* * *
One year ago, on that day, when he still bore the name “Rosendale” rather than “Rael,” Euston lay upon the bed in the Duke’s estate, his body visibly ravaged by illness.
Death’s shadow loomed over him with crystal clarity.
His body, decaying from within, looked fragile enough to crumble at the slightest touch.
Once a vigorous man, now not a trace of vitality or warmth remained.
The pain of his organs liquefying inside him was so excruciating, he wished he could simply abandon consciousness.
Still, Euston clenched his jaw and swallowed every groan.
His lips, already mangled to the point of no return, were once again bitten till blood surfaced, all to endure the pain.
Maybe it was his pitch-black hair, but his already pale skin appeared even more ghostly.
His crimson eyes, once vivid and captivating, had long since lost their focus.
The man who surpassed all the talented Arete siblings, the one and only who had become the Duke’s lead Guide—a brutal, ruthless figure who would use any means to achieve his goals.
A tyrant obsessed with bending even other noble houses to his will.
A man infamous for his heartlessness and insatiable thirst for power.
And yet, now he looked so pitiful. So small.
“…Shannon…”
A cracked voice escaped through his broken lips.
Hearing that weak, fragile sound, the loyal servant Shannon choked back tears and grasped his master’s emaciated hand tightly.
“Your Grace…”
On the verge of sobbing, Shannon’s voice trembled.
Clinging to his dying master’s hand, he pleaded desperately.
“Please, Your Grace. Please… hang on a little longer.”
“……”
“For your nephews, if nothing else… You must stay strong.”
At the mention of his nephews, Euston’s dull eyes briefly regained some clarity.
But it flickered only for a moment before dimming again.
No one knew it better than Euston himself—his life’s flame would never reignite.
It would soon be extinguished for good.
He was dying.
And the long, agonizing end of his life was just around the corner.
“Did the Duke of Evernell… still refuse to come…?”
That was why he called out—desperately, longingly—for the few people he loved.
Ever since he had coughed up blood and collapsed ten days ago, sensing death creeping in, he’d waited and waited.
Most of all, he longed for Arhan, the Duke of Evernell, to come.
It had always been a one-sided love, but Arhan was someone Euston had cherished for years—someone he yearned for even now, more than anyone.
“Even today… the Duke…”
The words barely made it through his ragged breathing, filled with sorrow.
Shannon’s face twisted in anguish as he looked down at him.
His eyes, wet with grief and fury, betrayed how broken he felt inside.
He opened and closed his mouth several times, then forced out a soothing tone like comforting a child, eyes bloodshot.
“He’s coming soon. Very soon.”
“……”
“I’ve sent word to the Duchy of Evernell. He’ll be here. So please… hold on just a little longer.”
His desperate pleading was more earnest than ever.
Shannon wanted to keep his master in this world for even just one more moment.
“Please… Your Grace…”
But Euston, who knew all too well the lie hidden in those words, simply smiled bitterly.
His heart ached.
There were faces he wanted to see, even if only for a fleeting second before death—but it seemed even that small wish was too much to ask.
“The Duke… still resents me, doesn’t he…”
“Please, Your Grace… don’t say that…”
“Who could blame him…”
He murmured softly, lips still curved into that same bitter smile.
“…I killed his Guide, after all.”
Guides and Arete shared a special bond.
The stronger and more compatible the match, the more profound the connection.
Arhan had been no exception.
He had cherished his Guide—Hailas, now long gone.
They had been together for over a decade.
The two were known to be longtime lovers.
Hailas had been Arhan’s exclusive Guide, and they were often seen locked in close contact during public guiding sessions—whispers of their relationship had spread quickly.
Even if neither of them ever officially acknowledged it, the way they let those rumors circulate without protest—smiling faintly at the gossip—made it all the more real.
Everyone said so.
And Euston, who had watched closely how they treated each other, knew for a fact that the rumors were true.
And that same Guide Arhan had loved so dearly… had met a tragic end—at Euston’s own hands.
So it was only natural.
Arhan’s hatred and revulsion toward Euston.
A man as warm and kind as sunlight to everyone else, Arhan revealed nothing but open hostility when it came to Euston.
He didn’t even hesitate to use violence.
Compared to his biting insults, the words were almost affectionate.
Each time they met, the scorn cut deep, and yet… Euston could never bring himself to let go of Arhan.
The love that had started when he was barely ten years old had only grown deeper with time.
“Maybe when he hears of my death… the Duke will finally be glad…”
“Your Grace, please don’t… please, I beg you…”
Shannon shook his head violently, clinging to Euston’s frail hand like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. It hurt to be held so tightly—but Euston allowed it.
If it gave Shannon even a shred of comfort.
He looked at his loyal aide, silently watching his desperation.
Then, with a voice barely more than a whisper, he asked:
“…Lieven…?”
At the sound of that name from his lips, Shannon’s expression crumbled again, utterly devastated.
Lieven Persen.
Once known as Lieven Rosendale, that man was one of Euston’s two half-brothers—the one who had publicly severed ties with him.
As he withered away day by day on a lifeless bed, Euston found himself yearning even for the brother who had abandoned him. Family, he’d said.
“I’ve sent word to the Persen family. He will come. He must be on his way, Your Grace.”
A bitter smile once again tugged at Euston’s lips.
He wanted to hold on, clenching his teeth and enduring—if only until the people he loved could arrive.
Though the past few days had been nothing but relentless agony, he’d endured it all.
But now, he’d finally reached his limit.
So this is how it ends.
A fitting death for a man who lived cold and ruthless all his life.
The end of this long, unending suffering should’ve been a relief—yet what rose in him first was sorrow.
His hopes and dreams, never once fulfilled in life, had turned their backs on him, even in his final moments.
“Shannon.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’m listening.”
“Paper and a pen… bring them to me.”
At Euston’s request, Shannon immediately brought paper, a pen, and a book to write on from the desk.
Euston took them, then, with trembling arms, pushed himself upright in bed.
“And bring Elden and Elaine… to me.”
“…Understood. Please wait just a moment.”
Elden and Elaine.
His young niece and nephew, only eleven years old.
Already orphaned at a young age, and now soon to lose their uncle too—those poor children were among the few dear souls Euston could count on to come see him.
He cherished them deeply, and for that, felt both gratitude and guilt.
With shaking arms, Euston barely managed to lift the pen.
The feather-light quill felt unbearably heavy in this moment.
“If I may dare to ask…”
Through his blurring vision, Euston used every ounce of strength to write, stroke by stroke.
“…Would you mourn for me, even for just a moment?”
As he barely completed the sentence, a sudden fit of coughing violently shook his body.
He couldn’t stop coughing.
The sound alone felt ominous—soon, blood dripped from his lips in streams.
One harsh cough, and the once-white sheets were stained red, the exact shade of his eyes.
His shirt was already soaked in blood.
A ringing filled his ears.
He could no longer even hear his own coughing—his fading hearing, erratic these past few days, had finally given out completely.
But hearing wasn’t the only thing lost.
His already hazy vision now blurred further.
Everything was a white blur, and he couldn’t even make out the letter right in front of him.
Even so, he saw one thing clearly—the bloodstain now blooming on the paper.
‘No… I can’t. Not like this…’
* * *
