Secret Love Affair between a Former Saint and a Dark Hero - Chapter 32
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- Chapter 32 - I Would Rather He Be Like Everyone Else
“…”
“So, I wondered,” Arcanda nibbled her lip slightly, as if she had been contemplating this for a long time, and said, “they say you two had never even met each other. So I assumed that even though you were betrothed that it wasn’t a deep connection. I felt I could be happy with him without feeling guilty. But now, I’m your friend, Iora.”
“Friend…?”
“Yes, a friend. If you have feelings for Ovid…”
Iora clenched her teeth. Arcanda was considering her feelings, worrying about her. Following that faint delight, if she mirrored that smile, something sinister and twisted might come out instead.
‘I’m losing my mind.’
The people around her were right. Last night, Iora had been alone at her vanity, brushing her hair, when she discovered something dreadful—clumps of her own hair falling out. Panicked and horrified, she fumbled to feel it, but it was indeed her hair. Her reflection in the mirror seemed at least ten years older, her cheeks sunken as if she was at death’s door, and dark circles beneath her eyes were hauntingly prominent. Her mother was right. Iora was falling apart discarded like a worn-out doll.
“So, just tell me honestly. If you have feelings for Ovid… I, I…” Arcanda’s eyes quivered, revealing an unspoken sadness within them.
Startled, Iora abruptly waved her hand. “No!”
Her voice burst out unexpectedly, and Arcanda stared back wide-eyed. A dreadful silence settled briefly in the carriage.
Arcanda’s tear-glistened long lashes fluttered. “Really, no?”
“Uh, yes. I mean, no. How could I ever harbor feelings for His Highness?”
Even if by some chance they arose, she would disregard them. She’d crush them before they sprouted. As Iora resolved herself, Arcanda frowned.
Arcanda’s voice was tinged with confusion. “Both you and I are candidates for sainthood. It’s said anyone could become Ovid’s partner. And Ovid, he’s a remarkable person that anyone would admire. So, I thought that maybe you and Ovid…”
“No,” Iora said quietly, but firmly. “We’re different. So… I don’t want that. You’re undoubtedly the saint.”
Iora’s slow, deliberate words felt liberating, as if a burden had been lifted. Finally, she said it. Finally!
“What did you say, Iora?”
“I won’t be the saint. Arcanda, it’ll be you… who’ll be the saint.”
Finally! For the first time, she confessed that she didn’t want to be a saint. Iora looked at Arcanda with sparkling eyes. The beautiful and radiant protagonist of ‘The Saint’s Flower.’ Feeling like she could do anything, she reached out and gently grasped Arcanda’s hand in her own.
Iora was momentarily surprised by Arcanda’s unexpectedly cold hands, but she whispered quietly, bearing her feelings: “So don’t worry about me, Arcanda. You’re destined to be with him.”
“…”
Iora didn’t understand why Arcanda wore a vacant expression then. She simply thought Arcanda must have been surprised because everyone had told her that Iora wanted to be a saint and that she intended to harm Arcanda for it. So, she harbored a modest hope that perhaps if she tried to be a good friend to Arcanda, even the ending of her own villainous role in the story might not be so unhappy. A naive hope that they could become friends.
“I see. I completely misunderstood your feelings, Iora.”
How comically foolish it was.
“You don’t love Ovid. And I was the only one unaware.”
She was always ignorant.
Iora hadn’t realized how much more cruel and ruthless this world was than she thought.
* * *
The man plucked a fully bloomed dandelion seed and blew on it with a long, drawn-out exhale. The wind from the wide field ruffled his hair. The bright sunlight slid across his pale skin. He looked out over the plains, his gaze still and free.
Beside him, his companion sighed at the whimsical behavior of the man, wanting desperately to reprimand him. He looked like he was dying to give him a lecture. Upon hearing the sigh, the man chuckled and snapped his fingers.
“Isn’t there anything interesting happening…? This weather seems perfect for going crazy out of sheer boredom. How can this be? Shouldn’t something exciting happen like an incident or an accident, anything to spice things up?”
“If you’re only looking for fun, my Lord, to what end? You’re not a 10-year-old child. And it’s not right to say such things.”
“Who says fun has to be for kids? Watching fights, fires, everyone gathers for those. Why does that sound wrong to you? Am I the bad guy just because I do it?”
A sly smile crept into the man’s mischievous words. The knight observing him grew uneasy. Whenever his master sported such a smile, it usually foreshadowed something not quite pleasant. Oh, heavens.
“Speaking of which, there was something interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
The man’s mind flashed back to the little girl who had been crying inconsolably, holding an apple. They mentioned something about the birthday celebration for the saint candidates. He wondered what kind of face she’d make if he ran into her there.
“I should make sure she doesn’t run away as promised.”
“What do you mean, run away from?”
“Send a response to the Emperor saying I’ll attend the banquet.”
“But you said you weren’t going.”
“I feel like going today.”
The knight furrowed his brow, unable to hide his worry. It seemed to the man like a puppy needing to relieve itself desperately, and he sported an unpleasant smirk while blowing another dandelion seed.
“Are you really going to attend? You made such a cheap comment yesterday, saying you wouldn’t even piss in that direction because you didn’t want to see all those aristocratic bastards begging for attention. What will happen if your whims are this extreme?”
“Whims? When have you ever seen me keep a promise? Promises are meant to be broken and trampled on.”
“No, just now you said you’d go and check that someone keeps their promises.”
“Anyone else should keep their promises, not me. Especially, promises to me.”
A wicked and wry smile graced Vigros’s face.