"What are you…?"
I stared blankly at Lloyd, horrified that he might actually cut his wrist at any moment.
"P-Please, put that down first."
Lloyd replied with a face stripped of any smile.
"Promise me you won't leave."
'What is this…? This can't be real.'
My fingertips trembled uncontrollably.
The sight of Lloyd pressing the sword to his wrist overlapped with my first life, when I had cut my own wrist with a knife.
The chilling sensation of blood leaving my body came back, and I shook like a leaf.
"Please, Lloyd…"
"If you leave me, I'll die anyway. That's how it was in the last life too."
Realizing what he meant, I covered my mouth in shock.
'Ah… What am I supposed to do with this man? How did he become so broken?'
It felt like it was all because of me.
No—perhaps it really was my fault.
'I never should have married him in my past life. I only wanted to use him.'
The thought filled me with guilt. The kind man he once was seemed destroyed beyond repair because of me.
'I never should have asked him for help when I fled Valdormer.'
"Lloyd… this isn't right."
My trembling voice made him frown in confusion.
"What isn't right?"
"Tying each other down like this isn't love. It's a twisted obsession. Don't destroy yourself, please."
Lloyd's expression turned sorrowful.
"No. This is my love, Yuliana."
Then he pressed the sword harder against his skin.
Blood welled up and trickled down the blade onto the floor.
Shocked, I rushed to him.
"What are you doing?!"
My heart pounded wildly at the sight of bright red blood dripping.
I forgot all about leaving.
Grabbing the tablecloth, I tore it and frantically wrapped it around his wrist.
My hands shook as I tied the cloth tight.
I didn't even realize tears were streaming down my face.
They weren't tears of worry for him.
They came from rage at myself—rage that I had broken him this badly.
'He's destroying himself, just like I once did. I can't bear it.'
"Why… why are you doing this to yourself? Why are you ruining yourself like this?"
Lloyd, seeming more concerned about my tears than his wound, brushed my cheek with his bloody hand and murmured,
"Because I never want to lose you again."
I knew his eyes were far from sane, yet I couldn't push him away.
I was afraid he'd break even further.
And because I was the one who had made him this way.
So I couldn't push him away.
Lloyd smiled faintly at me.
"So stay here."
What was this feeling inside me?
Fear? Guilt? Pity?
"I'm the only one who can protect you and Denian."
A chill ran down my spine, but still, I couldn't push him away.
I felt trapped in a maze—one with no exit, unless someone showed me the way out.
By then, servants had rushed in, alarmed by what had happened in the dining room.
Months passed after that day.
Lloyd treated me as though nothing had happened, as if it had all been a mirage.
But I couldn't treat him the same.
Whenever I remembered that day, chills crawled across my skin and a nameless fear filled me.
Yes—fear.
Fear that he would keep destroying himself because of me.
Fear that I'd never escape this gentle prison.
I wanted to flee this castle so badly.
But unlike when I fled Valdormer, Lloyd had slowly taken over every part of me.
By the time I realized, I was already bound tight by the strings he had woven.
If I ran away with Denian now, Lloyd really might die, just as he said.
That day, when he cut his wrist, there had been no hesitation.
The doctor said the sword had missed his artery by the smallest margin.
Was that on purpose—or just luck? I couldn't know.
And the most important fact was this:
Lloyd knew Denian had inherited Heister's power.
That knowledge bound me like chains.
"Abubu, abu—"
Now toddling, Denian wobbled uncertainly toward Lloyd.
Lloyd smiled warmly at him.
"Yes, come here, Denian."
"Abubu—"
Denian stumbled into his arms. Lloyd lifted him high, smiling with joy.
Watching them made my feelings twist more and more.
One thing was certain: Lloyd truly cherished Denian as if he were his own son.
And this castle was the only place beyond the reach of Valdormer and Heister.
'If Denian really manifests both Heister's and Valdormer's powers… who knows what those houses will do?'
So maybe—for now—staying here was the better choice.
I forced myself to push aside the unease.
Meanwhile, Kallian looked down at a sheet of paper.
Jered had been sending him regular letters about Yuliana's safety.
The contents were always brief.
[She is safe.]
Short and simple.
But this time, the paper showed hesitation—like Jered had almost written something more, then stopped.
When assigning this mission, Kallian had ordered him:
Do not reveal her location.
Only report her safety.
Nothing else.
If Jered wrote that she looked lonely or sad, Kallian knew he would not be able to resist rushing to her side.
Even now, the desire to run to her burned in him, but he clenched his teeth and swallowed it down.
He folded the letter and tucked it against his chest, as if it were a precious gift from a lover.
Kallian's face was gaunt after eight months of war.
The soldiers under him were equally exhausted.
But the hatred against Heister, festering for 500 years, still burned fiercely in his eyes.
Kallian commanded 30,000 soldiers surrounding one of Heister's outer cities.
Valdormer's 100,000 soldiers were eating away at Heister from three strongholds.
Kallian's unit bore the hardest battles, for it was filled with Imperial vassal houses—puppets of the throne.
Like torture, the Valdormer army chewed slowly through Heister's defenses, city by city.
At this pace, the war could last three, five years, with no end in sight.
That was exactly what Kallian wanted.
He wanted the vassal houses and Heister to rot together and collapse.
For that, he was willing to burn away his own life to keep the war going.
"Lord Kallian! The Heister knights are moving first!"
At his commander's words, Kallian raised his eyes to the front.
Thousands of Heister cavalry and tens of thousands of soldiers charged forward, shouting.
A diversion, no doubt, meant to scatter Valdormer's troops before attacking their fortress.
But Kallian didn't care.
Whether the vassals' troops lived or died meant nothing to him.
"Advance!"
With that word, Kallian spurred his black warhorse forward.
"Uwooooh!!"
The soldiers roared and charged.
At the lead, Kallian swung his sword, cloaked in the black aura of Dark Command.
The blade writhed with shadow.
Where it struck, flesh charred black; where his aura touched, men went blind or lost their minds.
He cut, and cut again.
Even when an enemy sword slashed his leg, even when arrows pierced his shoulder, he felt no pain.
The only true agony was Yuliana's face, clawing through his mind even amidst battle.
Whenever that happened, he swung even harder, as if his own life didn't matter.
His black sword carved through the battlefield like a reaper risen from hell.
With each swing came screams, blood spraying.
The ground he stood on was already hell itself.
And so, this hellish war dragged on for three long years.