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Chaptere : 29
A Life Without Luck
“How far do you intend to dig into my flaws before you’re satisfied?”
Alperil sprang to her feet. It wasn’t that the question, carrying a hint of reproach, offended her. She was only relieved after quickly moving down the corridor and confirming that the child’s shadow was nowhere in sight.
Triden hesitated at her sudden movement, as if realizing his mistake. Alperil quietly whispered, closing the door to prevent her voice from leaking through the walls.
“Don’t call my blood relatives my flaws, Mr. Lange.”
She was confused about whether she even had the right to say that. In truth, it wasn’t entirely wrong. Just as she had scars on her shoulders she never wanted anyone to see, he may have regarded his younger sister—the one he had to protect—as a wound in itself.
“I know I’m being presumptuous. I’m sorry. But a child should grow up seeing and hearing only good things.”
Still, her tongue twisted awkwardly trying to express herself. Once Alperil finished speaking, Triden exhaled shakily. He tried to wipe his face, but seeing his hands sticky with blood, he only thumped his chest in quiet agitation.
Alperil replayed Triden’s earlier words about the surgery having been successful. Her tension eased slightly as she leaned against the wall and bent her legs, having not been able to relax immediately in the chaos.
A long silence followed. Half of her nerves were still on the room where the doctor hadn’t yet appeared, while the rest were on the merchant who had turned his back to wash his bloodied hands.
It was Triden who first broke the stillness.
“Try to get some rest. Staying awake won’t change anything.”
“I’m fine. You should rest instead, Mr. Lange.”
“You’ve seen my sister. Caring for her is routine for me. Consider it advice from someone with experience.”
Both of them had stayed up through the stormy night. Especially Triden, who had helped with the surgery, was naturally on edge. Alperil, recognizing the apology in his words, refrained from saying she was sorry and instead asked:
“What kind of illness does the child have?”
“It’s an incurable disease I’ve had since birth. We haven’t even identified the cause. The only thing we can do is reduce her suffering with changing medicines and opium.”
“….”
“It’s not life-threatening every time, so don’t look like that.”
Alperil’s heart grew heavy learning of the hidden struggles behind the cheerful facade of the merchant. Sensing that Triden no longer wished to continue the conversation, she carefully changed the subject.
“Mr. Lange, there’s something I must ask.”
“Yes?”
“Who exactly is behind this? And why? I know the name Count Tiersen.”
‘Count Tiersen… That’s a familiar face over there.’
When the young master could still move his lips and offer a warm embrace, she had repeated the name echoing in her ears throughout the dawn.
The Count was known as a rather dignified noble. Why would he be so annoyed by a single musician quietly living in a suburban mansion to go to such lengths? Triden brought a hand to his mouth.
“Would you be angry if I said I don’t want to talk about it?”
“Are you serious?”
Alperil asked sharply, and a weak laugh escaped him. The merchant looked genuinely troubled—definitely a sign that some hidden truth lay beyond her knowledge.
Before she could speak, the doctor suddenly opened the door and stepped out. The timing was impeccable, though for Alperil, it was important enough to make her forget the conversation entirely.
“No special complications occurred during the suturing. But it’s best not to relax just yet. I’ll check the patient every three days. If she opens her eyes before then, I’ll send a telegram.”
The doctor wiped the blood and sweat with a prepared towel while speaking rapidly in his signature manner. Alperil, bowing quickly, almost entered the room immediately but stopped.
No matter what, she wasn’t completely ignorant of the world. She took off a pair of jeweled earrings she was wearing to offer, but Triden suddenly stood in front of her as if to stop her.
For some reason, the merchant paid the medical bill himself and sent the doctor away, awkwardly muttering playful words about returning the favor later.
After a silent exchange of grateful glances, Alperil finally moved toward the young master’s side with her bloodied feet.
‘She may mumble nonsense due to the opium. Even if she does, don’t be alarmed.’
Unlike Triden’s earlier warnings, the room was utterly quiet. Alperil, briefly disappointed, brought her fingertips to the now-rough cheeks, confirming the faint breath beneath.
Voices of the child and doctor seeped through the door from the hallway. “Brother is very busy these days. Yes, I can take my medicine alone. When it hurts badly, I drink opium in the car…”
A hand, presumably Triden’s, closed the door, and silence followed. Alperil gradually knelt. The bed was low, and this was the easiest way to face him.
Watching the young master’s chest rise and fall, she placed her ear near his heart. She felt the pulse throbbing in her still-warm fingers. She carefully tidied his disheveled hair.
Tears flowed naturally, without even realizing why she was crying. His face was emotionless in deep sleep, and facing it hurt. She thought she should be lying there instead.
“Alperil, the doctor just left. Let’s finish talking…”
Despair fell in the shape of tears. When Triden opened the door without knocking, she was still crying. Her eyes slowly met the young man’s in the doorway.
The merchant, who seemed about to turn back to the corridor, froze for some reason. Alperil adjusted the young master’s blanket and straightened his fingers.
She wiped her swollen eyes, lifted her numb legs, and completed every action she couldn’t postpone, as if it were a ritual.
“Let’s talk outside.”
“Why are you crying?”
Interpreting the sudden question as interrogation, she pressed her lips shut and went outside.
Her footsteps followed persistently. Alperil, sensing a loud confrontation might follow, opened the hut door and stepped outside. She faced the rising sun, turning her back on Triden.
“Do you remember it’s not your fault?”
“Yes, so now I want you to tell me the names of those who caused this.”
Unexpectedly, Triden spoke first, seemingly concerned for her.
“You shouldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“People like us must always think of themselves first, no matter the situation.”
“There’s nothing enjoyable about that, so it’s impossible. I’ve never been my own priority.”
It was clear from the location—the corner of a slum ignored by the city, a crumbling hut—that asking the meaning of “people like us” would be pointless.
“Don’t dodge the question.”
“You’re turning away from me too.”
Without preparing for the icy winter wind, she ran outside, her thin clothes fluttering. Triden, watching her back, recalled something.
It had been years. Whenever he saw anything even slightly resembling the steel-gray gaze of that boy, he remembered that moment. The young Terencio Heron he knew had always been guided by intuition.
Since Triden was fifteen, a naive boy, trading human lives rather than objects, sneaking into Saint Callem with a blunt knife—he had always been that way.
Triden had lived an exceptionally unlucky life.
When he opened his eyes, he was in a slum alley. He quickly realized that time would never clean up his shabby existence and assumed she would accept it without issue.
It might have been possible if his only sister didn’t exist by his side.
The little girl coughed constantly. Her thin hair fell with every brush. At the age when children should delight in shiny things, she couldn’t even wear a pink hair ornament she had stolen once.
His sister died from a rare disease whose name he didn’t even know. Slowly, with an unnatural calm.
He grew up a boy who couldn’t even answer when asked: I need money, my sister is sick. Where does it hurt?
He never knew if it was his fault for constantly pleading for cheaper treatment, or if it was merely the doctor’s incompetence.
When hope seemed gone, the obvious solution would be to give up—but Triden couldn’t. Day after day, he traded the few fairy tales he could beg for with his sister’s suffering.
