Just Before the Cold Heals, It's the Most Painful (完)
Street urchin. Though a commoner by birth, Rosel had fallen into a wretched state worse than even a slave with a place to lay his head. He had clung to life with grim determination. Nights spent sleeping under the starry sky as his blanket, dreaming with the stars as his companions—how many days had strung together like that? He sustained himself on sunlight alone, scraping by with odd jobs, penny by penny, dreaming of the future. His goal was singular: to save the hero who had yet to even descend.
Tilling that barren soil of life, he luckily landed a job as a servant in a noble's manor, where he began his 'foresight'. He spoke to his lord of the great and small events looming over the kingdom, and fortunately, his benevolent master Gellion did not dismiss him. As Rosel's predictions hit one after another, the king spared no financial support for Gellion and him. Childless despite many wives, Gellion came to regard Rosel like his own son. And his eloquence was so outstanding that he held his own in conversations with young lords—what more was there to say? Rosel was more noble than the nobles themselves, and Gellion had no choice but to cherish him.
The modest frontier barony of Gellion's 'Ron' family flourished greatly alongside Rosel, the territory developing day by day. It was all thanks to him. Even at a young age, Rosel excelled in insight, judgment, magnanimity, and courage; sometimes Gellion was left stunned by his worldly poise that surpassed even his own. It was as if the late king Delokan, his predecessor, had been reborn. Gellion kept Rosel close like a treasured son, and those around them followed the family head's lead, treating the boy like the young heir.
At the time, Rosel was a mere 16, a green novice yet to debut in high society. And a year later, foreseeing the plague that would ravage the capital, he finally earned the title of viscount from the king and was granted a territory near the capital. Independent from Gellion at last, he set about building his own domain. From then on, the territory prospered as if destined, blooming daily, and Rosel made his official debut in noble society: the salons.
Straight brows that lent him a sturdy air. Locks of clear sky-blue hair that spoke of integrity. Deep black eyes brimming with intellect, a nose and jaw chiseled like sculpture, and skin like polished white jade—upon his debut, Rosel was showered with handkerchiefs from the young ladies, enduring the jealous glares of the overlooked young lords with no small hardship. The kingdom's proudest noble daughters forgot decorum, scheming against each other just to dance with him. In the end, after much deliberation, Rosel chose one.
Cherry-blossom pink hair vibrant as if freshly painted, crimson eyes, and a delicate frame that still conveyed resolve—she was none other than Resilus de Biela, the lady who would later join Hero Emilia in subjugating the Demon King. Rosel danced with her, shared wine. He knew she would betray Emilia and cast her into the abyss. But he couldn't alter Biela's fate. Nor Daltan's, nor Gleon's. Even if their ends were catastrophe, it was because of them that Hero Emilia could defeat the Demon King and save this world. Changing their fates might invite greater disaster—or perhaps mean never meeting Emilia at all.
Rosel smiled along with the beaming Biela, dancing joyfully. He harbored no resentment toward her. Nor toward Daltan or Gleon. After all... everything would ultimately happen because of him. Assuming, of course, that they later repented their regrets. In any case, politely declining Biela's future promises, Rosel wrapped up his successful salon debut and solidified his position as a noble thereafter. Of course, opposition from entrenched powers made it far from easy. A commoner rising to viscount was unprecedented. To those arrogant fools, he was a thorn in the eye. But Rosel did not yield; he deployed the vast wealth from exporting pencils to win over his opponents one by one.
Thus, he passed breathless days right up until Hero Emilia's descent, brushing off the noble daughters who flirted at every ball, preserving his chastity. Solely for Hero Emilia. Whether she desired it or not was another matter. And two years later, he finally met the hero he'd longed for and awaited.
"..."
Rosel's mouth hung agape. He'd only asked out of concern that it might help with her healing. But the nightmare spilling from Isel's lips was beyond imagination.
Rape? By me?
"Th-that was just... j-just a dream... I don't think that way... Master..."
In Rosel's silence, Isel added hastily, anxiety lacing her voice. After a stunned pause, he leaned his head comfortably against the doorframe and spoke. The confusion had cleared from his face; it even seemed serene. No—a faint smile lingered there.
"...It seems you're finally not afraid of me anymore, Isel."
"Y-yes? What?"
Rosel had been bewildered at first. A vigorous young man who'd rebuffed noble temptations for years to guard his purity—his 'rape' appearing in her nightmare was more shocking than any bluff. Especially without the slightest impropriety on his part. The interpretation was simple: Isel was slowly opening the firmly shut door of her heart. For a well-intentioned figure to star in a nightmare meant deep anxiety and fear of betrayal by that person. And Isel was someone scarred by profound betrayal.
Her appearance in her nightmare paradoxically proved he'd sparked 'expectation' in her. No expectation, no betrayal. A stranger's backstab annoys at worst. But betrayal from one you trust? That's devastation, nightmare fuel enough. In short, Rosel was nesting in her heart, and that's what terrified her—lest she give it again, only to be betrayed like with her hero party. If that happened, she might truly go mad.
Rosel smiled warmly and opened his mouth.
"Are you afraid your master might suddenly turn on you?"
"...Yes. I am scared... that you'd mock and toy with me like they did..."
Isel answered honestly. She shared Rosel's view of the nightmare's cause: her own persecution complex. But the fear was unavoidable. The betrayal by Biela, Daltan, and Gleon had etched such vicious pain into her. For Isel, the mental scars from the royal court's treachery cut deeper than the physical ones from the underground dungeon's torture. Knowing this better than anyone, Rosel could only comfort her.
"I understand, Isel. I'd frighten you too—wondering if this goodwill wears a mask."
"..."
"But know this one thing: I have no reason to betray you or mock you like them. You're my slave. If I wanted something, I'd simply command it."
"...Really?"
"Believe it. I've never forced trust on anyone. But for you, I must. You're my slave; I'm your master."
"..."
"As always, no matter what happens, I'll protect what's mine—and save you. So trust me. Unconditionally."
"..."
Rosel emphasized with firm resolve. Silia's birthday party loomed tomorrow, and the dreaded masks were inevitable. Before then, he wanted to instill 'faith' in Isel: that even through the harshest gale, a warm haven awaited behind her. Only then could she endure. Silence fell; Rosel waited patiently. Then, from beyond the door, came a heartrending sob.
"Hic... Hnngh..."
Understanding the tears' meaning, Rosel rose. Dusting his rear, he flashed a gentle smile.
"Seems my intent got through. Rest again, then. I'll withdraw."
As he turned to leave, urgent footsteps sounded from beyond, followed by the lock clicking open. Something to say? Rosel turned back to the door—and felt his breath catch. There stood Isel, tears streaming yet smiling softly at him. The most beautiful, vibrant expression he'd seen on her.
She shyly offered a glass vial, wiping her eyes with her other hand.
"Hic... M-Master... Wait... This... p-please apply it..."
Isel knew nobles feigned affection for prey. But she also knew none sacrificed for it. "It's... probably the last time now. Late, but... please."
She decided to trust her master Rosel once. Even if it scarred her again, this man sacrificing emotion and time for a lowly slave seemed more reliable lord than dutiful master. Isel mustered her final courage.
"...Gladly."
Rosel gazed at her, finally revealing the smile he'd long concealed. His eyes shimmered with tears mirroring hers.
**
The next morning, Isel awoke refreshed from deep sleep and examined her body.
"...They're gone."
Clean. From the minor scars of torture to the deep wounds—all vanished. As if 'washed away'. She caressed her smooth arm in awed delight.
"...So soft."
All thanks to Rosel. His profound care had erased the scars. The horrific memories etched into them felt banished forever. Isel gazed at Mila perched on her cage bars. Extending a finger, Mila pecked it playfully.
"Now... I can ask Master why he bought me."
"Chirp chirp."
Celebrating with her, Mila lifted her head and trilled. Isel watched, then let out a soft chuckle. And realized: she too could 'smile'.
That wistful epiphany saddened her; she approached the window. No more tears. She'd promised him last night—no crying, no sorrow. Standing amid the vibrant garden bathed in brilliant sunlight, she steadied her heart—and spotted Rosel emerging from the entrance.
Seeing him triggered a reflexive smile on her lips.
"M-Master... He must not have slept well..."
Murmuring as she peeked, suddenly Rosel looked up—straight at her. Glancing around, he waved, smiling brightly. Startled, Isel's face flushed; she ducked below the sill like a whack-a-mole.
Thump thump. Her heart raced. Caught peeking like a girl, her legs trembled.
Ugh... He saw.
Their eyes had met. Her master had smiled and greeted her. A slave couldn't ignore that. Steeling herself, Isel squeezed her eyes shut, thrusting only her arm over the sill to wave back.
...Though Rosel, already smiling, had stepped out into the garden. Toward the empty entrance, Isel waved endlessly.