Chapter 190: Do You Remember?
Frederick’s jaw clenched at the icy words that sliced through his pride. His body trembled, his face on the verge of tears. Aracila, looking at him with disdain, crossed her arms and spoke with biting sarcasm.
“You loved me? And what am I supposed to do about that? Is it my fault? Did I ever tell you to act this way?”
Frederick was silent, his expression crumbling.
“Stop whining like a child, Frederick. You were never a man to me,” she said coldly.
Love alone didn’t justify every action. Frederick had crossed the line long ago. Aracila had no intention of sparing him any sympathy now. How many had died because of him? How many had narrowly escaped death? How much had he complicated her and Damian’s lives? She drove the final nail into his shattered heart.
“There will never be a day when I love you.”
Frederick’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees, defeated. He felt the absolute finality of her words—no room for hope remained.
“Ha… haha… hahaha…”
With a hollow laugh, he threw down his sword. Further struggle was pointless. The Owl Legion had been decimated by the Imperial Knights and the Red Hawk Knights, and no escape route remained.
“It’s over,” he muttered, his eyes lifeless. “Kill me or spare me—do as you please.”
“Arrest the former Crown Prince,” Aracila said to a nearby allied knight. The knight seized Frederick’s arm, and he complied without resistance, rising meekly. Damian kicked the discarded sword out of reach.
Aracila turned her gaze from the subdued Frederick to Damian, checking for injuries. “Damian, are you alright?”
“Wife, asking the obvious—” Damian began, a faint smile on his lips.
But in that moment, Frederick, who had been passing by with a blank expression, suddenly shoved the knight aside and lunged at Aracila.
“?!”
Caught off guard by his docile demeanor, the knight lost his grip. Aracila, her defenses lowered, couldn’t react in time to the sudden attack.
A sickening thud echoed.
Frederick had drawn a hidden dagger from his robe and plunged it into her. The unfamiliar sensation of the cold blade piercing her flesh froze Aracila in place.
“Wife!” Damian cried, his face ashen as he grabbed Frederick by the neck and flung him to the ground. Frederick crumpled helplessly, revealing Aracila behind him. A dagger was lodged in her abdomen, staining her pristine Magic Tower uniform red with blood.
Clutching the wound, Aracila staggered, slowly collapsing.
“Wife…!”
Damian rushed forward, catching her before she hit the ground. His large hands trembled as they gripped her delicate shoulders. His mind went blank, unable to process the sight before him.
Aracila, gasping from the searing pain spreading from her abdomen, clung tightly to Damian’s arm. “Ah… Damian…”
“Don’t speak, please don’t speak…” he whispered, holding her close and pressing the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of blood seeping through his fingers made his head spin.
“Haha! Hahaha!”
From the floor, pinned by the knight, Frederick erupted into maniacal laughter, his voice brimming with twisted delight. The knight, already guilt-ridden for letting him slip, snapped, “Shut your mouth, you mad bastard!”
“If I can’t have you, Aracila, no one will!” Frederick taunted, grinning wildly despite the knight pressing down on his neck. “Let’s die together!”
His laughter didn’t falter, even under restraint. If her words could have made him give up, he wouldn’t have come this far. In his life, he had never failed to possess what he desired—and if he couldn’t have it, no one else would either.
“I’ll have you, even in death!”
His warped possessiveness poured out, his hoarse, eerie laughter grating on everyone’s ears.
Damian, having handed Aracila to a physician summoned by Lucas for emergency treatment, rose slowly. The knight restraining Frederick flinched at the sight of Damian’s face and instinctively stepped back. A murderous aura radiated from him, chilling the air.
Even the knight, who had fought alongside Damian since the Red Hawk Knights’ founding, felt this oppressive presence for the first time. His limbs tingled, his breath caught in his throat.
Damian strode past his subordinate and seized Frederick by the collar, yanking him up. The triumphant laughter died in Frederick’s throat, replaced by primal fear. Though he had acted prepared for death, he wasn’t ready to endure the agony of it.
“V-Vandermir—”
Before he could finish, a fist slammed into him, sending him crashing to the ground. Pain reverberated through his skull, but before he could recover, another blow followed.
Damian struck relentlessly, pummeling Frederick without mercy. The former Crown Prince could barely whimper under the onslaught. His face, bones sinking under the barrage, became unrecognizable as he weakly raised a hand, pleading, “S-Stop…”
“Shut up,” Damian snarled, raising his fist again.
No amount of beating could quell the pounding rage in his chest. What if I lose Aracila, like I lost my mother?
He had only just broken free from the cycle of hatred to live his own life. His fury toward Frederick was uncontainable.
“Hah…”
Releasing Frederick’s limp form, Damian raked a hand through his hair. His golden eyes, clouded with rage, caught sight of the sword he had kicked away earlier. Without hesitation, he stood, picked it up, and approached Frederick. The knights, frozen by his unfocused gaze, couldn’t intervene.
I’ll kill him.
With that singular thought, Damian raised the sword, poised to end Frederick’s life in one stroke.
“Damian…”
A faint, fragile voice stopped him. The call was so soft that only Damian heard it. He turned stiffly, his eyes finding Aracila.
She gazed at him, her eyes barely open, and stretched out a bloodstained hand. In a voice that seemed on the verge of breaking, she said, “I’m in pain… hold my hand.”
“…Yes.”
Thud.
Damian cast aside his sword without hesitation and returned to Aracila’s side. The onlookers, who had been watching tensely, let out sighs of relief.
Feeling the warmth of his large hand enveloping hers, Aracila closed her eyes. The physician, wiping the cold sweat from his brow, spoke.
“Emergency treatment is complete. She needs to go inside for proper care now…”
“Let’s go at once.”
Without delay, Damian scooped Aracila into his arms and strode forward. The physician hurried after him, flustered.
Isaac took charge in Damian’s absence, leading the subordinates to handle the aftermath.
“Bind the criminals securely and escort them to the dungeon! Especially the deposed Crown Prince—tie his hands and feet and gag him!”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Under Lucas’s command, the situation was swiftly resolved. With Frederick and even Joseph neutralized, the Owl Brigade was captured with pitiful ease.
Thus, Frederick’s rebellion came to an end.
Immediately after the rebels were apprehended, the Empress was also arrested. The Emperor brought down the hammer on his wife and son, who had crossed far beyond the line.
Frederick and the rebels were sentenced to death, while the Empress, stripped of her noble status, was exiled to an island. The nobles who had sided with the deposed Crown Prince had their wealth and titles confiscated, facing either banishment or exile.
Lucas was officially named Crown Prince, filling the vacant seat. The Emperor, seeing echoes of his younger self in Lucas’s triumph over the unworthy former Crown Prince, held him in high regard.
While all this unfolded, Aracila lay with her eyes closed. Her injuries weren’t life-threatening, but she had lost a significant amount of blood.
Damian didn’t take her to the Vandermir estate. Instead, he brought her to the Hugo Marquisate, back to her original family.
And every day, he visited the marquisate to check on her condition.
“Damian, you’re here.”
The Marchioness, spotting him at the estate as usual, greeted him with a warm smile. Their frequent meetings lately had made their interactions more familiar.
Damian bowed courteously before ascending the stairs to Aracila’s room.
She lay comfortably on a soft bed, looking serene. Pulling a chair beside her, he gently brushed back the strands of hair that had fallen over her pale, round forehead.
Lowering his hand, he caressed her soft cheek and bowed his head.
Twice, he had failed to protect Aracila right before his eyes. The guilt gnawed at him, making it impossible to take her home. He felt unworthy. That’s why he brought her to the Hugo Marquisate.
But if you knew my thoughts, you’d tell me it wasn’t my fault.
He wanted to lean into Aracila’s kindness, to let it absolve him, but the thought that he’d only ever burdened her held him back.
Damian clasped her hand. There were words he hadn’t yet said to her. Why hadn’t he spoken them the moment he returned?
Because I was afraid.
He couldn’t shake the fear that he might taint Aracila’s future, that he might bring her unhappiness. He hadn’t been able to be honest.
The courage he’d built surviving countless perils in war vanished before the most radiant and beautiful presence in his life.
After completing his revenge, he thought he’d fear nothing, but in the presence of the one he loved, he crumbled helplessly once more.
Now, losing Aracila was the most terrifying thing in the world.
“…Aracila.”
Damian called her name softly, as he had when she collapsed from the dark magic bomb’s attack.
“Aracila.”
He poured tender emotion into each syllable, vowing to himself never to be too late again.
“Aracila.”
As he pressed his forehead to the hand he held and called her once more, her fingers twitched.
A faint, delicate grip met his. Startled, he looked up to see Aracila slowly blinking her eyes open.
“…Why do you keep calling me?”
Her voice was hoarse as she responded. Her dry lips moved slowly.
“You woke me up from my sleep.”
“…At this hour, it’s practically oversleeping, my dear.”
Damian whispered with a sigh-like breath. Overwhelmed by a rush of complex emotions, he felt, embarrassingly, like he might cry.
“Really?”
Aracila reached out a finger to poke his cheek, laughing innocently.
“I don’t think it’s that late.”
“…You’re right. It’s not late.”
Damian touched his forehead, conceding defeat. He had a mountain of things he wanted to say once she woke, but faced with her luminous blue eyes, all he could muster was this gentle exchange.
“Did you have sweet dreams?”
“Hmm.”
Aracila’s eyes roamed over him. The last face she saw before collapsing had been etched with despair and anguish, as if on the verge of tears.
But now, joy and happiness shimmered in his reddened eyes, and she answered with a radiant smile.
“Yes, I think so.”
Waking up didn’t mean Aracila could immediately leave her sickbed. Her abdominal injury made movement difficult for the time being.
To minimize her bedridden time, she diligently took the special recovery potion Rudy had made. It tasted foul but worked wonders.
“Well, look at you, worrying your parents sick but taking your medicine like a champ. Good girl.”
The Marchioness chided her as she took the empty vial. Just days ago, she had wept profusely upon seeing Aracila awake, but now she was starting to feel exasperated.
Before marriage, Aracila would return injured from missions, and after marriage, she kept coming back in life-threatening conditions—it was only natural.
Without protest, Aracila let her mother’s words slide, then asked curiously, “Mom, why am I here?”
“What? Oh, you mean why not at the house you share with Damian?”
“Yes.”
“Damian said he’d be too busy to care for you properly, so he brought you here.”
The plausible answer made Aracila narrow her eyes and rub her chin. Fine, she could accept that explanation.
“Then why aren’t we going back now?”
With Audrey around, she had recovered enough that extra family care wasn’t necessary. Yet Damian visited daily without suggesting they return home.
The Marchioness brushed off her daughter’s suspicious mutterings casually.
“You’re still a patient, that’s why.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t overthink it, just focus on recovering. Once you’re better, you’ll go back together. I’ll tell him to take you home, alright?”
Saying one grown daughter was enough, the Marchioness left. Aracila couldn’t shake the lingering unease.
That afternoon, Damian arrived. Unlike usual, his hair was neatly combed, revealing his handsome face, and he wore an elegant, formal uniform.
Caught off guard by his striking appearance, Aracila averted her gaze, self-conscious about her less-than-presentable state after lying in bed.
“…?”
Noticing her slightly turned posture, Damian looked at her curiously, pulled up a chair, and sat.
“The executions of the traitors took place today,” he said.
“Oh, really? I didn’t know.”
Aracila responded indifferently. The rebels no longer held her interest.
Instead, her attention was fixed on the polished, dazzling Damian.
“Is that why you’re so dressed up?”
“No, it’s for something else.”
“What, then?”
Her blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. Clearing his throat, Damian laced his hands loosely and spoke slowly.
“My ducal succession ceremony was held.”
After the former Duke and Duchess were officially stripped of their titles and sentenced to decades in prison for murder, Damian had been formally recognized by the Emperor as the new Duke.
In other words, he had legally inherited the title and become the head of the house.
“Really? Wow, congratulations!”
Aracila beamed, clapping her hands. Knowing how deeply Damian had longed for this, she couldn’t help but share his joy.
“From now on, it’s not Sir Vandermir but Duke Vandermir.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Damian slowly rubbed the back of his neck. For some reason, he didn’t seem entirely thrilled. Noticing the subtle shift, Aracila tilted her head.
What’s wrong? Is it because he went through the ceremony alone?
Had she not been injured, she would have stood proudly by his side as his wife, witnessing his ascension to Duke.
Feeling a pang of regret, she was about to offer words of comfort when—
“Do you remember, my dear?”
Damian’s voice was taut with tension as he spoke. His clear, honest eyes fixed on hers.
“That we agreed to end our contract marriage once I inherited the ducal title.”
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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