Chapter 7

“…Gasp!”

He jolted awake, his breath coming in ragged, desperate lunges as if he had just been hauled from the crushing depths of an abyss.

Cold sweat slicked Rochshan Owin’s skin as a grease-soaked wick sputtered to life before him, its flickering flame cutting through the oppressive gloom. Emerging from the shadows behind the light was Kyle Blackburn—the Count’s servant of sixteen years and the man with whom he shared his bed in a nightly, sordid entanglement.

A man possessed by lust.

Even the previous night, Kyle had pursued him as he tried to flee on his hands and knees, catching him by the door handle and driving into him with the relentless ferocity of a wild dog. As a result, Rochshan’s hips throbbed with a dull ache, and his lower abdomen felt heavy. Their tryst had continued long after that, yet Rochshan, like a somnambulist performing for an invisible audience, had no memory of the hours leading into dawn. He could only scowl at the stinging pain radiating through his body.

“Had that nightmare again, have you?”

The sudden question caught Rochshan off guard, momentarily stifling his reply. It had been an unmistakable nightmare, a grotesque procession of the dead: a bird with a snapped neck, a cat with its entrails spilled across the floor, the wet nurse who had drowned in the well alongside her son whose tongue had been cruelly excised. Finally, there was his fencing master—left reeling in despair after being cast out, his groin mangled and bloodied beside a straw mat.

The vividness of the dream’s cast made Rochshan’s stomach churn, and a sharp migraine began to needle his temples. Despite the bile rising in his throat, his stubbornness flared, prompting a cynical retort.

“Ha… You idiot. Do you consider a dream featuring one’s beloved parents a nightmare?”

Indeed, his parents had graced his dreams for the first time in ages, though they were far from whole. In the dream, his mother had been hanging upside down, laughing. She was drenched in so much blood that even her thick hair had turned a visceral crimson. His father lay cradled in her arms, his skull pierced by a wooden stake. Thud. One of his father’s eyeballs had fallen out, rolling across the floor of the tilted carriage. Rochshan would never forget the slick, vitreous texture of that orb against his young fingernails—just as he could never escape the recurring reenactment of that day.

Rochshan knew all too well that he survived today only by consuming their lives. He didn’t know how much of his parents’ “life-price” remained, but—absurdly enough—this was his “special talent.”

His mother, who had passed this horrific ability down to him, had always been boastful, claiming that at her age, she would be considered a high elder among the Desert Clan. Rochshan didn’t know how many deaths she had exploited to ensure her own survival, nor did he want to know. Yet, even she had met an early end, failing to see her fortieth year.

“My son, our lives are breathtakingly short and cruel,” his mother used to whisper, her eyes—so like his own—shining with a brilliant, predatory light. “There is no such thing as a long-lived parasite. But even those who cannot take root have their own way of surviving. To live one more day, you need only offer your love as a sacrifice. Do whatever it takes to possess what you want. If you cannot have it, take it by force.”

Now, only those ingrained teachings remained. She had told him it didn’t matter how wicked the deed was.

Take it by force. But for how long? It was a question that would never find an answer.

In that sense, his aunt Margaret Owin—who had been a bitter enemy to his mother—wasn’t entirely spouting nonsense. While her accusations of his mother’s lewdness were outright lies, she wasn’t wrong to point a finger at their “wicked and devious bloodline.” He wondered how much his father had known before marrying her. He likely knew everything, yet, much like Rochshan once had, he probably dismissed it all as nothing more than an absurd folk legend.

The father and son had been that naive, right up until the family departed for their summer villa beyond Mount Horia to escape the late August heat. The carriage accident that claimed the lives of the Count and Countess Owin tore the life of their only son—a life previously painted in every happy color imaginable—to shreds. Trapped inside the wreckage as it teetered precariously on a cliff edge by a single rear wheel, the ten-year-old Rochshan had awakened in terror. The curse lurking in his blood had finally begun.

“Ngh…”

A thin groan escaped the Count’s gritted teeth. Behind his tightly shut eyelids, the corpses clung to him as they always did. Faces flashed in the darkness like flickering strobes—the faces of everyone who had once captured Rochshan’s heart.

“Oh dear, you shouldn’t throw around the word ‘love’ so lightly.”

He should have listened to his mother’s laughing advice. Even if he had thought it was nothing more than a twisted fairy tale, he should never have broken the restrictions of the desert. If he hadn’t, perhaps he could have avoided this ending—this solitary survival in a gruesome sea of blood.

But now, it was all nothing more than a late, unshakable regret. Just as Rochshan’s breathing began to turn ragged with self-loathing, the servant shrugged, having finally finished contemplating Rochshan’s earlier question about parents in dreams. He offered a glass of lukewarm water with practiced timing, his conclusion as simple as could be.

“I wouldn’t know. I’d have to have parents to tell the difference.”

Cough!

Rochshan, who had been drinking greedily, choked and began to cough violently. The nerve of this son of a bitch.

From Kyle Blackburn’s perspective, it was a logical statement. A dragon does not have humans for parents, just as a human would never consider a dragon a brother or a child. Consequently, he had no idea what kind of blasphemy he had just uttered. Rochshan stared at him, aghast, wondering what kind of creature he was dealing with, only for Kyle to follow up with a nonchalant question.

“So, did both of them appear in your dream?”

“…Everyone who needed to appear was there.”

“Even Isabelle?”

Oh, for God’s sake. The young Count, who had been buried exhaustedly in his bed, bolted upright, grabbing whatever was within reach to strike the arrogant bastard.

“What? Say that again. ‘Isabelle’? Is the former Countess some childhood friend of yours? How dare you address her so familiarly!”

“Ah, why are you like this? She was the one who suggested we speak comfortably before she pass—”

“I don’t care! My mother was always someone who didn’t give a damn about etiquette!”

Rochshan, screaming until the veins in his neck bulged, suddenly froze. “What is this?”

“Ah.”

As Kyle raised his forearm to block a flying pillow, a long gash on the underside of his arm was exposed. The wound looked as though it had been torn open by a heavy blade, and fresh blood still slicked his skin.

Instantly, the Count’s face turned deathly pale.

Kyle Blackburn smirked inwardly. He had harmed himself intentionally just to see this expression. The sight of Rochshan’s distress acted as a balm for his chronic emotional starvation.

“How unfortunate. I must have injured myself somewhere.”

It was a blatant lie. Kyle, stripped to the waist and wearing only a pair of loose trousers, feigned an air of clumsy misfortune. He deliberately prodded at Rochshan’s old trauma, acting as if he had accidentally touched a sore spot.

“I told you never to get hurt!”

Rochshan lunged, his foot lashing out in a sudden kick. Ugh. As Kyle stumbled from the fierce blow, Rochshan was on him like lightning. Slap! Without giving the slave a moment to breathe, he struck Kyle hard across the cheek.

“What were you doing? Which bitch did you meet? What bastard were you having a tryst with? What did you give them to end up wounded like this?”

Rochshan ground his teeth in a fit of rage. It was exactly the reaction Kyle had hoped for. Kyle’s internal laughter bubbled up. Isn’t this how it always is? he thought. I confirm his affection through this fierce jealousy and anger. He didn’t mind the beating; he actually enjoyed it.

“You crawled out like a rat while I was asleep. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

In truth, Rochshan had realized Kyle had been out the moment he woke up. The man smelled of the same oil used in the lamps—a blatant hint Kyle had left of his “infidelity.”

The rain had stopped, but the bleak traces of the dawn remained. It wasn’t the monsoon season, yet the late summer rains had been exceptionally heavy this year. Because of the frequent frost, a fire was already roaring in the fireplace across from the bed. It provided a perfect excuse for a secret meeting. He could simply claim he had gone to fetch firewood and oil to warm the bedroom. There was also a faint scent of damp moss and wet grass lingering in Kyle’s hair, suggesting he had treaded through the garden.

“If you didn’t want to get caught, you shouldn’t have bled!”

Even Rochshan’s lips, which had retained a healthy color despite his exhaustion, turned pale. He feared nothing more than his slave being injured. Tinnitus began to ring in his ears as his exploding nerves frayed. To make matters worse, the ghosts began their frantic clamor, making the world around him spin in a dizzying haze.

Look at this.

I told you this bastard would end up dead without a word.

Look at that wound, look at all that blood. An inch deeper and it would’ve hit an artery. What a shame to miss such a spectacle. You should’ve seen him—gasping his last breath as he dragged a trail of blood to your door. The sight of those grey, staring eyes would’ve been something to behold. Only after death would he have realized… it’s all because of you, Rochshan Owin.

At least Isabelle would have cheered!

Rochshan’s head throbbed. As he gasped for air and glared at Kyle, the mockery from the faces circling him grew increasingly intense. Their laughter rose to an unbearable, shrill pitch.

The queen of these mangled, slaughtered corpses was Isabelle, his mother. She danced at the furthest horizon of his memories, her hair fluttering in the wind. Her lips moved, chattering endlessly, but he could no longer tell what language she was speaking—whether it was encouragement, pity, or ridicule directed at her foolish son.

No one knew the truth anymore. And no one could ever be allowed to know.

Rochshan Owin, the young Count pitied by the King of Tuska, was a madman. A cursed wretch. A monster. A mental patient hounded by ghosts whose lives had been sucked dry for reasons they didn’t understand.

He was a broken man who must never love anyone. An emotionally starved fool who craved love more than anyone else.

Suddenly, Rochshan’s right eyelid twitched. A tear rolled down his face like a shard of ice.

“What… what did I ever ask of you?” His voice trembled as he gripped Kyle’s injured arm, then let it go. “What did I want? I didn’t ask for much. I’ve turned a blind eye even when you acted out with your arrogant insolence. I never asked for respect, nor did I demand absolute obedience. Whether you pretended to crawl or sat atop my head, I didn’t care! I forgave you even when you acted like a total piece of shit. Always! Every single time! In exchange, I only asked for one thing—just one thing!”

I told you to treasure your body as if it were my own. I told you never to get hurt out of my sight.

“Was that so unfair? Is that why you go around doing this shady shit under the cover of night after making all those hollow oaths? You treacherous bastard!”

Slap! He struck the servant across the other cheek until the man’s face was smeared with blood. Not satisfied, Rochshan lunged forward and squeezed Kyle’s thick neck with all his might. Or rather, he tried to, but his strength failed him, and his hands began to shake violently. He was terrified that the bloody marks of his own fingers might burn into Kyle’s flesh and sever his neck.

It was a pathetic delusion. Kyle Blackburn was a powerful man, unmatched in the region. He wouldn’t die from a wound like this. In truth, there was no need for such an outburst. The reason that had been eaten away by fear began to return, whispering in his ear.

Don’t get excited. Don’t overreact like a commoner; show the dignity befitting your rank. Has this bastard ever been one to listen? Even so, haven’t you managed to lead him by the leash all this time?

So, keep it this way. Just like this.

“How hard was it… to just stay as we are, without changing… what are you so dissatisfied with…!”

Count Rochshan’s words trailed off into a heavy tremor, tainted by the impurity of guilt. Did he even have the right to rebuke someone for deception? The one whispering lies wasn’t this man, but himself. He knew it all too well.

I don’t want anything? I don’t desire anything? Even a passing dog would howl with laughter at such nonsense.

Don’t be in pain. Don’t die. Don’t leave my side. Kiss only me and stay hard for only me. You want to be free from your tedious status as a slave? Give up. You were the one who rejected my naive proposal years ago. I have no intention of taking it back. You want a partner for a lifelong vow? Don’t even dream of it. Even if I were to die soon, do you think I’d let you go to anyone else? Spend your whole life in loneliness. Yearn for me. I will allow nothing to ease your pain. Ha, a child from another woman? I swear upon my horrific curse: I will use every means possible to erase the name Blackburn from this world without a trace.

A selfish, bloated inner monologue pushed aside his organs and filled his stomach to the brim. Yet, Rochshan could not give up or compromise on a single one of these desires. He had nothing to give Kyle—not his heart, not his future, not a promise. And yet, he could not be satisfied. Instead, he felt a wretched void in his heart that he couldn’t bear. As the Black Dragon Festival reached its peak and the Nest Marriage drew near, and as the excited cheers of the citizens grew louder, he was driven to the brink of madness by an unbearable anxiety.

This was because Rochshan Owin lacked any justification to rationalize this blatant shamelessness.

“How can I…”

How can I get that justification? He was too miserable to even speak the words. Rochshan tried to find strength in his fingertips to wring the servant’s neck.

“How can I…”

Who the hell do you think you are to make me this miserable, you son of a bitch?

He had everything except love. Power, wealth, and even a dazzling beauty. Yet, Rochshan was utterly destitute. Because of this one damn slave, his heart was so withered he felt on the verge of starving. He couldn’t even satisfy his hunger with all his abundance, and his situation—clutching his childhood slave by the throat and begging—was so deeply unfair that he felt he might burst into tears.

“Since long ago…”

It was then. Kyle Blackburn reached out, as if he had been waiting for Rochshan’s sudden paroxysm to subside. He wiped the Count’s eyelid with his thumb. He even smirked, seemingly pleased by the damp moisture.

“You could never bear to see me get even slightly hurt, could you?”

He had liked that expression so much that he had volunteered to be the child who took the beatings. He had preferred the willow switch, which left bruises longer than the bush clover. He had especially loved how Rochshan would break down in tears at the sharp sound of the switch hitting his palm.

Margaret Owin had never missed such a golden opportunity. She had used any excuse to torment her nephew by using Kyle as a proxy, and the golden-haired young master—who had begged his aunt to strike him instead—became increasingly, stubbornly perfect in his efforts to protect his slave.

“Why is that?”

You never change.

“Can’t I just eat half of it?” Kyle remembered the little master in the bowtie, looking distressed as he offered him one of his arms. How absurd was that? To throw his whole heart at a monster like me.

But the half-blood master of the Owin family never ran away, no matter how much he crumbled or fell. Even then, Kyle had known the sensation of his entire body trembling as if struck by lightning. Philip, who had only recently ascended as king, had raged about what a snot-nosed brat like him knew to perform a Nest Branding so suddenly, but the idea of just sitting back and watching such a precious thing? It was utter bullshit.

He had known from the first moment. The memory of the lukewarm sweat pooling in his palm when their eyes first met was still vivid.

It was destiny.

My nest.

Kyle was lost in a fresh wave of sentiment. He couldn’t help but urge him once more.

“Tell me, Master. Why do you cherish me so much?”

Why don’t you let it out, Rochshan? That heart you’re clutching so desperately because you’re terrified to give it away.

My confession, which you already possess.

Kyle, feigning a composure he didn’t entirely feel, gently cupped Rochshan’s cheek, which was burning again from his emotional volatility. Then, Rochshan, who rubbed his cheek against the hand like a domesticated animal despite himself, glared at the servant with his jewel-like eyes, made even clearer by his tears.

Ha. Are you pretending not to notice even this simple cause and effect?

You absolute prick. His tearful gaze was a curse in itself.

“That’s because… you’re the only one I have left…”

His answer broke as his emotions surged.

“…The only family I have.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. In a manner of speaking, it was like flipping over the weakest card in his hand. Naturally, it wasn’t enough to satisfy the dragon. Kyle, still held loosely by the throat, looked at Rochshan and gave a light snort.

“If it’s family you want, you still have your aunt.”

“Ha! That woman is worse than a complete stranger!”

Family? That was a title too good for a woman like her. To Rochshan, Margaret Owin was nothing more than a nauseating debtor who happened to share his surname. When he thought about the interest he had paid her over the years, he felt as though his molars would be ground to dust.

Until his weakness for Kyle had been discovered, there wasn’t a day when Rochshan’s thighs weren’t raw from the harsh floggings she administered. That wasn’t all. He was frequently dragged off, as if his armpits were being torn out, to be locked in the underground food cellar for days on end. How he had shivered in that damp darkness without a single candle, listening to the sound of centipedes and cockroaches crawling. He had even suffered a nervous breakdown from the auditory hallucinations of insects eating his body.

As time passed and Rochshan grew into a flawless heir, Margaret’s methods of abuse became even more subtle and vicious. It was the reason he still struggled to eat any kind of opaque soup; he had had his gums slashed multiple times by broken razor blades hidden in his food. At the time, his aunt had made a great show of shouting about finding the culprit, while everyone in the dining room had clearly seen the corners of her mouth curl up in a smirk. Naturally, no culprit was ever caught.

It was an environment where it would have been perfectly understandable if he had lost his mind long ago. Perhaps that had been Aunt Margaret’s ultimate goal all along—to become a Countess who took over the title in place of her insane nephew.

“If only she wasn’t my life’s savior…”

And yet, he had survived. How could he have died when his parents’ life-price was so precious and the injustice so great?

Rochshan, the survivor, ground his teeth. In his emotional agitation, he let slip a thought he would normally have kept well-hidden. Kyle Blackburn didn’t miss the opening.

“Do you want to kill her?”

“…!”

“Then shall I kill her for you?”

The servant quickly picked up where his master’s trailing words had left off. His pale hand crept over the back of Rochshan’s, his fingers intertwining with his in a gesture that was more like a caress than a grip. There it was again—that unnatural smile, like a beast in a human skin, stretching across the servant’s lips.

“That crazy bitch who doesn’t know her place… we’ve put up with her long enough, haven’t we?”

Kiss. He kissed the back of Rochshan’s hand with a seductive grace that shook the Count to his core.

“It was disgusting to see her act like she was the true Count at every social event. When the King told her to return the regency, that was a real blow.”

Kyle chuckled, his shoulders shaking, then he bit down on the bone of Rochshan’s wrist. The look in his eyes was as if he were rummaging through a pile of malicious filth.

“And even after that, she didn’t come to her senses, whining as if her rightful property had been stolen. There’s a limit to playing the victim, especially when she ignores what she’s done. Do you remember? She even killed your people without mercy.”

I remember only too well. Rochshan’s breathing grew heavy as he gritted his teeth. Those who were beaten to death were also part of his ghostly retinue. One was the fencing master he had trusted and followed, and the other was a servant who had cared for the pitiful young master day and night. The naive Rochshan had wanted to return their kindness. He had conducted a foolish experiment, thinking he could simply convey his feelings in secret.

I like you, Master. I like you too. I feel so comfortable with you.

He hadn’t dreamed that every word spoken during the day and night, even a small note, was being heard and seen by Margaret Owin.

“Such heaven-sent, treacherous sinners. How dare they commit sodomy in my house?”

That was the first time he had learned they were lovers. The end of his reckless experiment had been a nightmare. The servant had been beaten to death for hours by thugs brought in from the outside. Beside the mangled corpse rolled in a mat, the fencing master had been staggering, his trousers soaked in red. His groin had been crushed and torn away on Margaret’s orders.

“You must not become a rebel who defies the natural order.”

“I’m just acting as a cleaner. My kindness is truly endless.” The self-absorbed Margaret had peered over her fan at her shivering nephew, her gaze a silent warning. “Remember this well, Rochshan. Sodomy is the dregs of original sin. Those garbage-like sodomites must die like the trash they are! No exceptions.”

It was obvious who she was targeting. Even though he was at an age where the very concept of “sodomy” was vague, Rochshan had immediately imagined Kyle with his skull crushed, and he had promptly fainted.

Thus, the first victims he had exploited after his parents joined the ranks of his ghosts. The last ones to join the procession, following several minor graves, were Rochshan’s elderly wet nurse and her son. Ostensibly, they were household thieves and swindlers who had thrown themselves into a well out of guilt.

Since then, Rochshan Owin had never repeated the same mistake.

“It is good,” “I like it,” “I am very pleased.”

Paradoxically, his expressions of favor became even more lavish. His tongue became stained with a deep blue poison. He surrounded himself with objects and acquaintances charmed by his lies, like the defensive walls of a battlefield. He clawed at hollow wealth and popularity. Why?

“Just give the command, Master. One word is all it takes. Then I’ll tear that fucking bitch apart, bone by bone. I promise I’ll clean up after myself perfectly. We can grind up the meat and scatter it in the fields, or mix it with fodder and feed it to the livestock. We can just burn her clothes and jewelry.”

It was all to hide this black beast from his own curse.

“…”

Like an evil god who could only exercise his power through a wicked contract on earth, Kyle Blackburn laid out a rather sweet plan for slaughter. It was as if he were reciting a memorized recipe. He even smiled and pulled their intertwined hands, drawing Rochshan close to him.

Despite the thick bloodstains on his cheeks and neck, his strangely composed beauty didn’t fade in the least. Instead, a cold vitality flickered over his pale skin, and a strange heat began to simmer in his dark, staring pupils. The beast, whose horns were beginning to sprout, slowly scraped the Count’s stiff jaw with the bridge of his sharp nose. As if he had already stolen a look at the curses scribbled in a locked diary, he continued to whisper his most debased desires.

“Say it, Rochshan. Say you want it.”

“…You son of a bitch.”

How dare you… How dare you try to escape this dead-end by dragging out my most painful memories.

Tears welled in Rochshan’s reddened eyes. He ground his teeth, shivering. He could no longer fathom what or who this being before him was. An unidentified slave, a dim-witted social misfit who had lost his sense of taste, a mental pillar who had helped him endure the most miserable hell, a raven, a wild dog, a lowlife, a libertine, a potential—or perhaps just an undiscovered—butcher…

Kyle Blackburn, who had torn open the bars of the cellar window and jumped down to spend the mad nights with him. The reckless slave who had plunged a kitchen knife into Margaret’s tablecloth to stop her cruel food games. A lunatic who wouldn’t hesitate to do any crazy thing for his childhood master, even setting aside his status as a royal gift. A servant who never cried with him, but never let Rochshan’s tears go to waste. A shadowy figure who occasionally disappeared, only to reappear smelling of blood. A madman who struggled to distinguish between an ant and a human. A swindler more cunning than a silver-tongued noble.

A being whose ribs must surely be hollow.

“You absolute fucking piece of shit…”

It was always like this.

“Margaret? Kicking her out of my life? Ha, that’s not what I really want! Don’t distract from the core of the problem! We’re always circling the same spot! You…!”

“Me, what? Do you think I’m hiding something from you?”

“…!”

The very point he had wanted to resent was accurately pierced.

Even as Rochshan, shivering, threw off his hands and tried to strangle him again, Kyle Blackburn remained nonchalant. Who was the one not being honest here? He seemed to be asking back whether the responsibility for this tedious stalemate didn’t lie with Rochshan Owin himself.

“If that’s the case, what do you want, Rochshan?”

Tell me this time.

“Tell me what you really want. I’ll give you anything.”

“…Anything?”

“Anything. If it’s possible.”

The interpretation of his added words differed. While sparks flew in the black pupils of the beast Kyle Blackburn, whose hands and feet were shackled by the “ban,” Rochshan Owin’s thread of hope was snuffed out by a conditional deal that could be rejected at any time. The strength drained from his body.

“Ha… I was wrong to expect anything from a mere slave.”

“Why? At least try saying it.”

“Forget it. What do you have besides a pretty face? Do you have money? Do you have power? I shouldn’t even speak. What if I asked you to pluck the stars for me?”

“The stars?”

“Ah, I said forget it. Just…”

The stars? If he exercised his power as a Black Dragon, there was nothing he couldn’t pluck. The historical records of a sudden meteor shower that caused immense damage to the country were actually the work of a previous Black Dragon, so it wasn’t unprecedented. Where should I drop them this time? Kyle was pondering a suitable place to devastate with falling stars when the Count cut him off. A single tear from his other eye fell, plunging without even touching his cheek.

“Just.”

Tell me you love me.

Tell me you don’t need anything. Tell me you have no intention of ever being repaid by me. Beg me to just let you stay by my side. Beg for the right to an unrequited love. Force me to accept you.

So that I, the cursed one, can hold onto you.

Finally, Rochshan’s lips parted. His gaze, cast down through golden lashes, was so pitiful it was clear he was terrified of being hurt and once again could not vomit out the scream in his heart. He simply reached for his tattered packaging once more.

“…Just don’t get hurt, please. Don’t you dare die and leave me behind. Because I’ll follow you to the ends of hell and kill you again.”

“I understand. I won’t die.”

At least, I won’t die before you. Kyle made his swift vow, his eyes fixed on Rochshan’s trembling lower lip. The wait for the next sound felt infinitely far away, though it was brief.

“And don’t you dare go around fucking around. Understand? I have no interest in sharing my toys with anyone else. Behave yourself and act modestly. And keep your tongue in check! If I hear any more rumors, I won’t let it slide.”

“Master, please. Can you stop with these baseless worries?”

“Hmph.”

“I missed my chance to explain earlier, but this wound… I just went to the shed in the backyard to get firewood and oil for the fireplace, and I had an accident. The wall hook was old, and the axe hanging there fell. Who would I even meet? Line up every man and woman in the capital naked. Do you think I’d even feel a twitch? To me, every human besides you looks just like Margaret Owin.”

Do you humans distinguish the features of insects to get aroused? Kyle Blackburn, who had been expressionless until now, scowled and argued as if he couldn’t stand it. Rochshan was equally exasperated. Is this bastard’s eyesight failing? he wondered. Besides, his rapid-fire excuses hadn’t deviated an inch from his expectations.

“Fine, while we’re at it, let’s settle the matter with Margaret. Don’t you dare touch her without my permission and bring me trouble. An Count who has to care for a prisoner in their cell and accompany them to the execution ground? Imagine how ridiculous that would look! Huh?!”

So as long as I don’t go to prison, it’s fine? The dragon’s eyes rolled as he tilted his head.

“Is that all?”

“…One more thing.”

The Count’s voice grew faint. To hear that fading sound better, the servant pulled him closer by the waist, his arm tightening. In the space where their body heat was being exchanged, Rochshan hesitated.

The bastard’s pathetic answer had been enough to give him relief, and the ghosts of his nightmare had already fled. Did he really need to push further? Just to get hurt?

“…What, exactly, do you think of me?”

If you take the first step of courage, then I will too.

And so, he settled for a cowardly question.

Unable to bring himself to be pierced by a blade, he handed the hilt to the other person. Even so, he was so tense he felt his insides shrinking. He began to hyperventilate—a symptom that had disappeared when he reached adulthood.

“What do I think?”

In the end, the direction of this tug-of-war remained uncertain.

Kyle Blackburn was silent for a moment. On his back, invisible to Rochshan, bone shards rose like a surging tide, only to finally settle back into stillness. His lips slowly approached Rochshan’s. He wanted to share his breath.

Along with a breath of salvation, a gritted whisper flowed into Rochshan’s mouth.

“You are the person to whom I can give everything—except for one thing. The only one in my life.”

You absolute bastard…

You still won’t say you love me, right to the end.

That’s the one thing you can’t give me, isn’t it?

Once again, the sensation of falling into a mire washed over Rochshan’s body. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he greedily drank in the man’s breath.