Tears streamed down Oriana's cheeks, her breath trembling painfully in her throat as she sprang to her feet. Her heart pounded violently against her chest, her head spinning with a dizzying ache.
Why did misfortune always follow her? Why did it always end like this—after every argument, after every misstep? Had she been cursed from birth?
Not minding the thin fabric of her nightwear, she bolted for the door. Her bare feet slapped against the cold floor, the chill biting through her skin.
In her frantic rush, she lost her balance and tumbled, a shard of glass piercing her left thigh. Pain seared through her, a sharp hiss escaping her lips as more tears blurred her vision.
With trembling fingers, she pulled the glass free. Excruciating pain throbbed through her leg, but her mind was consumed by a single thought: Icarus… she had to save him.
Blood dripped down her thigh, warm and sticky against her skin, yet the anguish in her body paled against the torment tearing at her chest.
"Icarus…" she whispered, her voice breaking, fragile and desperate.
She pushed the door to her room open, ignoring the searing pain and the slight limp in her legs. Her bare feet tapped sharply against the cold tiles as she descended the stairs, each step echoing through the silent house. Pain shot through her thigh, but she did not falter, driven by the frantic urgency in her chest.
By the time she reached the downstairs door, her fingers fumbled with the lock, trembling as she unlocked it sharply and swung it open.
No one would be around at this hour—it was well past midnight, and she was certain they had all left. She stepped out, her eyes scanning the familiar surroundings for him. This was her usual window area, yet he was nowhere to be seen.
Her fingers shook as they grazed the bloodstained fabric of her nightwear. A small, painful smile tugged at her lips. She had to leave him… she knew, despite everything, that this man was a ghost. He was not fully dead yet. His true death would come only the second time, and then, at last, he would vanish from the earth—and from the fear that had gripped her so tightly.
Did this mean… he was still a ghost? That he had not taken his own life?
A faint, reluctant relief washed over her features as she moved toward the door. The cold night air seeped in, brushing against her skin, goosebumps rising where it touched.
She closed the door behind her and turned the lock. The servants had extinguished all the candles except one, left to burn low in case someone passed by—a small precaution to avoid accidents.
Oriana exhaled shakily, staring at the lock to make sure it was secure.
But the next moment, a sharp gasp tore from her throat, and she stumbled back, her eyes wide with terror—and awe.
Red eyes.
Her body trembled, her heart skipping wildly as she recognized him.
King Zorath.
What was he doing here?
Her gaze stayed fixed on him. He stood there, impossibly tall, his face unreadable, clad in a simple black top and long black trousers. His silver hair was swept up, some strands falling perfectly across his face, giving him the kind of divine symmetry that made even the simplest outfit look like the robes of a Greek god.
Tonight, it seemed, his handsomeness was all Oriana could see.
His eyes flicked from her face to her nightwear. Oriana shivered under the weight of his dark, piercing gaze, chills crawling up her spine. When their eyes met again, some unnameable string in her heart was pulled taut, unraveling the emotions she had buried so deeply.
Tears began to spill down her cheeks.
Zorath stiffened—only slightly—as her soft whimpers echoed through the hallway. He remained still, his eyes dimming just enough before glancing toward the door, then returning to her.
"I am here."
Her heart skipped at his words—icy and commanding, yet somehow imbued with a strange comfort that settled in her bones.
She moved toward him, pressing her head against his chest, her hands clutching at him, fingers digging in and loosening again as her cries grew louder, uncaring of any semblance of ladylike restraint.
"Why… w-why?" she sobbed, the sound raw and ragged.
Zorath did not move.
His gaze drifted to her hair, then sharply down to the floor, where a drop of blood glistened on the tiles. His face darkened, shadowed with something unreadable, yet he remained silent, allowing her grief to wash over him.
Oriana's breath rose and fell rapidly as her sobs subsided. She lifted her tear-streaked face toward him, embarrassment curling through her. Their gazes met for a fleeting moment before she hastily shifted her eyes away, feeling her hair rise as if responding to his presence alone.
She stepped back and curtsied, as if all that had happened were a mere shadow of memory.
Her fingers moved quickly to wipe away her tears, and she cleared her throat, returning to her usual elegant, ladylike composure.
"Thank you, Your Majesty, for your… assistance," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her attempt at poise. "I shall take my leave now."
Her face burned, and though she could not read his eyes, a strange, burning curiosity flickered within her.
She had known Icarus, whose gaze could not be read, and she had accepted it. But this man before her… part of her longed to understand him, to pierce through the mystery of his stare.
"Ah~"
The sound slipped from her lips before she could catch it.
His hand shot out, gripping her wrist, and her eyes snapped to his, catching him staring at her lap.
Oh no… the blood.
Panic surged. She shook her head frantically, searching for a quick explanation. What if he thought she had been hurt outside? What if he told the guards tomorrow? How could she explain this?
"Breathe."
That single word left his lips and calmed her, shock blooming through her chest at its effect.
Before she could think, he scooped her into his arms. Her breath caught as he carried her toward the stairs. Her eyes searched his face, desperate for any clue—any movement that could reveal his thoughts—but there was nothing.
He lowered her gently onto the stairs.
"Sit."
Oriana obeyed, her pulse racing.
Zorath reached into his pocket and retrieved a white handkerchief. He carefully lifted her left leg, cleaning the wound.
Oriana bit her bottom lip, her body trembling at his careful touch. His eyes never left hers as he worked—focused and intense.
"Raise your gown," he commanded.
Oriana's pulse quickened. She moved slowly, lifting the fabric, realizing he was doing this solely to tend to the wound on her left thigh, now bare to his eyes.
She did not know why, but a strange warmth bloomed inside her—a feeling that stirred beyond mere curiosity, beyond even the searing intensity of his gaze, which already felt like a burning caress on her skin.
She pressed one hand to the cold tile, seeking control, while the other gripped the stair rail for support.
Zorath's eyes fell on the mark, darkening as he noticed the blood still oozing. His gaze flicked briefly to her, making her breath hitch at the intensity—the forbiddenness of his stare.
Then, before she could fully process it… he moved.
His mouth pressed to her thigh, his hot, wet tongue circling the burning wound.