Chapter 11
Chapter 11
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: Trembling in the Dark
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Beth's eyes shook once more at the unexpected reply. Dever's face, dimly illuminated by the moonlight, looked weary in one way, yet somehow sinister in another.
The only sound between them was the man's fingers rhythmically tapping the medicine box.
Tap, tap.
The moment that small noise stopped, their eyes met in the air. After a stretch of that deathly silence, the man turned around. Before the woman could even sigh in relief, he picked up the gun that had fallen to the floor.
Beth's shoulders twitched in tension at the rough friction of the gun against the uneven floor.
Why did he toss it there like that? Beth swallowed a belated sigh and bit her lip. In her hands, it had felt like someone else's possession, but in his, it seemed perfectly at home.
Dever casually checked the bullets by ejecting the magazine, as if it were the most ordinary thing. He glanced at the woman whose eyes were fixed on the gun as he slammed the magazine back into place with a click. Gripping the handle firmly in one hand—more than enough room for it—he took a step toward Beth. His expression remained impassive.
Beth's heel hesitated, retreating a step. The man's pace was neither fast nor slow, matching her backward steps exactly with one deliberate stride of his own.
One step back, one step forward.
It was tag, but not quite. The only difference was the gun in his hand. Or perhaps more like a cat toying with a mouse.
Before she knew it, Beth's back pressed against the cold wall, and she drew in a sharp breath. She needed to say something—anything—but her only means of communication, paper and pen, were already far out of reach.
A single beam of light poured down through a hand-sized window in the wall.
Even in the deepest darkness, there's always a speck of light, and thanks to it, Dever could clearly see the woman's pale face drained of color. In contrast, where Dever stood was shrouded by the shadow of a large cabinet, leaving Beth with only the gleaming barrel of the gun in his hand starkly visible.
Dever slowly spun the gun in his hand, staring at the woman before him.
Was it because of her jet-black hair and eyes like the night? The moonlight suited her well. Lowering his gaze gradually, his eyes fell on her worn leather shoes. The feet scratched up from the forest were hidden inside them.
Beth's eyes, following his gaze downward, stopped once again at the gun in his hand.
"If you want to live, don't let it slip from your hands."
Beth alternated her gaze between the handle jerking toward her and the shadowy figure in the darkness. If she could just see his expression, she might guess his intentions. But the cruel darkness denied her even that.
"What were you planning to do if you ran into a bastard like me?"
Spitting out the sharp words, Dever redefined himself. Had he ever thought of himself as patient? At least in front of this woman, Beth Jens, he might be the exception—unless it was just her special talent for grating on his nerves.
He'd even picked up the gun for her in case she needed to shoot, yet she still looked terrified.
"Take it."
Only then did Beth hesitantly reach out and accept the gun.
Even for just a single gun, the veins bulging on her slender wrist made Dever's eyes narrow slightly. What on earth had possessed her to crawl all the way here?
His lips twitched as if to say something, then closed again.
What do you want to say?
He questioned himself. In all his past, he'd never regretted a single moment.
Worse than Cassius.
That horrific yet undeniable phrase defined his life most clearly.
That's the kind of man Dever was. One who'd never once doubted his own judgment. Some called it the duke's arrogance, but when results followed accordingly, the story changed.
A hunting dog follows its master's command, and a beast feels no guilt in the hunt. Even if time turned back, he could slaughter spies until the ground turned to mud.
Yet here he was, on the verge of making excuses to this trembling woman over a mere glimpse of that brutality.
"I don't need the medicine."
The medicine box flew through the darkness.
"Take good care of that too."
The woman's eyes widened in confusion, far more appealing than her earlier frightened look.
"My necklace. It's a trophy, isn't it?"
With his reply, Dever lightly touched the top button of his stuffy nurse's uniform, choked tight at the collar. Beth flinched, shrinking her neck as she looked up at him in surprise.
Dever gazed at her steadily. In the unshadowed light, her flushing face was vivid. He'd thought it dim, but it illuminated everything nicely, which pleased him.
Beth, too, had grown accustomed enough to the dark that the man's face was clearer now than before. Somewhat angry, somewhat softened. But one thing she was sure of: different from the morning she remembered.
The man turned his back cleanly, as if his business was done. But instead of leaving as Beth hoped, he headed toward the shelf where ointments and gauze were gathered.
"Nurse."
If not for the earlier chaos, that low voice calling her name might have felt quite sweet. With the name rolling off his tongue, something else flew toward Beth.
It was a small tube of ointment in her hand.
"A lady's hands shouldn't bear scars."
Before Beth could respond, a cold gust whipped through the thin nurse's uniform. By the time she looked up, the rusty-hinged door had slammed shut with a clamor.
The faint weight in her hand spoke of the man's departed presence.
This isn't why I came here.
Then what brought you here?
Her hesitation in taking the gun he'd offered in the darkness stemmed, paradoxically, from how fragile he seemed.
His body shrouded in deep shadow, hand extended full of scars. It felt wrong to take even the gun from those hands.
And the marks etched into his back like a tattoo...
Beth let out a small sigh. Forcing her reluctant feet to move, she stood before the shelf where Dever had been moments ago.
I think you need this more than I do.
Placing the ointment into the empty slot in the tray, the shelf returned to its pre-Dever state, perfectly filled—as if erasing all trace of his visit.
I don't need it.
It was Beth's quiet refusal, one Dever never saw.
"Ah, Commander!"
The dozing sentry snapped to attention at the unexpected appearance of his commander. Of all days, with the wolf pup causing trouble, he'd nodded off. A chill ran down his spine, sweat beading instantly.
"He's awake?"
Dever's eyes turned to the narrow window through which Raphaelle had peered up cutely earlier that day. Hard to tell if he was still breathing. The figure lying there didn't inspire confidence.
The soldier, unsure if the question was for him or the spy, stammered his report upon seeing the army commander's gaze fixed inside the isolation cell.
"Uh, he still hasn't woken up, sir."
"'Hasn't woken up,' you say..."
"He hasn't! Woken up!"
The soldier jumped in fright at Dever's low murmur of the uncertain phrasing, quickly correcting himself.
Dever Cliff, the duke and army commander, despised vague answers. Especially hedging with words like "seems." He was known for precise processing and speech as measured as a ruler.
Fortunately, the commander showed little interest in a mere soldier right now. Dever opened the door and looked down at the prone "form."
It looked vaguely human, but not quite.
Without hesitation, he slapped the man's remaining face—hard enough to echo—using his callused hand. The cheek swelled red instantly, but the figure didn't stir.
Really out cold? Dever's dull eyes scanned him.
A spy raised from childhood in Nexus as the emperor's guard. Yet one who'd never lost his homeland's ideology. No—rather, one who'd nurtured both his ideology and hatred for Nexus as he grew.
Dever had encountered countless such men. If torture wouldn't yield information, better to make an example of them.
So no one would dare betray out of fear.
To Dever, spies were irritating trash. Obstacles to victory. He disposed of them like roadside litter, without hesitation or guilt.
But returning to check on this trash? Perhaps because an uncertainty had crept into him.
As Dever emerged, the soldier's already rigid back stiffened further.
"Tomorrow, 07:00. Summary execution. Assemble everyone."
"Yes, sir!"
No need to crush morale excessively when all were weary.
He needed justification to fill that unwelcome uncertainty. A reason not to torture the man further. Dever made it the army's morale. In war's endgame, hope trumped fear.
He cut off further thoughts. No desire to dig into the root of that uncertainty.
As Dever vanished into the dim corridor and the sentry's tension eased slightly, a figure appeared from the opposite hall. Recognizing Beth, the soldier sighed in relief and greeted her.
"It's the nurse."
Beth nodded toward the isolation cell. The sharp-eyed soldier caught on immediately.
"He still hasn't woken. Commander Dever checked just now and left."
Dever? Beth's arched brows furrowed slightly.
He hadn't done anything more, had he?
With an uneasy premonition, she hurried into the cell and examined the man lying like a corpse. He was unchanged from last she'd seen.
But closer inspection revealed one cheek unusually swollen, and the gauze over his eye half-torn off.
These folks were always meticulous; they didn't half-ass things. Tilting her head, she carefully removed the rest of the gauze, exposing the enucleated eye socket plainly.
Avoiding vital points had made surgery smooth, no threat to life. But it was odd that the man, who should have woken by sunset, remained unconscious.
It happened as she bent to apply fresh gauze.
The eye she'd thought closed snapped open, and a savage hand clamped around her throat.