Translator: Nox

Chapter 2

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A living sculpture, shaped by an artist’s unwavering obsession.

His brow, framed neatly beneath dark locks, gleamed without blemish, skin pale and smooth like polished stone.

Bold brows arched over a nose chiseled with divine precision.

Full lips in a warm hue seemed to breathe vitality into cold marble, drawing the eye without mercy.

Those eyes, though, held her captive completely.

Narrowed at the edges, they radiated deep magnetism, irises glowing with molten gold under the stalls’ glow.

Youth marked his early-twenties features, blending fresh allure with solemn weight, those piercing golden depths sharpening the effect.

She lost herself gazing into them, catching faint red flecks amid the market lanterns’ haze.

The stare lingered too long, perhaps rude, until he shifted to question the vendor about alternative freesia sources.

“Any other stalls with freesia around?”

His tone betrayed desperate need for the blooms.

She summoned her courage and spoke up softly.

His attention snapped back her way.

She extended the freesia bunch toward him.

“Whatever your reason, you clearly want these worse than me.”

He eyed the offering in her palm a moment, then took it with deliberate care.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

She pondered his blunt familiarity with an unknown face—noble blood, maybe?

The edge in his voice irked her slightly, yet the gesture stood.

She lifted her shoulders casually. “Grab me a fresh bunch to fill my vase, then.”

Simple flowers cost pennies; she sought no grand payback.

“That cover it?” he pressed, almost urging a steeper demand.

“One bunch works fine.”

Her grin prompted him to direct the girl to bundle every last bouquet.

“No need for all that,” she started, but the vendor’s beaming joy at the windfall silenced her protest.

This outcome seemed harmless enough.

She murmured thanks and stood by as the girl assembled the lot.

“Take this basket—it’ll handle the load better.”

With deft hands, the vendor fitted the flowers into her market display crate.

The weight pulled at her arms noticeably.

He settled the payment, offered a curt dip of his head, and departed.

Such abrupt poise evoked a soldier’s discipline.

She tracked his figure briefly before moving on.

“Time to hit the tavern before last call.”

Basket straining her grip, she aimed for the pub.

A sign on the door halted her:

“My girl’s ill—shop’s shut down temporarily.”

She exhaled heavily at the words. “Everything’s against me tonight.”

Fists balled in quiet anger, she hoped for the kid’s quick healing, then shuffled off.

Home it was—no hunt for another spot drained her.

“Early bed sounds right.”

The trek from Rikel Street dragged, though not impossible.

Crowds ruled out any ride-share coach anyhow.

She wove against the festival throng toward home.

The realm’s revelry filled the air, yet Indar Street’s mouth brought instant quiet.

Few sought a graveyard park amid holidays.

Grizel Park sprawled across most of Indar Street, dotted only by humble attached homes—a haven from chaos.

Her rented green-roofed place loomed ahead.

A rinse first, she decided.

Low rent meant fickle pipes when neighbors showered together.

She checked her watch, timing others’ returns to dodge the rush.

Then a known silhouette emerged from side shadows.

That freesia buyer?

Same man from the stall.

Making for Grizel Park, freesia in hand plus a toy shop parcel.

Her pub detour had yielded nothing; he’d detoured for playthings, paths merging once more.

Wrong route, though.

Straight to the main gate, blocked for repairs.

Pointless detour—the vast grounds meant ages to loop to the open west entry.

Park access neared closing too.

Having surrendered her flowers before, she hated seeing his errand fail.

One more nudge couldn’t hurt.

As she weighed it, he drew nearer.

She dashed forward, fingers brushing his coat tail.

Almost.

His hand clamped her wrist mid-reach.

Shock rooted her in place under that iron hold.

Paralyzed, like prey before a predator.

“You,” he murmured, scanning her features before letting go.

She massaged the spot gingerly.

No crushing force, still a red mark bloomed instantly.

Bruise incoming, likely.

Her initiative justified his reflex, somewhat.

Sleeve tugged low to conceal it, she mustered a grin.

“Ran into each other back at Rikel Street, yeah?”

Corny words prickled her own ears, but quiet risked worse tension.

He noted the wrist first, then spoke.

“The freesia—you handed it over.”

Relief washed through her; dialogue flowed now.

Edwin scrutinized Rina’s wrist, mark promising deep color soon.

He silently cursed his overreaction.

Throne seized, war launched—eight years to Regencia Empire triumph.

No threats lingered, yet old reflexes endured.

Blind-spot motion triggered assassin defense.

Her slender wrist screamed unfit for blades upon contact.

Threat dismissed, he freed her—too late for unmarked skin.

Recognition hit fast; her earlier stare lingered in memory.

She nursed the ache.

Mid-grip ease hadn’t spared his lethal strength from harm.

No foe or armored subordinate, she.

A citizen under his safeguard.

Pondering amends, Edwin watched her conceal the injury and venture,

“Rikel Street crossing earlier, right?”

“You passed me the freesia.”

His even reply drew her tentative smile, eyes lifting shyly.

“Small thing, but Grizel Park bound?”

Spot-on insight creased his brow faintly.

Youth’s reign start left his face androgynously striking.

Battlefield jeers targeted it; tender age risked ally doubt.

Frontline ferocity and cold brutality countered.

Exhausting charade.

Admirers or suitors grated now.

Her aid balanced his wariness.

“Main gate’s your only path from here,” she rushed on, reading his doubt.

“But repairs block it—that’s why I flagged you.”

Her words trailed softer, gaze falling from his.

“West gate’s open for Grizel now.”

Such care swayed him fully.

“Appreciate it,” he clipped.

She dismissed it airily.

“No trouble. Done my part—off I go.”

Flustered haste, she shouldered the dropped basket, dipped a nod, and pivoted.

Edwin stepped into her way.

One hand vanished behind her.

“Care to brand me a monster?”

Urged again, she offered the wrist reluctantly.

No break evident.

“Mark this: dawn tomorrow, nearest temple. Drop Everett Rojas’s name.”

His aide’s moniker given, he strode away.

Unseen then: her name confusion.

Everett Rojas, she’d assume his own.

Chaos would unfold from there.