TIHYGR CHAPTER 40

Chapter 40

The Marchioness had no intention of killing her right away. That meant this ordeal itself would not kill her. That was enough.

She had to think of what came next.

How long had she been here? Twelve hours, perhaps? If so, then soon. Just a little longer. Just a little, just a little more…

The desperate thread of thought stretched thin. Then—snap—it felt as if it broke, and suddenly, a near-scream of a voice rang vividly in her ears.

“My lady!! Stop, my lady!! Don’t look!”
“Take the young lady away, quickly!”

Her heart pounded violently against her will. Thump, thump—each beat roared in her ears. The ground beneath her seemed to crumble, destroying her balance.

Grace shook her head and sank down, covering her eyes.

But still—she saw everything.

That day, beneath a sky heavy with clouds, there was a carriage, burned pitch black until no proper form remained. From it rose endless threads of gray smoke, while the vast gardens of the Taylor dukedom were thick with acrid stench.

“My lord…! My lady…!”
“What will become of House Taylor now?”
“But the young Lady Grace still lives.”
“Can that child bear the weight of Taylor? She’s only a poor girl who’s just lost her parents.”

The servants’ pitying whispers, someone’s anguished cries, stabbed her heart like blades. A beast-like groan threatened to break from her throat. Grace clamped her mouth shut. Tears slid over her hand that covered her lips.

Don’t make a sound. They must not know you’re crying.

Before her lay the completely charred remains of her parents.

The autumn light fell upon a table set in one corner of the Richmond dukedom’s grand garden.

The table, decorated with a centerpiece made of branches from deciduous trees, was beautifully arranged with great care. The teacups before the noblewomen were from the late duchesses’ collection. The Marchioness would only bring them out on especially joyous occasions—so her followers were certain her victory was near.

“Has it been two days now that His Grace hasn’t eaten?”

“He hasn’t eaten, nor has he slept, it seems.”

At the maid’s troubled whisper, Flora’s face darkened.

“Of course. To find out the one he thought his beloved was allied with the murderers of his parents—how deep his grief must be. Perhaps if I went to him now—”

“Wait, Flora.”

The Marchioness gently cut her off, setting down her teacup. One of her maids chimed in,

“I saw the maids flee his chambers, nearly running for their lives. They whispered of how frightening it was. At such a time, going there will do no good.”

“Yes, Flora. Do as the Marchioness says.”

When Countess Lewen added her voice, Flora bowed her head, murmuring sadly,

“I only worry for his health.”

“His Grace is truly fortunate. Not only did the Marquis and Marchioness protect Richmond, but they also foresaw that vulgar woman’s schemes and thwarted them.”

“Indeed, and what’s more, he has the beautiful and kind Lady Flora waiting for him.”

At their flattery, the Marchioness smiled, eyes curved.

“Marchioness, but… has that woman still not spoken?”

At Flora’s cautious question, the Marchioness leaned back in her chair.

It had been two days since Grace was locked in the dungeon. A day and a half since she had been made to breathe in the incense that revived one’s most terrible memories. By now she would be wandering hell itself.

It was impossible to remain sane. By tomorrow at noon she might open her eyes, but in her delirium she would babble nonsense—perfect entertainment for the Grand Council.

The Marchioness smiled serenely, and a secretive smile flickered across Flora’s lips as well.

The tea table was filled with endless laughter and warmth.

By the time the sun hanging overhead tilted westward, the ladies’ tea party ended. As they returned to their estates, transparent darkness slowly swept over the world.

The maids who went to light the Duke’s chamber shivered from a chilling air that pierced their bones. On the sofa by the window sat the Duke, exuding an indescribable aura. They dared not even look at his back, much less light the candle before him. Trembling, they cleared away the untouched food and drink, then fled.

Once their presence faded, Walter opened his eyes.

The castle remained in chaos—no doubt because Jessie had yet to be found. Joseph had not returned with news, but he would not be late.

Meanwhile, the Marquis’ faction, unaware they were walking into a trap, had sent word: the Grand Council would be held at noon tomorrow. Before all of Richmond’s vassals, they would prove Grace’s guilt and drag the Duke’s authority through the dirt.

No word had come from Eliza yet, but everything was proceeding as planned. And yet—with each passing hour, it drove him mad.

Grace was locked in the underground cell. They said that once confined there, even parent and child, even life itself was forgotten; one begged for mercy until the mind finally broke.

“If, by any chance, I cannot endure… then as you said, you may abandon me.”

Walter scrubbed his face harshly. His black eyes, caught between his long fingers, sank deep. Yet his chest surged violently, as though a stormy sea was raging inside.

There was no reason for such turmoil.

Grace Taylor—she was more than capable of enduring. But even if she broke, even if she lost her mind—that too could be a card in his hand. Either way, he would not lose.

And yet—the darker the night grew, the more violently that sea roiled.

Emerald eyes, the warmth of her body against his, the soft touch that fit into his palm, her smile—meaningless moments, yet they lingered like scars that refused to heal.

Then he remembered that moment.

“Do you know my name?”

A ridiculous question, and yet she had nodded. With the motion, her golden hair had swayed.

Time had slowed, then stopped. Walter stared at the memory, breathless.

The moment he met those clear eyes in his mind’s eye, he leapt to his feet. The ruins of composure he had guarded collapsed, and he moved with startling swiftness.

The Marquis had stationed soldiers at his door to imprison him, but it was meaningless.

The Linco Marquisate had tried desperately to uncover the secret passage known only to dukes and duchesses of Richmond, but had failed. For the key—the ducal signet ring, which opened all doors of the castle—was in Walter’s possession.

He went to the bath adjoining his chambers. On the wall was a mosaic of an eagle.

Twisting open the signet on his finger, he set it against the eagle’s eye. With a click, he pushed the wall. What had seemed solid stone opened to reveal a dark passage. From its depths, the wind howled like a beast’s cry.

Once he shut the entrance, his lantern was the only light in the world.

Before and behind, only blackness stretched, endless. No beginning, no end. No guide, no companion.

Unfamiliar cold and suffocating solitude pressed down on him.

One step, two steps—his strides grew longer. Soon he was running.

He passed through endless turning corridors, descended what felt like thousands of steps, until at last the abyssal depths of the castle revealed themselves.

He extinguished the lantern, in case of danger. Darkness and silence closed in like solid forms.

It was said the castle dungeon needed no guards. Indeed, it was true. His own breathing echoed loudly, water dripping sounded as though it was the only sound in the world.

Once certain no guards were present, Walter relit his lantern. He approached the black iron door. The closer he came, the stronger the fragrance—a scent that dulled the mind. To those unknowing, it was merely “floral.” But once one had seen its true form, one never forgot.

The scent of the Nightmare Flower, blooming only beyond the walls of death—the very root of all this.

Walter quickly searched for the source. It must be incense, or a stick, or something burning. Near the door he found gray ash lodged in the stone.

“…res…”

A faint breath brushed his ear. Walter froze, holding his breath, straining to hear.

Had he imagined it? A hallucination wrought by the flower’s scent? Or a dream that had already crumbled?

“…Ares…”

No. Not illusion, not dream. When the voice came again, he hurriedly opened the door. Inside, Grace lay curled on the floor. He rushed to her side, lifting her up. She was unconscious, her body damp and chilled to the bone. At this rate, hypothermia would claim her. He pulled her into his arms, pressing her against him.

Her slender body trembled. The Nightmare scent dragged forth her worst memories—she was surely wandering hell. Her lovely brow was twisted, her lips bitten raw. Then, like a leaking breeze, a frail voice escaped.

“…Ares…”

The word, carrying her soul, flowed into his ear and pooled in his heart.

He parted his lips, struggling, and finally whispered back—

“…I’m here.”