RODH Chapter 37

37.

“See that?”

“My lord, please…”

Bain rubbed his face with both hands, like he was scrubbing off frustration.

I giggled and ushered him out as he insisted that I needed something stronger to make an impact.

Even as he was leaving, Bain didn’t forget to throw in one last piece of advice.

“My lord, romance is all about push and pull! You have to push at the right time, and pull back at the right time!”

“Alright, alright, now off you go.”

“Don’t forget!”

“Yeah.”

I replied half-heartedly and then started thinking about what to write in this letter.

If Bain was talking about a “strong move,” I’d already done one.

A kiss.

Sure, it was mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but still—doesn’t that count as strong?

Honestly, Bain just worries too much.

I’ve got this under control.

This time, I decided to ask if there were any other northern folktales like the one I’d read before.

As soon as the sleek-bodied hawk took the letter, it darted across the forest in an instant.

And not even half a sijin later, a reply arrived.

The contents of the letter were:

[I heard from Luke that you read The Stag Story, one of the northern folktales.

The second most well-known story after The Stag Story is The Winstol Tree.]

I became completely captivated by the legend of the Winstol Tree, which blooms once every hundred years before it dies.

---

Grand Duke’s Estate, Kirias.

Coo— coo coo coo…

Nevan was stroking the head of the messenger pigeon as it pecked at a few nuts.

“A pigeon, Your Grace?”

Luke, who had come in for a brief report, asked curiously.

Nevan replied,
“It’s from House Ruben.”

“House Ruben… don’t tell me—it’s from the young lord?!”

“It is.”

“Hehehe.”

Though the pigeon looked a little ridiculous in its blue feathered coat, was it really something to laugh about?

Nevan looked puzzled, and Luke said,

“As expected of Your Grace.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, come now. Don’t play dumb… You’re exchanging love letters, aren’t you?”

“Love letters?”

The faint scent of grass that usually hung around Nevan suddenly vanished.

His voice turned sharper than ever.

“Lord Ian Pearl Ruben is to be the future Crown Princess. Watch what you say.”

“But, Your Grace—”

“Sir Luke.”

“…My apologies.”

“You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Luke practically fled from the office.

Only when the room had remained quiet for some time did Nevan finally exhale softly.

The stiff expression on his face slowly relaxed.

It was because of none other than Ian Pearl Ruben.

“Nevan…”

Nevan recalled the way Ian had called his name in the mine.

And then—

“What can I do for that friend?”

Those voice-recorder-clear eyes had been filled with a deep sorrow.

How Ian had come to learn the truth of that day remained a mystery.

But what mattered was that his sorrow was sincere.

And that touched something buried deep inside Nevan.

It was a stinging sensation—like a freshly healed wound being torn open again.

Nevan had never found any wound too difficult to endure… but this time, it was different.

He brought out the sorrow he had buried deep in his heart.

There were no tears left to cry—they had dried long ago—but his face flushed red as anger, despair, and helplessness surged all at once.

Lord Ian… why do you make me feel so wretched?

Had Ian been standing there in that moment, Nevan surely would have asked him just that.

But no one could know.

Rumors about the Grand Duke of Kirias living with guilt over the past could circulate—but never whispers of fury toward the Emperor.

Nevan let out a long sigh and closed his eyes.

Day 3 of the rut cycle.

Ripples stirred on the surface of a still lake.

Meanwhile, Ian had found the very same story Nevan had told him—The Winstol Tree—in Berkisto’s journal.

[The Winstol Tree is a sacred tree among Northerners, said to have been the first tree planted in the North by the founding Grand Duchess.

It is a primary ingredient in magic.

More curiously, a tale is passed down that the first mage who created the magic tower still lives within a Winstol Tree that has not died for over a hundred years.

Could it be true?]

Knock knock—

With the sound of knocking, Bain came in carrying breakfast and some medicine.

“My lord, did you sleep well?”

Ian nodded and showed Bain the page with the illustration of the Winstol Tree.

Bain’s eyes widened as he looked at the massive tree drawn in the journal.

“How can a tiny seed grow into something like this? I don’t really know what the Winstol Tree is, but it’s definitely got something to do with magic.”

“Right? There are so many fascinating things in the North.”

“Um, my lord… can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

While Bain hesitated, Ian took a bite of toast and continued reading the journal.

“How far have things… progressed?”

Cough, cough!

“Here, drink some juice!”

“Why would you say something like that when I’m trying to eat?! Cough”

When Ian gave him a sharp-eyed glare, Bain scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

“Well, love is business too, you know? I just wanted to know how it’s going. I heard from the butler this morning that the jewels from the Mare Mine are selling like crazy!”

“Yeah? That’s great news.”

“But really, you’re not gonna tell me anything?”

As Bain nearly choked on his curiosity, Ian let out a small chuckle.

“There’s nothing to tell. He told me the story of the Winstol Tree—that was it.”

“Aww, come on…”

Even if Bain whined, it couldn’t be helped.

A secret born from coincidence or fate—whatever it was—was something Ian wanted to protect, not share.

Ian picked up his imperial studies textbook.

“You’re really going? Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“I’m fine. The doctor said the symptoms drop sharply after three days. I’m feeling great. If I skip any more classes, I’ll forget everything I’ve learned.”

“Our young lord… you’ve really grown up…”

As Bain got teary-eyed, moved all on his own again, Ian handed him a handkerchief.

Paaang! Paang!

Sniffle sniffle “Take care, my lord. If the Crown Prince starts spouting nonsense again during class—sniff—just call me, okay?!”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it, so stop crying already.”

It was just like at the hunting grounds, wasn’t it?

Feeling a strange sense of déjà vu, Ian headed out.

---

“…And so, from the standpoint of an empire’s ruler, one must treat independent nations with generosity.”

Clap, clap, clap.

The imperial studies instructor applauded me once again for leaving Seor speechless.

Seor looked like he’d just chewed on something foul—but I didn’t care.

The topic had involved some pretty sensitive diplomatic issues, but the fact that all he did was scrunch up his face showed he was at least a little worried about me.

‘Are you feeling alright?’

The way he awkwardly asked had been so laughable.

I said I was fine and made sure to sit as far away from him as possible.

Maybe it was the pheromone residue, or maybe he just wasn’t used to me keeping my distance, but Seor kept staring at me all throughout the lesson.

To the point where the instructor even told him to focus.

I was wondering what now? when the library door opened and Peter walked in.

“Oh, Sir Hubert.”

The instructor looked startled by Peter’s sudden appearance, but quickly smiled upon seeing what he was carrying.

Peter had brought three wine glasses and a bottle of liquor.

Ah, damn it. The doctor explicitly told me not to drink.

Technically, while I could handle a small amount of alcohol or something like chocolate while on my medication, wine—especially wine heavy in tannins—was strictly forbidden.

Of course, my insides were already in full-blown panic.

Seor, completely unaware, cheerfully popped the cork.

“In celebration of my beloved fiancée Ian Pearl Ruben getting through his first heat cycle, I present this fine wine. I hope you’ll join us, instructor.”

“It’s an honor, Your Highness. And to you as well, Your Highness the Crown Princess.”

“I’m the future Crown Princess. Future.”

“Ian.”

“Yes.”

Seor’s golden eyes narrowed in warning—as if to say he would tolerate no more disrespect.

I wanted to glare right back, but looking at that strong liquor made cold sweat roll down my back.

I remembered what the doctor had told me.

‘What happens if I drink it?’

‘If mild, you’ll just vomit. But in the worst-case scenario, you’ll experience severe chills and symptoms similar to alcohol poisoning.’

Should I just say it now?

Tell them I’m being treated for alcohol intolerance and can’t drink?

No—I couldn’t do that. That would bring disgrace to House Ruben for sure.

And for some reason… I didn’t want to disappoint Nevan.

Everything I did always became gossip.

Even though I’d stepped away from high society completely.

And if there was one person whose sources rivaled the Emperor’s, it was Nevan. There’s no way he wouldn’t hear about it.

So, I took the wine.

“To Ian’s health. And to the prosperity of House Ruben.”

At Seor’s words, the instructor and he downed their glasses.

After much hesitation, I finally took a single sip.

Seor, who had emptied his own glass, frowned and asked,

“Why didn’t you finish it?”

“It’s before a meal, and if I drink more, I might get drunk.”

“Hah. So you could guzzle drink after drink at a party, but when it’s from me, you won’t even touch it?”

“That’s not it.”

“Then drink.”

“I can’t.”

My heart was pounding faster and faster.

Seor kept mocking me.

“What’s your excuse now? Afraid I might’ve poisoned it?”

“……”

“Ian?”

Cough, cough!

I doubled over, vomiting everything up as I collapsed to the floor.

“Ian! Ian!”

“Oh, gods!”

“My lord!”

It felt like someone had reached into my skull and was kneading my brain with both hands.

My chest was tight, like a corset had been strapped around it, and I gasped for breath.

Sweat poured down my forehead like rain, and just as someone shouted to fetch the doctor—

I saw golden eyes floating in midair.

And in the moment my consciousness fell away, those eyes—normally so indifferent—were filled with a terror I had never seen before.