Sharino’s crisp voice cut through the stillness of the night, jostling Blayden’s thoughts, which had been wandering in the aftermath of the brief, brutal skirmish.
“The assassin truly lacked manners, not knowing better than to disturb the Commander during his apple-eating ritual,” Sharino observed, a hint of dry amusement in his tone.
“Speaking of which, Commander, you must have been in quite a rush. To defend yourself with a half-eaten apple… I was beginning to worry your archery skills weren’t sharpening, but my concerns were clearly unfounded. It seems you’ve discovered a new, rather unconventional, specialty, Commander.”
“Ah, that,” Blayden murmured, a slight shake of his head accompanying the words as his gaze shifted from Sharino to Leni.
He seemed on the verge of explaining, perhaps even justifying, his unique defensive maneuver.
But Leni, ever quick-witted in her own quiet way, anticipated him.
“I shouldn’t disturb him when he’s eating an apple?” she asked, her voice a soft, almost innocent inquiry in the cool night air.
Sharino’s response was immediate and firm.
“Never. Apples are the Commander’s absolute favorite snack, his most cherished indulgence. And anyone who dares to interrupt him while he’s enjoying them…”
His voice trailed off, leaving the implied consequence hanging in the silent air, a stern warning for anyone who might consider such an egregious act.
“Yes, I’ll keep that in mind,” Leni replied, her voice meek, a stark contrast to the sharp undertone of Sharino’s words.
Gabriel, who had been standing quietly between Sharino and Lentz, now stepped forward slightly, his concern evident.
“It looks like Leni was the first to reach the Commander,” he remarked, his gaze settling on her.
“Is she hurt anywhere?”
He seemed to operate under the assumption that Leni had simply been roused from sleep by the assassin’s sudden intrusion, unaware of the deeper truth.
Leni, choosing not to correct his misunderstanding, offered a simple, reassuring reply.
“I’m fine.”
Blayden’s eyes found her again, a complex expression crossing his face.
He looked as though he wanted to speak, to perhaps ask something, or offer further reassurance.
But with a subtle shift, he changed his mind, turning his head to face his unit members.
His voice, now firm and authoritative, cut through the lingering tension.
“Everyone, go back to sleep. I’ll stand guard until dawn.”
“I’ll take care of the bodies,” William offered, his voice practical.
He moved with practiced ease, grabbing one of the assassin’s legs, dragging the lifeless form briefly before lifting it with a grunt and tossing it unceremoniously into the dense bushes.
Lentz, with the same grim efficiency, had already dealt with the first assassin in a similar manner.
With the immediate threat neutralized and the gruesome evidence removed, the unit members dispersed, returning to the relative safety of their tents.
As the darkness settled back into a fragile silence, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves, Blayden turned to Leni.
“You go in too,” he instructed, his voice softer now, though still carrying an underlying command.
Leni remained rooted to the spot, unmoving.
Perhaps she hadn’t heard him, or perhaps she was simply lost in her own thoughts, her body frozen.
“Are you deaf…?”
Blayden began, his voice taking on a sharper edge as he took a step towards her.
But his words died on his lips as he saw her face clearly in the dim light.
Leni’s expression was utterly rigid, her features fixed in a mask of shock and a deeper, unspoken fear.
Her gaze, unfocused and flickering unsteadily, was fixed on her outstretched palm.
Blayden’s brows furrowed, a frown deepening on his face as he finally noticed it: the stark, dark stain of blood covering her fingers.
“Leni…” he murmured, his voice laced with concern.
Leni couldn’t respond.
A visible tremor ran through her shoulders, a raw display of her fear.
Blayden reached out, his large hand gently taking her blood-stained one.
Only then did Leni slowly lift her head, her glistening eyes, dark and deep, reflecting his image.
Blayden’s lips curved awkwardly, a strange mix of a frown and a faint smile, as he began to walk forward.
Leni, silent and lost like a child, simply followed his lead, allowing him to guide her.
They reached the stream.
Blayden gently settled Leni on a flat, smooth rock.
He then rolled up his tunic sleeves, sat beside her at the water’s edge, and carefully lifted her trembling, blood-soaked hand.
Even as he scooped up the cool stream water and poured it over her hand, Leni’s tremors persisted, a silent testament to the shock she was experiencing.
“Why did you hide that you used an apple to block the arrow?”
Blayden asked, his voice soft and coaxing, as if he were trying to calm a frightened child.
Her slender fingers, still trembling, curled inward in his palm.
“I wasn’t hiding it… my father told me not to boast about such things,” Leni confessed, her voice barely a whisper.
“Why are you so obedient to your father but not to your master?”
Blayden pressed, a hint of playful exasperation in his tone.
“Because you’re not my master!”
Leni retorted, the sudden burst of defiance surprising even herself.
Hmph, she still says that so spiritedly.
Blayden let out a soft chuckle, lifting his head to meet her gaze.
When their eyes locked, Leni quickly wrinkled her nose and pressed her lips together, an embarrassed flush rising to her cheeks.
What was with that apologetic expression after such a spirited shout?
Blayden, in a moment of playful mimicry, pursed and twisted his own lips.
Leni’s eyes widened in surprise for a moment, then she quickly averted her gaze, her cheeks coloring further.
Blayden let out a soft sigh, then lowered his head, returning to the task at hand.
He scooped up more water, pouring it over the back of her hand, which was still marred by streaks of blood.
Leni, wriggling the hand he held, mumbled, almost inaudibly.
“And I’m not a child.”
Not a child, she says.
She doesn’t even know what she’s saying.
“It’s dangerous to say you’re not a child when you’re alone with a man on a night like this, Leni,” Blayden remarked, his voice a low rumble, as he gently rubbed her wet fingers.
Leni let out a small, startled “uh.”
Was she surprised, or did she dislike the implication?
What would she retort with this time?
Blayden was filled with a sudden surge of curiosity, but Leni merely curled her hand back up again, her previous defiance gone.
“Why? Not going to snap back that I’m not a man?” he prodded gently.
A faint tremor ran through her startled hand. Blayden tightened his grip on her blood-stained fingernails, then lifted his head.
Leni blinked her long eyelashes, a soft “uh” escaping her lips as she tilted her head in confusion.
“Because you’re not not a man,” she finally managed, her voice still quiet.
“Are you treating me like a man, then? How remarkably generous of you, Lady Radelyon,”
Blayden said, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face.
He continued to pour stream water over Leni’s hand, a handful of water overflowing, trickling like tiny silver threads between her slender fingers.
Leni curled her toes, a small, involuntary reaction to the cool sensation of the water.
Why is he going this far? she wondered, her mind a whirl.
Blayden, kneeling before her, meticulously washing her hand, seemed almost unreal.
A warrior who had commanded armies and roared across continents was now humbling himself, even cracking jokes, all to soothe her troubled, chaotic heart.
Her gaze drifted to his strong, corded neck, illuminated by the moonlight.
A sudden, sharp jolt went through her chest, and Leni quickly averted her eyes, feeling a blush creep up her neck.
His large hand, cradling hers, filled her vision.
The hand extending from his firm wrist was rough with calluses and scarred with the marks of countless battles.
Yet, despite its ruggedness, it was undeniably warm.
This hand, hardened by years of war, was now surprisingly gentle, almost tender.
What am I to him?
The thought echoed in her mind.
“I…”
Why are you doing this?
Did I truly look that fragile?
The torrent of questions in her heart remained trapped, unable to escape her lips.
Even though the bloodstains had almost completely vanished, Blayden continued to scoop up water, persistently washing her hand.
What if her hand becomes strange again?
A sudden, anxious thought pierced through her newfound calm, and Leni’s heart began to thump erratically.
“It’s okay now…”
She tried to pull her hand away, to reclaim it, but Blayden’s grip tightened, almost snatching it back to hold it securely.
***
“Oh.”
Their fingers, which had briefly touched, now intertwined, and a subtle, comforting warmth seeped into her skin.
Leni hunched her shoulders instinctively, then consciously released the tension from her body.
A faint tingling sensation spread through her slightly bent fingertips.
Still holding her hand captive, Blayden asked, his voice low.
“Is it your first time?”
“Pardon?”
Leni blurted out, then, understanding dawned, she made an “Ah” sound and nodded.
“Yes. It’s my first time killing someone.”
As the words left her lips, a wave of worry washed over her.
She suddenly feared she might appear foolish, inexperienced.
“I have used a sword before, though,” she added quickly, trying to mitigate the impression.
“When you live a nomadic life, you often encounter bandits, after all.”
It was true.
The fights they encountered during their travels were indeed different from the bloody chaos of a battlefield.
The purpose of those roadside skirmishes was always to protect themselves and their meager belongings.
So, their tactics were typically limited to throwing stones or delivering a sharp blow to the back of the head with a wooden sword.
On rare occasions when a real sword was drawn, they would meticulously avoid vital spots, aiming only to incapacitate.
Killing soldiers, especially those who had mistakenly identified the troupe as enemies, could easily lead to far greater trouble down the line.
And when their opponents were civilians, it was often the case that they had been driven to banditry by the sheer hardship of war, struggling to survive.
Her father’s firm belief was to exercise restraint in bloodshed when confronting those in equally difficult circumstances, and the troupe members had adhered to this principle without fail.
But tonight, the situation had been fundamentally different.
The assassins had clearly been intent on taking lives, their murderous intent undeniable.
The moment Leni saw Blayden in peril, her mind had cleared, focused on a singular, urgent thought: she had to save him.
Her body, honed by years of rigorous training, had moved with an instinct born of countless hours of practice.
She didn’t even recall making a conscious decision to attack.
One moment, she was watching, and the next, she had come to her senses to find herself having taken a life.
I had killing intent within me.
I truly killed someone.
Leni felt a strange mix of profound relief at being safe and a deep, unexpected sadness.
She had a chilling premonition that even if she were to complete this perilous journey and reunite with her beloved troupe members, she would never truly be able to return to the person she had been before.
She hadn’t realized that ending a human life could be such a simple, instantaneous act.
There was no overwhelming sense of triumph, no crushing burden of self-reproach.
She found it hard to believe that the bloody struggle had truly taken place; instead, she felt a detached, almost hazy unreality.
Her voice, when it finally emerged, was raw, cracking from a throat that felt suddenly parched and stinging.
“Do… do you remember your first time killing someone?” she asked, the words tumbling out before she could reconsider.
Water scattered roughly over the back of her hand, the droplets cool against her skin.
Blayden’s hand, still cradling hers, visibly tightened, his grip suddenly firm, almost strained.
Ah, I asked something I shouldn’t have.
A wave of regret washed over her, immediate and sharp.
But before she could dwell on it, Blayden scooped up more water.
He poured it over her hand, making her skin slick and cool, then gently, meticulously, rubbed between her moistened fingers.
“It’s better to kill than to be killed,” Blayden stated, his voice low and firm, a stark, unyielding truth.
“Yes,” Leni answered blankly, her mind still grappling with the raw honesty of his words.
A pungent, almost sharp sensation spread to the tip of her nose, a prelude to unshed tears.
“You’re baggage,” Blayden continued, his voice unexpectedly gruff.
“If you die, I’ll simply abandon you. I won’t even bother to bury you, so take care of your own life.”
What strange, peculiar comfort, Leni thought, a flicker of something akin to amusement amidst her turmoil.
“Then this body of mine will probably just satisfy an animal’s hunger,” she mused aloud, a wry twist to her lips.
“A scrawny thing like you isn’t even fit for animal food,” Blayden retorted, a hint of something light in his voice.
Leni let out a low, soft laugh, a surprising sound that escaped her lips.
In that unexpected moment, it was as if a small, steady lamp had been lit within her chest, casting a soft glow.
But then, her lips, which had briefly parted in a smile, began to tremble.
“You said I was the troupe’s princess, didn’t you? I finally understand what you meant by that.”
You understood quickly enough.
She braced herself, expecting a cynical remark, perhaps a cutting jab at her delayed realization.
But Blayden remained silent, his focus unwavering as he meticulously continued to wash her hand.
“It’s not about having noble blood that makes one a princess, nor is it merely sharing blood that defines family,” Leni continued, her voice gaining a quiet confidence.
“I think the troupe members truly protected me.
They shielded me, so I wouldn’t have to stain my hands with blood too early.”
Why am I telling this person such things?
Leni couldn’t quite fathom the impulse.
It was such a strange night.
She had just taken a life, yet her heart felt remarkably calm, almost serene.
Was it the gentle, ethereal glow of the moonlight?
Or was it the unexpected tenderness of the hand washing hers?
Words, like a rambling monologue or a soliloquy from a play, continued to flow from her lips.
“I was so happy all the time that I didn’t truly realize how much I was loved and protected,” Leni confessed, her voice now clearer than the stream water, lovelier than the moonlight itself.
Like a fairy’s song, she recounted the cherished memories of her childhood spent with the troupe.
Names, spoken gently and endlessly, filled the air.
Simple yet deeply poignant moments, recounted with a bittersweet ache.
His heart, too, felt a pang, and then, surprisingly, Blayden felt a prick of jealousy.
He envied and resented Leni’s childhood, so utterly brimming with love and warmth.
He even found himself feeling a flicker of something akin to dislike for Leni, for she had enjoyed something so incredibly precious, something he had never possessed, without even fully grasping its immense value.
I was covered in blood from the very moment of my birth.
My mother died instantly, as soon as she brought me into this world.
My father, who merely sired me, never loved me.
The chilling wails of the commoners he amusingly slaughtered often haunted my nightmares.
And then, the conqueror arrived.
He was a man who had loved my mother, and who had deeply loathed my father.
He became my master, my liege.
Someone, acting under his direct command, would repeatedly wound my body, leaving me scarred.
And now, I take lives, also by his command.
And such a man worries.
Worries that even after this hand is finally clean, a deep, indelible bloodstain might still remain in your heart.
A surge of intense emotion coursed through him, causing him to tighten his grip on her hand.
Leni flinched her arm, clearly feeling the pain from his inadvertent squeeze.
He held onto her small hand, which was trying to pull away from him.
His voice, now low and hoarse, escaped his lips.
“It’s a hand that protected a life. Cherish it.”
You, who once yearned for your first kiss, have now had the memory of your first kill etched into your very heart.
What has happened cannot be undone.
But I hope you remember this night not by the blood, but by the hand that washes it away.
Leni remained silent, her resistance gone.
She seemed to have abandoned the idea of escaping, her relaxed hand resting docilely in his palm, still and calm.
Tonight, this was enough.
Her simply not fearing him was more than sufficient.
Blayden finally released Leni’s hand and, with a swift, gentle movement, lifted her other hand.
He yearned to be remembered as a caretaker, a protector, not merely as a bringer of death.
It was an unfamiliar yet intensely powerful desire that surged within him.
Even after this arduous journey inevitably ended, and they each went their separate ways, he did not want to remain a monstrous figure in Leni’s mind.
If you remember.
If you would grant me that.
Will you recall this precise moment, Leni?