Episode 6 – The Stranger Wakes
“Please, Mom.”
Lotte’s brows drooped pitifully.
She rarely insisted on things this way, which made Celeia hesitate even longer.
I would’ve preferred if she just begged for a doll…
After a long silence, Celeia finally stood and spoke.
“…Alright. We’ll take him. If there’s a chance to save him, I can’t leave him to die here.”
“Yes!”
“Lady Celeia!”
Lotte beamed with joy, while Hayder’s face darkened in disapproval.
His eyes locked with Celeia’s, full of disbelief.
“Sir Elden, could you carry him to the carriage? I can’t lift him myself.”
“Lady Celeia, this is unwise. Please reconsider—”
“This isn’t a request,” she cut in firmly. “It’s an order. You’re here in Cheringen to protect me, aren’t you? At least in name, that’s your duty.”
“….”
Hayder’s jaw tightened.
He knew he couldn’t defy her words.
So, like a sack of grain, the wounded man was carried by Hayder and laid inside the carriage.
Celeia made sure to keep Lotte seated as far from him as possible.
“Stay cautious, Lotte.”
“Okay.”
Not long after the carriage set off, the man on the floor began to shiver violently.
Too much blood loss—his body was going cold.
“Ugh…”
His weak groans filled the small space.
Celeia quietly removed her own cloak and spread it over him.
Seeing this, Lotte tugged off her pink scarf and began wrapping it around the man’s neck.
Her little hands fumbled clumsily until the scarf ended up covering half his face like a mummy.
At the last second, she pulled it loose around his nose so he could breathe.
It looked ridiculous, but his shivering eased.
Celeia stroked her daughter’s hair in praise, though her eyes lingered uneasily on the man.
He isn’t dangerous… is he?
She’d brought him because she couldn’t let him die on the street.
But her worry never left—especially because she had a child to protect.
“Don’t worry, Mom.”
Lotte squeezed her hand, reading her face.
“This man isn’t bad. I can tell.”
There was a strange certainty in her voice, as if she knew more than she should.
“…Yes. He must be a good man,” Celeia murmured, forcing a smile.
Since she was small, Lotte had been unusually sharp at judging people.
Maybe it was just a child’s instinct—but Celeia prayed this time her daughter was right.
So with heavy sighs and a silent, half-dead man in their carriage, they rode back to the castle.
He hadn’t enjoyed life in a long time.
He had possessed everything—and yet had nothing.
Surrounded by wealth but hungry, living with leisure but feeling restless.
Happiness was something that had never been his.
If life wasn’t happy, maybe death wouldn’t be so sad either.
He’d thought that once.
But his brother’s words came back to him—words from not long ago.
“Rasca… I ask this of you not as your brother, but as your king.”
King Cleos had spoken those words from his sickbed, frail and hollow-cheeked, his eyes dark with illness.
“Five years ago, I made a fool’s mistake. I trusted Hendrick and Marquis Conrad’s lies and attacked Tropez. Because of that decision, I lost my wife, Mary.”
Back then, Hendrick and Conrad had persuaded Teian’s king to seize Cheringen temporarily.
They promised they’d share power once they controlled the empire.
Instead, as soon as Hendrick rose to the throne, they betrayed Teian completely—turning the empire’s wrath against them, calling them aggressors, strangling them with sanctions.
“My son Kyle is still too young. You’re the only one I can trust with him.”
Rasca had wanted to ask, How can you trust me? But instead, he’d bowed his head.
“…I owe Your Majesty my life. I cannot betray that debt.”
If it had been just his brother’s plea, he would’ve refused.
But a king’s command was different.
He had no rights left to claim for himself—but debts and duties remained.
So Rasca accepted the mission: to guard Teian’s envoys.
He thought it would be simple.
Who would dare attack the king’s envoys on the road to a trade negotiation?
But he’d been wrong.
“Ambush!”
Blades flashed in the night.
Shadows poured from the dark, far more than expected.
Stay calm. We’re five.
They’re… twenty, at least.
Rasca cut down one attacker, then hauled the envoy leader off the ground.
“P-Prince…” the man stammered, recognizing him.
Rasca ignored him, grabbing a riderless horse and thrusting the reins into the man’s hands.
“Ride ahead! You’ll be safe once you reach the empire.”
“But what about you—?”
“I’m just a hired mercenary, my lord. Even if I die here, do not come back for me.”
Cold and sharp, his words sliced through the chaos like his sword.
He turned, face hidden beneath his hood, and struck another assassin down.
“My prince!” the envoy cried desperately.
But Rasca slapped the horse’s flank, sending it bolting into the dark.
“After him!”
The assassins moved to chase, but Rasca stood in their path.
His tall, broad-shouldered figure gleamed under the moonlight—every line of his body hardened muscle.
Even hidden by his hood, his face was striking, too sharp, too composed.
“…Sorry,” he said softly, lips curving in a chilling smile.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me. Care for introductions first, or shall we skip to the blades?”
His voice was rich, calm—so confident it rattled them despite the numbers.
“Kill him!”
They charged.
The alley erupted into chaos.
Rasca fought like a storm, his blade cutting through trained killers, his years as a mercenary giving him the edge.
But even he couldn’t fight twenty men unscathed.
He bought enough time for the rest of the envoys to escape.
In the end, though, his body was torn by wounds.
Staggering away, he collapsed near a small town, blood trailing from his side.
So this is it, then.
He laughed weakly.
He hadn’t feared death—yet here he was, clinging to life.
“…Humans really are contradictory.”
Those were his last words before the world went dark.
He should’ve died in that lonely alley.
No one would’ve stopped to help a bloodied stranger.
But hours later, he awoke—bathed in sunlight, the smell of fruit thick in the air.
Where… am I?
Dust motes floated in the warm light, glimmering like crystals.
For the first time in years, Rasca felt… almost like he was dreaming.
