The Scarred Duke
The face of Nyx Farrow was a tangled ruin. Trapped inside a broken shell, he was a man who heard both extravagant praise and vicious slander in equal measure.
The man was obsessed with covering his skin. He wrapped his scar-riddled face meticulously in bandages, then donned a mask that revealed only his eyes, with no opening for the mouth. He wore coats and shirts tailored to fit his powerful frame without a single gap. For his unusually large hands, he possessed dozens of custom-made gloves. The fact that he never removed them, not even for a single day, spoke volumes about his compulsive state of mind.
The knight vassals of the Farrow duchy judged him by his core rather than his shell. But that assessment came only from men who did not view him as a sexual being.
“When the sun sets and night falls, close your careless lips and lend your truthful ears to let your spirit shine. Tonight, the Goddess will once again embrace you in darkness. Confess without falsehood the sins committed beneath the sun. Only after repenting and receiving judgment shall you, empowered by the moon, find the courage to face the sun again. Thus, let there be dawn before the morning.”
The Stargazer recited the prayer of repentance in a reverent voice beneath the moonlight.
“…Thus, let there be dawn before the morning.”
After the saint’s fluent, flowing recitation, the man’s low echo followed. His thick voice sliced through the chilly night air and settled heavily.
Devout followers of the Sunset Religion offered prayers every night before bed. It was a prayer of repentance, a vow to spend the night in piety while reflecting on the sins of the day.
“Please forget the terrible events of today. Even the mistake committed by a son as dutiful as you, the Moon Mother will gladly forgive.”
The saint spoke as he lifted his hand from above Nyx Farrow’s head. Once the prayer ended, the duke reached for the mask he had set aside on his lap.
“I can only hope so.”
The man gave a stiff reply and rose to his feet. When he placed the pitch-black mask over the bridge of his nose, the only part of his face left visible was a pair of sharp, piercing eyes.
The duke offered his hand without another word. The saint clasped it with a complicated expression.
Among the upper nobility who wielded real power, it was rare to find someone so devout. Not only did he revere the Goddess, he treated the saint with courteous respect. Moreover, he was a religious hero who had devoted half his life to the extermination of heretics and to holy wars. There were more than enough reasons for men who worshipped the moon to adore the Duke of Farrow.
“We have prepared an excellent prayer room here in Salt Castle as well. Would you consider joining the other believers for evening prayer there tomorrow?”
When the saint asked, the man sent a silent gaze through the narrow almond-shaped eyeholes of his mask. He stared down at the short, wrinkled holy man for a long moment before answering.
“If it is not too much trouble for Your Holiness, I would prefer you visit my room again tomorrow.”
His flat tone carried a faint trace of discomfort. The saint seemed to notice.
“It is no trouble at all.”
He did not press a second time. The saint simply nodded, gave the duke’s hand one final, firm shake, gathered all his belongings, and left the room.
At last completely alone, the man relaxed and removed his mask once more. The skin hidden beneath the bandages itched and felt clammy. It seemed the pus that had been troubling him for days was beginning to seep. In contrast, the backs of his hands were so painfully dry they felt like the shriveled skin of a mummy.
“Damn it…”
He yanked off his gloves and stood before the mirror. Slowly, he unwound the bandages that ran from his forehead, around his jaw, and down his neck. A hideous monster stared back at him. The sight of that grotesque creature filled him with such loathing that he turned his head away.
Nyx Farrow, the man with the scarred face. The derogatory nickname given to the man whose skin burned like lava and pitted like volcanic rock had originated from his skin disease.
It had happened when he was still a boy. At fifteen, while serving as a squire under Count Belard, Nyx Farrow had been swept up in the conflict. For generations, the western region of Bigland had clashed repeatedly with the forces of Tilamin over the fertile lands of Lichfield. Nyx Farrow had been caught in one such skirmish. The years until he reached adulthood were spent in horrific captivity as a prisoner of war. Most of the scars on his body and mind had been born during that time. And among them, the curse that had most cruelly destroyed Nyx Farrow’s life was this loathsome eczema and inflammation.
The man rarely left his room. The reason was the same as why he wore the mask and gloves in front of others.
Just imagining himself receiving a blessing in front of a crowd made his stomach churn. Unless they were Guarding Knights or saints, most laypeople who came to the chapel for worship were young women. And Nyx Farrow despised young women.
Knock, knock.
The moment he finished removing the bandages and sat down, someone rapped on the door. The knock was forceful and confident, as if certain it would be answered. The owner of that insolent presence did not even wait for a reply. He shoved the door open and immediately began hurling complaints and criticism through the gap.
“Brother.”
It was a familiar term used only when they were alone, yet it dripped with irritation. The slender, beautiful youth with silver hair that gleamed like a crescent moon was Desidero, Nyx’s younger brother. A strikingly handsome young man with dazzling silver hair and pale skin.
The youth appeared with his taciturn attendant, Freed, trailing behind him like a shadow. Freed was the man Nyx had personally hired to serve his brother. Calm and composed, he could be trusted with any task.
In Freed’s presence, the brothers dispensed with formalities. Even during private conversations, they allowed him to remain without concern.
“You really didn’t show your face at the banquet even once?”
The younger brother began scolding the moment he saw his elder. It was a failure to uphold the bare minimum of etiquette and duty expected of his station. The Duke of Farrow shot back, equally petulant.
“That damned wedding. One day should have been enough—why the hell does it have to drag on for days? Why should I have to stomach the sight of those pig-like bastards eating, drinking, and spinning around all day while fighting off nausea?”
“Today is the last day, so I told you to attend at least once. We’ve come all this way. Whether it’s the marriageable young ladies or the heads of houses with such daughters, you need to make an impression on as many families as possible. If not now, when will you ever leave the territory again and create opportunities to interact with other noble daughters?”
Desidero sounded genuinely frustrated and concerned. At those words, the Duke of Farrow could not help but snort.
“That is exactly why I didn’t want to go, brother.”
Go outside and talk with women?
Was it that he would not, or that he could not? The duke thought bitterly as he shrugged off his coat. Then he began loosening the laces of his tall boots that reached his ankles.
“You said you hated arranged marriages pushed through by matchmakers. Then you should take the initiative yourself. You need to find a woman you actually like before you can even consider sending a marriage proposal.”
Desidero’s laments and nagging continued toward his brother, who was only half-listening. The man found the words so absurd that he no longer even wanted to waste energy arguing.
“Do you honestly think that’s possible?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
To Desidero, Nyx Farrow was an idol. In his world, no man was more magnificent than his older brother.
“What could possibly be lacking in you as a husband? How many young men inherit a ducal title at your age and remain unmarried?”
“…Titles and honors are not what make a man attractive.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The younger brother poured out praise and encouragement, urging him to have confidence.
“The mountains and fields of Loudhill all belong to you. The prestige of the Farrow family is second only to the royal house of Jeroli. Recently you’ve even earned the title of holy war hero. That is a truly monumental and honorable epithet. No one can dispute that Nyx Farrow is Bigland’s greatest knight. I am truly proud of that, brother.”
The youth’s fervent support was so embarrassing that even listening quietly made one’s face burn, yet the Duke of Farrow himself remained utterly indifferent. The man harbored no hope whatsoever regarding his position or market value in the marriage market.
With a lukewarm, half-mocking expression, the duke replied.
“I’m sorry, Dero… but unlike you, women have absolutely no interest in this brother’s swordsmanship or horsemanship.”
A married couple met not on horseback, but in bed. Where in the world would a woman be found who wanted to roll around naked with a hideous, pus-covered, pockmarked man?
At the thought, the man grew gloomy. In a depressed mood, he picked up the helmet that had rolled across the floor. Along with the mask, the helmet served as Nyx Farrow’s second skin—his other face.
I like things the way they are. I have no interest in women.
The man thought as he took a dry cloth and wiped the dust from his armor.