YWPWYLFDM 55

Chapter 55

It was Cloud.

“Young Lady, it’s time for you to head inside now… Oh, the Young Master is here too. What are you doing?”

Cloud had first addressed Ayla but then spoke to Gerald with feigned casualness, as though he had only just noticed him. Yet Ayla couldn’t shake the feeling that Cloud was lying.

It seemed almost as if Cloud had rushed over the moment he saw her with Gerald.

“I was just… planning to have some cake with her.”

Gerald lifted the cake box in his hand. Cloud gave a regretful sigh.

“Ah, I see. But it’s time for the Young Lady to return inside. I’m afraid you’ll have to save that cake for another time.”

He stepped in firmly between Ayla and Gerald, as though to shield her.

That overprotective gesture made Gerald’s expression twist in annoyance.

It was absurd. He had only suggested eating cake together, and yet Cloud’s reaction made it seem as if he’d tried to do something indecent to Ayla.

But Gerald could only back down. He wanted to say something sharp in return, but Cloud’s intimidating presence made him falter.

The man’s broad, muscular frame, coupled with the long scar across his face—who knew how he had gotten it—made him all the more daunting.

“…Well then, see you next time, pretty one.”

Even as he stepped back in fear, Gerald muttered in a shrinking voice, unwilling to lose face.

But Ayla had a strong feeling that “next time” meant he would shamelessly show up again as early as tomorrow. With a sigh, she turned away with Cloud.

Left alone, Gerald flared with anger he could not contain. He hurled the cake basket to the floor. His pride had been wounded beyond endurance.

“That little brat thinks she can act all high and mighty, does she?”

Muttering, he ground his heel into the chocolate cake on the ground. The ruined dessert looked just like his crushed pride.

At this rate, he felt that regardless of his father’s orders, he would have to subdue that girl with sheer obstinacy—bend her to his will just to soothe his own ego.

Spitting on the smashed cake, Gerald stormed off toward the main building.

“Then, what you’re saying is… that girl has become quite capable now? Capable enough to be deployed straight into a ducal household?”

Byron repeated the report with clear satisfaction. Cloud had just declared, “There’s nothing more I can teach Ayla.”

“Yes. She has grown remarkably in a short period of time. I believe her experience in real combat has played a major role.”

Cloud recalled the two recent battles she had endured. There was no other way to explain her rapid growth.

In fact, training with one partner was never as effective as clashing against multiple opponents in real battle. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.

“Excellent. You’ve worked hard, Sir Cloud Aire.”

Byron smirked and downed a mouthful of fine whiskey—one of the bottles Count Senosfon had sent as a gift in hopes of currying favor.

It was truly delightful news. His long-laid plan—having Roderick Weissenhafen killed by his own daughter’s hand—felt within reach.

Byron felt almost giddy, as though he could send Ayla to kill Roderick this very instant.

But the pleasant vision quickly soured as grim reality struck.

“…What good is it? Even if I want to send her, nothing can be done until I return to my homeland.”

He was still in exile abroad, hiding from pursuit. He couldn’t return until surveillance within the Pelles Empire eased.

To lift the curse placed on Ayla’s body, he needed to meet the sorcerer who cast it—but at worst, he could always summon that man to the Kingdom of Inselkopf. That wasn’t the main issue.

There were many other complications if he couldn’t return to the empire. Information from within the empire took far too long to reach him, leaving him unable to control sudden developments at home.

Uncontrollable anger surged up inside him. It was all Cloud’s fault—if only he hadn’t failed to assassinate Winfred! The thought gnawed at him, even though it had originally been Byron’s own reckless whim to demand an assassination Cloud had opposed.

But before Byron could unleash his rage as usual, Cloud shifted the subject, delivering a piece of news so unexpected it extinguished Byron’s fury in an instant.

“Ah, and… My Lord, there’s something I must report. Count Senosfon’s son has been lingering around the girl.”

“What do you mean? Why would the Count’s son—?”

“It seems he’s taken an interest in her. That is to say…”

Cloud trailed off awkwardly. Having lived his entire life with nothing but his family’s vengeance in mind, he had no experience with matters of romance. He didn’t know how to phrase it.

But Byron, who before meeting Ophelia had indulged in countless women, needed no further explanation.

That brat saw Ayla as a woman.

“…Hah. Well, isn’t that something.”

Byron let out a dry laugh. He hadn’t expected this in the least.

Yet when he thought about it, it wasn’t strange at all. She was the daughter of his beloved Ophelia—the most beautiful woman in the world. He had often thought that once grown, Ayla would inherit her mother’s looks.

Lately, the girl had even shot up in height, enough that from a distance she could be mistaken for a small adult woman. A few times, Byron himself, in a drunken haze, had rubbed his eyes, thinking she was Ophelia.

To a boy of sixteen, that small girl would indeed seem appealing.

But understanding didn’t ease his feelings. Instead, a sharp displeasure welled up—the audacity of some snot-nosed brat daring to covet what was his.

Byron’s feelings toward Ayla were twisted.

She was the daughter of his mortal enemy, Roderick. One day, when her usefulness was spent, she was destined to be discarded cruelly.

And yet, she was also the daughter of the woman he loved beyond reason. Her small lips, her silky hair, even the slight curve of her middle finger—all were echoes of Ophelia.

Thus, whenever he looked at Ayla, his heart filled with both rage and longing, a confusing blend as though Ophelia herself stood before him.

Though he had cursed her so he could kill her at any moment, he could not bring himself to activate that curse.

Ayla had to belong to him alone. To her, he had to be everything—her sole source of happiness, and her sole bringer of pain and despair.

It was a twisted, possessive obsession.

And yet some count’s brat dared to interfere.

“…I wasn’t able to handle it on my own. My apologies.”

Cloud bowed in shame, but Byron shook his head.

“No matter. I’ll speak with the Count myself.”

In truth, the Count could hardly welcome this situation either. His sharp mind would not overlook the fact that his son was showing interest in a girl destined to be discarded like a hunting dog once the hunt was over.

At least, not once the Count realized she wasn’t Byron’s real daughter.

“Conveniently, the Count is expected here soon. I’ll make sure this matter is raised.”

Count Senosfon, who had left at dawn claiming business, had arranged to return for further discussions.

And just moments later, as if summoned by their words, the Count knocked at the door.

“Then I’ll take my leave.”

Cloud politely excused himself, bowing deeply to the Count on his way out.

The Count entered, fuming, and sat heavily across from Byron.

“What’s got you so upset, my friend?”

Byron poured him a drink, setting the glass before him. It seemed the Count too needed alcohol to soothe his temper.

“I’ve just come from the royal palace. The King summoned every noble and official, saying he had urgent news.”

Count Senosfon drained the glass in one go, wiping his mouth in irritation. Clearly, the King’s so-called “urgent matter” had vexed him.

“And what was it?”

“He announced he would make my son Crown Prince—as though he’s been waiting all this time for Duke Baches to fall from power.”

The Count raged. Only a few months ago, Duke Baches and the King’s eldest son had been rivals for the throne, and now the King was already speaking of investing his son as heir.

His disappointment was plain—he had bet on Duke Baches, and now that support had collapsed.

So parched was he with frustration that he didn’t even wait for Byron to refill his glass but poured himself another and downed it.

“My, my…”

Byron thought privately, And what’s wrong with the King naming his son Crown Prince? But outwardly he offered empty sympathy, refilling the Count’s cup.