Ever since then, Arman became a regular visitor before the patch of denuded blue roses.

Other servants whispered he often sat alone in a corner of the back garden, silent, lost in thought.

Mornings, he still reported to the Knights Order. Evenings, he lingered by that stripped flowerbed.

After an absurd cold war—each convinced the other was angry—they’d meant to clear the air. But Evelia’s “scissor kick” left Arman utterly flustered, sinking him deeper into hesitation.

“Why is this happening…”

He sat on the stone bench, hoping the night breeze would sweep the chaos from his mind.

Nearly a week had passed since that incident.

Arman could still recall the softness of Evelia’s touch. Though he tried not to dwell on it, the moment he saw her, his mind flooded with the warmth, the sensation, the scent of that day.

“Damn it…”

He rubbed his temples, forcing calm.

He hadn’t yet asked who she’d met that day, or where the flowers came from.

He shouldn’t care this much—but alarms blared in his skull, demanding he uncover the truth.

…Stop it. She’s the Second Prince’s agent!

An enemy spy… a despicable lackey… She should be executed on the spot!

Just like in the carriage, Arman weighed eliminating her. But his worst fear surfaced: his killing intent had faded. A quiet voice urged mercy, to gamble on a sliver of hope thinner than one percent.

The night wind bit deep. Arman shrank slightly, coughing softly.

Still better than the frozen northern front—where one breath was normal, the next had him clutching a tree, vomiting blood.

Back then, to keep morale steady, he’d swallow the blood rising in his lungs. By noon, he’d be full on his own blood alone.

He lifted his head, inhaling sharply. Icy air seared his windpipe, churning his stomach.

Ugh… So miserable.

Head, throat, every organ—aching.

Outwardly polished, competing in princess carries and scissor kicks… inwardly, everything was crumbling.

…Worth it?

Sometimes he asked himself: Was this stubbornness worth it?

Abandoning everything—even his life hanging by a thread—just to stay here?

Maybe…

Arman squinted at the moon. For the first time, that golden crescent felt painfully bright.

Elders said: live for a glimmer of hope. That’s what kept him going.

He still had debts to settle with the Second Prince.

Moonlight pierced even through closed eyelids. Eyes shut, bathed in hazy glow, he relived past shame—childhood torment, youth’s struggle. Now, as an adult, he’d taken a few steps… only to feel the end nearing again.

His childhood companion’s wails echoed—a mournful plea. That regret became an indelible shadow, the very conviction anchoring him here.

Lately, Evelia’s presence stirred thoughts of surrender. The old grief surged back. Voices of fallen comrades roared like warnings. His mind buzzed, trapped in a swarm of flies, pain sharpening.

“I know… I’ll avenge you…”

Arman muttered, answering the ghosts in his head.

What was once conviction now teetered into obsession.

His steps had long lost their youth’s certainty. Since the poison felled him in blood, his resolve had wavered.

…He had to kill the Second Prince.

His forehead slumped against his knuckles.

That shared goal bound him to the Crown Prince. Same enemy. Same burning reason. That’s why trust grew between them.

Ah—yes. The Second Prince must die.

But not like a hot-headed fool storming the palace.

So… Evelia had to be used.

Even now, he made excuses for her. Crafting reasons to spare her.

A dry chuckle escaped him. Maybe *she’d* already decided to kill him—and he, the future “victim,” was still justifying her.

Still. His mind finally shifted. No more drowning in this.

He casually shed a bit of lovestruck foolishness.

He’d meant to stay defensive—but Evelia seemed to have turned offensive.

Though honestly? She never had a strategy. He was always the one left battered.

“So annoying.”

Arman gazed up, moonlight glinting in his blue eyes.

…Too cold. Time to go back.

He stood, turning away from the moon’s glow.

At his bedroom door, Evelia waited.

…Here we go again.

Just seeing that pink hair made his heart pound.

But the bone-chilling wind had steadied him—enough to face her without crumbling.

*She* wasn’t bothered. Why should *he* care?

Her tricks were vile. His reply? A practiced, hollow smile.

“Evelia?”

He approached as if nothing happened.

“Sir Arman.” She bowed respectfully.

“What brings you here?”

“I heard you’ve been struggling with sleep.”

“Ah—” Arman hesitated.

Between tangled feelings for her and haunting echoes of his past friend’s cries, his mind was a storm. Sleep? Impossible.

And now *she*, the source of the turmoil, asked with innocent concern—it felt like mockery.

“A little insomnia, but it’s fine—”

“So I’ve come to keep you company.”

“…Huh?”

His hard-won composure cracked.

“What did you say?”

(Sure he’d misheard.)

“Keep you company.”

“For what?”

“Sleeping.”

“Huh?!”

The night wind’s chill vanished.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”

“…Wait, no—hold on?!”

Before he could resist, Evelia pulled him inside. She bowed politely, then pointed to his bed.

“After you.”

Arman stared at the bed. Then at Evelia. Sweat beaded on his brow.