Rumel van Holne
Rumel van Holne
Bound and restrained, Rumel and Aslan were hauled off to jail.
The guard post with its holding cells stood just a few steps away, so their captivity lasted only moments. Once they were shoved into the cell, the restraints came off, and they were free to sit.
Aslan found a sliver of comfort in the fact that they hadn't been executed on the spot—even if his Wings of Stymphalos and Dragon-king's Armor had been stripped away, leaving him in nothing but a grimy linen shirt and trousers.
He could walk out at any time with Domination, and Domination wasn't his only option. He wasn't worried.
Rumel, on the other hand, did not seem to share that feeling.
She sat huddled, knees drawn up against her chest, staring blankly into the empty air.
She's lost weight.
Looking at her, Aslan could see the signs clearly. Her figure still carried its overwhelming presence—the sheer mass of her chest remained as imposing as ever—but her face had grown gaunt. Her hair, once glossy, now looked dull and brittle, and shadows of sleeplessness lingered around her eyes. Even the fierce edge she habitually forced into her gaze had slipped away; she stared at the cell wall with an expression so soft it was almost vacant.
Considering what she'd been through, that was hardly surprising.
Being hunted by Warrior Monks while also contending with Baron Aira, who had seized control of Gerne—that wasn't some ordinary hardship or a minor obstacle. It was an open question whether anyone could manage it alone. Even Aslan himself, before he met Angie, had spent most of his time skirting priestly attention whenever possible. A priest on your trail was pure misery.
He understood the difficulty she had endured.
Still, the situation wasn't entirely hopeless. Aslan sat down beside Rumel and studied the space beyond the bars. His gaze swept the guard post: no suspicious figures, only the regular watchmen.
At least the Warrior Monks and the city guard don't seem to be in league. Aslan exhaled.
The City of Pleasure, Asan, was Imperial direct territory.
Under the previous emperor, that would have been cause for caution. But the current emperor was Ileina—a girl who had expelled the Warrior Monks and fought to build an empire for humanity alone. On her soil, at least while they were inside this cell, there would be no assassination by Warrior Monks. An attack was still possible, but if one came, they would have enough time to respond.
That meant the Warrior Monks weren't the immediate concern.
The immediate concern was why Rumel van Holne had ended up in this mess at all.
That, he couldn't figure out through guesswork alone. Aslan turned to ask her—and flinched when a head drifted toward his shoulder.
Thump.
The weight settled against him. Her scent hit him at the same moment, cutting clean through the smell of dirt and dust. Faintly sweet, the kind of fragrance that called flowers to mind. He couldn't name which one—he knew medicinal herbs better than blossoms—but something floral breathed softly from her skin.
It was a sweetness that didn't offend.
Aslan pulled himself together and looked down. Rumel was asleep, her breathing soft and even.
Exhaustion? Or does she feel safe?
She had explored ruins alongside him before. They had fought together there, and whether or not she knew exactly what he'd done, trust had formed. So now, with him beside her, she must have judged the moment safe enough for sleep. Or perhaps she'd simply been too tired to think at all.
Aslan gazed at the sleeping woman leaning against his shoulder, and a faint smile crossed his face. He wasn't callous enough to wake someone who had collapsed from sheer fatigue. He could lend a shoulder as long as she needed.
But he couldn't just wait idly. Aslan closed his eyes and sank into meditation. Beneath his eyelids, the silent Void rippled.
Rumel van Holne.
The woman who loved lilacs stirred, her shallow breathing catching as her eyes opened. Beneath the soft lift of her lashes, exhaustion and deep tension were unmistakable, but no groan escaped her. Whether that was a noblewoman's discipline or simply bone-deep weariness, she couldn't say. Still, the moment she woke, she was grateful she hadn't stretched.
"Ah—!"
The first thing she registered was the firm plane of a man's shoulder and a scent that made her chest tighten. Recoiling from the dense masculine presence, she pressed a hand to her heart.
"I— I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
Her flustered apology cut off. Aslan showed no reaction. She blinked herself alert.
He was still. His face was pale in the moonlight filtering through the bars, but his breathing remained steady, his eyes closed. His posture was stiff, but she chalked that up to whatever odd sleeping habits the man might have.
"Are you asleep...?"
No answer. Confirming that he was indeed sleeping, Rumel blinked a few times, then let out a soft, "Ah."
And with that small sound, she began checking her own body.
She ran her hands over her clothes, feeling for any sign that they had been disturbed, any lingering wrongness on her skin.
The reason was simple.
Rumel van Holne was beautiful.
She knew she was considered the finest beauty in Gerne, and she knew her figure drew eyes. She had been born with it and had cultivated it; even now, with a warrior's practical muscle, she still judged her own appearance to be considerable. So a part of her wondered whether Aslan might have touched her while she slept.
It was a presumptuous thought. Rude, even. But she couldn't help it. She was a beautiful, well-born maiden, and throughout history, sleeping maidens left unguarded had been frequent targets of such attentions. Mostly in adventure novels, true, but the anecdotes lingered as she carefully inspected herself, half-expecting some cruel mischief.
Her inspection proved otherwise. Aslan hadn't laid a finger on her.
Every button was exactly as it had been before she fell asleep. The places that tended to draw unwanted stares—her chest, her hips—were untouched. There wasn't a single sign that anyone had so much as brushed against her. She let out a breath of relief and looked at Aslan.
He sat motionless, eyes tightly shut, and even that stillness struck her as almost noble.
A true gentleman... I'm lucky to be with him.
Thinking it over, she realized he might even have been standing guard, keeping anyone else from laying hands on her. Aslan had positioned himself nearest the cell door, and she could easily imagine him glaring down leering guards until they thought better of it. Probably something like that. She dismissed the fantasy and settled back beside him.
The distinct scent of him tickled her nose. Gazing at his profile, she smiled softly.
After all, this man had pursued her with such fervent devotion in those ruins. He had thrown his whole body into rescuing her for no reason beyond "it would be a waste for you to die here." A man like that wouldn't suddenly start groping her. Feeling a pang of guilt at her own groundless suspicion, Rumel rapped her knuckles lightly against her own head and stole another glance at Aslan, who sat with his eyes peacefully closed.
Her gaze followed naturally.
First, his eyes. The lids covered them, but a sliver of cool teal-green showed through the gap. It was a color that should have felt cold, yet it reminded her of the lake back in Gerne—the one she'd often drifted across in a little boat. Fond memories softened the color.
Above those eyes were his brows. Thick, dark, strongly ridged—unmistakably masculine. There was a dignity in them, a sense of resolve, and when her fingertips brushed along them, the texture was unexpectedly soft. Beneath those brooding brows lay features tinged with melancholy. A straight nose, firmly closed lips, a sharp jawline. She swallowed without realizing it, studying his face.
...A little closer won't hurt, will it?
Just a little closer look. The thought spilled out as movement, and she leaned in before she could stop herself, fixing on the sculptural lines of his face as though they held some answer to her entire life. She had no idea what expression she wore as she gazed, utterly absorbed. Then his eyes began to open, and she jolted backward, putting distance between them in a single shuddering motion.
But her hand—still stretched out from tracing his features—was too slow to withdraw.
Aslan's eyes opened, half-lidded teal fixing on her, and she froze, breath caught, her hand still extended.
"...Lady Rumel?"
She pushed at him, and his head shifted. Her palm ended up resting against his face.
Aslan sat there bewildered, her hand plastered over his mouth and nose. The warmth of his breath brushed her palm. She made a tiny strangled sound and yanked her hand back.
When her hand came away, Aslan's expression was one of pure confusion.
Even that flustered her. She bit her lip and managed, "Please forget that."
Forget what, exactly? The hand on his face?
Bemused, Aslan decided there was no harm in agreeing. "Yes. I'll do that."
Rumel fixed him with a prim look, and Aslan surveyed their surroundings. Nothing had changed since he'd entered meditation, which was good. The guards had stepped away, but that was to be expected at night.
His gaze settled on the moonlight slanting in through the bars, and he nodded as if something had clicked.
"We won't have to wait long."
"...What?"
"Nothing."
Had he been talking to himself? Rumel blinked, and Aslan answered with a gentle smile and a slight shake of his head.
"Ah— I've been so preoccupied I forgot to ask. Did you sleep well?"
She felt a faint sting of defeat.
"Yes, I slept well."
She bit her lip as she answered, as if hiding her sulky mood, and Aslan smiled.
"Then, can you explain the situation?"
His smile and the question made her tense. Her shoulders went rigid.
"What sort of explanation..."
She tried to deflect, but Aslan kept his tone calm, his smile soft.
"When you and I parted ways to pursue our separate tasks, you told me you would return after finishing what you had to do. I understood that task to be revenge. So I assumed the noble murder that occurred near Gerne—in this very city—must have been your work."
You thought it was the death of a noble from House Aira, he added. Rumel's shoulders hunched, and Aslan reached out to grip one of them. The warmth of his hand made her shoulders sink.
"But you told me you'd never killed anyone in this city. And I couldn't take that as contempt—as if you didn't consider the Aira family to be people at all."
He kneaded her shoulder gently. Rumel looked at him with eyes still full of tension. Their gazes met, and Aslan smiled.
"So please, tell me. What's happening?"
Rumel lowered her head, and Aslan added, "How did Tormule come back to life?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Her chest pressed against her thighs, shifting its shape, and Aslan awkwardly averted his eyes. But Rumel wasn't in any state to notice. She just looked at him with trembling, frightened eyes.
Aslan held that gaze.
"I'm on your side, Lady Rumel. And I need you. So please—don't be afraid. Tell me."
A voice thick with concern. It felt almost like a plea. The kindness in it reddened the rims of her eyes.
At last, Rumel opened her mouth.