Chapter 7
The man pushed the door open with a thud, unmoved even as a burly servant clung to it from the other side in vain.
Ramberta knew that voice for only the briefest of moments—yet after replaying it over and over in her head throughout the day, it had become achingly familiar.
A faint scent lingered in the winter air. The cold tang of leather.
Her sight had failed her that night, but her other senses now confirmed what her eyes could not.
“No… it can’t be. That was just a dream…”
The conclusion that had brought her relief only moments ago was shattered instantly.
She wanted to deny it, yet every vivid memory—the sound, the scent, the weight of the air—told her this man was the one from last night.
“Thank you for showing the way. You should go tend to the ones who’ve collapsed.”
The man caught the servant’s desperate hand and flung him aside as if handling a child.
Then, step by deliberate step, he crossed the threshold and entered the reception room.
Thud.
The door closed behind him, sealing them in silence.
Ramberta tried to convince herself she was mistaken.
Perhaps her thoughts had been clouded by the memories she’d obsessed over all day.
But he gave her no time to think—only stood there, unflinching, as if granting her permission to look.
His eyes were a deep, reddish-brown rare to both North and South—like a serpent’s that coiled and struck in a single motion.
When she realized their gazes had met, Ramberta quickly lowered her eyes.
He had black hair common among Northerners, and a sharply defined face beneath it.
A strong brow, a proud nose, a mouth that seemed made for silence.
And beneath it all—
Evil.
That was the first word that came to her.
His face, all edges and restraint, exuded a frightening composure. It was the kind of stillness that made violence seem sacred, and even cruelty, ascetic.
She had prided herself on never being swayed by appearances—yet she found herself wondering, absurdly, what his face might look like if he smiled.
But somehow, she knew—instinctively—that he had never done so.
He was like a statue a mad sculptor might carve in homage to a goddess of chastity—then, spurned by her, would bury a shard of frozen glacier where the heart should have been.
A man with a glacier for a heart could steal a goddess’s love,
but would never know how to return it.
“Lady Eudora has made a grave mistake,”
he said at last, voice calm and cold.
“What? What mistake? And—who are you?”
He looked at her as though she were a child who had asked something foolish. His eyes gave away nothing, not anger, not amusement.
Instead of answering, he inclined his head slightly, gesturing for her to sit—as though this were his house and not hers.
“You’ll tell me who you are first. Otherwise, I’ll call the guards.”
“You may scream all you wish. I doubt any will come. The famed Coronis sentinels—thirty men at most? Rather careless, after what befell at the wedding.”
“What have you done?”
“Nothing fatal, if that’s your concern. Though…”
He brushed past her, pulled a chair back, and with an almost mocking grace, motioned for her to sit.
“The servants of Coronis were kind enough to tell me their lady had recently collapsed. It would be a pity if I let you fall again.”
Ramberta froze.
If what he said was true, then he had broken through her own fortress’s gates.
The servants’ earlier interference must have been an attempt to keep him from her.
And if the guards were still alive, none had raised the alarm.
He was right—no one would come.
“Fine. But in return, you’ll tell me who you are, and why you’re doing this.”
“You drive quite the bargain, my lady. I offer courtesy, and you demand payment.”
He tapped the chair’s back twice, leisurely, with his fingers.
“No. I’m offering you courtesy. If I were to remain standing, you would earn the disgrace.”
That answer made him still. Then, without a word, he waited as she seated herself.
He pushed the chair in, then sat beside her—close enough for her to hear his slow, even breathing.
The quiet pressed in on them.
Without Erwin, without guards, without anyone.
Her solitude became her armor.
She lifted her chin. She was still Ramberta Coronis—the last heir of Coronis—and this was still her domain.
The man’s gaze stayed on her. There was something hauntingly familiar in it.
I’ve seen him before. Not in last night’s dream… somewhere else.
He exhaled softly, then spoke again.
“So. You still don’t know who I am, or why I’ve come?”
“Of course not. You’ve stormed my home without reason. I have every right to ask.”
He gave a short, dry laugh.
“Disappointing. I’d hoped you’d remember. But very well—perhaps you’ll remember this.”
Suddenly, he seized her wrist. His movements seemed unhurried, yet she couldn’t react in time. He guided her trembling hand to his shoulder.
Beneath the layers of his coat, her palm brushed against something—fabric, then a small hidden clasp.
“What… what are you doing?”
“If something is fastened, it must be undone.”
“You’re insane. Do I look like someone who would—?”
“Why not? Unless you’re still bound by mourning. Or do widows of your kind count the days of grief before they look upon another man?”
Ramberta felt a rush of heat—rage, shame, revulsion—all at once.
For the first time in her life, she wanted to strike someone across the face.
“How dare you…”
But before she could move, his grip tightened, unyielding.
“You think I’d stay silent while you insult me? Even if the kingdom calls me a widow draped in lace—!”
“Enough noise. Look—and see what your virtue left behind.”
He forced her hand down, undoing the clasp himself, and pulled the coat aside.
She turned her face away in disgust, but he caught her chin and made her look.
“……!”
She stopped breathing.
Across his collarbone, beneath rough scars and faded wounds, lay a single unmistakable mark—
A bite.
Not from an animal, but human.
And in that instant, every blurred, fevered image she had dismissed as a dream came roaring back to life.
“So. You see it now, don’t you?”
“The virtuous widow of House Coronis—leaving teeth marks on another man’s skin one night, and pretending ignorance the next. How very noble of you.”
