Time of the Blind Beast - Chapter 5

She tried to avoid it, but their eyes met.

The man stared directly at Rose.

His eyes were a light blue, close to the color of the sky. He had a generally light complexion. Even his black hair seemed faded in places, giving it a grayish tint. For someone who had just ordered her to kill his brother, his face was surprisingly calm and handsome as he leaned in closer. His skin was pale, likely because he rarely saw sunlight. A distinct teardrop-shaped beauty mark sat at the corner of his right eye.

Rose quickly shut her eyes. She worried that prolonged eye contact might lead to him finding fault with her.

Akenaus turned her face this way and that, inspecting her, and suddenly remarked, “Looking at you closely, your face is quite pretty. I didn’t realize with you keeping your head down like that.”

A chill ran down her spine. Goosebumps broke out all over her back.

“It would be a waste to send you away just like that.”

His thumb pressed into her tightly closed lips. Rose forced herself to hold her breath and endure his touch. It was wiser not to provoke Akenaus at this moment.

He slowly traced the soft, tender flesh inside her lips.

“Have you done it before?”

“…Pardon?”

“Are you a virgin?”

A wave of deep humiliation swept over her. Still, Rose couldn’t let her guard down. At Akenaus’s word, she could be dragged to his bedroom at any moment.

What should she say to escape his interest?

She didn’t know. So, she chose not to answer. Of course, in situations like this, silence often spoke louder than words, regardless of one’s intentions.

“How unfortunate. I suppose I’ll have to save that for later. Virgins are stiff and boring. It takes too much time to train them. If it weren’t for the week, I would’ve taken you to my bed right away.”

It worked. Rose’s relief was visible. It had been pure luck, but she was thankful nonetheless.

“Oh, and don’t forget that your parents’ lives are still in my hands.”

Even as he postponed satisfying his desire for her, Akenaus reminded her of the sinister threat with the same lighthearted tone.

A week later, Ezekiel Valdemaira returned to Clarice as planned, with a grand victory ceremony. That day, Rose approached the Valdemaira estate, holding the pass Akenaus had provided her. The estate was vast, with dozens of servants and a constant stream of merchants and guests. Blending in with the household was a simple task.

She carried a tray with a tea set and quietly slipped into Ezekiel’s bedroom, as Akenaus had instructed.

She deliberately didn’t knock. She had overheard the servants whispering about how exhausted he was from the ceremony and that he had fallen asleep.

The door was ajar.

As soon as she stepped inside, her gaze locked onto him. The tall man lay on a long chair, his eyes closed. He hadn’t even changed out of his medal-adorned uniform, nor had he moved to the comfortable bed beside him.

His raven-black hair, dark as crow feathers, was messily draped over his forehead. Unlike his light and delicate brother, Ezekiel was striking in every way. His colors, his features, and his presence were all bold and intense.

He was a man with deep shadows across his face. They say that of the many faces a person shows, the one they have while sleeping is the most pure and innocent, resembling their childhood. But his sleeping face was neither pure nor innocent.

Someone with such a face could never be breathing so heavily in their sleep.

A ringing sound filled her ears.

It was only later that she realized—it was likely an instinctive warning, a signal from her body sensing danger.

Rose placed the tray on the nearby table and opened the small glass bottle. The liquid inside was colorless and odorless. She stared into it for a moment. She didn’t know how it would taste, but once mixed into the tea, it would be undetectable.

It wouldn’t be the kind of poison easily spotted by sight or taste. However, she had no idea what effect the poison would have, as Akenaus hadn’t explained. She could only guess.

Her fingers trembled. Ezekiel lay peacefully, completely unaware that the woman sent to harm him was right in front of him.

If only he would open his eyes right now.

No, I hope he never opens them.

Her mind was in turmoil. She stood there, frozen like a statue, staring at him before she hesitantly stepped forward.

A faint smell of gunpowder lingered around the man with his eyes closed. A remnant of the battlefield.

Ezekiel was known as a sharpshooter. He was especially famous for climbing trees during battles where they were outnumbered, picking off enemies one by one with perfect accuracy, dismantling their forces.

He had commanded a unit in the 37th Regiment, a force known for entering the most dangerous terrain and holding out until the very end. One story said that after a particularly bloody battle, the regiment’s flag had turned black, soaked through with blood to the point that friend and foe alike were indistinguishable. The black flag became a symbol, and from then on, his unit carried it with them.

Such a soldier, who had survived so many battles, was now at risk of dying because of his brother’s jealousy. What a tragic end for a war hero.

Her eyes traced his face. His skin, weathered from the heat of battle, cast deep shadows over his sharp features. Though his eyes were closed now, she could picture them opening, their gaze fierce and sharp. Ironically, a small beauty mark sat near his left eye, as if the two brothers had each taken one for themselves.

He resembled Akenaus, but not completely. If Akenaus had a pretty face, then Ezekiel’s could only be described as beautiful. If you stripped away Akenaus’s frivolity and mischief and added weight and intensity, you would have Ezekiel.

Clink. Her heel accidentally stepped on something. Her heart dropped.

What she had stepped on was a long rifle. It had been carefully positioned on the same-colored carpet, as if placed there to detect any intruders. No doubt, it was a habit carried over from setting traps on the battlefield.

In that instant, the man who had been sleeping suddenly opened his eyes. His slightly furrowed eyes were a deep blue, dark as the night sea. His sharp gaze quickly swept over her appearance, down to her feet.

It happened in a flash. He kicked the rifle with one foot and grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward him.

The man’s hands, rough and calloused from countless battles, were strong and unyielding. His hands bore the scars of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of trigger pulls and bayonet strikes. They were nothing like his brother’s soft, smooth hands.

In the chaos of the moment, the rifle spun halfway around, and a spark flared from its muzzle.

At the same time, a deafening explosion tore through the air, loud enough to gather everyone in the estate.

The window shattered instantly.

She was lucky not to have screamed. Rose stood frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at the spinning rifle.

She recalled hearing somewhere that rifles could misfire from even the slightest impact. Sometimes, they discharged unexpectedly during reloading, injuring the shooter or those nearby.

But she had never expected the rifle, which had just been through the victory ceremony, to still be loaded.

Most of all.

Most of all…

The man was still holding her wrist. All the blood in her body seemed to drain away. She had been caught. Sweat trickled down her back, making her shirt cling to her skin.

Though a servant might not check the face of every passing person, once a crowd gathered around the scene of the misfire, things would change. She would have to explain how the gun had gone off, and soon the servants would point her out as someone they had never seen before. Once they started questioning her, they would discover the truth about the bottle, her purpose, who had sent her, and why she had no choice but to accept.

Then, it would all be over.

She had to escape. She had to get out of here.

Instinct took over. Rose threw the liquid from the bottle into his eyes.

“Ugh!”

The moment Ezekiel instinctively covered his eyes in shock, she twisted her wrist free from his grasp and bolted out of the room.

The rest was a blur. The sudden gunshot had thrown the entire estate into chaos, and Rose had fled the Valdemaira estate, running back home as fast as she could. She locked herself in her dark room, hiding under the covers, trembling with fear.

From that day on, Rose didn’t dare step foot outside. Afraid that the Valdemaira servants might come searching for the suspicious woman, she kept the windows locked and pretended the house was empty.

Sometimes, she wondered if it had all been a dream. But the half-empty glass bottle constantly reminded her of the crime she had committed. And yet, she didn’t have the courage to throw it away.

Left alone with her thoughts, her mind kept returning to that day. As she pieced together the fragmented memories like an incomplete puzzle, Rose suddenly shivered.

The spark from the rifle, the bullet that shattered the window.

If he hadn’t kicked the rifle and pulled her toward him, who would have been shot by that loaded gun?

It had all happened in less than a second. In that brief moment, he had made the choice to save her, and she had made the choice to harm him.

Their opposite choices had led to opposite outcomes. Consumed by the same thought, Rose found herself trapped in nightmares night after night. In her dreams, she was shot by the misfired bullet, or she was caught with the bottle and dragged away.

It was around that time that her parents returned. They had been imprisoned in some unknown location, and though they were a bit thinner, they seemed healthy enough. In fact, Rose, who had been hiding in the house the entire time, looked far more gaunt and pale, practically resembling a sick person.

“He’s gone blind, they say.”

Her parents already knew what she had done to save them. The news Akenaus had delivered through her parents froze Rose in place.