No Paradise Where a Traitor Arrives (2)
Rosel glared at Biela, struggling to steady his trembling fist. Caught in that piercing gaze, Biela offered an awkward smile and quickly shifted the blame to Isel.
"Oh dear, what a stench. How could you be so rude to the master who bought you?"
She sidled up beside Rosel, arms crossed, acting every bit the lady of the house. Rosel remained silent—more precisely, he was fighting to control his ragged, quivering breaths. But Isel, terrified by the silence, hurriedly wiped the floor with the towel she'd been using on herself.
This was different from when they were alone. Actions taken under watchful eyes could inevitably reflect poorly on her master.
"S-sorry... Master... I-I didn't mean to...!"
Scrub, scrub, scrub. But one towel was no match for the sticky vomit and chunks. Still, Isel wiped desperately, with no time even to wipe her own streaming tears amid her retching.
Biela burst into laughter at the sight.
"Pfft, that's right. If you've shat yourself, you clean it up. At least you have some shame?"
But her vile cackle cut off abruptly.
Under Rosel's seething wrath.
"...Shut your mouth."
"Pardon...?"
"Every time it opens, the stench worsens. Keep it shut."
"...L-Lord Rosel..."
The gap in rank between duke and countess was vast. Even so, it was hardly proper for a duke to call a countess's mouth a "muzzle" and curse her thus—especially one who was publicly a "hero party member who saved the kingdom." Yet Rosel had issued a humiliating gag order to the noble lady.
An outrageous injustice for Biela. She had no choice but to protest—especially after gargling acacia flower water for three full minutes before their clandestine meeting.
"Th-the smell is from that slave girl's vomit...!"
"I said be silent."
But her protest was crushed mercilessly by Rosel, swallowed down like bitter gall. He approached Isel, leaving the stunned Biela behind. She cupped her palm to her mouth and sniffed—only the fresh, sweet scent of acacia flowers.
Rosel stood before Isel, who knelt wiping the floor.
"...Rise, Isel."
"B-but... if I leave it like this, the smell...!"
"I said rise."
At his repeated, weighty command, Isel finally stood. Vomit still pooled thickly on the floor where she hadn't cleaned.
Rosel stepped into it without hesitation, closing the distance. His eyes fixed solely on the trembling girl before him.
"...You've emptied it all out. Is your stomach all right?"
"Y-yes..."
Isel bowed her head at his somber question. Though no criminal, she became one again in Biela's presence—her poignant figure stabbing Rosel's heart like a barbed thorn.
"It's not you who needs to swallow it down. I'll ask one last time. Are you truly all right?"
"..."
At his pressing tone, Isel lifted her gaze. Rosel's resolute eyes bored into her, unraveling her heart: Don't hold back anymore. I'll keep my promise to stand with you, no matter what. Don't bottle it up—let it out. Even if you face that day's terror again, I'm here. Don't fear.
Did that resolve reach her? Isel's eyes, fidgeting like a whipped pup's, steadied at last, her lips curving into a gentle arc.
Yes, we promised. I'll overcome it—with you, Master. I'll heal every wound together.
"...My stomach hurts, Master."
For her own sake. For herself. Amid the chains of betrayal, her brave smile to conquer it all drew an involuntary smile from Rosel.
"That's it, Isel. You need hide nothing, conceal nothing, choke down no bitterness. As long as you're by my side, I'll gladly receive it all."
One step closer. Rosel gently wiped the vomit from her lip's corner with his hand. Isel hurriedly tried to clean his fingers, but he pulled away, shaking his head.
"It's dirty... Master. Let me wipe it..."
"This isn't dirt. The filthy ones are those who stab comrades in the back and feast in luxury. What's on you is no filth at all—worry not."
Biela's body jerked behind him at Rosel's words, piercing like an awl to the heart. It felt aimed straight at her. But even Grah, a close aide to Brikal, knew nothing of the conspiracy. So Biela forced her red eyes calm again.
She had to appear confident anywhere. Only then would she seem victor, not vanquished.
Just then, Head Maid Jichel ascended the third-floor stairs.
"My lord? Is something wrong?"
She'd already overheard everything from midway up the stairs—Isel and Biela's spat from the start. She'd even blocked Rosel's path with a shh! as he climbed, knowing full well her master's regard for Isel.
When Biela's mockery made Isel retch, Rosel had pushed past in fury, and Jichel had waited below. Now, sensing he needed aid, she'd come up.
Having heard the quarrel, her master's words—all of it—Jichel's pupils betrayed no intent, as ever.
She nodded curtly to Lady Biela, passed her, and approached Rosel. He spoke as if expecting her.
"Ah, Jichel. Perfect timing. Isel's stomach seems off today. If we leave it, she might dehydrate—take her to the infirmary for a checkup. Apologize to Medic Rosus on my behalf."
"Yes, understood. Isel, come here."
Rosel warmly stroked the hesitating Isel's back, nudging her forward. She walked to Jichel, glancing back with a lovely crescent-eyed smile.
"I'll be back soon, Master."
He knew it was a forced smile for her own comfort, yet its beauty warmed him into a pleased grin.
"Yes, go on. Isel."
Biela watched Rosel's gentle smile—the first warm one since her social debut. Her face twisted as if beholding a gruesome sight.
An utter defeat. The smile she'd craved went to Isel—the very girl she'd ruined.
"Lord Rosel! Please, betroth me!"
"Lord Rosel? You're not engaged, right?"
"If I defeat the Demon King and return, will you accept my suit?"
"Is my beauty not to your taste?"
"Does my figure displease you?"
"I can raise children well! I'm good at anything!"
Since her social debut, Biela had endlessly courted Rosel. Yet he was ever cold. No fiancée, no admirers, no lovers—still, he ignored her advances.
Undeterred, she pursued relentlessly. Handsome, capable, with a secure future—she yearned to possess him madly. And the noble rumor that "marrying your debut partner brings three generations of success" only fueled her obsession.
But Rosel stayed mute. For good reason: marrying her would shatter fate's great branch. She'd become a mere noblewife tending house, perhaps never selected for the hero party.
Her change couldn't be direct. Indirect shifts realign to fate's course, but direct meddling risked losing the path entirely.
Thus, he ignored her, and she chased without straying from her destined hero path.
Even fulfilling it changed nothing.
All flowed as Rosel planned. With Hero Emilia, she saved the kingdom—and like a moth to flame, chased him to the end.
Territorial distances meant rare formal events; without them, noble visits were scarce. Had Biela not admired him, she wouldn't have come alone to Silia's birthday—and dragging Daltan and Gleon in chain would have been far trickier.
Daltan especially was distant from Rosel Territory. To lure her into the tiger's den willingly needed subtle, sure channels.
Only then would she enter of her own accord, without betrayal.
And so, Biela was the plan's start—the sacrificial pawn. Whether like Sregon by her will, or mere chess piece, time would tell.
At last, revolution dawned, placing her on its chessboard.
And like with Sregon, Rosel hoped she'd truly repent. Though his doing, they had a chance.
Isel and Jichel withdrew. Rosel looked down at the cowering Biela.
"Lady Biela."
"Y-yes?"
"My apologies just now. Your mouth's stench made me rude to you."
He bowed politely to her. But his smiling barb deepened her dread. He seemed two-faced—warm to Isel, cold to her.
"...I-I should go too... It's late..."
She tried to flee. Woman's intuition: Rosel felt perilously dangerous now. She knew his eyes were jet-black, yet tonight they gleamed red in the lamplight, like seeping blood.
Eerily alien, chilling.
"...G-good night, Lord Rosel."
She bowed instinctively and turned—but as expected, her foreboding hit. Gooseflesh prickled her nape at his murmur.
"...I've heard you're desperately seeking Rapelon... as are Count Daltan and Duke Gleon. I'd like to hear why tonight, Lady Biela."
That night, Biela was swallowed by the nightmare heralding the overture.