I used to be heir to Colonna’s true royal line, the second princess, and a member of the Demon World Surveillance Squad, my crest bright as a banner in sunlight. As for what came after...

...

Don’t look at me like a winter blade; it was my choice, cold and clean. The captain came to Colonna to ask my father for support, and I stepped forward like a moth to a lamp.

...

Like you, I was called a genius, a crown of laurel on a young head. I thought I could be a hero, stand on the knife-edge of life and death, and give everything for my people and this bright world like dawn. Hah—self-important dreams shattered like glass; the truth only hit after the Demonfolk took me.

You’re—

Fear first, words later, my voice crumpled like a leaf in wind. You’re—

I said don’t look at me with pity, like rain pooling in soft eyes. That bastard said fools don’t deserve sympathy, and it rang true like iron on a forge. My friends—my comrades in the Demon World Surveillance Squad—were slaughtered to the last like candles snuffed by a storm. The few still breathing were devoured alive before me, their screams like torn silk, and in that ash I swore to hate the Demonfolk forever. Hah... breathe... I’m fine. It’s past, like smoke blown off a cliff. It’s past.

Qianqian, if you don’t want to say it, don’t force yourself. My worry hung like a cloud before rain.

It’s fine. Listen. Sometimes I want to let it spill like a river in flood. You know what? That bone-deep hatred I thought would burn forever like a coal—pain scattered it like salt on snow, and it melted clean away. Maybe it was my princess title; the Demonfolk didn’t kill me. But the torture and the... use, they were endless like a moonless night. I cried hard more than once, knelt like a fallen statue, begged them to kill me.

No one would blame you! My words rushed out like a thrown cloak.

But I would curse myself, like a bell tolling my shame. I—I'm no longer fit to call myself princess. Only stronger force, purer spirit, nobler soul deserve a nation’s helm, like a mountain peak earns the snow. Such ugliness, such disgrace—how soft I was—I learned it too late, like a traveler noticing the cliff at the last step. Compared to me, you never yielded; that makes me respect you more, like a lone torch in wind.

I... I would’ve broken, too, like ice under boot, but someone encouraged me and kept a coal of hope in my chest. I still remember that voice, a lantern in fog. He said, “Keep fighting to live.”

Ha, that bastard, right? He told me the same words, tossed like a rope into a well.

The air between us loosened like a knot under warm hands. No storm of murder or self-harm rolled in. Qianqian’s bed was wide as a white shore; it let Catherine lie flat, then curl up and lean against the headboard like a wounded bird.

Facts first, then pride—licking each other’s wounds draws people close fast, like campfire heat in a cold pass. Qianqian still thought that, too, was a bead on the Demon King’s abacus.

After that, in a dungeon where no day ever broke, time dripped like cave water. My will to resist wore away like stone under tide. Only numb obedience remained, a statue without eyes. Look at my body—“slender,” right? A willow pared by frost.

Qianqian gave a bitter smile and lifted her shirt, her skin pale as new paper. A narrow waist, a shape almost bewitching, like moonlight on a blade.

Even Catherine, a woman like her, stared stunned, like a deer in a clearing.

Two ribs were removed, two bows pulled from my cage, to make my chest look “prettier,” like carving into jade. They injected demon-draughts that dissolved two-thirds of my muscle; I had no strength left to resist, a kite with cut string. They rewired me to be too sensitive, like skin under snow then fire. They froze this body at seventeen, forever tender as spring tea leaves. On and on. I took it all, a doll accepting dust, too numb even to cry pain. Thinking back, I want to kill that old me like splitting rotten wood—just like you do now.

Just like me?

Yes. You want to deny the filth and the fall, to discard the broken crown and pride. You want to kill yourself like burning a tainted robe. The joke is, the one who put that killing intent toward myself in my hands, the one who turned me from “doll” back to “human,” told me, “Keep fighting to live.” Yes—the Demon King who showed you kindness. Our master in name. The Shadow Demon King, Andor.

So this Demon King is a good man? The thought rose like a shy sprout.

Catherine’s question made Qianqian burst into laughter, bright as pebbles skittering down a slope. It came straight from the heart and tripped all over itself.

She clutched her belly and waved a hand, flustered, like batting at moths. No, no.

A good man? Too funny. If that bastard heard it, he’d mock you dry as winter reeds.

Then he’s a villain? The word weighed like wet wool.

Of course. But—he’s a villain you can’t treat as just a villain, like a wolf that carries torches to a village. Do you know how he bought me? He knocked down over a dozen Sons of the Demon King, drove off three Demon Kings, threw down triple the gold like pouring coins into a river, and carried me home to his castle covered in wounds like torn banners. His first words were, “I need you to be a gift.”

I don’t understand. My confusion hung like fog.

He wants an alliance with humans. The Colonna Empire has the brightest name among men, a star over the plains, so sending back a fallen princess like me would be a priceless gift, glittering like a crown.

That... Catherine hesitated, her voice wavering like a candle. I can’t tell if that’s good or bad. Call it good, and there’s malice in the roots; call it bad, and the fruit’s a good deed. I can’t fully trust, and I can’t wholly oppose. It’s hard to judge right or wrong, like weighing mist.

He never hides he belongs to evil, a black banner in the wind. Yet he keeps doing what heroes should do, like a sword held point-first toward the dark. Only that bastard can bother you this much, tangle you like bamboo thickets. Slow down, slow down.

Qianqian steadied weak Catherine and helped her sit, shoulder to shoulder against the headboard, two silhouettes like swallows on a rail. They looked over the birdcage-shaped room and the darkness beyond the window, deeper than any star-flecked sky, like ink over ink.

It was Catherine’s first time sitting up since she came here, her breath thin as smoke.

I kept thinking, if my rescuer had truly been a hero, how sweet it would be—simple saving and being saved, like clean water and a thirsty throat. Or if he’d just kept me as a doll and let me die simply, like a flower pressed between pages.

Being able to love or hate plainly is happiness, like clear weather after rain. Pity the world is twisted as roots. The High Grand Knight taught me that. Catherine nodded, the memory a warm coal.

Exactly. He fed me expensive elixirs, let strength and bone grow back like spring shoots. But because of my camp and my principles, I couldn’t say thank you straight, as simple as salt. Luckily, he didn’t mind. He just kept meeting my demands. If I asked for a blade, or to train again, he never refused, giving like a well that doesn’t complain.

...

What is it? Why so quiet, Catherine? Qianqian’s concern fluttered like a sparrow.

Qianqian, I think your spirit has bowed to him, like grass in rain. I can’t trust your words anymore.

Idiot! Qianqian lifted her slender arm, a reed that still cut, and aimed at Catherine’s smooth forehead. Anger flared like sparks, but she remembered her wounds. In the end, she only flicked her lightly, a knuckle tap like a pebble on a pond.

Aerians are like that—heart to mouth, words flying like arrows. They never hide what they want to say, pushing for the shortest path like hawks diving.

Other races hate when they bring barracks habits into daily talk; it turns the air stiff as frozen cloth.

I’m not defending that bastard, and I haven’t bowed to him. I’m saying—you have room to choose, like a crossroads under blue sky.

I don’t understand. Her brows knit like threads.

Catherine gingerly raised her hand, fear first, then touch, and rubbed her forehead; it stung like nettle, but it was gentler than the Demon King’s torments.

That bastard is different from the other Demon Kings. He doesn’t plunder by force, like a storm ripping roofs. He respects will and trades for what he wants, like merchants at dusk. For example, because I resisted, he never took me. I’m still a virgin, a locked room in a ruined house.

Maybe he’s just not interested in women... The doubt landed like a cold pebble.

That’s you talking! Ah, Catherine, can’t you listen for once? Go talk to the Demon King. I believe words can bridge like a rope over a chasm. He believes it. You will, too. Don’t rush to die!

Catherine didn’t say yes or no. She let her body soften, fell back on the soft bed like a leaf on water, and felt every torn place in her, a map of scars.

She had begged Qianqian to kill her, but maybe she only had the courage to ask, like a voice scratching at a door. She lacked the will and resolve to end herself. Of course, she also lacked the hunger to live; only the animal fear of pain and death remained, like a horse shying at thunder.

She didn’t want to die, and didn’t want to live. She needed a will, a flame to set this grinding, half-erased self in motion again, like wind on a stalled prayer wheel.

Even if it came from someone else, like a torch passed hand to hand.

He told me, “Keep fighting to live.” The words glowed like embers in ash.

Catherine stared into the far dark. There might be horrors there, teeth like stones, but more likely there was the unknown and the sacred, like forest at night.

She no longer expected anything, her heart a quiet lake. Yet someone still blessed her, asked her to lift her hope like a lantern. With that thought, she spoke softly, a flute in dusk.

But why live? What comes of living on? I didn’t have time to ask him. The question drifted like mist.

She forced a small smile for Qianqian, a thin crescent like a new moon.

For those who’ve suffered, being able to smile is a color already beautiful, like peach bloom on frost. It’s enough to let others hope you’ll keep going.

Heal well. Right now whatever you want to do is hard, like climbing with broken wings. And that’s the bastard’s order as well.

Yes. The assent fell like a pebble.

You have reasons and wishes you can tell that bastard outright, like cards on a table. He’ll trade with you. Even if you refuse everything, he usually respects your choice, like a closed gate he won’t kick.

Yes. The second assent came softer, like dust on silk.

Don’t say “yes.” This isn’t an army, and I’m no princess. Be frank. Let it be simple.

Y—mm. The sound was small as a moth’s wing.

Qianqian tenderly stroked the silver-gray hair, smooth as watergrass; she couldn’t get enough of the feel. Then, reluctant, she left the birdcage bedroom to find the Demon King’s retainers for new medicine, footsteps light as cat’s paws.

She was allowed to walk freely in the Demon King Castle, like a bird left uncaged. Unimportant places weren’t off-limits. If she wanted supplies, she only had to tell a retainer, words traded like coins. He was overly generous to a gift he’d soon send away, like a lord tossing bread to the road. Maybe that bastard of a Demon King thought she was “unimportant,” a leaf on the stream.

So he didn’t care if she caused trouble, and gave favors with a shrug, like scattering seeds.

It felt like an overlord’s posture, blessings given from high ground, with no thought of return, like rain over stone.

That was what Qianqian couldn’t accept most. Though her dignity had cracked like old porcelain, now that they met as equals, the princess in her balked at such lofty charity, a bitter taste like iron.

So Qianqian’s feelings about Andor, her master in name, were tangled as vines.

She shut the door. As expected, Andor leaned against the wall by the frame, a shadow stitched to stone, toying with a crystal orb that caught light like trapped stars.

Hey, got time to loaf now? Her hostility flickered like a dull blade.

Qianqian had a lot to say, a storm dammed behind ribs, but in the end only this rough, clumsy barb came out, a stone pitched across a river.

Don’t “hey” me. I’m Andor. Show your host a little basic respect, like a bow at a gate. His tone was dry as old parchment.

Andor shrugged, shoulders rolling like waves, and didn’t look up. He kept spinning his crystal, a planet under his thumb.

Idle enough to spy on us now? Her words snapped like frost.

If I needed, I could fill your room with cameras, little black eyes like flies. But I don’t need to. Your intent aligns with mine. We both want Catherine to get better, like spring rising in cold ground.

I doubt what you call “better,” the word sour as unripe fruit. If you want to hurt Catherine, I won’t allow it, even if it breaks my wings.

Though Qianqian knew, if this Demon King wanted evil, he’d hide it perfectly in Shadow, like a panther under brush. He wouldn’t show his claws before her. Since he asked her to care for Catherine, he wouldn’t harm her; that logic stood like a post.

One of Andor’s creeds was simple as a knife: don’t make enemies of those with value, not cheaply. After years together, she had a first sketch of his values, lines like charcoal.

Even if you train hard, you’ll only reach your old peak, like a bow restrung. If you try to stop me, with what? Also, you eat my food and drink my wine. Don’t you, as a knight, feel a flicker of paying me back, like a coin in a cup?

Qianqian’s eyes were full of mistrust, dark as wet stone.

And Andor didn’t care. He scratched his head, a lazy bear, straightened, and moved to leave, his coat a moving shadow.

All right, all right. Each takes what they need, each enjoys what they like. A win–win ending is best, like two boats sharing a current. If I can help it, I won’t use brainwashing to shove the story along, like forcing a crooked tree straight. As for “getting better”—just this once, believe me.

I don’t. Qianqian refused, clean as a blade.

Hey, hey. I’m repaying a debt this time, like settling a tab. Absolutely no malice, not even a drop.

Then what about goodwill? Her question rang like a pebble in a shrine.

Andor snorted. He slipped the crystal orb back into his pocket, a star swallowed by night. The deadpan-faced Demon King showed open disdain, sharp as a knife.

What’s “goodwill”? Can you eat it?