WYRS 7

Chapter 7

“Wait, is this…?”

“Here it is!”

Overhearing the two talking, Sanchez hurriedly shoved a bouquet of roses into Nancy’s arms. Nancy stole a glance at Atul’s reaction, forced a smile, and quickly tiptoed out of the greenhouse.

Ignoring his father’s worried gaze, Atul retied the handkerchief that held the chocolate cookies, carefully tucking them into his bag so they wouldn’t crumble. Then he stooped down to gather the twigs scattered across the floor, pretending nothing had happened.

Nancy had claimed she had shared the cookies with all the servants, but Atul knew better. The handkerchief the cookies were wrapped in clearly belonged to Freya.

“Were those cookies from Freya? If so, could that mean… she wanted to see me?”

Atul’s heart began to pound violently. He thought about the gift Nancy had carried off for him.

Even he had to admit the little statue resembled Freya. It wasn’t a masterpiece, but it wasn’t ugly either.

Knowing Freya, she would surely recognize who the sender was. And perhaps Nancy, the maid, might discreetly reveal the humble gift’s true giver.

Would Freya smile when she received it? Would she laugh brightly, just as she used to?

“I hope so…”

He thought he didn’t care about the answer—but that was only his illusion. Atul was burning inside with the desperate need to see Freya’s reaction.

As he imagined all the possible expressions she might show, a reckless thought surged through him. With newfound energy, Atul finished his chores faster than Sanchez could have hoped.

“Father, I need to use the restroom real quick!”

“What? Atul! Atul!”

While Sanchez struggled on the ladder, Atul darted out of the greenhouse, ran straight into the woods, and sprinted toward the manor’s rear garden.

The sound of lively chatter and soft string music grew louder.

Soon, several blazing hearths and large canopies came into view. Atul quickly scaled a tree hanging over the tent. Moving nimbly like an animal, he climbed higher, his steps sure on the branches.

Though he was close enough to hear the voices clearly, the dense leaves concealed him from sight.

The sharp pine needles jabbed at his arms, and his hands felt frozen stiff, but the instant he saw Freya’s face, all the pain vanished.

“Happy birthday, Miss Freya Swan!”

Holding his breath, Atul gazed at Freya, surrounded by glittering lights and lavish decorations.

Inside the canopy stood a long table, laden with a grand feast. Children, all finely dressed, fixed their eyes on Freya.

Behind her, an astonishing number of flowers made one forget it was winter. Among them, in the vase nearest Freya, stood the very pink roses Nancy had carried in.

“Thank you, everyone.”

Freya smiled. It wasn’t quite the smile she had once shown him, but it was dazzling nonetheless. Seeing it for the first time in so long, Atul couldn’t help but smile back.

“Speaking of which, there was quite a sight in the greenhouse.”

“What do you mean, a sight?”

Atul’s smile instantly froze at the conversation that followed. His trembling hands clutched the tree trunk tight.

“That filthy breed. From that cursed island buried in volcanic ash, weren’t they? I hear their people have some truly savage customs.”

Atul instantly knew they were talking about him and his father. The vile jokes about his bloodline were so foul they were hard to believe came from children’s mouths.

“But rumor has it that Miss Freya often keeps company with that immigrant. Is that true?”

Though their lips curled into smiles, their eyes were sharp, glinting cruelly as though waiting to pounce on prey.

Freya met their dissecting gazes with a slight, mocking smirk.

“Of course not. It was merely a kindness out of pity that was misinterpreted. In fact, my father has already scolded me for it. It’s been troublesome.”

Her words pierced straight through Atul’s chest.

“As expected of Miss Swan. To pity a worm like that. Just don’t let it rub off on you—you wouldn’t want your hands soiled.”

A silver-haired boy offered Freya a handkerchief. She hesitated briefly before taking it, wiping her hands as if to rid herself of filth, and shrugged.

Atul froze, just as he had the very first day he met Freya. His heaven had turned into hell in an instant.

“Shall we open the gifts now?”

“Start with this one—the wrapping is so unusual…”

Atul wanted nothing more than to leap down and snatch back the gift from Freya’s hands. But his body was stiff, refusing to move.

“This is…”

Freya held the statue with a bewildered expression. Laughter burst out from every corner.

“What on earth is this piece of trash? Who gave it?”

“It doesn’t suit Miss Swan at all. Clearly someone who dislikes her played a nasty trick.”

Freya’s eyes wavered violently. Atul was sure she realized who the sender was. A faint ember of hope flickered in his chest.

If Freya accepted his gift, Atul decided he would believe her earlier words had been nothing but an act.

Yes, she couldn’t be like that. The girl who had once smiled at wildflowers would never treat him so cruelly.

“Nancy. This must have been delivered by mistake. Just throw it away.”

But Freya’s response was merciless. Her firm command was colder than the sharpest winter wind.

Nancy quickly took the statue and slipped it into her pocket. Freya immediately moved on to the next gift as if nothing had happened. Inside was a brooch set with a ruby the size of a thumb. She smiled brightly.

“What a wonderful gift!”

There was no need to hear more. Atul slowly climbed down from the tree. Thorns pricked his hands, but they were nothing compared to the wound gouged into his heart.

When anger burns too fiercely, there isn’t even strength left for rage. Barely holding up his shaking legs, Atul returned to the greenhouse, where Sanchez must be waiting anxiously.

“Throw it away.”

Atul knew those words from Freya would forever remain in his heart like a thorn that could never be pulled out.

Later that afternoon, Count Swan summoned Sanchez. He sent Atul home first, then walked alone into the count’s study. When Sanchez finally emerged, his face was pale as death.

“Father, what happened?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired.”

But Atul’s anxious expression betrayed his worry. Something clearly had happened, but he didn’t press further.

It had already been too exhausting a day. Freya alone was enough of a tragedy to bear.

Maybe it’ll feel better tomorrow. Maybe when I close my eyes and wake up, this misery will be gone.

So Atul and Sanchez put out the lights earlier than usual, hoping the long night would swallow all their troubles.

“Fire!”

But their hope was shattered yet again. Flames swept through the immigrant village. Carried by the dry winter wind, the inferno devoured what little hope remained.

Atul barely managed to drag the unconscious Sanchez out of their burning home. All around, the cries of those who had lost everything filled the night sky.

Atul, too, had lost everything. His mother’s photograph, the belongings brought from Abas—everything was gone.

And Sanchez never opened his eyes again. Without a word of farewell, without even giving his son a name, Atul’s father died.

The survivors of the great fire built graves in a clearing, but Atul did not make one for Sanchez.

This was not where his father belonged. There was no reason to revisit this place for memories’ sake.

Instead, Atul cremated Sanchez and scattered his ashes into the sky. Just as the sea reminded him of his mother whose ashes lay there, so too would the open heavens remind him of his father.

By the time the funerals were ending, rumors spread that the fire had been orchestrated by Count Swan. Over ten witnesses swore they had seen the count’s retainers on the night of the blaze.

Years of pent-up hatred finally erupted. Enraged villagers stormed the Mirror Manor.

Atul did not join them. He left the village instead. To him, revenge was not something as petty as smashing a noble’s gate. He dreamed of a slow, merciless vengeance.

In his small chest burned a fury that would never die, fueled by the thorn Freya Swan had driven into his heart.

Grinding his teeth, Atul vowed only revenge. When he reached the capital, the first thing he did was give himself a name—a plain name that would let him blend in completely.

15 years later.

It was a sweltering day. Despite the heat, as with any celebrity affair, Freya Swan’s engagement ceremony was crawling with uninvited guests.

Reporters from various magazines swarmed in front of the cathedral, furiously snapping photos of the arriving guests.

Most of the attendees were expected figures—key members of the royalist faction filing into the cathedral. Some journalists, unimpressed by the lack of surprises, lazily wiped the lenses of their cameras.

“L… Look—it’s Harford!”

But then, at a near-scream from somewhere, the atmosphere shifted instantly. Reporters rushed forward, cameras flashing wildly at Blake Harford as he strode up the cathedral steps.