Chapter 21.1

In the still air, the glances of two individuals collided before Cura shifted her focus back to Elena.

“His Highness is in the office,” Cura relayed.

“Is he injured anywhere?” Elena inquired.

“No, he’s perfectly fine. But…”

“Oh, don’t say unnecessary things!” Leto interjected abruptly, curtailing Cura’s words. 

Observing Cura sigh and avert her gaze, Elena felt something was strange. “What’s happening? Is something wrong?” Elena propped herself up with one arm, a groan escaping involuntarily as if an axe had struck her entire body. Leaning forward, she buried her face in the pillow.

“Miss Elena,” Cura hastened to her side, supporting her and gently laying her back on the bed.

“Are you in your right mind?” Leto exclaimed with frustration. “We’ve only applied some herbs to your wounds. You shouldn’t be moving so recklessly.”

Crushed beneath the weight of pain, Elena found herself unable to utter a word, tightly shutting her eyes. In Kennard’s embrace, on the brink of losing consciousness, she had believed it was the end, convinced she was succumbing to the final throes of life. Yet, defying that ominous precipice, she clung stubbornly to existence and, against all odds, awoke.

Fortunate, and at the same time, unfortunate.

As awareness returned, a wave of concern surged through her heart, its tendrils reaching out for any sign of harm befalling Kennard. “Cura, tell me what transpired,” Elena pleaded, her grip on Cura’s hand tight.

Cura gazed down at Elena’s hand, then helplessly shrugged. “Some time ago, the White Fox Tribe we captured and those who assaulted Miss Elena were brutally dismantled. Since then, His Highness hasn’t eaten, slept, and… he hasn’t left the office.”

“Is it true?”


A pallor deepened across Elena’s already wan face. She couldn’t fathom why, but an uneasy sense pervaded her, as if her mere existence had intensified some looming crisis.

Observing Elena’s distress, Leto sighed. “There’s nothing we can do. Don’t burden yourself unnecessarily. When His Highness is like this, even Serin keeps her distance. We can’t predict when he might reach a breaking point.”


Running his fingertips over a lengthy scar on his eyebrow, Kennard felt a subtle twitch beneath his touch. The scar traversed diagonally across his forehead, eyebrows, and eyelids—a cruel reminder of a sword’s unforgiving cut. Despite a decade passing since its formation, this particular scar, unlike others, persistently throbbed with pain, striking without warning.

A gentle knock echoed, and the door swung open promptly. Kennard, fixated on the flickering light of the fireplace, refrained from turning around. Even without a glance, the distinct pheromones signaled Serin’s arrival.

As Serin entered the room, there was a rustle, followed by the abrupt opening of tightly sealed curtains. Sunlight, streaming through the overcast sky, flooded the office. The sudden brightness indoors drew a furrowed brow from Kennard. “What are you doing?”

Aware that Serin often lingered near the office entrance, today it seemed a deliberate intrusion into his sanctuary.

“It’s already broad daylight,” Serin remarked, followed by a persistent rustling, as if he were rearranging things—perhaps tidying up scattered documents and books that should have occupied the desk or shelves.

“Leave me alone and just go,” Kennard grumbled,

Ignoring his request, a clattering sound resonated this time, and a small table appeared before Kennard. On it sat a silver plate holding stew and bread. The mere sight of the food prompted Kennard to turn his head away. Hunger eluded him, and the prospect of eating felt burdensome.

“I’m not in the mood,” he muttered, expressing his disinterest.

“Still, please have some,” Serin insisted.

Under different circumstances, he might have unleashed a barrage of scolding and lectures, his voice echoing with authority. However, today, the persistent individual succumbed to a disconcerting silence despite Serin’s efforts. Though bothered by Serin’s unusual behavior, Kennard opted to dismiss it.

“I said it’s enough. Don’t bother me, just leave,” Kennard declared sternly.

“Your Highness…”

“Leave before I tear you apart too,” shouted Kennard, frustration bubbling within him. To prevent himself from leaping at Serin, he clutched the armrest of the sofa so tightly that his nails threatened to embed themselves.

“Elena has regained consciousness,” Serin hastily interjected.

Kennard’s hand, which had been tracing the scar on his eyebrow, abruptly halted. “When?” he inquired.

“Early this morning,” replied Serin.

Kennard lowered his hand to his thigh and reclined against the sofa, closing his eyes despite the throbbing pain.

“Will you go see her?” Serin inquired.

“No, I won’t,” Kennard said, gritting his teeth in annoyance.

“You’ve been worried.”

“I haven’t, so don’t talk nonsense.”

Silently, Serin regarded Kennard, then cautiously pulled a chair and positioned herself across from him. “I met with Leto before coming here,” Serin revealed, pushing a plate of food toward Kennard, as if implying he would speak after he ate.



not work with dark mode