...I don’t want to.

Just picturing the Second Prince’s furious expression sent a chill of fear through Evelia’s heart.

No… I can’t fail…

It was instinctive—a primal dread welling up from the depths of her soul.

She couldn’t disobey the Second Prince. She *had* to fulfill his command.

Only then… could she become the true “Crimson Crow.”

Absolutely… I *must* find a way…

No matter what—deceive Arman… complete the mission… I won’t let the Second Prince down.

I have to… I *have* to—

“By the way,” Arman said, standing beside her in his usual light, cheerful tone, “you never answered my earlier question. Have you ever thought about running away?”

“…No.”

His words felt layered with hidden meaning, but her mind, suddenly tangled, couldn’t grasp it.

To avoid revealing too much, she kept her reply cold—but compared to her earlier composure, her eyes had dimmed. A faint trace of panic flickered beneath the surface, desperately concealed.

“Is it that you *don’t want* to run? *Can’t* run? Or… *dare not* run?”

He stretched the last word deliberately, as if he’d glimpsed the deepest fear buried in her soul.

“There’s no need to run, Mr. Arman. I have nothing to flee from.”

Evelia chose to ignore the implication. She was the “Crimson Crow” of Nightingale House—the Second Prince’s most loyal subordinate.

—*My purpose in life is only to fulfill the Second Prince’s missions.*

Yes… no need to run…

I… simply cannot leave…

My life, my breath, my soul… all belong to…

“I see… well then—”

Arman looked thoughtful, about to continue—when a silver-haired man holding wine glasses approached, cutting him off.

“Arman, hiding out here again?”

A strikingly handsome man: long silver hair tied high in a ponytail, eyes the serene aqua-green of sea meeting sky. Though he carried two glasses, not a hint of alcohol clung to him. His uniform marked higher rank. Evelia glanced at the emblem on his chest and understood.

Deputy Commander of the Royal Knights Order—second only to Arman in rank, yet radiating a quiet calm utterly unlike Arman’s.

“Oh, just enjoying the night breeze,” Arman replied with the same clumsy excuse he’d used with Evelia, addressing the deputy commander four years his senior.

“Enjoying the *breeze* on a night this cold?”

Kale, who knew Arman well, saw right through it.

“Knight uniforms are built for this. If you can’t handle tonight, how’d you survive a snowy campaign?”

Evelia didn’t know the other knights, but she recognized the silver-haired deputy—Kale Moer.

A man equal to Arman. Rumor said they were close friends, yet never campaigned together—one always stayed to manage the Knights Order and guard the capital. Though titled deputy, he could step in as acting commander. Should Arman fall, Kale would succeed him.

“The brothers are waiting for you to drink. Instead, you’re chatting with a lady,” Kale said, glancing at Evelia. Their eyes met; they exchanged polite nods. Only Arman leaned against the railing, grinning foolishly.

“My apologies. Arman’s… peculiar. Hope he hasn’t troubled you, miss.”

“No trouble,” Evelia replied. “I’m Mr. Arman’s personal maid. This is my duty.”

“I see. So you’re Miss Evelia. I’ll leave this fellow in your care, then.”

“My pleasure.”

Their calm, courteous exchange felt like a breath of relief after Arman’s unpredictability.

“You’re not here to drag me drinking, are you? Please—had enough already. Just needed air. Don’t make me drink more,” Arman groaned, eyeing Kale’s wooden tankard.

“You’re the guest of honor tonight. Can’t skip out. And Miss Evelia—join us too?”

“…Me?”

Evelia froze, startled to be included.

“Eve, you don’t like drinking, right?” Arman seized her hesitation like a lifeline. “You *definitely* don’t want to drink… and won’t make *me* drink either, right?”

(*Don’t agree—“drinking” means feasting. I can’t stomach another greasy banquet. They think it’s just a mild stomach issue… none know how severe it really is.*)

“I wouldn’t really—”

“No ‘wouldn’t’ about it, Eve—! Don’t you *dare* agree—!” Arman yanked her hand. “You said you had no need to run—*now you do*—!”

“—?!”

In a flash, Arman pulled Evelia’s slender frame into motion. Kale watched the two shadows vanish, lips curling downward with a muttered curse.

“Get it now, Eve? *This* is running away—do what you want, skip what you don’t. *This* is how it should be—”

He dragged her from the bonfire’s clamor. Moonlight bathed their path; cold wind whipped past their ears.

His grip was firm, warmth seeping from his palm into hers. Evelia stared, dazed, at the man running ahead—his black hair catching the moonlight like brushed ink.

*Is this… running away?*

She matched his pace, running faster.

Leaving the stifling noise behind, the tension from moments ago dissolved into the wind.

*This is running away… escaping what you’re meant to face.*

It felt wrong. Her life had never held space for “defiance” or “escape.”

She existed only to serve the Second Prince. Her desires meant nothing.

If *he* were here… he’d never allow this. He’d show her the price of fleeing.

…*Don’t be disobedient.*

She’d almost loosened her grip—but his hand tightened.

The freezing night warmed with exertion.

*Running away…*

The Second Prince would punish her. But… not *right now*, right?

Just once. Escape something I hate. After all… it’s only Arman I face.

Her wrist relaxed. She opened her mouth, gulping the rushing, free air escape gifted her.

*Today… just today… I’ll run.*

Arman started it. And pleasing him *is* my mission.

Might as well go along.

After all… this, too, is part of the mission.