Chapter 16
“Damn it. Holding me up until this hour for no reason.”
As Diashi stepped down from the carriage, he muttered irritably.
The cold night air brushing against his nose was refreshing, but there was no sign of his foul mood lifting.
The Pope, who had summoned him before dawn, hadn’t released him until the sun had set and the moon had risen.
As always, nothing of substance had been exchanged between them. It was just a meeting that wasted time.
Perhaps to spite him, the Pope would sometimes call him in person just to ask after him.
Most of the conversations could easily have been handled through letters, but refusing the Pope’s summons was out of the question. Diashi had his reasons.
Standing in a corner of the garden, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket.
The tightly rolled white stick of tobacco passed from between his straight fingers to his lips.
His slightly parted red lips stood out even more against the winter night’s blue tones.
With a sharp scratch of the match, warmth unlike the surrounding chill spread around his fingers.
Lowering his head slightly, he lit the cigarette between his lips with a faint sizzle.
“Haa—”
The smoke, like a deep sigh, mingled with his frosty breath and scattered into the air.
Facing the hazy view the smoke created, it felt—just a little—like the burning thirst inside him had eased.
It had been five years since he first smoked.
Back then, feeling suffocated and with no way to relieve it, someone had offered him one.
The first cigarette he tried had been… truly disgusting.
He couldn’t understand why anyone would smoke something that tasted so awful. He’d thrown it away without even finishing half of it.
For a long while after that day, he didn’t touch tobacco again.
The second time had been on a sleepless night when thoughts of “that child” consumed him.
Thinking he might go insane, he’d tried another cigarette. It was still awful, but somehow… it tasted different from the first.
The third time was when he happened to look up and see the moon glowing in a color that reminded him of “that child.”
That night, for the first time, he understood why people smoked.
And after that third time, he stopped counting.
Because whenever thoughts of “that child” arose—day or night—he’d smoke without end. Counting became meaningless.
Five years later, smoking had become a habit for Diashi, something he reached for whenever he felt stifled.
Lifting his gaze, he looked through the bare trees, the dazzling moonlight slipping through their branches forcing him to close his eyes.
“…Haa.”
Again, hazy smoke adorned the night sky.
Eventually, he opened his eyes and silently finished his cigarette, watching the fading white traces in the air.
Feeling the heat in his fingers from holding it, he crushed the shortened cigarette in the ashtray and turned toward the mansion entrance.
He’d barely escaped one unpleasant person, only to head toward where another waited—his steps felt unbearably heavy.
Clunk—
He didn’t know how long the man had been waiting, but as soon as Diashi entered the entrance hall, Rain greeted him politely.
“You’ve returned, Your Grace.”
“Ah, Rain.”
Nodding to the ever-faithful butler, Diashi handed over his coat. Rain spoke in a flat tone.
“Today, Madam came out of her room for the first time in a while.”
“…I see.”
“She also ate more than usual in the dining room.”
Diashi hadn’t asked. He had never ordered Rain to report on Ella’s activities.
Yet Rain continued to inform him of her whereabouts—what she had done, what she had eaten, how she had spent her day—despite his apparent disinterest.
The Rain he knew was perceptive and quiet, never speaking unnecessarily.
If he was telling him about Ella, then…
‘…He’s telling me to go see her.’
It was Rain who had advised him to maintain at least the appearance of a good relationship with Ella, saying it would benefit him someday.
Diashi raised his heavy-lidded eyes, his voice reluctant.
“…Alright.”
The weary tone carried neither subject nor object, but Rain understood the hidden meaning and smiled kindly.
After returning to his room and showering, Diashi lazily toweled his damp hair.
Wearing only loose trousers and no shirt, he stepped out of the bathroom, running the towel down his neck.
Usually, he dressed with the same restraint and tidiness as his personality—buttoned up to the collar, no matter what he wore.
This disheveled look was something only seen when he was alone.
Under the soft lighting, his bare upper body was striking.
Drying himself completely, he trudged into the study connected to his bedroom.
On the desk, a glass of champagne prepared by Rain awaited him.
He picked it up naturally and took a sip, the sweet bitterness brushing past his nose before sliding down his throat.
He hadn’t slept much in the past two days, and fatigue clung to his face—but he was used to it.
Running a hand over his face, he sank into the chair, leaning back, his eyes closing on their own. He could almost fall asleep like this.
Ever since that incident five years ago, he had never known a deep sleep.
Whenever he closed his eyes, that day came back, and the shadow of that child tore through the darkness.
He feared closing his eyes. He feared falling asleep.
Afraid that the child might appear in his dreams and pour words of resentment upon him.
It was a laughably selfish fear, but it terrified him nonetheless.
He despised himself for fearing something so small, yet there was nothing he could do.
So he would push himself to the limit until he could no longer stay awake, then collapse into unconsciousness.
That was how he survived—just enough sleep to keep living.
And now, he could endure a little longer.
His half-closed lids lifted slowly, revealing blue eyes glinting under the dim light.
His pitch-black hair, like a starless night sky, gleamed softly, framing deep double-lidded eyes.
Beneath his sharply set nose, his red lips looked more tempting than any forbidden fruit.
His aura and expression gave him a sharp look, yet still drew people’s eyes.
Duke Myers, Diashi, was one of the most handsome men in the La Sierra Empire.
But it wasn’t just his looks—he was also the Empire’s sole Sword Master.
Young and already a duke, he was the most sought-after man among society’s ladies.
Marriage proposals poured in endlessly, but he ignored them all—he had no intention of marrying, nor any interest in women.
Yet he had brought Ella into his mansion to marry her—solely on the Pope’s orders.
Their impending marriage was the hottest gossip in high society, though neither of them cared.
Ella, the woman now tied to him, was not what he had expected.
Still, he could not bring himself to see her kindly.
He had known from their first meeting that she had no desire to please him.
He had no desire to please her either, so that was fine. Her quick retorts were preferable to the fake smiles of other women.
But some things about her—unintentionally—reminded him of that child. And that was hard to bear.
It wasn’t Ella’s fault; he knew that.
Silver-haired women were rare in the Empire, but not nonexistent—and Ella was blonde. The way her hair lightened in moonlight wasn’t unique to her.
The same went for her favorite fruit—plenty of people liked peaches.
He knew all that, yet it still annoyed him.
He had too many firsts with that child.
They weren’t lovers, but they were like family.
Everything they did, saw, and ate—they had shared.
Even drinking water made him think of her, even breathing made him feel sorry to her. A realization that came far too late.
It wasn’t because it was Ella—he would have disliked any woman set to be his wife.
Because it was himself, pathetic as he was, who linked everything back to that child.
In a way, he was glad Ella was the one—at least he felt no guilt in thinking of someone else when he saw her.
To him now, Ella was no more than that.
“…How much longer do I have to keep up this charade?”
He let out a self-deprecating laugh.
The bright moon slipped behind the clouds.
Time had passed—he really should go to Ella’s room.
As her supposed future husband, it was only right to check on her condition.
Truthfully, he’d been lingering in his room to avoid her.
After such a tiring day, it would do no good to encounter her while she was awake.
If she was asleep like yesterday, he could simply tell the maid he had stopped by and return to his own room.
He wanted to avoid her if possible—not that he realized how exhausted he truly was.
Throwing on a comfortable top over his bare skin, he headed out, hoping she would be asleep.
