The Glass Rose
‘That man is Nyx Farrow. The Iron Horse Lord, Nyx Farrow.’
If he won, he would gain immense fame, and even if he lost, the humiliation would not be too great. That was why he had chosen him in the first place—as a stepping stone to restore his tarnished honor.
‘If things go wrong, I’ll just slit the horse’s throat again.’
The Crown Prince whispered to Zylas before the match began. It was supposed to be a last resort, but Zylas feared he would have no choice but to succumb to that vile temptation once more.
Zylas had to live up to the prince’s expectations. There would be no third chance, so he had no room left for hesitation. The Crown Prince was not a patient man, and Zylas knew he must use every means at his disposal, for this was the final opportunity.
The worst scene Zylas could imagine was simply being thrown to the ground. Yet Nyx Farrow’s reflexes far exceeded his imagination.
One, two…
Before he could even count to three, the duke’s lance tip surged toward him. Nyx was always one beat faster, one reach longer.
The moment the horse’s hooves struck the ground, Nyx realized it. Zylas’s lance was not aimed at him, but at the horse’s neck.
The first time might have been an accident, but repeating the same act twice—including the previous offense—proved deliberate intent.
Yet the man was no fool who could not grasp even that much. Nyx sensed it instinctively. The only reason a mere Guarding Knight could be so bold was because the cunning Pig Prince stood behind him.
Crash!
Nyx swung his arm with full force, accepting the provocation.
Unfortunately for Zylas, the difference in strength was overwhelming. The duke’s lance struck like a hammer to the chest, sending Zylas flying. Meanwhile, Zylas’s own weapon fell harmlessly without so much as grazing his opponent.
The true spectacle of humiliation began after that.
Whoa…?!
Zylas’s left leg tangled with the reins as it swung over to the right. The loose straps hanging from the bit to his chest were the problem.
As he tried to kick his left leg free, his right ankle twisted in the stirrup. He hung upside down like an acrobat performing a trick, head and feet reversed. The horse’s relentless gallop dragged him along in that grotesque position.
Screams mixed with gasps erupted from the stands. Most of the sorrowful cries came from nobles and women, while the men—who valued spectacle and victory over human life—roared with excitement.
Farrow! Farrow!
Farrow! Farrow!
Amid the thunderous cheers, the duke yanked one rein. Zylas’s horse was eventually halted by the soldiers, but the rider already looked unconscious.
The limp arms, the unnaturally twisted neck— one could feel the empty space where his soul had silently fled.
The ornate tack, the loose neck guard, the insurmountable wall that was Nyx Farrow. All these needles had stitched the man’s misfortune into death.
Flustered officials rushed to check on Zylas. All they could do was untangle the reins from his ankle and lay him gently on the ground.
The duke slowly turned his horse to survey the chaotic scene. Though his expression remained unreadable, there was no sign of panic or discomfort. He simply gazed calmly, as if he had merely done what needed to be done. It felt utterly cold.
He did not even dismount. From that arrogant posture, Tichite understood. The death of a commoner-born Guarding Knight could leave no mark on his reputation or emotions.
He did not seem the least bit afraid or remorseful for having contributed to someone’s death.
What a terrifying man.
Tichite thought as she nestled in Sera’s grieving arms.
Yet at the same time… unbearably sensual.
Tichite thought she finally understood why men who loved blood were so drawn to him.
The fallen white knight and the unwavering black knight created a scene of cruel allure.
Tichite stood frozen, as if bewitched by a demon, staring at the sight. An indescribable thrill pierced through her body.
Once it was confirmed that the Guarding Knight with the broken neck had no chance of survival, his body was quickly removed. Zylas’s tragic death was cleared away without time for mourning. Injury and death were inevitable in a joust. One had to be prepared for it.
Farrow! Farrow!
Farrow! Farrow!
The excited crowd’s cheers did not cease as they chanted the victor’s name. They had chosen him as both the evening’s entertainment and the hero to be praised—the one who had delivered the most dramatic finale.
The duke rode toward the VIP seats. The steady clop of hooves stopped before the railing, right in front of the Pig Princess, who sat with a deeply displeased expression.
The man twitched his pitch-black iron gauntlet as if to ask what she was waiting for. The princess’s face flushed red and blue, while the Crown Prince’s complexion was even worse. Meanwhile, the Lord of Salt Castle clapped with a good-natured smile. His expression was so guileless it bordered on oblivious; he might be kind, but he would never make a good husband.
At the princess’s signal, trumpets blared. The herald shouted in a rich, booming voice, as if to prove why the task had fallen to him.
“The winner is Nyx Farrow!”
As his name was called out in fiery acclaim, the nobles seated behind the royal couple began offering lukewarm applause. At the same time, they glanced nervously at the Crown Prince. Most of them knew of the strained relationship between the Pig Prince and the Iron Horse Lord, and were accustomed to walking the tightrope between them.
The prince clapped reluctantly, striking his palms together only once while others clapped three times. The motion looked almost like grinding teeth.
“The winner shall present this honor to the lady of his choice.”
The princess spoke in a stiff, dignified tone. She extended her hand over the railing toward the duke, who showed no intention of dismounting, offering him the Glass Rose.
And when the man tilted his head toward her, she whispered.
“You monster. Murderer.”
The insult was soft enough to reach only his ears.
“Thank you for the compliment.”
The man replied calmly to the sharp whisper that seemed ready to bite his ear off. Then, without hesitation, he boldly took the Glass Rose that was now his.
The Glass Rose sparkled like a jewel under the sunlight. He looked around the VIP seats, wondering which woman deserved to receive this brilliant, ostentatious glory.
A tense, uneasy atmosphere spread among the guests. Some coughed awkwardly, others turned pale and looked away.
Most of those unfriendly gazes belonged to young women—ladies who trailed their delicate dress hems across the dusty training grounds.
Through the narrow eye slits of his helmet, the man peered into that rippling world. And there, among the glittering women like so many Glass Roses, he found her. Abigail Belard. The face he never wanted to see again was truly sitting there, surrounded by her flock of adoring maidens.
……
The muscles that had moved so fluidly and skillfully since emerging from the tent suddenly stiffened for the first time. The moment he read contempt and revulsion in Abigail’s eyes, he could no longer function normally. The glances from the other women whispering beside her were equally painful.
He was perfectly hidden within an impenetrable shell that no one could pierce. Yet the moment he stood before women, he felt stripped bare. He was ready to face any formidable warrior, but he had no defense whatsoever against the gaze of the opposite sex.
There was only one way to make him shrink in this world—the eyes of slender women.
Nyx had clearly seized victory, yet strangely, it tasted like defeat.
Then came an unbearable wave of shame and humiliation. When people are treated like monsters, they begin to want to live up to that expectation.