“Doris!”
“Your High—hng!”
I turned toward the door, then imdiately ducked my head.
Tristan had burst out of his room without even buttoning up his shirt properly.
No, worse—judging from the water droplets still clinging to his chest, he had run out in the middle of washing up…
That was it. That was all I saw before I slamd my gaze downward.
“Your Highness, perhaps you should… finish dressing properly first? Did I co at an inconvenient ti?”
“There is no such thing as an inconvenient ti for you to visit ! I was rely in the middle of disinfecting my wounds.”
“…Excuse ?”
If that’s not an inconvenient ti, then what is?
What, were you playing a board ga while treating your wounds like so legendary general?
“There was no need for you to interrupt your treatnt!”
“It was just a simple disinfection. I didn’t want to make my guest wait… especially the one who ca to visit .”
Wow. How touching.
This coming from the sa man who had left waiting for ages after the hunting tournant? The irony was astounding.
I responded firmly.
“Your Highness, finish your treatnt.”
“…Summon the physician to—”
“Go back inside and get it done properly. I did not co all this way just to take one glance at Your Highness and leave.”
“You’re not even looking at right now.”
“Perhaps I would be able to if you were fully clothed first.”
“…I’ll be back shortly. Wait for .”
Tristan, his voice low and determined, turned back toward his room.
Through the slowly closing door, I caught a glimpse of the physician standing there, still holding a bottle of disinfectant, completely stunned.
So he really did run out in the middle of treatnt.
Does he feel guilty for ignoring so many tis before?
Tristan, why is it that you have no concept of moderation?
I returned to my tea and cake, alternating between bites and sips, but my thoughts were so drowned in Tristan that I barely registered the taste.
Was he badly injured?
If he still needed to disinfect his wounds, then it had to be serious.
I thought this mission would be easier than the hunting tournant, since Arthur and the soldiers were there.
In the original story, Arthur had—despite so injuries—successfully completed the mission alone.
To be honest, Tristan could have just sat back and let everyone else handle things, and he would’ve been perfectly fine.
But…
That’s not who he is.
For soone born as a villain, always expected to skirt responsibility, this was the sa man who had stepped forward in front of everyone that day at the hunting tournant.
Why does he always do this?
A part of felt proud of him. Another part of wished he’d stop being so reckless.
The problem was—I never wanted to feel either of those things.
I had wanted to just sit back and enjoy the downfall of the infamous Crown Prince, nibble on so Madeleines, accept his inevitable apology, get married, and live peacefully.
I did not want to worry about him.
And, more than anything—
I did not want to feel—
No. I am NOT.
I forcefully shoved the intrusive thought away.
No matter how handso he was, no matter if he was my fiancé, I refused to feel that way.
Nothing is more miserable than being the only one catching feelings in a relationship.
Especially for a man who had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t care for that way.
I needed to focus.
I needed to be rational.
…Right. The bet.
Hearing about injuries suddenly reminded of my wager with Rick.
Could I consider Tristan to have returned safely?
Our condition had been that he had to return unscathed—aning no permanent damage to his physical abilities or scars longer than 10 centiters.
…And only now did I realize the glaring loophole in that condition.
What if the scar was sowhere I couldn’t see?
I couldn’t exactly ask him to strip and show .
I tried to imagine where Tristan might have been injured—only to violently shake my head when I realized what I was thinking.
Fortunately, the door opened at that mont.
I turned away imdiately, like a chicken spotting a hawk.
“Doris, you’ve been waiting—what are you doing? You look like you’ve seen sothing you shouldn’t have.”
“I-I didn’t see anything! Not at all! I wasn’t even imagining it!”
“…I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He took a seat across from , brushing it off.
“Anyway, how was your trip?”
“I had a wonderful ti. And Your Highness? Are you truly alright? If you still require daily disinfection, your injuries must be serious…”
“It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure? I can still sll the disinfectant from here.”
Not that I was asking because of the bet.
This is just… the classic last words of any reckless man.
“I’m fine. I won’t die.”
Even now, Tristan’s brow furrowed slightly, as if he was hiding sothing.
I lowered my voice.
“Your Highness. Are you really alright?”
“…My wounds aren’t a concern.”
“They are to . Please, don’t keep important matters from your fiancée.”
“….”
“You were the one who told to act more like an engaged couple, weren’t you?”
“…It’s a different matter. But if you insist on knowing—”
Tristan took a deep breath, as if bracing himself, then finally spoke.
“You know Rick Ray, don’t you?”
“…Of course I do! He’s my friend—wait. Didn’t Your Highness bring him along on this mission?”
“You haven’t heard the rest of the news yet, then.”
“Your Highness… did sothing happen to Rick?”
“He’s alive.”
Tristan must have known those words wouldn’t reassure . He cast his gaze downward, toward his teacup, before continuing.
“But he was severely injured in battle. He was transported back to the capital and is currently hospitalized at the Royal Hospital. The yer family was inford yesterday.”
“…How bad is it?”
“There was significant blood loss. He hasn’t regained consciousness since that day.”
For a mont, my mind went completely blank.
It was like walking a familiar road, only to suddenly find the ground crumbling beneath my feet.
Rick Ray.
Why… why you?
Tristan’s voice didn’t stop.
“Before he lost consciousness, he asked to deliver this to you.”
He placed a crumpled cloth onto the table, spreading it carefully over his handkerchief.
Compared to the pristine white fabric, this tattered scrap looked filthy, as though it belonged on the floor rather than the table.
But when Tristan unfolded it…
It was a torn piece of fabric, covered in hastily scrawled writing.
The dark stains blurring the ink—was that his own blood?
978. 8. You win.
And next to it—a distinctive signature, not "Rick Ray," but one created under the rules of the Sacred Salon.
A letter, explicitly regarding the bet we made in August 978.
“…He wanted this to be given to ?”
“Yes. He specifically said your na.”
It felt like the curtains had suddenly been ripped away, shoving out onto an unfamiliar stage.
Rick Ray… did you always know it was behind the mask?
And in what could have been your final monts, the thing you cared about most was settling our bet?
My thoughts were a ss.
But there was no ti for to be confused.
Because across from —Tristan was hesitating.
I could tell.
He wasn’t sure if he should ask.
I already knew what the obvious question would be.
And if I were in his place—
Wouldn’t I be wondering the sa thing?
Reviews
All reviews (0)