🔊 TTS Settings
Chapter : 59
Blades Drawn
“You’re covered in dust.”
Benjamin murmured as he brushed the dirt off.
“Come here.”
His voice sank low, subdued—almost as if it scraped at the throat.
Most of the clouds of dust kicked up during the sparring had already settled.
“Aren’t you in a meeting with the staff officers?”
“It just ended. What brings you to the training grounds?”
“I followed the noise.”
“You’ve got dust all over your head. If a place is noisy, you should avoid it.”
Charlophe twisted a lock of hair around her finger and swept it aside.
“I was out for a walk because I felt stifled.”
“Even when I open safer paths for you, you keep walking the ones I tell you not to.”
It was a sigh. Are you really going to keep doing this?
“This old man must be unsettling Your Majesty.”
Pedlin rubbed at his own neck.
Overprotective, he thought.
But he understood why.
Pedlin lowered the wooden sword.
“Please dismiss those nearby.”
This was not a conversation to be had with others present.
“Dismiss them.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The space was cleared at once. When even their presence faded, Pedlin finally spoke.
“It would be wise for you to learn how to grip a sword.”
“I refuse.”
“I am not asking you to live the harsh life of a swordsman. People say blades make life cruel—but that depends on the hand gripping the hilt.”
Whether the blade would one day cut its wielder, or an enemy, was not yet known.
“Please allow it.”
“Sir Duncan.”
“Do you intend to keep restraining those steps forever? I understand why you keep someone who survived the Monster Grave close—but if so, all the more reason to teach them how to hold a sword. At the very least, one must know how to protect oneself. Only then can one prepare for what comes after, should the unexpected occur.”
“……”
“One rarely faces monsters directly, but those who have been through the Monster Grave tend to die in similar ways. They die alongside the beasts.”
Pedlin had lived long as a mercenary, a man of the blade. That was why he knew.
“Now is the time.”
From now on, the days of loss—of lives taken away—would only increase.
“Changing your heart after something is lost is too late.”
It was something only Pedlin could say.
He had lost his own child that way.
“No matter how much you regret it after everyone is dead, the dead do not return.”
Water dripped steadily over the rim of the tub.
The floor around it was wet, and the steam blurred her vision.
Charlophe had dismissed all the maids who offered to attend her bath.
It was closer to the truth to say Benjamin had driven them out—he didn’t allow anyone at her side.
Annoying.
That was what he’d snapped.
Normally, doing things yourself would be more bothersome—but not for Benjamin.
It was as though he rejected others outright.
No—rejection was the more accurate word.
“Why are you so tense?”
Benjamin asked, looking down at Charlophe.
Her body stiffened awkwardly.
“It’s hot.”
“The palace physician said to keep your body warm, so endure it a little, even if it’s hot.”
She wore only a thin slip. The straps were narrow, the fabric light.
Geranium petals floated in the bathwater, releasing a faint herbal scent.
Red petals spread across the surface.
Charlophe adjusted the strap on her shoulder.
His hand touched her shoulder.
“Is that the smell of medicinal herbs?”
“Ah…”
“Why are you pulling away?”
“……”
“See? You’re trembling again.”
He rested his head against her shoulder.
“This will last a few days.”
She hunched her shoulders, trying to evade his hand.
“Again.”
“What?”
“You flinched again.”
“It smells like herbs.”
“So what?”
“It makes me feel… resistant.”
“You’ve never been like that.”
Benjamin lightly bit her upper arm.
“……”
Charlophe’s eyes widened.
What are you doing?
As she blinked in confusion, Benjamin answered.
“You’ve never felt repulsed.”
“What?”
“You’re delicate. You dull yourself to stimuli, and your eyes grow numb.”
She frowned, narrowing her eyes. What is he talking about now?
“Don’t keep stripping away your emotions. That becomes a habit.”
Charlophe lowered her head awkwardly.
“Why do you keep dropping your head?”
Don’t look down.
“Lift your head.”
“……”
“Don’t look down.”
Benjamin hooked an arm over the tub and pressed his fingers to his temple.
“You’re scratching everything raw inside me.”
Charlophe leaned back against the tub.
“My hair’s all curled and tangled.”
“It’s probably the dirt clumping it together.”
He cupped her cheek. “You have a slight fever,” he whispered.
“Are you dizzy?”
“I’m fine now.”
“You’re still warm.”
“I took the medicine that raises body temperature.”
The medical wing had given it to her, saying it was good for recovery.
Even if it made her hot, the palace physicians had assured its effectiveness.
“I can feel your breathing, but everything else feels so faint.”
It had been like that while she was unconscious.
He could feel her steady breath beneath his fingers, but her complexion had been nearly colorless.
“Your expression was peaceful—that eased my worry.”
After that, his voice trailed off.
He brushed her hair aside, braiding it loosely.
Her dark red hair, soaked, looked almost black.
His fingers combed through the long strands.
Her nape was fully exposed—white, unblemished skin.
He bit into it, teeth sinking in.
“Wait—!”
Charlophe bowed her head weakly.
“I told you not to lower your head.”
He murmured against her skin. The soft sensation was strangely unsettling.
“I’m soaked.”
For some reason, she wanted to cover her ears.
“You had no sense of awareness before—have you gained a little now?”
Charlophe furrowed her brows, glaring at him as if scolding.
“Your ears are red. The heat’s rising—only here it’s hot.”
“Stop it.”
“Don’t belittle yourself. When you grow numb to stimulation and shave away your emotions one by one, you lose the reason people exist as people.”
Emotions were what made humans human.
“You’ve already grown used to cutting yourself down.”
Charlophe reached out, bracing herself against the tub.
Her legs gave way weakly, toes curling.
“You keep avoiding me.”
You’ve been reluctant from the start.
“I’m thirsty.”
Charlophe held her breath.
“It’s still not enough.”
“……”
“Don’t you like it?”
“It’s just a little awkward.”
“So you don’t dislike it.”
“I don’t.”
She had never thought she disliked it.
His large hand closed around her shoulder.
“When you’re so cautious, it makes me feel like I’m some kind of villain.”
“It just feels strange.”
“I haven’t even done anything villainous yet.”
As Charlophe stiffly traced down her own nape, his fingertips brushed her arm.
“You’re still within my sight.”
Outside his sight, she had appeared in unexpected places, in unexpected forms.
“Stay where my hand can reach.”
Where his hand could reach.
What did that mean?
She understood his desire to protect her.
“Your Majesty?”
Charlophe wore a light sparring outfit with only an outer garment over it.
The area had been cleared.
No maids remained; only a few members of the royal guard stood at the edges of the training ground.
Pedlin offered her a wooden sword.
“I will begin by teaching you how to grip the sword.”
Charlophe accepted it. Leather wrapped the hilt.
“Do not twist your grip.”
“……”
“Your blade is not meant to cut enemies. Do not endanger your own body. Of course, there may be times when the goal is to kill an enemy—but protecting yourself comes first. Do not wield your body recklessly like the royal guard. Do not throw yourself into enemy territory, wagering your life.”
“Is there a reason you’re telling me this from the start?”
“Do not wield the sword for others.”
The wooden sword was heavy. Iron had been added inside, and the weight settled firmly in her grip.
“Do not place altruism upon the blade.”
As he taught her, Pedlin imposed conditions.
Let the blade be selfish.
For Your Majesty alone.
Charlophe slowly opened her grip.
The wooden sword was crude, worn down in places.
“Do not place hesitation at the tip.”
Pedlin guided her hands on the hilt.
“Empty your heart completely.”
“……”
“If thoughts and hesitation cling to the blade’s tip, its direction will waver.”
Pedlin raised his left arm.
“When you are swept away by emotion, the blade devours its wielder.”
He gestured to his right side.
His right eye.
His limp.
All were the price of emotion.
“There will come a day when the hand gripping the sword splits open.”
Charlophe waited for his next words.
“And there will be a day when that hand is stained with blood. There will be days when things do not go as planned, and the hilt feels unbearably heavy in your grasp.”
Pedlin steadied his breath and asked,
“Do you know why I tell you this first?”
“It sounds as though you’re explaining why I should never hold a sword.”
“Yes. That hand should not hold one. Had it not been for the Monster Grave, this old man would have avoided placing a hilt in Your Majesty’s hand.”
Pedlin had spent long years on the subjugation front.
Eighty years.
Short, or long, depending on how one saw it.
Handling the sword had slowed even his aging.
And so he had not died—he remained here.
“A monster killed my child.”
Pedlin quietly swallowed his memories.
‘F-Father… p-please save me. Aah— it ate the child. Aaaah! Aaaagh! The child—my son—aaah… hhk! N-no, not me, the child, please—aaaagh! Damn monster! Spit my son out! Damn you! I’ll tear you apart—!’
So that she would not lose everything helplessly.
So the same mistake would not be repeated.
“It seems this old man has taken on a villain’s role.”
Pedlin swung the wooden sword.
A cloud of dust rose, obscuring the view. She lowered her eyes silently.
“Please, walk the path of the imperial family straight and true.”
Survive.
It felt as though that was what he was really saying.
The blade’s tip, straight.
The body’s center, firm.
Those were the basics of swordsmanship Pedlin taught.
“You haven’t fully recovered yet—aren’t you pushing yourself too hard?”
“When there are too many people worrying at your side, you grow numb even to that worry.”
Charlophe silently looked down at her hands.
“What are you staring at so intently?”
Pedlin asked as he approached.
“My hands are tingling.”
“There’s an iron core inside the wooden sword—it must have felt heavy.”
Even a lower-grade practice sword had considerable weight.
“For a beginner, you were skilled.”
Somehow, her senses felt dulled.
“Your body feels stiff, doesn’t it?”
“A little.”
“Are you all right?”
“My hands are tingling, and my body feels heavy.”
The hand that gripped the sword throbbed.
Her forearm ached from the weight.
“At least your skin hasn’t split.”
“This much wouldn’t split my skin. That day, it was recoil from cutting into a monster’s nest—the shock traveled through the hilt and tore my skin. Normally, unless you’re a subjugation unit rolling around the front lines, you won’t swing a sword until your grip splits open.”
She lowered the wooden sword and stood there blankly.
“What is it?”
“I think I understand what it means not to grow numb to pain.”
She thought she understood what Benjamin had meant, too.
“I think I’ve already grown numb.”
