OTKL 26

Chapter : 26

Don’t Want to Fall

“Aagh! You wretched girl!”

For a moment he let his guard down—thinking he had the upper hand—and the huge man dropped the knife he’d been pointing at me. Seizing the brief opening, Alperil ran in the direction her instincts screamed at her to go.

She had already kicked off one shoe, and as she picked up speed she shed the remaining one as well.

She sensed nothing chasing after her, yet her anxiety only grew. The young master was now fighting the remaining men—three, perhaps—alone. The thought terrified her.

The ground felt strange beneath her bare feet. Tripping more than once as she gathered up her skirt, Alperil never stopped running.

On a night like this, there was no chance the palace guard would bother with a district full of commoners. Alperil sprinted toward the street, intending to thrust money at whatever rough-looking fellow she found and beg for help.

She kept glancing back, her stomach twisting, but no sound followed her. A cold thought flickered through her mind—then vanished.

Were they avoiding shooting because a bullet would kill instantly?

Yet when the young master first met her, he hadn’t hesitated to kill her. He seemed accustomed to situations like this—so perhaps, perhaps he was still all right.

She realized anew how different her life had been from any man’s. Props made of paper, knives carved from wood, stages where you could fall dead and rise again behind the curtain. That world had been everything to her.

But she was no longer beneath chandelier lights.

One mistake here couldn’t be undone.

Panting frantically, Alperil forced her aching legs onward. Perhaps she had taken a wrong turn—no one was around except ragged children haunting the alleys.

Then—just as she blindly rushed forward—her wrist was abruptly seized. On edge, Alperil shrieked and lurched backward at the slightest touch.

“A—! Haa, ha….”

The person she had least expected to see made her eyes fly wide. Sweat dripped down her face as she reached up reflexively to swipe it away, her hand slowly lowering.

“Lord Lange?”

The man standing in the dark looked just as startled. His tousled blond hair glistened with sweat, and the lips that were always curled in an easy grin were now twisted with shock.

“M—Master Traiden. Lord Lange. Oh, heavens. Thank you—how, why are you—”

But Alperil lacked the strength to tease apart the reasons.

Relief loosened her limbs—too much. Pain stabbed up from her bare soles, yanking her back to reality. She grabbed the wrist she had just shrugged away and cried out urgently.

“Th—the young master is in danger! Men came out of nowhere, and he’s still—ah—alone—”

“Alperil, I… truly, I… merely…”

Whatever the reason, Traiden was panting just as hard, stumbling over his words. His entire body twitched with nervous urgency, yet she couldn’t rush him. He hesitated—until he saw her dirt-streaked feet—and finally let out a low groan.

A chill washed over her sweat-cooled body. His frail voice followed.

“Where?”

Moments later, they were retracing Alperil’s path—except now she sat behind Traiden on a saddle, astride one of two horses he’d brought.

Though unused to riding, Alperil clung desperately to him as he guided both mounts through the narrow alley with a skill that bordered on uncanny.

Her heart brimming with gratitude—Traiden hadn’t even asked questions before helping—she nonetheless couldn’t ignore an uneasy thought:

Why had he been there, with two horses, as though prepared?

Even on horseback, Traiden muttered nonstop into the wind. Strange, breathless half-syllables—fear more than speech. Alperil kept quiet, pointing out the route instead.

“Here—no, the next corner. We should tie the horses here. If they smell blood… well, you understand—yes…”

Her own throat was tight—she could barely speak either.

They stopped in a lane bordering the one where the young master remained. Traiden jumped down, helping her off the saddle. Her frozen feet wouldn’t obey her frantic mind.

She had just steadied herself—

A scream tore through the night.

Every nerve in her body plummeted. Alperil forgot the pain and lurched toward the sound—until she realized it wasn’t the young master’s voice.

Traiden pulled something from the saddlebag—then pressed a trembling hand over his pale face instead of charging forward. Alperil opened her mouth to urge him—

Click.

“Cover your ears.”

A loaded pistol. She froze, then obeyed. Bang! The shot rang out. Guards! Traiden had fired a warning. He bolted forward and Alperil raced after him.

Only to stop short at the sight.

The alley was empty. The assailants were gone. Terencio leaned casually against a wall, as though resting, and looked their way.

A body lay sprawled—dead, unconscious, or worse—but she barely noticed. Terencio’s gaze moved past Traiden—straight to her.

His eyes softened. Alperil ran.

She had to feel his warmth. As she had thrown herself into his arms earlier, Terencio now wrapped his arms around her neck and drew her close—the roles reversed.

His hand swept up her back, as though comforting her. He was warm. She buried her face against his collarbone, silent.

Only then did she notice the murky voices of the two men trading words.

“They scattered before I fired? Only this one left?”

“Yes. The—Count of Tiersen’s—he’s one of theirs. The rest were small fry.”

The body wasn’t a corpse, apparently—just barely alive. Traiden kicked the groaning man again.

Terencio, whom she expected would demand answers, said nothing.

Alperil was vaguely puzzled that a mere merchant handled things so deftly—and that the young master seemed so unsurprised—but she clung to his warmth, unable to let go.

“Don’t be shaken. This isn’t the first time. Take care of her,” Terencio murmured.

“I—damn it, sir—I’m sorry, I swear—I didn’t—”

Alperil suddenly spoke.

“Young master.”

Conversation ceased. Her face drained pale as she lowered her gaze toward where their bodies pressed—and her voice quavered again.

“You—young master.”

Terencio met her eyes and gave her a faint smile. His head dropped gently onto her shoulder.

His breath, faint as the smile, touched her skin.

Traiden shouted something, running toward them—but Alperil couldn’t answer. Her groping hands trembled harder the more she saw.

Wet. Blood seeped through his thick coat and onto her hands.

Blinking through blurring tears, she inspected him. Her fingers stopped at his abdomen. Gasping, she lifted the torn shirt.

The diagonal slash was deep. Nothing wasn’t blood-red.

“Why didn’t you say something—ah…”

The source of his warmth struck her like a blow. Guilt flooded her body; she pulled her shaking hands away.

She turned to Traiden, voice cracking.

“We need a doctor. Or a hospital—I don’t know this city at all. Please—help us.”

“The young master’s wounds—if word spreads it will cause trouble. We can’t—call a doctor…”

Traiden stammered, clearly shaken. His eyes flicked over Terencio’s slack face, wincing.

“We… we have to ride. But then you’ll have to handle a horse alone—”

Alperil bit her lip, dread rising.

And—astonishingly—the dying man murmured, breath barely there against her neck.

“I’ll hold… the reins.”

“Is he conscious?” Traiden gasped.

“Y—yes. He says he’ll… he’ll hold the reins behind me.”

Alperil whispered, uncertain if she understood the weak words correctly—or if such a thing was even possible.

Don’t want to fall.

“If—if so, then good. They’re trained horses. If I lead, you should manage. More weight makes falling less likely as well.”

Traiden helped lift Terencio onto the saddle behind her. He could barely sit upright.

While Traiden prepared to lead, Alperil’s eyes drifted—and landed on the pistol at Terencio’s belt.

Why hadn’t he fired?

She slid it free. It was oddly light.

No bullets.

It was the same pistol he’d aimed at her the day she first arrived in Santcaleum. She remembered the effortless click of loading it.

Her eyes wavered. Realization poured through her—followed by a storm of thoughts.

If he hadn’t let her go ahead—
If she’d found Traiden sooner—
If she hadn’t slowed him down—
If she had known her place and never followed him—
If someone else—anyone—had walked into his mansion that day instead of her—

“Let’s go,” Traiden said.

The visions shattered. Alperil lifted her head. Darkness. A saddle too high, a burden too heavy.

But she had a reason to go on.

With steady resolve, she dropped the empty pistol. Instead of blaming herself, she chose to do what she could. She nudged the horse’s flank sharply.

It leapt forward.