Chapter 10

Several days slipped by following that unsettling excursion, and before long, the eve of the Nest Wedding arrived.

Despite the fickle anomalies of the weather, the festival marched toward its conclusion without interruption. Yet, bizarrely enough, the site of a truly horrific incident turned out to be the ordinarily tranquil estate of Count Owin.

The tragedy originated from the simple decision to open the estate’s backyard to feed the laborers hired for the festival’s various repair works. As fate would have it, that day also hosted the grand bullfighting match. A massive fighting bull, riled into a frenzy ahead of its decisive bout, happened to be passing by the Owin mansion just as its blindfold inexplicably tore loose.

Like an arrow released from a taut bowstring, the enraged beast violently shook off its handlers and charged straight into the mansion’s open yard. Disaster loomed; a single misstep against horns ground sharp as blades would undoubtedly end in a gruesome bloodbath. Yet, amidst the shrieking, panic-stricken crowd, one man stepped forward to grapple the monstrous bull with his bare hands—Kyle Blackburn, the personal slave of Count Owin.

Thud.

With its massive head wrenched entirely backward, the bull frothed at the mouth and collapsed to the earth in a heavy, lifeless heap.

An instant, suffocating silence descended upon the yard. As the onlookers struggled to comprehend the sheer impossibility of the spectacle, someone in the crowd muttered a stuttering breath. “I-is that thing even human?”

Kyle Blackburn casually dusted off his trousers as he rose, striding toward a paralyzed, wide-eyed woman to snatch the wine bottle from her hands, downing its contents in a single, desperate gulp. His thirst appeared ravenous, the overflowing liquid staining his Adam’s apple and seeping down his shirt collar like a morbid cascade. Then, a collective gasp ripped through the crowd; the spilled wine progressively darkened, ultimately turning a viscous, pitch-black red. It was raw blood.

“Kyle!” the young, blond-haired Count screamed, having sprinted to the yard the moment news of the commotion reached him.

“My Lord,” Kyle Blackburn murmured, his pitch-black eyes locking onto Rochshan Owin as the nobleman dashed toward him. Barely managing to force the words past lips that now spewed a cascading waterfall of crimson blood, the slave suddenly crumpled to the earth, collapsing heavily beside the carcass of the dead bull.

The estate’s servants would forever recall that day by a single, haunting memory: they had never heard a scream so agonizing and wretched in all their lives. It was the absolute, soul-tearing wail of Count Owin as he threw himself to the ground, desperately clutching his fallen slave.

Standing paralyzed in a corner of the crowd drawn by the Count’s deathly cries was the red-haired maid, Laura Smith, her trembling hands curling into tight, white-knuckled fists.

She had placed her absolute, unwavering faith in Margaret Owin’s assurances that an antidote had already been prepared and that she should rest easy; yet now, trapped in her crushing grip, a completely empty medicine packet crumpled mercilessly into nothing.