Chapter 13
Chapter 13: First Meeting (2)
It has to be the curse.
That gaze from the Grand Duke earlier hadn’t been revulsion or loathing directed at me. No, it resembled fear far more closely.
He dreaded injuring anyone, anxious about the destruction he might unleash.
That’s why he’s been shunning me.
Only now did the truth dawn on me. He’d kept his distance so deliberately—sure, he might simply dislike me, but at heart, it stemmed from his terror of causing me harm.
Why had this never occurred to me sooner?
In the Beast War, the prior Grand Duke had forged a blood pact with a dragon, dooming himself to a curse.
Upon his death, that malediction transferred to his son, Loic.
I recall the original tale mentioning the Grand Duke’s affliction with this curse.
Yet somehow, until this moment, my thoughts had been veiled from that knowledge.
And it was only after laying hands on him that the memory resurfaced.
Curled in my bed, I sifted through every detail of the Grand Duke’s curse from the original story.
The dragon itself had initiated the pact.
Frail and fading, it sought a human host to safeguard its mana. In return for triumph in the war, it bestowed its mana core upon the previous Grand Duke.
A dragon’s might was so vast it threatened the world’s equilibrium. Armed with it, the Grand Duke crushed the enemy and shielded the North.
But no mortal frame could endure such potency indefinitely. In time, the previous Grand Duke perished, bequeathing his tainted legacy to his heir.
The dragon’s mana proliferated ceaselessly within the host, demanding regular expulsion. Neglect it, and the surging force would explode outward in agony and berserk fury.
The Grand Duke coped by slaying beasts, bleeding off his excess mana in ceaseless hunts.
Yet this offered mere respite. True alleviation came through intimate contact with another.
The catch lay in the dragon’s essence: only women could absorb and stabilize his mana. And should she possess feeble control, the influx destabilized within her, inflicting grievous repercussions.
In the original story, solely the saint, Constance, proved equal to the task.
Thus, any other woman daring to touch him endured searing torment—and sometimes, death.
Which meant that when I’d clung to the Grand Duke… death had loomed perilously close.
Why on earth didn’t I consider this sooner?!
I’d courted oblivion in the most foolhardy manner imaginable.
Stranger still, after embracing him for so long, I emerged unscathed.
The tale warned that even fleeting brushes provoked agony. Yet in his arms, I sensed no twinge, no unease.
If anything, I’d savored the shelter of those powerful limbs…
Regardless, the gash on my hand throbbed far worse than any imagined curse.
My mana mastery fell short of Constance’s, so perhaps… his power spared those from other realms?
If I grasped his hand once more, I could test it…
Naturally, that hinged on him consenting to an audience. After last night’s fiasco, securing one seemed more remote than ever.
What if his arm’s wound runs deep? What if it festers badly?
Blood had streamed from it like a faucet.
Bravo. I’ve etched the most abysmal first impression in history.
Fresh from his bath, he’d carried the sharp bite of winter chill. I, by contrast, must have stunk of wine and crushed tomatoes.
At minimum, I ought to have approached him clear-headed.
Irked, I flung off the covers and choked down my remorse.
Still, slumber claimed me with unexpected swiftness.
As consciousness faded, I murmured a quiet sorry to the hapless staff tasked with mopping up my inebriated mess.
Loic Blenheim, Grand Duke of Blenheim and sovereign of the vast northern domain, slumbered deeply.
Rousing at dawn, he stared in astonishment. Morning light already bathed the sky beyond his window… Impossible.
Hadn’t endless nights found him restless until the sun crested?
Could she truly be the reason?
Few knew of his curse—Whitley among them.
Since Perel escorted the lady to Blenheim, unease had gnawed at Loic.
Perel had paraded her raft carriage as proof she wasn’t the Marquis’s pawn. But the harder Perel pressed, the firmer Loic’s resolve grew: dispatch her at once.
Contact risked dire injury.
The disparity was unjust.
Suppose the Marquis turned traitor? Could Loic restrain his wrath from spilling onto her?
The dragon’s force rendered him volatile, self-mastery a fragile illusion.
A single lapse, a careless touch—he’d never absolve himself.
It would equate to preying on the defenseless.
Whitley tended her needs, but isolation in this barren expanse, bereft of kin or allies, promised hardship.
Better she depart and spare them both.
Yet as Loic hewed the air with his blade hundreds of times in the deserted training yard, his thoughts strayed relentlessly to the young woman.
A vexing, intrusive fascination.
It ought to have faded as idle musing, yet fate had twisted otherwise.
Now Loic lingered in the castle’s westernmost chamber on the third floor—a humble nook unfit for his rank, but his sole sanctuary.
Last night, as bath vapors parted to unveil her, a single conviction seized him.
The knights spoke true.
She was exquisite.
Moonlight caressed her porcelain features, her sapphire eyes locking with his.
When those crimson lips parted, Loic’s breath hitched for the first time.
Perhaps his indifference to feminine charms stemmed from never beholding true beauty.
Her stumble triggered instinct; he caught her without a second thought.
Absurdity itself.
Proximity should have scourged her.
Reason had deserted him utterly.
Unlike his nightmares, no rage propelled him—only solicitude.
Upon contact, the dragon’s mana surged into her, fluid as seepage through fractured crystal.
Warmth bloomed within him, unprecedented.
Agonies long endured evaporated, as if illusory.
Cursed since inheritance, Loic tasted life anew.
Concurrently, a delicate fragrance wafted, insidious and enveloping.
A perilous urge stirred.
I want to keep her like this eternally.
To clasp her thus forever—that desire consumed him.
Sated at last, lucidity returned.
What have I wrought?
Elation had thrummed in his veins moments prior; now terror hammered. His query—Are you all right?—quavered pathetically in his ears.
“I’m fine. Are you all right, Your Grace?”
Her nonchalance, her concern for him, plunged him into bewilderment.
Even after her departure, he badgered Whitley for assurances of her well-being.
Relief or peril? He couldn’t decide.
Only after Whitley’s tenth avowal did Loic collapse into bed.
Madness had claimed him.
One misstep, and he’d have slain her outright.
But that aroma… intoxicatingly lush.
It evoked boyhood havens—the soothing bloom of his mother’s conservatory, balm to the soul.
Another embrace might unveil its source.
Tumultuous impulses churned.
“No rest tonight, then.”
Yet weariness prevailed, dragging him into profound slumber—the first unbroken night since the curse’s onset.
One conclusion fit.
“A woman impervious to the dragon’s curse.”
Was it possible? His deliverance?
Why did she endure unscathed? Could this wild conjecture hold? And if so… what role might she claim in his world?
Dread coiled tight.
The curse defined him.
He’d chafed against it, naturally. But acceptance had long settled in; salvation held no appeal.
No. He spurned rescuers.
Yielding fate’s reins to another repulsed him. No singular figure to upend his existence.
The dragon’s tether sufficed.
Another bond… reliance on her nearness… insatiable yearning lifelong…
Unthinkable horror.
Worse still if she were the one.
