Chapter 41
Chapter 41
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 41
Chapter Title: Liked Poetry
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“You won’t die either, right? Just like the Emperor.”
Clavis asked in a hush, as if discussing some weighty affair. Lena couldn’t help but scoff.
“I have no idea why you’re asking again. You’ve seen it plenty of times already.”
It was so absurd—and the thoughts lurking beneath his repeated probing were plain as day. So Lena pitied the man who still didn’t fear her. She could cause him pain if she chose, treat him as mercilessly as he’d treated her in the past, but she held back. The reason for granting him a mercy she’d never known herself was simple. It was because Lena had memorized a single poem.
***
During my life, countless cracks have formed.
The remnants of my heart are as many as waves pierced by sunlight,
but I won’t shatter just because I’m wounded.
Knowing that what strengthens me and weakens me is myself, not you,
to you who still hates me, I’d rather offer flowers.
Lena had loved books since childhood. Essays and prose collections, novels and poetry—she treasured every beautifully wrought phrase without discrimination. Among them all, what she cherished most was the poetry of Bitra, the Empire’s classical poet. His verses were as warm as the midday sun, and Lena memorized them all. That was the only way she could bear the loneliness...
“Master will be pleased.”
“This is what Master commanded.”
“Master will be disappointed if you do.”
Back when she lived at the villa, every phrase that moved the young Lena began with “Master will.” She’d never met him even once, but her entire existence was governed by her father’s will. An unseen, untouchable presence who wielded absolute control. In the world at large, such a being was called a god. It was the same for her. To the young Lena, her father was like a god. And in those days when she revered him as such, the word “pitiful” suited her perfectly. Demure gestures, cautious hands, eyes brimming with coquettish appeal—everything was a cry for love, a desperate plea for affection that was utterly heartbreaking. For a viscount’s precious young lady to beg so piteously was tied to her early childhood. At a very tender age, barely toddling about, Lena had been sent to the suburban villa. To yield her mother’s embrace to a brother not yet born. A wet nurse had been provided instead, but even to her, Lena couldn’t cling freely.
“Today’s the last day, Miss Lena.”
“Thank you for everything, Miss. Please stay well.”
“Farewell, Miss. A new nurse arrives tomorrow.”
Lena’s wet nurses changed with alarming frequency. They cycled out so often that she never had a chance to grow attached, and unlike other household children, she couldn’t throw tantrums to her heart’s content. The reason for such constant turnover was her father’s policy. Viscount Rubel wanted even his young child treated as the master of her bloodline. To prevent presumptuous nurses from showering her with undue familiarity—or her from growing overly dependent—he rotated caretakers every year at most, half a year at least. Thanks to this, Lena had endured countless cycles of love and abandonment before she’d even mastered speech. Her heart couldn’t possibly have emerged unscathed, but the silver lining was her quick wit.
‘It’s okay.’
Young as she was, Lena knew how to manage her loneliness.
‘I have a family.’
Like a boat tossed on the waves, she knew her destination.
‘Someday, I’ll go home.’
Lena didn’t think of herself as one of those nurses who vanished once familiarity set in, nor the steward who checked on her quarterly. Though she’d only ever seen him in a portrait, she had a family. The one being everyone addressed with honorifics, who decided everything in the villa—like a god—that was Lena’s father. Instinctively, the young girl understood: the one she must love was her father, the one whose love she must earn. So she prepared to become a child worthy of it. She learned patience, practiced flawless etiquette. Hearing her father enjoyed music appreciation, she threw herself into violin lessons even harder. And finally, when she met him, Lena’s whole body sang with joy.
“Come here, Lena.”
It was the first time. Called not “miss,” but by her name. That single summons changed her world. She felt she’d found her place at last. Relief washed over her—no more rejection—the urge to burst into tears was overwhelming. So six years later, on the eve of her twelfth birthday, the night was all the more excruciating. Because it wasn’t the first time. Lena was accustomed to being discarded by those she relied on. But familiarity didn’t dull the pain, and sometimes knowing its shape made it all the more terrifying. For Lena, that night was exactly that...
A child repeatedly abandoned who still craved affection—it wasn’t foolishness, but survival.
“Sir, I’m actually twelve. Not ten.”
In the carriage heading west, even as a purchased captive, Lena spoke politely for that very reason.
“Hm?”
“I thought you might have the wrong idea, Sir.”
“And?”
“I was worried it might mess up your preparations...”
Pride requires a foundation to stand on.
“That’s why...”
For a child whose heart was scraped together from utter ruin, there was no such thing as pride. Far more urgent was impressing this new person. That was how young Lena Rubel had scraped by thus far, so she acted utterly endearing even toward the brute who’d bought her like chattel.
“You’re worrying about me right now?”
When Clavis asked in disbelief, Lena nodded bashfully. He stared at her a moment, then burst into incredulous laughter.
“How do you raise a daughter like this?”
Clavis chuckled in astonishment as he lifted her chin. Sighing at the sight of her welcoming a stranger’s touch, he shook his head.
“I knew I wasn’t father material, but this is a bit much.”
Lena didn’t grasp his words. But she felt the mockery laced within, yet instead of shame, she checked his mood. That drew another sigh from him. This soft servility resembled the poise of a noble’s concubine. Intent aside, it wasn’t fitting for a girl of barely ten. Yet Viscount Rubel had raised his daughter as a lovable pet he couldn’t bear to properly care for. The intent was so transparent that Clavis grimaced with a laugh.
“Looks like your father only thought about selling his daughter for top coin.”
Stroking her soft cheek, he said it.
“You’re lucky it was me who bought you. Right?”
Clavis’s voice was affectionate with amusement, but it rang hollow, without substance. A child who’d spent her life reading the room would know. Still, Lena pretended otherwise. The way she’d practiced to earn love was patient waiting, and she believed clinging to that hope would change things this time too. But the end of that wait and faith was a deep, crimson rift—and with it, Lena shattered once more...
‘During my life, countless cracks have formed.’
Trembling, Lena gazed at the sky.
‘The remnants of my heart are as many as waves pierced by sunlight.’
Inwardly reciting the poem, she faced the blood-red heavens.
‘but I won’t shatter just because I’m wounded.’
Forcing breath into her clogged lungs, she desperately chanted.
‘Knowing that what strengthens me and weakens me is myself...’
‘to you who still hates me, I’d rather offer flowers.’
With the final line wrung out, a single tear traced her cheek. Tongues lolled as if to lap it up. Unable to bear the sight yet unable to look away, Lena craned her neck skyward. The pitch-black wraiths encircling her tittered mockingly among themselves.
—It lives.
—Fresh sacrifice.
—Woman.
—Child...
The hissing, like serpents slithering, made Lena bite her lip to stifle her sobs. It had taken mere minutes for Lena, dropped into the graveyard’s heart, to be surrounded by wraiths. No time to marvel at the alien earth or blood-sky. Scenting her, they swarmed, caging her in. Every variety was there: desiccated humans, horned like crowns, draconic serpents, four-legged beasts. That she still lived amid these horrors was for one reason. The wraiths were fighting over her.
—Mine. That blood, that flesh—all my feast.
—Thirst afflicts us all. Don’t hoard it.
—Such waste, to tear and burn a woman. Give her to me—I’ll make her my bride.
—She’s still a child. Have mercy...
The wraiths—no, some ruling presences speaking through them—growled and snarled. They bickered over tearing her, burning her, taking her as concubine. A voice urged restraint, but it was faint against the cruel chorus. Amid it all, Lena recited her poem. Wishing she’d faint, she savored the beautiful lines.
—Then why not share her?
After prolonged strife, someone proposed. They agreed at once, as if waiting.
—Her entrails for me.
—Any part with enough fat suits me fine.
—Her face is mine—such a fine one, bring it undamaged.
They compromised swiftly; the weak voice of mercy fell silent. With agreement reached, the growls ceased. The wraiths, who’d eyed each other warily, now crept closer.
‘You are a cold dream of midsummer.’
Lena felt madness closing in and recited anew.
‘Thinking you were the first snow, I reached out...’
A long serpent began slithering up her leg. Sharp scales scraped her skin vividly. Desperately, she repeated the lines.
‘But in the shattered dream’s cradle, only chill longing remains.’
As the wraiths closed in, Lena’s breath hitched. Sobs surged from her chest, choking her. Eyes squeezed shut, she blurted the words aloud without thinking.
“In the fleeting night, only I...”
She had to do this to breathe.
“Am left alone, only I lost...”
Perhaps this recitation was her substitute for tears. A massive hook-like thing snagged her whispering throat. In the alien grip, Lena prayed desperately. Help me, save me, no, let me live, someone please... But no savior came. Abandoned yet again, Lena was utterly alone. With no one to care for or protect her, all that remained was a single verse of poetry. Overwhelmed by grief, convinced it was the end, she rasped the poem’s final line.
“...Only I weep again, searching for you.”
No helping hand came for Lena. Instead, the world twisted in an unimaginable way.