IIAD | Chapter 1.3

With his vision lost, his only hope was to rely on his hearing. The crunch of dry twigs snapping underfoot rang through the air. Baran clutched the tree root he was hiding behind, frozen in place. A chilling sensation crawled over his hand, as if a forest insect had scurried across it.

“Damn it, where the hell did that little rat go?”

The voice was close. Baran hurriedly clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Shh! Don’t be so loud. What if he’s hiding, waiting to kill us?”

Laughter burst out.

“What, are you scared? Didn’t you hear? Lord Haranto said he gave him a blinding drug. What’s a blind brat gonna do? He couldn’t have gotten far. Just find him already!”

Each word they spat out drilled into Baran’s ears, his brain, and his heart. Their footsteps drifted further away. He blindly sprinted in the opposite direction, relying only on his dull ears to guide him toward areas where the sound of pursuit was faintest. He tripped over tree roots, staggered, and scraped his body against claw-like branches.

“Hey, kid! Stop running and come out already. Your dear uncle is calling for you. Wouldn’t a good boy go to him, huh?”

Baran stifled his rough breathing into his palm. A metallic tang filled his mouth, vibrating from the tip of his tongue to the back of his throat.

“He’s not gonna kill you, just wants you to sign a little transfer document. For fuck’s sake, quit making this harder than it needs to be… Just stop!”

Baran wasn’t stupid or naive enough to fall for that. Every child in the Taltamio estate, even the snot-nosed brats, knew that his uncle, the illegitimate-born Haranto, had his eyes set on the title.

He had always known that something like this would happen one day. But he had never imagined it would be just two months after his father’s funeral.

‘How foolish.’

Alone as he was, Baran had needed his uncle’s help. He had seen through Haranto’s black-hearted ambitions from the start, but he had no other options. The plan had been to use him and cast him aside when the time was right. But Haranto had spent far too many years in this world to be outplayed by the childish schemes of a mere boy.

It was the eve of a storm—the king of Semion lay at death’s door, and Prince Ansalate was gathering his forces. Plenty of vassals would have preferred an illegitimate-born merchant over an inexperienced brat to take control.

‘I never thought he’d hire mercenaries.’

Stumbling and crashing through the forest, Baran somehow made his way down into the lower grounds. But as he ran, his foot twisted. He collapsed.

Now, the pursuers’ voices were only a distant murmur, but Baran could still hear them. He gasped for breath and tried to stand again, but a sharp, searing pain shot up from his ankle, burning through his spine in an instant.

Unable to endure it any longer, he ended up rolling miserably across the ground. His body tumbled violently before finally coming to a halt against the trunk of a tree.

He twisted his waist. His body wouldn’t move. Gritting his teeth, he writhed like a worm. A sharp, pained groan echoed inside his skull before slipping through his parted lips.

“Hh….”

Tears fell. Everything that remained with him in this world was unbearable. The weight of his sins clung to his skin, dragging him down as if an invisible force beneath the earth was pulling at his very being.

It was painfully obvious—even to himself—that his actions had led to his mother and father’s deaths. No argument could change that. And when he thought of his younger brother, Claten, spitting at his feet before storming out of the house, his heart clenched even tighter. Self-loathing rose like towering waves, sweeping his consciousness away in its tide.

‘Just die, Baran Taltamio. Rot away in peace. I’m so tired. I don’t care about being an heir or whatever anymore. It’s too much. It’s all too much. Sure, not getting revenge on that bastard uncle is regretful, but… Mother and Father would understand. If I just scream at the top of my lungs right now, those guys will find me and skewer me to death. It’ll hurt, but then it’ll be over.’

…That was when he heard footsteps.

Baran, having already decided to die, didn’t react. He simply waited, unmoving, for whoever it was to drive a blade into his heart—to end him in whatever way they pleased.

But no attack came.

All he could feel was a gaze. A blatant, unwavering stare. No malice, no murderous intent.

As he sat there, waiting for judgment, his anger suddenly surged when the stranger made a move to lift him up. Who the hell did they think they were, offering a hand to someone who had already chosen death? Either they had no idea what was going on, or they were some self-righteous fool blinded by misplaced pity.

“Hey, I don’t know who you are, but if you’re not gonna kill me, leave me the hell alone. What do you even know?”

Baran couldn’t take it anymore. His voice, cracked and raw like someone who had suffered a long fever, was laced with fury—burning, searing rage. He no longer cared if the pursuers found him. He even raised his voice as if daring them to hear.

“I’m dying here today! And that’s a good thing, no matter who you ask! So do me a favor and act like you never saw me!”

But the stranger paid no mind to Baran’s desperate outburst. Without a word, they lifted him effortlessly. Strong arms wrapped around his weakened body, one arm hooking under his thighs, the other steadying his back.

Their bare skin touched. A cool sensation spread where they made contact. A sharp shoulder jabbed against Baran’s stomach, making him nauseous. Blood rushed to his head.

“Let me go. Let me go!”

He struggled wildly, but his blind eyes made every movement feel even more terrifying. He had no way of predicting this stranger’s next move.

Who the hell was this person? Why were they trying to save him? The only humans who could be lurking in this forest—other than his uncle’s hunters—were peasants gathering firewood. And by this time of day, even they would be long gone.

“…It’s alright.”

A low voice murmured.

Baran’s frantic struggling ceased. The spiraling fear that had been feeding his panicked imagination popped like bubbles and settled into eerie calm.

The man patted Baran’s thigh a few times—simple, firm motions. His hands were notably cold.

It reminded Baran of a silly old superstition from childhood: Cold hands, warm heart.

“Let’s go somewhere where you don’t have to hold back your tears.”

That was when Baran realized—his cheeks were wet.

A large, rough hand clumsily brushed over his shoulder.

Baran knew, with absolute certainty, that he would never forget the way that touch felt.

A hand that was awkward, calloused, and unrefined.

── .✦

The rough, calloused hand resting on his shoulder…

Baran hesitantly grasped it. And when he opened his sightless eyes, filled only with darkness, the first thing he saw was Nika, looking utterly bewildered at having his hand held.

Baran blinked, dazedly glancing around, finally realizing that he was in his bedroom.

‘Was that… a dream? The day I first met Nika…?’

Yet, he couldn’t tell if he had truly woken up—or if he was still trapped within the dream.

Nika sat on the bed, his eyes darting around anxiously as he watched Baran. It was bizarre. The Lord Nika, of all people, sitting there looking so uncharacteristically hesitant? Even putting aside the strangeness of his demeanor, why on earth were they alone together in Baran’s bedroom?

Baran was about to be impressed by his own imagination—then the sheer oddity of the situation hit him like a slap. He let out a strained chuckle. Since when did dreams have sequels? Either way, he decided he needed to fully wake up. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again.

Nothing changed.

He stood there, slack-jawed, then reached up and pinched his own cheek. Hard. The dull ache spread instantly.

As soon as he realized Nika was watching, his face flushed deep red, and he quickly dropped his hand.

…Well.

If his cheek still hurts, then this was definitely not a dream.

It was only then that memories trickled back—he had dozed off beside Nika, keeping watch over his unconscious body.

Baran curled his fingers into a loose fist, pressing it to his lips as he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“N-Nika. You’re awake.”

No response.

Silence had a way of heralding a storm, and Baran’s stomach tightened with unease.

‘…Wait. Did he find out?’

‘Did Nika wake up earlier and just pretend to be asleep? Did he see me—?’

Baran’s mind flooded with a thousand excuses—excuses he had mentally rehearsed hundreds of times while watching over Nika’s unconscious form. He needed to gauge Nika’s reaction carefully and pick the most believable one.

His empty stomach tensed as he steeled himself.

“This is my bedroom,” Baran began cautiously. “How much do you remember?”

Nika swallowed hard, visibly confused.

Then, in a voice that wavered, something completely unexpected spilled from his lips.

“You are…?” Baran’s breath caught.

Nika hesitated, his brows furrowing deeply, before he slowly continued.

“How do you know me?”

Baran stared at him.

His whole life, Nika’s voice had always been controlled, restrained, measured—a voice hardened by experience, devoid of unnecessary emotion. But this voice…

It was uncertain.

And those clear, unguarded eyes…

A slow-burning dread crawled up Baran’s spine.

Had Nika ever looked at him like that before?

No. Never. Not once.

For as long as Baran could remember, Nika had only ever regarded him with cold indifference—or at best, mild disdain.

Baran studied him intently. He knew Nika’s face so well he could recreate it with his eyes closed—from the firm line of his lips to the deathly pale complexion. It was the same Nika.

And yet… something was wrong.

Then, like an accident he couldn’t look away from, their gazes locked.

And it hit Baran like a thunderclap.

A violent shudder ran through his entire body. Before he even knew it, he had sprung to his feet.

And immediately regretted it.

Awkwardly, he started pacing near the door, then—out of sheer panic—began shouting orders at the servants.

“Call the physician! Now!”

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he snapped at a passing maid for no reason.

He was losing his mind.

“I’ve told you before,” the physician eventually sighed, “I can’t say anything with certainty, since I’ve never examined a dragon-blooded before…”

The physician, his hair stark white with age, began cautiously.

“…From a human perspective, he appears to be suffering from amnesia.”

Baran forgot to breathe.

“…He’s lost his memories.”

The words barely made it past his lips, as if they were a sigh. But his voice came out harsh, almost accusatory.

“He’s lost his memories?”