#33. The Scars I Don’t Know
Damp air seeped in through tightly sealed cracks, moistening the space within. In the darkness, only faint breaths betrayed the presence of life. A pair of red eyes glowed alone in the shadows, gazing down at softly parted lips that released shallow breaths.
Unlike human eyes that failed to see properly without light, he had been born with eyes that pierced through darkness. His body, his abilities — they were closer to a beast’s than a man’s.
Tarahan had once made those who called him a beast scream like slaughtered pigs, yet he didn’t deny it entirely — half of it was true.
In the capital, he had never been considered human. Just as those with pale skin and blue eyes had treated him like an animal, Tarahan too had never regarded them as his kind.
He looked down at the slow, even breaths beneath him. Her blue eyes — usually clear and gentle — were now shut tight. The woman who seemed incapable of harboring any malice lay perfectly straight even in her sleep. The goddess’s white lily, her stem broken, now rested within his bedchamber.
Should I just kill her now?
His large, dark hand reached for her throat. Even without applying strength, the image alone was threatening. Of course, the villain was him. And he would always remain so.
“…Mmm.”
A small moan escaped between her flushed lips. The hand that had grasped her throat now caressed them instead.
On the day the count had attempted to carry out the crown prince’s command, Tarahan had taken Ninia into his arms.
The more he held her, the more something surged inside him — something he could not name. And yet, his mind remained cold and sharp throughout.
The deeper his doubts grew, the more his marks multiplied across her body. Her pale skin flushed red under his grasp. Even when he had once caught her gaze, he had never felt this strange sense of satisfaction.
By that point, Ninia had already half lost consciousness. Her limp body beneath him burned his mind black with heat. But the strange texture beneath his fingers suddenly snapped his thoughts back into focus.
What is this?
His calloused hand brushed her back — where the skin should have been smooth. Long, uneven lines. Shorter ones too. Scars, like childish doodles, where the flesh had once burst and swollen before healing imperfectly.
When he turned her over, the uneasy feeling solidified into certainty. Her white back was marred — the unmistakable marks of whipping.
He ran his hand down the raised scars. They weren’t fresh, but not old enough to fade completely either.
Looking down at her limp, unconscious body, Tarahan called for a servant. When the order was passed along, one of the duchess’s maids was soon brought before him.
The maid’s face froze in shock upon seeing Ninia in his chamber, but she also seemed too nervous to question why she was there.
This woman’s back bears scars, he said.
A personal maid couldn’t possibly have missed such a thing. After some hesitation, the maid confessed what she knew.
“She said she punished herself.”
“Herself?”
Tarahan frowned deeply. The maid, flustered, added more.
“She said… it’s what believers of the goddess do.”
Self-punishment? He almost laughed — it was so absurd.
To raise such welts on one’s own back — the skin swollen and torn — one would have to beat themselves with every ounce of strength. Some lines looked like she’d struck the same spot again and again until it split open.
He knew instinctively that when people hurt themselves, they hesitate. But there was no trace of hesitation on Ninia’s back.
Crazy zealots.
Tarahan didn’t dwell on it. He knew such reasoning only applied to sane people — and none of the goddess’s worshippers ever were.
Every last one of them was mad. This woman was simply better at hiding it. Somewhere in her mind, she was already broken.
He dismissed the maid. Even with footsteps coming and going, Ninia didn’t stir. Her body curled in on itself, her back hunching — the scars shifting like serpents under her skin. It irked him.
He looked at her lying in his bed and thought another thought.
I should fix that habit of hers.
The realization startled even him. Did that mean he intended to keep her around? The idea was madness.
Whether she slit her wrists for fun or slapped herself senseless — it had nothing to do with him. And yet, it bothered him enough to want to know why.
…Right. I haven’t had my fill yet.
He quickly found a convenient reason. Ninia still needed to live — she’d come here for that purpose, and he had taken her only because she was useful.
He hated the goddess — and everything that worshiped her. His hatred had begun before he’d even taken his first breath.
Why had the man of the empire’s noblest blood taken to his bed a woman of a despised, filthy tribe?
That had been Tarahan’s first grudge against the goddess.
His rage was rooted in birth itself, and it would not fade until the day his stubborn life finally ended.
He leaned down and whispered into the ear of the woman who seemed too weak even to breathe.
“I hope the goddess hasn’t abandoned you yet.”
To Tarahan, Ninia was a tool — something that could wound the goddess. Since even the goddess valued small creatures for their use, perhaps Ninia still rested within her divine grasp.
The hand that had been brushing her lips cupped her cheek. Her skin, always cooler than his, had nearly reached his own body temperature.
She’s running a fever.
She would pale after just a few words, faint after a few embraces. Such a fragile thing. He could hear her heartbeat in his ears — the rhythm of a living being, struggling to survive, heating itself, only to fall ill for days. The fact that she was alive — not a doll — fascinated him.
Perhaps I’ll let her breathe a little.
If he meant to tame her properly, letting her breathe might not be such a bad thing. Should he tighten his grip — or loosen it? His hand hesitated, then withdrew from her body.
Instead of strangling her, Tarahan called out,
“Fetch the doctor. Have him examine her here.”
The servant unconsciously glanced at his master’s face. But the duke looked perfectly fine. Only when his eyes fell on the woman lying in bed did understanding dawn.
“Are you deaf?”
“N–No, sir! I’ll bring him immediately.”
The servant bowed deeply and fled the room — whether to find the doctor or to escape, even he couldn’t tell. The hallway’s silence shattered under his hurried steps.
The Grand Duke was known for his tolerance — he’d taken in war refugees and beggars alike — but he was also known to eliminate anything that displeased him. Just like the nobleman he had thrown out into the corridor mere hours ago.
⋯
Crov carried his doctor’s bag down the corridor. He was on his way to attend to the Grand Duchess. But this time, the location was different.
Last time she was in a room that was practically falling apart.
He’d heard from a maid that the former saintess was now resting in the duke’s own chamber. So her treatment’s changed, has it? he thought, twitching his nose in mild amusement.
Well, the rumors lately have been favorable.
Since the nobles from the capital had been sent away, talk around the castle had shifted — for the better.
Unlike other aristocrats, the Grand Duchess hadn’t abused her title. Some even said she had helped them. Those who once called her a traitor were now reconsidering their words.
Good. That’s a relief.
If a frail body carried a wounded heart, it would deteriorate even faster. Crov hoped the softened atmosphere of the castle might help the woman from a foreign land.
At last, he reached the duke’s chamber and knocked. After a faint voice granted permission, he entered.
“Once again, I’m in your debt,” he greeted.
“Don’t mention it.”
Leaning back against the headboard, the duchess smiled gently at him. Crov answered gruffly and set his bag down beside the chair.
She looks better today.
He had been visiting the duke’s chambers for several days now. Each time he’d seen her flushed with fever, and each time, it unsettled him.
As an orphan, Crov had been taken in by a physician — a man who made him both servant and apprentice. Later, Crov became known for cutting open corpses of the unclaimed dead to study what lay within.
He had dissected countless human bodies — yet had never once found where feelings or souls might reside.
He sometimes thought: perhaps the flesh belongs to man, but whatever is unseen — that must belong to the gods.
