Chapter 89: Opening the Door
Yet again, Damian had survived.
Sent alone to the Kingdom of Roshan, he faced countless assassination attempts, clawing his way through to awaken as a Sword Master. He had grown strong, just as his mother had urged him to. In Roshan, where he barely spoke the language, Damian trained relentlessly in swordsmanship, driven by a singular purpose: to exact revenge on the Vandemir family who had driven his mother, Monica, to her death.
Their betrayal and deceit had plunged her into despair, as good as killing her themselves. If not for them, she would never have chosen death. Forgiveness was unthinkable.
Swearing vengeance, Damian returned to the Setron Empire as an adult and founded the Crimson Hawk Knights, rising to his current position. His plan was clear: claim the dukedom, seize control of the Vandemir family, and cast out the four people responsible. He vowed never to love, never to build a family, and to end the Vandemir lineage with his own hands, dismantling the house entirely. His hatred and disgust for the family—who had built their happiness on someone else’s sacrifice—fueled this resolve. Having witnessed his mother’s love for his father lead to her tragic end, Damian no longer believed in love. No emotion caused more misery.
Though Aracila’s arrival had derailed his vow to avoid marriage, he was determined to uphold the rest of his promises. He would sever this detestable bloodline with his own hands.
***
Damian knew Aracila might not fully grasp the depth of his emotions or might pity his troubled childhood. Yet, somewhere deep inside, it seemed he’d wanted to unburden himself to someone, even just once. After sharing his story, what washed over him wasn’t regret or shame, but a sense of relief.
“I didn’t intend it, but I believe my existence contributed to my mother’s death,” he said quietly.
Aracila remained silent, listening.
“If I hadn’t been born, she might have tried to leave him.”
When news of Monica’s death reached Count Lond, he had rushed to her side, lamenting before his grandson that if Damian had never been born, she might not have died. He’d looked at Damian, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Duke, with eyes full of loathing.
Since then, Damian had carried the guilt of being a shackle to his mother. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t shake the thought that he, too, was a Vandemir who had ruined her life.
“The Vandemir blood running through my veins is repulsive,” he said, his voice heavy with self-loathing. “They say a person’s nature is inherited through their bloodline. Who’s to say I won’t become as vile as my father?”
Damian’s words dripped with bitterness. His striking resemblance to his father—save for his mother’s eyes—made it impossible for him to like himself. Beneath his composed exterior, a deep-seated self-hatred festered, rooted in his undeniable identity as a Vandemir.
“I’ll probably end up just as selfish as he was…”
Before he could continue his spiral of self-deprecation, a sharp sound cut through the air.
Thwack!
Aracila reached out and flicked his forehead. Startled, Damian blinked, not from pain but from sheer surprise.
She met his stunned gaze with a clear, steady voice. “Why are you entertaining such foolish thoughts?”
Damian stared, speechless.
“Bloodlines or whatever else—it’s up to you to decide what kind of person you’ll become.”
She firmly believed that no one was doomed to follow the same path just because of their lineage. From a young age, Aracila had held fast to the conviction that one’s path in life was theirs to forge and choose, no matter the circumstances.
Gently rubbing the faint red mark on his forehead, she continued, “Even if every drop of your blood came from the Duke, you’re more than capable of being a different person.”
“How can you be so sure?” he asked, his voice tinged with doubt.
“Because you already are,” she replied without hesitation.
Her calm, unwavering words visibly shook him. All his life, Damian had fought to escape the shadow of the Vandemir bloodline, desperate not to become like those who had driven his mother to her death. Yet he’d always questioned whether someone who so closely resembled his father could truly walk a different path.
Aracila, however, dismantled his doubts with ease. Meeting his gaze, she smiled softly. “Sure, you can be a bit cocky, kind of annoying, occasionally clueless, and sometimes seem like you only care about yourself. But objectively speaking, you’re not a bad person.”
“…Based on your description, I sound like a bad person,” Damian muttered.
Aracila laughed. “Do I? Well, I mean it. You’re someone who owns up to your mistakes and considers other people’s feelings.”
Despite the occasional missteps in their relationship, Damian had always acknowledged his wrongs and apologized. That alone had kept their bond intact and brought them to where they were now. In that, he was already vastly different from his father, who had deceived and betrayed his wife.
A cool night breeze brushed past them. Aracila rested her chin on her knees, her voice soft but firm. “And your mother’s death wasn’t your fault. Instead of wondering what might’ve happened if you hadn’t been born, the adults around you should’ve done better.”
When Monica died, Damian was only seven. He hadn’t chosen to be born, nor had he chosen such a father. To burden a child, scarred by the cruelty of the adults around him, with that guilt was unfair and unjust.
“So stop blaming yourself,” she said. “Honestly, I think it’s impressive that you’ve come this far, planning your revenge all on your own.”
Damian looked at her, his expression shifting. “Doesn’t it bother you that I’m set on taking revenge against my own family?”
He listened quietly to Aracila’s words, then asked slowly, “Don’t I seem excessive, wanting to destroy the entire family?”
People naturally understand and empathize based on their own experiences. Someone like Aracila, raised in a harmonious household, might find his desire for vengeance against his family strange or extreme. Perhaps she’d even think, They’re still your family—can’t you resolve this through conversation and reconciliation?
“No, I don’t think so,” Aracila replied without a hint of hesitation.
Why would she judge him for it? Everyone had their own circumstances, their own reasons. Damian gazed at her steadily, and after a brief silence, he spoke again.
“My grandfather, the previous Duke, told me not to harbor thoughts of revenge. He said not to let it consume my life. What do you think, my lady?”
His grandfather hadn’t wanted Damian to waste his life trapped in vengeance. It wasn’t about forgiving the Vandemir family but about burying the past and living for himself. Aracila nodded, as if she understood, but her response came in a casual, almost flippant tone.
“If you want to live your life your way, why should anyone else’s opinion matter?”
Damian blinked, caught off guard.
“What’s wrong with a little revenge?” she continued. “Not everyone lives driven by positive emotions.”
Not everyone walked a righteous path. Sometimes, even knowing it was wrong, people acted for their own sake. Aracila had no interest in preaching sanctimonious advice to Damian. Rather than telling him to abandon his revenge, she wanted him to do what he needed to find peace, unburdened by the weight in his heart.
“When someone wrongs me, I pay them back double,” she said. “I can’t stand being crossed.”
Damian stared at her, speechless.
“Honestly, if it were me, I’d have burned this whole castle down with magic by now. The castle? Hah, I’d have set their hair on fire and left them bald.”
Her deadpan delivery made Damian let out a deflated chuckle. For the first time, the heavy weight that had pressed on his heart his entire life felt lighter. He felt almost… ordinary, like anyone else—not a vengeful wraith hardened by a tragic family history.
“Well, I should probably head back,” Aracila said, brushing off her skirt and standing. “It’s getting late.” She extended her hand to him.
Damian silently took her slender, pale hand, and they gathered the sword and staff scattered on the ground. As they walked back to the castle under the pale glow of moonlight, Damian spoke abruptly.
“My lady, if I ever become like my father someday…”
“Yes?”
“Could you help me then?”
In a relationship with a predetermined end, words like “someday” were a luxury, vague and uncertain. Yet, despite knowing this, Damian couldn’t help but ask. Would she, even after their contract marriage ended and years passed, still reach out to him as she did now?
Aracila paused mid-step. Damian, a few paces ahead, turned to face her, a flicker of tension in his eyes. When their gazes met, she nodded readily.
“Of course. Don’t worry.”
Damian waited, holding his breath.
“I’ll snap you out of it, even if I have to flick you again,” she said with a playful wink, her smile blooming like a flower kissed by dew.
Damian couldn’t tear his eyes away. His heart thudded, sinking and soaring in a dizzying rush. A strange, unfamiliar thrill coursed through him, spreading to every corner of his being. Instinctively, he pressed a hand to his chest, where his heart raced wildly.
***
With the Duchess’s birthday approaching, she was consumed with preparations for the grand celebration. Determined to make the event as lavish as possible—especially since she’d invited Damian and his wife—she scrutinized every detail with care. As a result, her chambers were a revolving door of people seeking her approval or permission.
Vicky blended seamlessly into the stream of visitors, coming and going from the Duchess’s room without drawing attention. With the party preparations stretching the staff thin, no one thought it odd that Aracila’s assigned maid was cleaning the Duchess’s chambers.
Her opportunity came when the Duchess dozed off for a brief nap. Vicky quickly searched for the key to the former Duchess’s room, knowing it was kept in the second drawer on the left side of the vanity. The task was simple—luckily, the drawer was unlocked. The Duchess, frazzled from the morning’s chaos, had forgotten to secure it after retrieving something earlier.
Vicky slipped the key into her pocket and hurried out, rushing to Aracila.
“Young Madam! I got the key!” she whispered, using the proper title ever since Aracila had won her over. Handing it over respectfully, she added quickly, “The Duchess is napping, but we need to return it before she wakes. Hurry!”
Anxious about being caught, Vicky fidgeted, urging Aracila to move. Leaving Audrey behind in case anyone came looking, Aracila made her way alone to the former Duchess’s room at the end of the third floor.
Inserting the key into the lock, she turned it, and a heavy click signaled the door’s release. Stepping inside, she was greeted by a cloud of dust floating in the air, evidence of long neglect. Closing the door quietly, she surveyed the room.
For a space used by a former Duchess until her death, it was small and unassuming. Few decorations adorned the walls, and the furniture was draped in white sheets. Aracila’s gaze settled on a large portrait hanging on one wall.
This must be the first Duchess…
The woman in the painting was a serene beauty with ebony hair and golden eyes. Clad in a deep navy dress that shimmered like a starlit night, she sat at an angle, smiling brightly at the viewer. A single white flower in her hair contrasted with her dark locks, complementing her radiant expression.
Damian definitely takes after his father, Aracila thought. Still, the brilliant golden eyes and the curve of his smile were unmistakably inherited from his mother.
Lingering on the portrait for a moment, Aracila turned away. Is there really a will hidden here?
Truthfully, it seemed unlikely that such an important document would be kept in a place that constantly reminded the family of their guilt. Still, she searched the room thoroughly, moving from corner to corner. Entering the small dressing room attached to the chamber, she froze. Near the doorway hung the very dress the former Duchess wore in the portrait.
If she wore it for her portrait, it must have been a favorite…
The dress was remarkably well-preserved, as if it could be worn even now. Studying it closely, Aracila stepped back and continued her search. Exhausted, she sank onto the bed, her hope fading.
Maybe there’s no will here after all.
As she stood, the key slipped from her pocket, falling partially under the bed. Bending to retrieve it, she noticed something glinting beneath. What’s that?
Crawling closer, she reached under and pulled out a jewelry box.
“There was already a jewelry box on the vanity,” she murmured. The former Duchess’s accessories were neatly stored there, so what was this box hidden under the bed?
The box was a striking lapis lazuli blue, adorned with intricate gold filigree and a large, round diamond set into the lid. An ornate eagle motif encircled the diamond. There was no visible keyhole or lock, making it hard to discern which side was meant to open.
Aracila examined it closely, trying to pry it open, but it wouldn’t budge no matter how much force she applied. A sudden sense of unease made her frown.
It’s sealed with a locking spell.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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