Chapter 02

Thirty-Two, Twenty-Two

Edmund Raspe.

Duke of the Empire. Cousin to the Emperor. A man who might very well become the next sovereign.

Before him, the Empire laid tributes of praise like offerings at an altar. Behind him, however, trailed a curse forged from terror.

The Bloody Duke. A man cursed by death itself, incapable of loving anything. All those notorious titles were merely other names for the same man.

“Duke Raspe, I am sick and tired of you.”

He had once been someone’s husband. The woman who had been Elia Roan—no, Elia Raspe—had been his wife.

But in the year Edmund turned thirty-two and Elia twenty-eight, their eight-year marriage came to an end.

With a single sheet of divorce papers that Elia had placed before him.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m leaving. And I will never come back to you.”

The first time they met, Elia had been two years old and Edmund six. A child who refused to leave her father’s arms had, for all intents and purposes, already been betrothed to him back then.

Eddie. Ed-die!

But there was no way he could have cared for a little brat whose only talents were whining and chasing after him, calling him “Eddie.”

Of course, even after Elia grew up, his feelings never changed.

Her hair, which shattered into gold under sunlight; her lips, as vividly red as blood against her fair skin—none of it meant anything to Edmund.

Elia was merely a flower blooming in the garden.

Edmund had never once in his life praised a flower for being beautiful. He had passed them by without even sparing them a glance.

The only thing that ever caught Edmund’s attention was her eyes—just her eyes.

Hello, Edmund.

No one else dared meet his gaze. Only Elia insisted on locking eyes with him.

Whenever she did, a flower bloomed in her pupils—the kind one might only find in an autumn garden.

He didn’t know why. Perhaps because she was the only one who ever looked into his eyes?

Perhaps because she was the only one, she became the only one for me.

And so, whenever he had reason to recall his betrothed, Edmund thought only of Elia’s eyes.

Even by the time everything about Elia had become special to him, he still thought first of his wife’s eyes.

Those vermilion eyes, like flowers in bloom.

At first, it was certainly only her eyes.

Her eyes had been the only thing—but when did that change? When had Elia become special?

There was no need to dwell on it. By the time he recognized his own feelings, Elia was already his woman, and the whole world spoke Edmund’s name as Elia’s one and only man.

And so, even after realizing his heart, Edmund showed no outward change.

Only that, from then on, when passion ran high, he would always press his lips to the delicate skin around Elia’s eyes.

Carrying the desire to devour those beautiful eyes whole.

Naturally, Elia was appalled.

Hnngh. Wait, Eddie. That’s weird. That’s strange…

You should try it yourself sometime, he’d think, as he bit down on the tender skin beneath her eye, sometimes accidentally drawing blood.

When Elia saw the blood trickling from beside her temple, she burst into frightened tears—and Edmund, aroused by the tears shed for him, buried himself in her like a madman.

Like a fool driven mad by love. Knowing full well that Elia would see it only as venting his frustrations, he still made her moan and gasp, arching her body against him.

All those nights had been nothing but duty for Elia. Yet Edmund, consumed by the fire of instinct, driven mad by love, had wanted to consume her entirely.

And still—had love existed? Had Elia ever loved Edmund?

He had no certainty, but there were moments that had left an impression.

Lady Elia has been visiting the Duke’s estate quite often lately.

Well, the two of them are to be married soon, aren’t they? She’s probably trying to forge some bond, however she can. Not that I imagine it will have much effect on His Grace.

Around the time marriage talks began in earnest, Elia started coming to the Duke’s residence more frequently, led by her brother, Count Roan.

Eli, you remember that novel you were talking about last time? I thought it was quite interesting—why don’t you mention it to the Duke?

…Forget it. He wouldn’t find it interesting.

…My apologies. As you know, Elia is rather shy around strangers…

Each time, Elia was dressed up like a flower forced into bloom, sat with a reluctant expression, and then departed. That was the extent of their relationship.

At the time, Edmund had no interest, and Elia never spoke a word to him.

Then, just once, on a summer’s day. Elia, who had always cleaned her plate without complaint, suddenly asked about dinner.

Edmund, why is it that every time I come, duck is served? Is there some rule that the Duke’s dinner must always be duck?

At the time, Elia did not speak to Edmund with formal deference. He was a duke, and she was merely the daughter of a count—and yet.

Not that Edmund cared. He had no interest in her, whether she was respectful or rude.

The butler asked if there was anything you might like to eat.

Elia spoke to Edmund as naturally as if they were on familiar, conversational terms. So Edmund answered just as casually.

I told him that when you were little, you used to eat duck here often, and that I thought you must have liked it.

At his answer, Elia’s face flushed as red as her eyes. Only then did Edmund truly look at her for the first time.

The child who had once been so small had grown into a woman in her own right.

That day—perhaps that was the only day that had ever been special for both Elia and Edmund.

Not long after, the two were married. There were those who worried Elia might refuse the match, but the wedding proceeded without a hitch.

If Elia had said she didn’t wish to marry back then—if he had seen the woman he considered his own try to break free—

Would Edmund have realized his feelings a little sooner?

There was no way to turn back time, so wondering was pointless.

A regret that meant nothing.

On the day Elia, once the Duchess, left the estate with divorce papers in hand, heavy rain fell in thick sheets. Just as it had on the day their parents died.

And Elia, who had abandoned Edmund, fled forever to her parents’ side—perhaps afraid that he would come after her.

Your Grace… L-Lady Elia’s carriage… it skidded on the rain-slicked road…

A carriage accident. Why did it have to be the same? Was it true, as people said, that a curse hung over the Houses of Roan and Raspe?

Or perhaps it was punishment for a man who had let his woman go, even though he loved her.

Your Grace, the funeral preparations… are complete.

Elia’s body, when it was returned, was gruesome. An ordinary husband would have been spared the sight, for fear of the shock—but Elia’s former spouse was Edmund Raspe.

A man without emotion. A devil of cruelty.

And so, undisturbed by anyone, he was able to descend into the underground crypt.

The shattered woman lay where her parents had been laid to rest long ago. They said her legs were crushed, one arm severed—but to Edmund, the woman lying there looked no different than usual.

No matter how they had tried to arrange her, the sight should have been unbearable. Yet to Edmund, his former wife was still beautiful. The corpse did a fair job of imitating Elia as she had been in life.

Lying there, pretending to be alive.

An ordinary husband would have looked at his dead wife and recalled the time they’d spent together—the happy days.

But Edmund, looking at his wife lying there, remembered the nights. The way she had shed tears, unable to bear the heat; the way she had called his name between moans. How sordid.

He couldn’t help it. Those were the only memories a man like him could recall.

Edmund reached out to Elia’s cold face. The crushed features had been filled and painted over, smooth to the touch.

Slowly, his hand moved upward, until it reached the very eyes he had so often set his teeth against.

Her eyes… are those gone too?

Were the eyes he had coveted—were they gone from beneath those closed lids? Had the carefully shaped paste filled their sockets like worms devouring them?

It didn’t matter. After all, it wasn’t because of her eyes that Edmund had loved Elia.

Those vermilion eyes had been special only because they were the one thing of Elia’s that had ever turned toward him.

Edmund, I loved you. I loved you, but I can’t bear it anymore.

Before the corpse, he recalled the last words Elia had left him before she departed. A confession in the past tense—loved. A feeling in the present—can’t bear.

You are a flame. You consume everything. You devoured even my love, and you never gave anything back. I was left clutching nothing but ash.

She had given love, and he had given nothing in return, she said.

If he had denied it, could he have held on to her? Could he have saved her from death?

If he had confessed that he had loved her—that even if he had been called a man ignorant of emotion, his heart for her, twisted though it may have been into obsession, was undeniably love—

Would she not have left him?

Elia.

He called her name, gazing at eyes that would never turn to him again.

Elia…

Calling out the love he had received at eighteen and lost at thirty-two. Before her corpse, he called her name again and again.

You never answered. And all that remained for me was a love I could give to no one else.

He drew his sword. Then he turned his back. He couldn’t bear to spill blood over you. And then he raised the blade toward the place that would hurt most.

A foolish atonement. A punishment that would bring you no comfort, that would satisfy only me, cradling my own pain.

It didn’t hurt much.

But he regretted it. In that final moment, he suddenly longed to see you—but his body, already slumped and bleeding, could not turn its head.

Not being able to see you one last time—that, he regretted.

“Your Grace, are you all right?”

After the horrible pain, he awoke. Until the butler, who had surely died long ago, appeared before him—

He had truly regretted it.

“Butler, how old are you this year?”

The butler of House Raspe, standing before his master who was drenched in cold sweat, answered calmly.

“Sixty, my lord. In three years, it will have been fifty years since I began serving here.”

Fifty years. The butler had died at twenty-five, just after completing his fiftieth year of service. That meant Edmund was now twenty-two.

A dream? Or not a dream?

It was too vivid to be a dream—and too sweet to be anything else.

To have returned to the past.

The butler, who had certainly been dead, was alive, and his own age was now twenty-two. That meant Elia was…

Eighteen, or nineteen. Had she come of age, or not yet?

“…It’s rather chilly today.”

“Yes, it is. Wasn’t it snowing just yesterday? Though it’s March, it seems spring is still a ways off.”

Elia’s birthday is in autumn. So she’s still eighteen. Eighteen…

Edmund tried to recall Elia from ten years ago. He tried to imagine her alive and moving.

But naturally, it wasn’t enough. He had to see with his own eyes.

“I need to go to the underground crypt.”

“…My lord?”

Still in his sleeping attire, Edmund left his bedchamber and headed for the crypt.

The startled butler hurried after him. Ever the shrewd servant, he hadn’t forgotten to bring the crypt key.

“My lord, I have the key, so if you would allow me to—”

The butler, arriving a step too late with key in hand, stopped mid-sentence. The iron door was already groaning open in Edmund’s grip.

“Your Grace, it may be the work of an intruder. I shall inform Lord Belzen at once.”

“There’s no need. Wait here.”

Taking the lantern the butler offered, Edmund entered the crypt alone. Passing stone carvings shaped like the dead, he soon reached a wide open space.

The place where Elia had lain. The place where Edmund had closed his eyes.

But there was nothing. The scent of embalming fluids, the woman lying with her eyes closed—all gone. Empty.

It was all real. I’m certain of it.

He carefully examined the interior of the crypt. He swept his hand over the spot where Elia’s body had been laid. He cast his gaze into the blackest corners where light had never reached.

Yes. This was definitely… here.

At last, Edmund found the evidence he’d been hoping for.

The spot where he had turned his back on Elia’s body and raised his sword—there remained a dark stain of blood. And on the sword… the marks of death.

Perhaps it could have been left by an intruder. But Edmund chose to believe what he wanted to believe.

It wasn’t a dream. He, who had died, had returned to the past—to a time when Elia was still alive.

When Edmund emerged from the crypt, he had regained his usual composure.

Perhaps His Grace encountered the former Duke and Duchess in his dreams.

The butler simply assumed the Duke had suffered a nightmare. And so the two returned to the bedchamber as if nothing had happened.

“Butler, look into why the crypt was left unlocked. And as for Elia…”

“Ah, you mean the young lady of House Roan. It was such a pleasure to see her yesterday after so long. It truly struck me how she’s come of age—almost an adult now.”

“The main course was duck, I recall.”

“Yes, you had mentioned before that you thought Lady Elia would enjoy it. She finished every bite yesterday—the kitchen was quite pleased.”

In the butler’s voice, too, Elia was alive. Not as the mistress of the house, but as the daughter of House Roan.

Alive…

“Next time, serve something else. And have the carriage prepared immediately.”

“Yes, my lord. When Lady Elia next visits, we shall prioritize the dishes currently popular among the nobility—”

“I’ll find out her preferences myself.”

“My lord?”

He walked to the basin where washing water had been laid out. In the clear water, his reflection stared back—the face of a twenty-two-year-old.

Twenty-two. Having returned ten years into the past, everything—the cousin he had placed on the throne, the forces who had killed his parents, all annihilated—had been undone.

“I’ll go and see for myself.”

And yet—how joyous this was.

Elia, if you could love even the man I was back then, then I am confident I can win you over now.

The eighteen-year-old Elia he had reclaimed would become his wife again. She would become his woman—undeniable to anyone—and give him love without return.

And this time, he would make it so that she could never give up.

I won’t be satisfied with merely knowing you’re alive, Elia. Even when you fled into death, you came back to me. This time, even if I have to take everything from you—even if I lose everything I have—I will do whatever it takes. So that you will never even think of abandoning me again.

This time, I will devour you whole.