RTGD 06

Chapter 06

Drip. Drip.

Litricia blinked slowly at the sight of red blood drops falling within her line of vision.

It didn’t feel real.

What is this? Where is the blood coming from?

‘Could this be… my blood?’

Instinctively, Litricia brought a hand to her face.

“Ah…!”

The slippery sensation at her fingertips made her belatedly clamp her mouth shut and quickly tilt her head back.

As her head tilted, the metallic taste of blood flowing down her throat made her frown in disgust.

The discomfort worsened when the blood that hadn’t gone down pooled in her cupped hand under her chin, sloshing softly.

Her brows furrowed naturally from the unpleasantness—only for Killian’s sharply furrowed face to suddenly appear right in front of her.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

As their eyes met, his expression hardened further. Then his large hand suddenly cupped the back of her head and pushed it forward.

The blood that had been pooling in Litricia’s palm now splashed down with gravity.

If it continued, bright red drops would surely stain her pale sky-blue dress.

But surprisingly—whether by coincidence or intention—the place where the blood fell was not her dress but Killian’s arm.

Because of that, it was his gray jacket, not her dress, that was now dyed crimson.

Even the back of his other hand bore red stains.

“What were you thinking, tilting your head back like that?!”

Even when he had been dealing with Isis’s temper earlier, Killian had remained composed. Now, however, his voice carried a tinge of anger, and it made Litricia shrink instinctively.

She wondered if he was this angry because his clothes got stained with her blood.

So, with a nasal tone from her blocked nose, she apologized.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you somehow for the clothes I ruined.”

“…What?”

His voice dropped a little lower, as if her words had entirely missed the point.

Then, as if dumbfounded, he let out a small scoff and brought a handkerchief to her nose without saying another word.

He moved with smooth confidence, like someone who had done this many times before—without a moment’s hesitation.

But while his actions were automatic, like second nature, Killian’s voice grew steadily lower.

“Make it up to me? Well, I won’t refuse an offer. How exactly do you plan to do that? Repay me for the clothes?”

“If that’s what you want, then I will.”

“Hah.”

Something in her response displeased him. Killian’s tone turned more biting.

“I’m not exactly short on money. I’d rather you repaid me in some other way. For example—”

“Well, well! Isn’t that Winston? When did you return to the Empire?”

Just as Killian seemed about to say something else, a loud, cheery voice called his name, interrupting.

The man who had called out clearly had no awareness of the situation. Not only did he barge in and cut off their conversation, he even brought his horse alongside and made a commotion.

“This is perfect! Your father just agreed to invest in our mine, but we couldn’t get in touch with you… By the way, why are you with Lady Esta? Oh! And is that blood on your jacket? Are you injured?”

“Please, be quiet—”

“Hey! You there! Get a healer! Now—huh?”

Thanks to the man’s noise, all the surrounding attention turned toward them. Killian, clearly irritated, clenched his forehead and covered the man’s mouth with one hand.

“I hate crowds. Can you keep it down?”

“Mmph? Mmm!”

The man, cheeks squished under Killian’s large hand, rolled his eyes and nodded.

Then he rustled through his coat and pulled out a piece of paper, unfolding it to reveal an investment contract stamped with the Hilton family’s seal.

It was a silent gesture—he wanted to talk about the investment and would keep quiet if Killian agreed.

Judging by the way he was ready to cling on otherwise, Killian sighed, pressing his temple with visible frustration.

Then, with a swift movement, he dismounted from his horse.

“…Haah. Lady Esta, please go inside first. We’ll continue our conversation inside the hall.”

Meanwhile, back in the western palace, where Isis and Mark had been dragged, another commotion was unfolding.

“I swear I didn’t know he was His Grace the Grand Duke!”

“Please, just remain quiet.”

“Would you stay quiet if you were dragged away without any reason?”

Isis clutched his chest in frustration. The captain of the guards didn’t seem to be listening to him at all.

It was just a horrible day.

As if running into that insufferable Winston Hilton wasn’t bad enough, it turned out the owner of the black carriage—whose crest had been barely visible—was the Grand Duke himself.

Out of frustration, Isis stomped hard on the imperial floor.

But none of this mattered to the captain of the guard. Isis was merely an extra who’d been dragged along because he was near the Grand Duke.

So the captain ignored Isis and focused on his job.

“Your Grace, there has been a report of a plot to attack you. For your safety, we ask that you remain here temporarily.”

“An attack?”

“Yes, that’s correct. It’s a precautionary measure for your protection.”

Pfft.

Mark, disguised as Killian, barely held back a laugh.

What a laughable lie. Who could’ve come up with something so absurd?

No one in the Empire had greater strength than Killian himself. Who was protecting whom?

Even the guard captain, seemingly ashamed of his own lie, was now avoiding eye contact.

Mark couldn’t help but let out the chuckle he had tried to suppress.

The captain cleared his throat and hurriedly finished his statement.

“I-It was under the Empress Dowager’s orders. We’ll finish our check before the second dance begins, so—”

“Understood.”

“Eh? Oh, yes!”

It was such an unconvincing lie, it felt silly even to pretend to believe it. Still, Mark nodded obediently.

Playing the part of a clueless knight wasn’t enjoyable, but it was necessary.

If he stayed put, it would lower their guard.

‘Just like that.’

Through the narrowing gap of the closing door, Mark glared at the bustling guards exchanging glances.

Right before the door shut completely, he heard whispers: “The blood-crazed war demon, that monstrous prince…”

Disgusting.

“Tch. Damn imperial bastards.”

Mark muttered under his breath, his words steeped in hostility.

The Empire never changed.

Among the knights of the Silvano Order, mostly made up of mercenaries, Mark was the only one from a noble family.

Though his family had long since fallen into ruin and left no name behind, Mark had been by Killian’s side since the prince’s early years.

He prided himself on knowing Killian better than anyone.

“War demon, my ass.”

What nonsense.

They said Killian reveled in bloodshed, that his swordsmanship was cruel and merciless.

But those were all malicious rumors, spread with clear intent.

‘…Granted, my lord’s personality isn’t exactly sunshine and flowers… but still.’

Most of the gossip was false.

And the source? Likely the very heart of the imperial palace—the Empress Dowager’s residence.

It had always been that way.

After the former Empress—the mother of Killian and his older brother Kendrick—died of illness, the current Empress Dowager, Astara, schemed to place her own son on the throne.

She won over the court officials and began undermining Kendrick and Killian’s standing.

Then, during an outing beyond the palace walls, Kendrick died in an accident. Astara pinned the blame on Killian, who had been with him—and drove him from the palace.

They exiled an eight-year-old child to the barren, deathly north without a single coin in support.

Killian picked up a sword not for glory, but to survive—and to feed his people.

Mark knew well—such a thing wouldn’t have been possible under normal circumstances.

But the former Emperor had been so enamored with Astara that he paid no attention to his own children. And with the officials behind her, Astara had faced little resistance.

Some nobles had tried to protect Killian—Mark’s father among them—but their strength hadn’t been enough.

Mark’s father died in the political purge that followed.

‘Damn that Empress Dowager.’

Grinding his teeth, Mark glared at her palace through the arched window.

In the blink of an eye, before the soil had even dried over the former Empress’s grave, Astara was named the new Empress, and her son became Crown Prince.

Things had been quiet for a while after that.

But in recent years, her scrutiny of Killian had intensified again.

Perhaps it was because supporters of the former Empress were regrouping—or because Killian’s victories on the battlefield were making him too influential.

At first, she spread nasty rumors to tarnish his image.

That hadn’t been enough. Now she had begun to plant spies and observers around him.

And then—

“The Empress Dowager is seeking a future Grand Duchess to act as her eyes and ears. The Grand Duke’s marriage is expected to be announced at the victory banquet. Be prepared.”

“…Phew.”

As he recalled the secret message relayed by their palace spy during their return from war, Mark sighed deeply.

His breath was heavy with concern for Killian.

‘I just hope His Grace weathers this storm.’

As music announcing the start of the banquet drifted from afar, Mark wiped his chin with a rough hand.

His part in today’s operation was now over. All that remained was to stay put, just as Killian had ordered.

And hope the night passed without incident.

“Go on ahead to the banquet hall. I’ll… deal with that idiot and rejoin you shortly.”

Blink.

Staring down the dark corridor where Killian had vanished, Litricia finally removed the handkerchief from her face.

Fortunately, the bleeding had stopped quickly.

“…This must be the symptom Piril mentioned.”

She chuckled bitterly as she wiped her blood-stained lips.

What a joke. She’d never experienced anything like this before, even with her frail health.

How could symptoms start so conveniently just after being diagnosed with a terminal illness?

It felt like she was acting out a well-written script—everything was so surreal.

“…I guess I’ll get used to this eventually.”

Murmuring quietly to herself, Litricia began to walk slowly.

The corridor was quiet, most guests having already entered.

The silence was so deep that even the rustle of her dress on the carpet sounded loud.

Then, from a rest area off to the side, she heard voices.

“Are you really okay? Your fiancée should be arriving soon. Shouldn’t you go escort her?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“…?”

Startled by the familiar voice, Litricia turned her head in that direction.

And there he was, unmistakably.

Sitting with a cigar, one leg crossed casually, shuffling cards between his fingers—a habit she knew well.

It was none other than her absentee fiancé, Patrick Godwin, who hadn’t shown his face once since their arrival.

From the look on his face, he was holding a strong hand in the game—his eyes curved in a seductive smile.

“Well, walking arm-in-arm with an adopted commoner would be pretty embarrassing, wouldn’t it?”

He smirked at his friend’s words, not bothering to deny it.

“Well, I can’t exactly say that’s wrong.”

Then another man—busy stuffing his face with biscuits—joined in.

“Still, your fiancée’s quite the beauty, isn’t she?”

“Hm? True, Litricia is pretty. She’s beautiful, but…”

Patrick trailed off, flicking cigar ash and sipping champagne.

Then, shaking his head in mild disappointment:

“That’s it. She’s just pretty. There’s no excitement. No thrill.”