’t cooperating.

When she turned her head, she caught sight of his golden eyes glowing in the darkness. Startled, she quickly shut her own, pretending to sleep.

‘Just act like you’re sleeping… Then, when he’s asleep, I’ll sneak out.’

‘At least… the blanket is nice.’

Wrapped snugly in the large, heavy blanket, she actually felt a surprising sense of security. With the warmth enveloping her, her body slowly began to drift.

Henesstia soon found herself slipping into a deep sleep, lulled by the warmth and the exhaustion of the day.

* * *

When Henesstia was younger, Heron was like an idol to her.

He was always capable of handling everything with ease, filling the void left by their unreliable father. After their beloved mother had fallen ill and taken to her sickbed, Heron had stepped in, even filling the absence of their mother.

He was a man who seemed capable of anything, unwavering, and someone who, despite the small age gap, took care of his younger sister. At least, that’s how Henesstia had always seen him.

She lived her life in the greenhouse he had built around her, sheltered in the care of a brother who cherished her.

“Father…”

That perception only changed the night their father died at Heron’s hands.

It was late that night.

Perhaps it was because the moon was unusually bright, or perhaps it was because Heron, despite his efforts to revive their declining duchy, had found out their father had gambled away another fortune—enough to buy several castles—at an outrageous interest rate. Whatever the reason, Henesstia found it difficult to sleep that night.

Their father, addicted to gambling, was no longer capable of rational thought. He had squandered even the imperial pension, reserved for members of the imperial bloodline, on his addiction. No one could stop him, and no one dared; his title as ‘Duke’ made him untouchable.

“I’ve heard so many things from the social circles… Maybe I could introduce those road expansion investors to brother…”

As Henesstia pondered over her worries while enjoying the cool night breeze, an unpleasant odor wafted past her nose.

She looked around in confusion.

‘What was that smell in a garden full of blooming flowers?’

Her gaze followed the thickening stench, and soon, her head moved involuntarily toward the source.

And then… she saw it.

“…Brother?”

Under the unusually round moon, Heron was scaling the garden wall, his face smeared in something dark red, as if he’d been drenched in paint.

The sight was unforgettable—the immaculate Heron, who would never leave the house without ensuring his clothes were spotless and proper, now dressed haphazardly in a black shirt and black pants, climbing over the wall like a common thief.

But more than anything, what stood out was what hung limply in his grip.

“Henesstia, you’ll catch a cold in such thin clothes at night.”

Heron, noticing her, didn’t seem startled. He didn’t rush to cover up the situation either. Calmly, with whatever that limp thing was still in his hand, he leaped down from the wall.

Henesstia couldn’t immediately grasp what was happening, confused by Heron’s calm demeanor.

She didn’t realize that what he held in his hand was their dying father, nor that the blood soaking Heron’s clothes, like water from a soaked rag, was their father’s.

“What… what’s that in your hand? Is Father… is he hurt?”

As Heron landed in the garden, Henesstia, her voice filled with growing fear, tried to deny the reality. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of flowers she once loved.

But within that tranquil scenery, Heron, wiping the blood from his hair, stared back at her with his eerily red eyes.

“Hieek!”

Henesstia gasped, her breath hitching as she took a step back and promptly tripped, falling over.

Heron glanced down at her for a moment before speaking, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

“Henesstia, you shouldn’t sit on the ground like that. Stand up.”

Looking back now, it was his nonchalance that terrified her the most.

For a fleeting moment, she thought she was imagining things, but the reality wouldn’t change. The red filling her vision and the sickening stench that rose to her throat forced her to face the truth.

Henesstia couldn’t look at Heron anymore; instead, her gaze fell on what he held in his hand—*Father.*

From the direction of her father’s body, a low, garbled groan echoed out.

The voice, broken and distorted by pain, was unmistakable.

“F-Father…”

“F-Father—”

Henesstia couldn’t finish her sentence, her body trembling like a trapped mouse. Heron, watching her closely, lifted what he had been holding higher.

And then, in an instant, it happened.

With a swift motion, he pressed the sharp tip of the dagger to their father’s throat and—

Thunk!

Just like that, their father’s life ended.

“…W-what?”

A hot drop of blood splattered onto Henesstia’s cheek.

The world in front of her spun wildly. When she blinked her eyes slowly, it felt as though reality had been flipped upside down once again.

Heron wiped the blood off the dagger before calmly tucking it back into his coat. Then, without hesitation, he grabbed their father’s lifeless body by the nape and lifted it.

The way their father’s body limply dangled, just like a rag doll Henesstia used to play with, sent a chill down her spine. He swayed wherever Heron pulled, as if he were nothing more than a lifeless toy.

“Henesstia, I can’t hold your hand right now. Get up.”

‘Maybe this isn’t real. Maybe I’m just dreaming. I must be dreaming. What else could this be if not a nightmare?’

Heron shook his hand, wiping it clean before casually tucking his fallen hair behind his ear. He muttered something briefly, glancing down at his only sister who had collapsed on the ground.

“Can’t get up?”

The brother who had never once let her down, who had always been kind, was nowhere to be found.

“What a shame.”

Where had the Heron gone who had smiled gently that very morning, assuring her not to worry, that he would try to talk their father out of his destructive ways?

“If you can’t stand now, you’ll have to wait for quite a while.”

Heron’s steps were slow and deliberate as he walked toward her.

“Until I return from burying this.”