Chapter 4
“What is it? Can you not endure the night without a light, Ramberta Coronis?”
Even though she hadn’t made a sound, the man somehow sensed her awareness and spoke.
His accent was distinctly southern—sharp, deliberate—yet the way he spoke her name clung to her ear, dark and smooth like smoke.
The voice, low and fluid without the rasp of arrogance, carried an allure that could easily win favor.
Even the faint mockery, the quiet arrogance, the cold edge in his tone might have been forgiven—
if only this were not such a moment.
“…Who are you? How did you get into my room?”
Ramberta pressed a trembling hand against her chest and slowly moved back toward the wall.
Her voice, thankfully, came out steady—calmer than the pounding of her heart.
Perhaps it was Erwin’s near-paranoid insistence on tightening the household’s defenses that had prepared her for such a nightmare.
The man, seated in the shadows, made no sign of answering.
He simply tapped the armrest of the chair with one finger, an even rhythm, as if measuring time.
“Answer me right now—or I’ll call for someone!”
Only then did his lips part.
“Go on, then. Call them. That way, at least, I’ll be able to answer the last of your questions.”
He leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, utterly unconcerned—
a man certain that no one would burst through that door in time.
“…That’s impossible.”
The words slipped from her before she could stop them.
Outside her door were two guards; four more patrolled the corridor.
For anyone to subdue all six silently and reach her room… it defied belief.
Could a single man truly do such a thing?
Ramberta, no expert in violence, could hardly imagine it.
“Is that all you have to say?”
His voice cooled, disappointment threading through the sigh that followed.
Ramberta gripped the sheets tightly.
“No… no, it’s not. You’re from the North, aren’t you?”
She forced herself to study him—the dim outline of his shoulders, the faint glint of metal at his belt.
“You think the North blames you for Dione’s death?” he asked.
“Your clothes are northern make,” Ramberta replied quietly. “Your tongue sounds southern, but your words—certain turns of phrase—betray a restrained northern accent. You call me ‘young lady,’ not ‘milady.’”
“And?”
“The only people who’d come to see me now are those demanding compensation for the wedding tragedy. But if a northerner slips into my room at night, unseen by anyone…”
She swallowed hard.
“…then you’re here for something else entirely.”
The man exhaled—deeply, almost like a growl that resonated through the dark.
He uncrossed his legs, straightened, and tapped the chair’s arm again.
“Go on.”
“I don’t know much about northern law,” Ramberta continued, her voice growing tight.
“But it must be something that couldn’t be demanded openly in the light of day.”
Her lips trembled.
“…Perhaps you’ve come to take my life—in payment for Dione’s.”
Then she saw it: the hilt of a sword at his hip.
Death itself, given shape.
“If that were my aim,” he said evenly, “I would have done it before you awoke. I’ve had no shortage of chances.”
“…Maybe you wanted me to understand why before I died.”
A brief laugh slipped from him—short, amused, without warmth.
He rose and walked toward the candle’s faint flame.
He cupped it lightly between his fingers, watching it quiver.
“A fine guess,” he murmured. “So that’s what the South thinks of the North. Or perhaps you simply long for revenge more than you admit?”
“No… it’s only a deduction. And that candle—”
Before she could finish, the flame died without a sound.
Only a wisp of smoke lingered.
Moonlight, pale and thin, brushed over the black leather of his clothes—and was swallowed whole.
Darkness devoured the room.
Ramberta felt the blood drain from her face.
The man was still there, alive, unseen, and dangerous.
Her fingers began to tremble.
“Ramberta Coronis.”
Without a sound of footsteps, he was suddenly beside her bed.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight.
She held her breath.
Fear pressed down on her chest like iron—but it was not unfamiliar.
For nights now, she had seen his shadow in her dreams, that dark figure haunting the edge of her vision.
Perhaps this was the end—the moment the reaper, who had only watched until now, came to claim her.
“…I didn’t do anything. Truly, I didn’t. So if you mean to kill me… please, make it quick.”
Her words came out broken by shallow breaths.
Even the sound of breathing seemed too loud in that silence.
“You’re an interesting woman,” he said at last. “Now I see why Dione accepted you so easily.”
But what followed defied her fears.
He leaned forward, eclipsing even the faint light of the moon.
What touched her throat was not a blade—but his hand.
His skin was warm. Too warm.
Ramberta’s breath escaped her lips in a startled gasp.
“Still such a sheltered girl,” he murmured. “Why assume the only thing I want from you is your life?”
His hand slid behind her neck, fingers grazing her skin.
He tugged lightly at her night-gown, the silk whispering against her shoulder.
“…Don’t—don’t do that…”
Ramberta pushed at him desperately.
Her fingers met coarse leather—unyielding—and she realized she could not move him an inch.
“So. Have you found the will to answer now?”
“…Wh-what do you mean by that?”
Even her struggle couldn’t shake him.
But instead of pressing further, his voice lowered, almost teasing.
“Have you forgotten already? I asked if you could endure the night without a light.”
Ramberta stared into the dark, disbelief and anger mixing in her chest.
“…You’re one of those men who prefers to show rather than say, aren’t you?”
“A woman who understands action over words,” he said flatly.
Then his touch changed—no longer intimate, no longer cruel, but oddly deliberate.
“What are you… trying to do?”
“Relax,” he murmured. “It’s just a half-reward… for your half-answer.”
And in that shrouded room, beneath the breath of extinguished flame,
the night pressed in—
thick with danger, mystery, and something far stranger than death.
