Chapter 29
"Damnern...?"
Elyra frowned to herself, pulling the heavy velvet blanket tighter around her shoulders. Why on earth should I care what he is doing out there?
The thought slipped through her mind like a stubborn, defensive excuse, yet her recalcitrant body refused to obey. Almost unconsciously, her bare feet slid across the chilled floorboards, carrying her toward the floor-to-ceiling glass window that overlooked the sprawling rear gardens.
The midnight moon washed the lawn in a pale, ethereal silver glow.
There, sitting alone on a wooden stool beneath the vast night sky, was Damnern. Several blocks of aromatic timber were stacked neatly beside him, and a fine drift of wood shavings littered the grass around his boots. His large, calloused hands moved with a slow, meticulous focus, carving into a fresh piece of wood with an intensity he usually reserved for military strategy.
Elyra narrowed her eyes, pressing her face closer to the cold pane.
A sword?
Several splintered, discarded wooden blades lay scattered nearby—failures from his earlier attempts. Despite the advanced hour, the Count remained utterly absorbed, carefully shaping another piece.
The miniature weapon taking form in his hands was roughly thirty centimeters long—perfectly scaled for a small child's grip.
...For me?
The realization hit her with sudden, disorienting force. Her sapphire eyes widened slightly as an unaccustomed warmth bloomed in her chest. Yet, right alongside the warmth came a peculiar heaviness, a pressure she lacked the words to describe.
You could have just ordered one from a craftsman...
"So... why go to this faw?" she whispered to the empty room.
She genuinely struggled to comprehend it. Why sacrifice precious sleep for something so trivial? Why spend hours laboring over a knife when purchasing a ready-made sword would take seconds?
The emotion welling up inside her wasn't anger. It wasn't bitterness. It was something far more dangerous—something that made her chest ache.
She was touched.
The realization irritated her.
Elyra aggressively gripped the fabric of her sleepwear, trying to mentally crush the foreign sentiment. With a sharp huff, she tore her gaze away from the window and marched toward the adjoining washroom.
Cold water splashed over her face, numbing her skin. Gradually, the chaotic storm in her thoughts settled. At least, for the moment.
When she finished, she hurried back to her bed and slid under the covers.
But sleep remained stubbornly out of reach.
The deep, bone-deep soreness in her legs throbbed mercilessly. Every time she shifted position, a dull ache radiated through her muscles. Elyra stared blankly at the dark plaster ceiling.
Recovery is going to take longer than I thought...
She let out a silent, frustrated sigh. Thirty minutes dragged by. Still wide awake. Still aching. Still trapped behind closed eyes. Then—
Click.
The bedroom door gently unlatched and swung open.
The instant the sound reached her ears, Elyra snapped her eyes shut, immediately feigning deep sleep. Damnern slipped into the room like a ghost, his silver hair still slightly damp from a late bath. He stepped over with infinite care, sitting down on the edge of the mattress so lightly that the dip in the springs was barely perceptible.
"Are you already fast asleep, Elyra?" he murmured, his voice laced with an almost comical amount of caution, as if he feared shattering glass.
Elyra remained statuesque.
"That must have been a diffi—"
"Why go dat faw?"
The sudden, deadpan question sliced cleanly through his sentence.
Damnern blinked, caught completely off guard. "Hm?"
"...The wooden sowd."
For a long, drawn-out moment, absolute silence blanketed the room.
Then, Damnern nervously scratched the back of his cheek, a sheepish, defeated chuckle escaping his lips. Guess I got caught red-handed. I was hoping to surprise her tomorrow morning.
Originally, he had intended to gift it to her for her upcoming birthday. But watching her desperate determination earlier that day had short-circuited his plans; he couldn't bear to leave her discouragement unaddressed.
A fond, weary smile softened his rugged features. "I thought you might like it."
"...You couwd've jus' bought one," she muttered, her tone hushed, yet laden with genuine, baffled inquiry.
Damnern froze, a sudden wave of dark, traumatic memories washing over him at her words.
Flashback—"Look what Papa got you! A wonderful, fluffy teddy bear!" Damnern had practically bounced into the nursery a year ago, radiating paternal excitement. One-year-old Elyra had taken the stuffed toy, stared at it with profound disgust, and hurled it directly across the room at his head. Damnern had wept silent tears on the inside.
A few months later, on her first official birthday—he had presented her with a custom, diamond-encrusted silver locket. Again, Elyra took one look at it with dead eyes, only to throw it forcefully across the floor without a second thought. More internal weeping.
Ever since then, she had systematically rejected every single token of affection he attempted to bestow. She would graciously accept gifts from Elina, or even the maids, but from him? Never.
Papa cannot even express how badly Papa wants to see you wear or hold something from me, he often lamented to himself, crying rivers of blood in the privacy of his study. Why must Elyra reject me at every turn?
But this wooden sword...
A weapon was functional. A weapon was practical. A weapon was something Elyra's pragmatic soul couldn't easily toss aside.
Why is my daughter so impossibly different from Eldern? Damnern thought, nursing his eternal paternal heartbreak.
Then, an idea struck him, and his expression brightened.
"Oh! Speaking of purchasing things..."
He bounced up from the bed and disappeared into the hallway, returning a moment later holding a small, dark glass phial.
"After riding back from the border forest, Papa made a detour to see a renowned apothecary in Willowess." He settled back onto the mattress. "Papa picked up a specialized topical liniment for muscle fatigue."
Elyra stayed silent, watching through slitted eyelids.
Damnern offered a gentle, knowing smile. "It was quite grueling today, wasn't it?"
"What was?" she shot back defensively.
For the first time, Elyra rolled over, glaring at him with heavy, half-lidded eyes.
Damnern held up the phial, unimpressed by her tough facade. "Even if Elyra tries to play the stoic warrior, micro-tears in muscle tissue hurt regardless of age."
His tone was teasingly light, effortlessly piercing her armor as though he possessed an intimate map of her restless mind.
"That's—"
Her retort died instantly in her throat.
Because, looking up, she finally caught a clear view of his face—specifically his eyes. They were a brilliant, striking blue, but right now, they were soft, remarkably gentle, and threaded with a profound, quiet sorrow.
"Papa used to be like that too," he whispered, the defensive walls in his voice entirely dismantled.
Before Elyra could formulate a response, he uncorked the phial, scooped up a dab of soothing ointment on his fingertip, and reached toward her aching calf. Instinctively, she flinched, opening her mouth to snap at him—
Smack!
Her entire face instantly puckered into a hideous mask of betrayal.
"Hueeekk! That is vile!"
She bolted upright, gagging violently at the wretched, medicinal reek.
Could you not give a person a warning first?!
Damnern instantly threw his head back, bursting into a booming, unrestrained laugh that shook the bedframes. "Good medicine is always bitter to the senses, little warrior."
That is not funny in the slightest...
"Lie back down. This will make the pain vanish by morning."
His voice lost its teasing edge, smoothing into a rich, lulling cadence. Gently, firmly, he pressed her back against the feather pillows, drawing the heavy wool blanket up to her chin.
The room plunged back into a comfortable quiet, broken only by the steady hum of crickets outside the window.
Elyra stared up at him through the dim light. That lingering shadow of loneliness in his blue eyes continued to haunt the back of her thoughts.
Why do those eyes always look so damn melancholy...?
Before her overactive brain could chase the question further, a heavy, velvet wave of exhaustion crashed over her. The medicinal herbs were taking effect, dragging her consciousness down into the abyss. Her eyelids felt like lead.
Damnern reached out, his calloused thumb tenderly brushing a stray lock of blonde hair away from her damp forehead.
"Sleep well, Elyra."
His voice sounded distant, wrapped in a blanket of absolute warmth. The last image burned into her failing vision was his quiet, affectionate smile before total darkness embraced her. Moments later, she drifted into a deep, uninterrupted slumber.
The following morning, Elyra sluggishly forced her eyes open.
Her vision swam in a hazy, out-of-focus blur. As her awareness slowly dragged itself back online, she realized she was the center of a very crowded, very panicked audience.
"Mama, is Elyra going to be alright?!" Eldern demanded, his voice cracking with panic as he death-gripped Elina's sleeve.
"She will be fine, darling. Hush now," Elina reassured him, though her own features were tight with anxiety.
Nearby, Maid Sasha stood wringing her apron strings, looking ready to burst into tears. "Young Lady..."
Suddenly, a furious roar shattered the domestic tranquility from across the bedroom.
"What sort of quackery is this?! Is my daughter poisoned because of the tonic you sold me yesterday?!" Damnern's voice thundered, radiating murderous intent.
Elyra blinked, slowly turning her head toward the commotion.
Standing frozen near the doorway was an elderly, impeccably dressed physician, shaking like a leaf in a gale.
"C-Count Damnern, I implore you to master your temper!" the old man squeaked, waving his hands defensively. "That exact formulation is certified by the Royal Neltan Medical Association!"
"If anything happens to her fever, I swear I will—"
"B-But she's recovering!" the physician blurted out, cutting the Count off mid-threat.
As the shouting match finally died down, Elyra's foggy brain managed to process her physical condition, and a cold wave of realization hit her. Her skull felt heavy as an anvil, her internal temperature was scorching hot, and shifting even a single finger felt like lifting an iron barbell.
The terrified physician practically tripped over his own robes rushing to her bedside.
"Pardon me, Young Lady Elyra..."
He pressed the back of his trembling hand against her burning forehead, performing a rapid magical diagnostic sweep.
A moment later, he exhaled a lungful of trapped air, turning to address the terrifying silver-haired nobleman. "It is nothing life-threatening. Just a standard fever."
Damnern's imposing posture didn't relax by a single millimeter.
The doctor hastily clarified, "It is merely the physiological backlash of acute exhaustion. Young children frequently develop high fevers when their bodies undergo severe physical shock or overexertion."
Only then did the dangerous tension bleed out of Damnern's shoulders.
The doctor didn't wait to be asked twice; he shoved several packets of powders into Sasha's hands, bowed frantically, and practically vaulted out of the room to escape the death aura.
The rest of the day crawled by in a hazy, feverish dream.
Eldern planted a chair right beside her mattress, dedicatedly reading heavy children's fables aloud, stumbling over half the complex vocabulary with adorable seriousness. Elina remained a constant anchor, faithfully swapping out the cool, damp cloths on Elyra's forehead whenever they grew warm. Damnern, meanwhile, refused to budge from the room, hovering nearby like a silent, overprotective guardian dragon. Even Sasha and Rina dropped by in shifts, spooning warm broth between her chapped lips with infinite care.
At one point, as Elyra drifted back to consciousness, her hazy gaze drifted toward the bedside table.
Resting right there under the ambient afternoon light was the newly finished, perfectly polished miniature wooden sword. Its surface was smooth as silk, carved with absolute, uncompromising precision.
For the first time since her reincarnation into this brutal world, Elyra found herself entirely surrounded by people who were genuinely, desperately terrified of losing her.
It was a completely alien sensation—unfamiliar, awkward, and terribly inconvenient.
And yet... as she drifted back down into sleep, lulled by the low, rumbling hum of her family's voices, she realized with a quiet jolt that she didn't hate it at all.
Not even a little bit.
To be Continued...