Chapter 28
I was taken aback.
“What do you mean?”
Theo slowly began to tell me Tristan’s story.
Tristan entered the Duke’s household when he was about seven years old. By then, his mother had already passed away.
Everything about Tristan’s mother and his life before coming to the Duke’s house had been completely erased—so thoroughly that even Theo couldn’t find any trace of it.
Like any other servant, Tristan did odd jobs, and around the age of ten, he began working in the stables.
It was far too much for a child to handle. Perhaps that was why some of the other servants occasionally helped him.
“But strange things kept happening to those people.”
“Strange things?”
“Misfortunes. Sudden accidents, children falling ill, houses catching fire…”
A chill ran through me.
One-off misfortunes are things no one can prevent. But if they happen over and over again, who would call it mere coincidence?
I sensed the dark, oppressive shadow hidden in Theo’s words.
“Don’t tell me… the Duke…”
Theo nodded grimly.
“There are people like that. People who believe that to truly control someone, you must take everything from them. To break a person, you crush everything that makes them happy. Piece by piece, meticulously, relentlessly, they strip away that person’s world until nothing is left but ruin.”
Anger, tightly suppressed, flickered in Theo’s green eyes. Looking at them, I could feel this wasn’t just about Duke Achenbach.
“I don’t know if he realizes what the Duke is doing, or if he just thinks he’s cursed. But Lucy, imagine it. If everyone who shows you even a little kindness keeps getting hurt, what would you do?”
“…I’d push them away.”
The answer slipped from me before I realized it. Then I startled at my own words.
“So they wouldn’t be dragged into misfortune because of me… even if I had to force it…”
My throat closed up. The words caught, stuck there, and I couldn’t keep speaking.
The tip of my nose stung. Tears threatened again.
Since when had I decided that it was better to be devoured by loneliness than to risk hurting others?
Tristan was only fifteen years old this year. How many wounds, how much pain had it taken to drive him into such desolation?
From the first day I went to him, all he had wanted was to push me away.
My nails dug so hard into my palms that it hurt. The grief rose for a moment—but then rage surged up, far stronger.
“Why does Duke Achenbach do this?”
I glared at Theodora. She wasn’t the one who deserved my fury, but I couldn’t stop my expression from hardening in anger.
“He’s his child! He even brought him into the household. If he didn’t want him, he could’ve abandoned him in the street or… or quietly killed him when he was young. Why this?”
I wasn’t saying death would have been better. I just couldn’t comprehend the Duke’s actions.
Bastard child or not, Tristan was still his blood—and before that, he was just a child who deserved protection. So why bring him in, make him toil, and sabotage anyone who showed him kindness? What did the Duke want from Tristan?
“I don’t know exactly.”
Theo frowned deeply.
“But one thing’s certain… The Duke sees some kind of use in him.”
“Use?”
“I don’t know what. But it must be there. Otherwise, the Duke wouldn’t bother interfering so thoroughly in the life of a bastard child. Taking him in, then isolating him completely—there’s a purpose behind all of it.”
What could anyone possibly gain by tormenting a child? I couldn’t even guess.
I fell silent, my expression heavy, and Theo gently patted my shoulder.
“You know, Lucy? You might not believe this right now, but I think you did the right thing.”
I looked up at her, and she smiled at me—like a kind older sister.
“Telling him your true feelings. That you wanted him to be happy.”
“But because of that, Tristan doesn’t want to see me anymore…”
I sniffled as I answered. Theo took my hand in hers. Calloused and rough, but so warm.
“Of course. That’s exactly why this is a chance.”
She grinned mischievously at me.
“Let’s show him. That you’re someone who can shatter any misfortune.”
It was a moonless night. Tristan lay in a corner of the stable, struggling to fall asleep.
The horses couldn’t seem to rest either. Now and then, he heard hooves scrape the ground.
It had been nearly a week since he last took them outside. No wonder they were restless. By now, even the other servants must think it strange. Tristan had always woken at the same hour and carried out the same routine every day.
Tomorrow, no matter what, he would take the horses out.
His face stayed as blank as ever, but unlike the calm surface, his body tossed and turned, unable to find comfort.
No position felt right. Not because he was lying on hay over the hard stable floor, but because something inside was unsettled.
The thought of going outside tomorrow—and knowing she would not be there—made his chest tighten.
And suddenly, he realized. Why he had endured beatings for neglecting the horses, why he had locked himself inside the estate for nearly a week.
He had thought he was avoiding her. But what he had truly been avoiding was her absence.
He hadn’t wanted to face the meadow, the blue sky, the blooming wildflowers—without her there.
In the end, Tristan gave up on sleep and sat up. One of the horses noticed and stared at him with concern.
“I’m fine,” he muttered. His voice was dry, rasping.
The horse shook its head, as if disagreeing.
Looking into its dark eyes, Tristan suddenly remembered a cat he’d once known.
It was back when he had just arrived at the Duke’s estate. Everything was strange, and no one treated him kindly. He was small, shrunken in on himself.
The cat had been a stray that wandered into the back garden sometimes. Black-furred, golden-eyed, cautious with everyone—but oddly affectionate with Tristan.
When he reached out, the cat came and rubbed against him without hesitation. It felt warm, like standing before a hearth.
That brief friendship didn’t last. Ludwig once caught him with the cat, and without a word, struck it down in front of him.
“Don’t smile. It disgusts me,” Ludwig had said, and walked away. Tristan had sat frozen, staring at the bloody little body for a long time.
And things like that kept happening.
The cook who once brought him warm soup when he was sick died of a plague. The milkman who tossed him butter candies vanished without a trace. The new gardener who laughed that Tristan reminded him of his own son had to leave suddenly—his son’s funeral awaited him.
Every time Tristan’s heart began to thaw, someone stamped out the spark.
So he stopped smiling. Every time he thought he might, he imagined Ludwig’s sword flashing down.
Even in dreams, he wasn’t free. One moment he was stroking his beloved cat, or embraced in the hazy memory of his mother’s arms—and the next, Ludwig stood before him.
When he woke from dreams of being cut apart, Tristan would touch his face in terror, afraid he might still bear the trace of a smile.
As he grew, he pulled further away from people. Most of the estate’s staff treated him like a ghost anyway. And Tristan, unable to accept anyone’s kindness, became used to it.
Somewhere along the way, he forgot how to smile.
And then one day, Lucillia appeared in his life. Like a meteor suddenly blazing across the night sky.
The moment she greeted him in the meadow, he remembered her. He hadn’t seen her face at the birthday festival—but he remembered her voice.
Clear, beautiful, firm. A voice that seemed to seize his soul, as though he’d known it forever.
He remembered her. And yet, he pushed her away.
It didn’t matter that she was a princess. Rejecting people, killing hope—it was as natural to him as breathing.
He expected nothing from her. Only wished she would vanish, so his painful peace could return.
But Lucillia simply wouldn’t give up.
Strangely, even when he was rude, she never got angry. No—she seemed to enjoy it. By the second day, he’d stopped answering her at all, but she still came, chirping like a little bird until she left.
Once, when he caught himself watching as she ate a day-old sandwich, he was startled. Royals were supposed to drink water from golden cups, weren’t they? She felt more like an impostor than a real princess.
Who was she, really? Was she truly royalty? Why did she keep coming to him? What did she want?
Before he knew it, even when she wasn’t there, he was thinking of her.
One day, too hungry, he ate a piece of bread she’d left. That was all. Yet the next day, she rejoiced as if it were a miracle. She squealed that from tomorrow, she’d bring her own lunch too.
And then, in his mind, an image appeared—
A meadow under a bright spring sky, two people sitting together on the grass, sharing a picnic, smiling as though nothing in the world could touch them.
The sight terrified him.
Don’t smile. It disgusts me.
He almost heard Ludwig’s voice.
So, as always, he turned his back and fled.
But it didn’t bring peace. He worried—was she hurt? Would she stop coming altogether?
He had wanted nothing more than for her to stop. And yet now he was afraid of losing her.
The next day, when he went to the meadow, she was there. Smiling, radiant as sunlight, as though nothing had happened.
Only then did Tristan finally admit it—he had changed. Something in him was no longer the same.
And at this rate, he would never be able to push Lucillia away.
No matter how much distance he tried to put between them, she would only close it, stepping toward him without hesitation.
