Two men crouched in silence, bowstrings drawn taut, eyes locked on a rabbit nibbling on the grass below its feet. Within moments, one of them loosed his arrow, striking true. A satisfied smile spread across his face.
"Your archery has improved," the older man remarked as the young hunter retrieved the lifeless rabbit.
"This is nothing compared to my swordsmanship, Uncle Bruse," he replied with a smirk.
"Hah! My nephew is truly a man now. You should take a wife soon, Reynand."
Reynand scoffed. "That again? I told you—I'm not suited for any romantic relationship."
"Who said anything about romance?" Bruse arched a brow. "This is politics. The war with Gravalon is only two weeks away. If you don't marry and give your March a Marchioness, don't blame anyone when it's taken from you. A wife will secure your position and ensure protection in the castle."
Bruse studied the handsome young man stuffing the rabbit into a netted sack, disbelief flickering in his eyes.
The Marquess had just been appointed a General, and noblewomen across Valloria would throw themselves at him without hesitation—yet he remained utterly indifferent.
The Uncle narrowed his eyes and stepped closer, slinging an arm over his nephew's shoulders. Reynand shot him a wary look, suspicion flickering in his gaze.
"Perhaps… you…" Bruse's gaze dipped to his crotch, then returned with a wicked grin.
He shoved his uncle's arm off, scowling. "Oh, bloody hell, Uncle Bruse. You need to cleanse your filthy mind with holy water from the Moonwell Falls."
"So, you're all good, yeah?" Bruse teased, his smirk smug as ever.
Reynand ignored him, lifting the sack over his shoulder and striding away. Behind him, his uncle continued to pester him with lewd remarks, thoroughly enjoying himself.
He frowned but couldn't entirely blame the old man for his suspicions. Since he'd turned eighteen, Bruse had insisted on dragging him to brothels, claiming it was time he became a "real man."
Yet Reynand had never once indulged, merely waiting for his uncle and watching the affair under the guise of "education." Even when his uncle threw the most beautiful, naked courtesans before him, he remained unmoved.
Of course, his body reacted as any healthy man's would. But he suppressed the urge, treating it as a test—a discipline of the mind. Resisting temptation was part of his training, a way to conquer his desires and become a stronger knight.
The rustling of dry leaves made Reynand turn to his left. Behind a tree, a deer stood, oblivious to his gaze. A slow smile spread across his lips—finally, a worthy hunt.
He reached for an arrow, drew his bow, and took aim at the unsuspecting creature, which was still busy chewing its meal.
But just as he steadied his breath, Uncle Bruse caught up with him, letting out a noise that startled the deer. In an instant, it bolted.
Reynand shot his uncle a murderous glare and waved a hand, signaling him to keep quiet.
Uncle Bruse followed his nephew's gaze and spotted the retreating deer, his grin widening at the thought of a feast beyond just rabbit meat tonight.
Handing over the netted sack to his uncle, Reynand slipped back into position, his steps careful as he trailed the deer.
When it finally stopped near a thicket, just a few strides away from the cliff's edge, his pulse quickened. This was his chance.
He inhaled deeply, pulling the bowstring taut.
But just as he was about to release the arrow, the deer startled again and fled.
Reynand refused to let it slip away. Acting on instinct, he loosed the shot—a careless mistake. It missed.
Clicking his tongue in frustration, he reached for another arrow, his focus sharpening.
But then—his breath caught.
His gaze had locked onto something else.
Someone.
A figure stood at the cliff's edge, cloaked in deep green.
Their stance wavered, as if a single gust of wind could send them tumbling into the ravine below.
The now-distant deer was forgotten.
Reynand sprinted forward and, in one swift motion, seized their arm, yanking them back from the cliff's edge.
The sudden motion knocked their hood loose, and their soft blue-grey hair whipped through the wind, strands twisting and rippling like ocean waves.
Widened hazel eyes, dark lashes framing them like feathered ink strokes. Skin as pale as dawn's first light, flushed with a delicate rose hue. And those peach-tinted lips, parted in a breathless gasp. Reynand's breath hitched.
A girl.
No—a fairy.
Never had he seen a maiden with such striking hazel eyes, nor hair of that rare, ethereal hue.
His gaze dropped to the jeweled brooch pinned to her chest, its gleam stark against the worn fabric of her cloak. She had to be a noble lady.
Then, the wind shifted, snapping him from his daze.
His wonder curdled into fury.
"Have you lost your mind? Were you about to jump?" His voice rose, and his grip on her arm tightened.
"N—No… I… I was just…" The girl stammered, struggling for words. But then, her eyes widened in shock, her lips parting slightly as if recognizing the man before her. She quickly averted her gaze and stuttered, "Y—Yo… Your Grace…"
Reynand frowned. She knew him. But then again, who didn't?
"I don't need pleasantries from someone who was about to become a corpse moments ago."
"I—I wasn't… I mean… No… I…" She winced, and Reynand realized his grip was too strong. He let go.
But suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she sobbed. Reynand blinked, caught off guard. Was she crying because he had hurt her?
"Why are you crying? Does it hurt?"
"N—No… It's just… it's terrifying to look down from here." She wiped her tears, her cheeks flushing when she noticed the prince watching her.
"Didn't you plan to jump?"
She glanced toward the edge of the cliff, fidgeting with her fingers.
"I… I don't have the courage to die just yet. I thought death would be better than the life I have. But… it turns out, I… I still want to live."
Somehow, her words struck him. He had always believed dying on the battlefield would be better than living as a bastard prince.
'Do I still want to live too?' The question lingered in his mind.
"What is your name, and which house do you belong to?"
The girl hesitated. "My… my name is Elara of House Damaryon."
Reynand narrowed his eyes. "Is Edward Damaryon your father?"
"Y—Yes, Your Grace."
Reynand knew Edward Damaryon all too well. The man had been tangled in the illegal brothel case last year—one Reynand had helped the Crown Prince expose.
Damaryon's name had been among those disgraced, and Reynand had no doubt the family had crumbled since. Was this girl suffering the fallout of her father's sins? 'Why do I feel guilty somehow?'
"I don't know what you've been through, but the sun is setting. You should go home." Reynand picked up his bow from the ground.
The word 'home' sent a sharp pang through Elara's chest. The brothel keeper awaited her, ready to drag her into a courtesan's life. Suddenly, the cliff didn't seem like the worst option.
Adrenaline surged through her veins, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She turned to Reynand, watching as he bent down.
Right. What was the point of holding back? Whether she flung herself into the abyss or walked back home, her soul would die all the same. So why hesitate?
"Y—Your Grace… are you, perhaps… looking for a wife?"
Reynand froze. Then, slowly, he turned to face her. "What did you just say?"
Elara swallowed. "I heard rumors that the Marquess doesn't like women. If you need a wife to silence the gossip… or just as decoration… can I... can I be the one?"