A Debt Repaid in Blood

"Oh, what am I to do... Our poor young lady, my heart breaks for her."

As Eusilif laid Arabella down on the bed, Becky stomped her feet and sniffled around them.

He scoffed.

Anyone listening would take her for a remarkably devoted servant. Yet when that woman was being beaten by that uncle of hers, this one just stood there like a dead mouse, watching her footing.

Of course, a mere maid had no business butting into a conversation between nobles—but there was something distinctly off about this one's manner.

She exchanged glances with that uncle of hers more than once.

To be precise, he had caught it several times: Graham shooting the maid a look, and each time her shrinking back and mumbling apologies like a frightened lizard.

One glance at that was enough to tell whose side she truly served.

Shhhk, shhhk—

Eusilif's face was expressionless as he looked down at the woman writhing in pain, her breaths growing rougher and shallower.

And yet she carried on about saving someone else's life, when she could barely manage being her own family's forgotten misfortune?

At the Mayona estate, Arabella had seemed as lonely and forsaken as an island floating alone at sea. Eusilif hadn't liked it one bit. The contradiction of it—this wicked woman who had toyed with his life as she pleased, in truth no better off than he was, without a single soul to lean on.

The family physician the butler had supposedly gone to fetch still hadn't appeared, and she lay there abandoned, moaning in agony without so much as proper treatment.

The swelling in her face had worsened since earlier, her features all but swallowed whole, and her whole body burned as though she were made of fire.

She said she was poisoned at the Crown Prince's consort selection ceremony.

What he couldn't understand was why, in that state, she had insisted on coming all the way to the arena to help him.

If her goal had merely been to snatch him away from Princess Regita, today hadn't been the only chance she'd ever have.

While he stood lost in thought, Becky bustled about on her own. First she tried feeding Arabella a fever-reducing herb normally used by the servants, but the girl couldn't swallow the medicine and vomited it all back up.

Eusilif stared blankly at the woman, flushed red as a ripe tomato and groaning, then murmured flatly, "So even a count's daughter ends up no better off than a slave."

Becky must have overheard his muttering, because she flared up at once. "Don't you dare talk nonsense, you slave! If my lady hadn't pushed herself to bring you here, she wouldn't be in such a terrible state!"

Who asked her to bring me? Eusilif blew a dismissive breath through his nose. Becky glared at him for a good while longer, huffing defiantly, before finally leaving the room with a warning. "You—don't you touch a single finger of my lady's!"

Click.

The moment the door closed, Eusilif approached the bed as naturally as if he'd been waiting for exactly that.

Hsss, hsss—

Over the woman's contorted face, as she let out each fragile breath, a shadow fell—beautiful as a marble statue.

"I wonder if you have any idea. Just how badly I wanted to kill you."

Eusilif's bloodlessly pale lips parted, and a chillingly low voice slipped out.

He had stood at her bedside like a monument, motionless, but after a moment he drew the sword at his hip.

Shring.

Looking down at the blade glittering in the candlelight, a self-mocking smile curled the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips, lost in some thought—and then, in an instant, his face hardened and he swung the blade without hesitation.

Swish—

With a vicious hiss, a thin red line opened across his skin. A fat bead of blood welled up along it and began to drip down.

He stared at the wound on his own arm, his expression distant, and when the blood ran down to his fingertip, he brought it to Arabella's face.

Forcing her mouth open with his fingers, he felt the scorching heat of the membrane behind her fevered lips.

Some absurd thought crossed his mind—that his finger might be sucked into that burning mouth and simply melt away—and he let his blood fall drop by drop onto her vivid red tongue.

Plip. Plip.

The crimson drops slid slowly along her tongue and into her throat. Apparently unaccustomed to the taste of blood, she furrowed her brow and tried to turn her head away.

"Shh."

Eusilif whispered against her ear. "If you want to live, you'll swallow it like a good girl. It's not as if I'm sharing it out of the goodness of my heart."

As if she'd understood him even in her delirium, she began, bit by bit, to swallow his blood down.

Gulp.

Each time her throat moved, her tongue and lips twitched, stimulating his finger. He was just thinking that the warm, wet heat and the friction of that soft membrane weren't entirely unpleasant—

Gulp. Mmm.

He could see her swallowing growing noticeably easier. Like a wanderer stumbling onto water in a desert, she had begun greedily drinking down his blood. And at the same time, her color began to improve before his eyes.

"So it works rather well."

Chup.

The wound he had cut into himself had already healed, the bleeding stopped entirely, and he moved to pull his finger free.

But to his astonishment, she caught his index finger between her teeth, pinned it with her tongue, and started sucking on it like a small child.

Chup, chup.

The sensation of that delicate membrane latching onto his finger and drawing at it was shockingly intense.

Her soft, faintly rough tongue wrapped around his finger and licked down its length—and heat lanced through his gut, his lower body growing heavy of its own accord.

Flustered, Eusilif wrenched his finger free and snapped, "Hey. Don't tell me you're pretending to be asleep."

Chup. Mwah.

But she kept her eyes closed, merely smacking her small, crisp lips in obvious disappointment.

Each time she licked at her glistening lips, the small red tongue behind them peeked out.

His finger twitched without thinking, remembering the warmth of that tongue—and she mumbled something in her sleep.

"...Tastes good."

Did she just say it tastes good? Eusilif glared at her placid face, utterly dumbfounded.

But no sooner had she spoken than she began to snore outright, sinking deep into slumber.

Hmmm—

He paused, then took note of the astonishing change that had come over her face.

In the mere minutes since she'd ingested his blood, the dreadful swelling had almost entirely subsided, the fever broken—her own color had returned.

With her skin restored to its flawless porcelain white, Arabella's face looked as gentle and peaceful as a baby's.

Imagining the blue eyes that must lie sleeping beneath her dark lashes, damp as if she'd been crying, he murmured dryly, "Just so there's no misunderstanding—don't get any ideas. I only did this because I refuse to owe you anything."

It was true that the emergency medicine and food she'd brought him, and her advice about Butcher Jack, had saved Eusilif's life today.

He had no wish to be indebted to this woman, or bound to her. He had things he had to do.

...But she did promise to help me save Allin. Until then, it's better to stay close, playing the cooperative servant.

Thinking of his sister locked away in the Magic Tower, he returned to his place and leaned against the wall like a figure in a painting.

Almost the instant his back touched it, the door burst open and Becky swept into the room.

"You didn't lay a hand on my lady, did you?"

Behind Becky, snarling at him like a hunting hound, a man who appeared to be the family physician followed her in.

As she led the physician toward Arabella's bed, Becky happened to look down at her face and cried out in shock. "Oh my! What on earth—? She's suddenly better! That's impossible! Only moments ago she could barely even breathe...!"

Watching the physician frown in puzzlement as he examined her, Eusilif quietly lowered his eyes.

I was dreaming.

A space drowned in utter darkness on every side. Vast as the void of space, there wasn't even a place to plant my feet.

"I'm cold."

I thought it, huddled in on myself. Where on earth was this? Why was I here? And... who exactly was I, again?

No matter how hard I wracked my brain, nothing came. After a while, I gave up and simply drifted through the empty space.

Then, at some point, I felt my vision begin to flood crimson.

"What is this?"

I rubbed my eyes, waved my arms in front of me—nothing caught, nothing showed. All I could feel was my vision slowly brightening, and a warmth gathering around me.

"It's warm."

Before I knew it, I was swimming freely through the red expanse, arms spread wide. My body felt impossibly light, impossibly free. A strange confidence that I could do anything, a longing I couldn't name, a wave of relief—they washed over me until my chest ached.

<Are you going to keep this up?>

Then, suddenly, an unfamiliar voice sounded. It was speaking human words, yet so utterly devoid of emotion that it raised the hair on my neck.

The instant I heard it, every warm feeling vanished, and a skin-crawling terror surged in its place.

<There is no time. The scales have already tipped too far.>

"What do you mean?"

I forced myself to shout. But no answer came, and before I knew it, my vision was darkening again.

"No! Why are you doing this!"

Give it back—that warm red light. Without it, I'll be cold and alone all over again.

<Find the staff.>

The voice commanded. And at the same moment, I lost consciousness.