Ivan woke up early the next morning to the quiet sound of breathing beside him. His head ached, but it wasn't what caught his attention. It was the soft pressure on his shoulder.
Lydia was still sleeping. Her head rested gently against him, her body curled slightly like she was trying to protect him. The warm towel he had placed on his forehead during the night had already turned cold. He reached up and removed it slowly, careful not to move too much.
He wanted to sit up. He wanted to push her away and tell her to leave. But he didn't.
She looked tired. Even her breathing was soft and uneven, like someone who hadn't rested properly in days. Her clothes were stained with dark, dried blood—his blood. She hadn't changed or cleaned up. From the looks of it, she hadn't left his side at all the previous day.
He just stared at her.
She was quiet, peaceful, and fragile in that moment. And yet… something about her didn't sit right with him. She didn't fear him like everyone else. She didn't look at him with hate either. If anything, she looked at him like he was just a man—not a monster, not a devil.
Even when he threatened her… she didn't flinch.
She had saved his life. Again.
He kept staring at her, eyes tracing the dried blood on her sleeve, the way her eyelashes rested lightly against her skin, how her mouth was slightly parted from sleep. A storm brewed in his chest, one he couldn't name.
Outside, the sound of a horse arriving echoed faintly through the cold morning air.
Ivan was still lying down, with Lydia still on his shoulder, when a knock came at the door.
He didn't move.
The door opened slowly.
It was Boris.
His boots thudded against the floor until he saw the sight in front of him. He stopped. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Lydia asleep beside Ivan.
"Your Highness," he greeted, voice caught between amusement and surprise.
Ivan held up a hand, glaring. "Keep your voice down," he whispered sharply.
Boris immediately lowered his tone. "I came as fast as I could. The pigeon you sent said your wound had reopened."
Ivan looked away. "You're late," he said. "It's already been treated."
Boris raised an eyebrow, smirking as his eyes slid to Lydia. "I figured," he said quietly, teasing.
Ivan gave him a hard stare but said nothing.
He tried to get up, but his body still ached. Boris rushed to help him. As Ivan pulled himself up with a wince, he carefully moved Lydia's head and placed a pillow beneath it. She didn't wake.
They stepped outside, leaving her quietly sleeping.
Boris kept grinning. "Looks like someone finally got past your walls," he said, walking beside him.
Ivan ignored him.
"I don't know what it is about her," Ivan muttered after a pause, "but I think she's crazy."
"Why?" Boris asked, amused.
"She yelled at me," Ivan said. "Not once, not twice. Even when I threatened to kill her, she didn't back down. She just ignored me."
Boris chuckled. "Maybe she's not crazy. Maybe she likes you."
Ivan stopped walking and turned his head slowly. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Boris grinned. "I'm not joking either. I came to check on your wound, Your Highness. Not give you marriage advice."
Ivan rolled his eyes and kept walking.
Boris looked at him again, this time more serious. "She reminds me of your mother."
Ivan paused.
"So much in common," Boris added quietly.
Ivan let out a bitter breath. "Too much. Especially the stupidity."
Boris opened his mouth to say something, but Ivan cut him off. "That's enough. Go. I have duties to attend to."
---
Meanwhile, Lydia slowly opened her eyes.
The bed was empty beside her. He was gone.
She sat up immediately, eyes scanning the room. She was alone. The sheets were still wrinkled from his weight. Her fingers brushed over them before she got up and looked around.
Her eyes fell on something hanging on the wall—a painting.
She walked closer, drawn in without realizing.
It was a beautiful woman. Blonde hair, styled in soft curls, framed her delicate face. Her eyes were sky blue—kind and gentle. There was sadness in them, but also grace. Her lips curved in a quiet smile.
Lydia knew right away. This was Ivan's mother.
There was something about her that made her chest tighten. Her beauty wasn't cold or perfect. It was real. Alive. She looked like someone who had loved deeply. And suffered just as much.
As Lydia stared, the door opened behind her.
She turned quickly.
Ivan stood at the entrance. Their eyes met.
She ran up to him. "Are you okay, Your Highness?"
He looked at her for a long moment. He wanted to snap at her, to tell her to leave again. But the way she looked—her eyes wide with worry, her dress still stained with blood—made him pause.
"Go," he said roughly. "Go and freshen up."
"I'll come back later," she said softly. "In fact, I'll come back every day to check on your wound."
He blinked.
"I don't care if you threaten me or try to kill me," she said. "I'll still come. Until you're fully recovered."
She turned and left before he could say anything.
He didn't move. He didn't even try to stop her.
He turned slowly to the painting.
"She's just like you," he said to it. His voice cracked. "I just hope… she's not entirely like you."
---
Lydia returned to her quarters.
Her maids were waiting. They gently helped her into a warm bath, washing away the dried blood and sweat from her skin.
The water stung against a small scratch on her arm, but she didn't flinch. She just stared at the surface, her thoughts far away.
Katherine entered the room carrying a tray of snacks.
"You didn't eat anything since yesterday, Your Highness," she said gently, setting the tray down.
Lydia didn't answer right away. She was still staring at nothing.
"He looks like his mother," she finally said.
Everyone in the room went quiet.
"His Highness?" Katherine asked.
"Yes," Lydia said. "He's… pretty. Like her."
The maids exchanged confused glances.
"Do you know why he wears a mask?" Lydia asked quietly.
No one answered.
"In the capital, they say it's because he has a scar… or that he's ugly," she continued. "But that's not true, is it?"
The maids still didn't speak.
Finally, Katherine looked up. "We don't know, Your Highness. No one does. He started hiding his face when he was just a child. Only His Highness knows why."
She walked closer and knelt beside the bath.
"Do you want to know a secret?" she whispered. "He wasn't called 'The Devil' because of his face. That title came from something else. His actions. Don't let his looks fool you, Your Highness. That man is a monster. A cruel one."
Lydia's eyes widened slightly.
"If I were you, I wouldn't want to get close to him," Katherine continued. "I'd run the other way. Far away. That man… he's nothing but a devil."
"But why?" Lydia asked. "Why do you call him that?"
"Do you know why all the servants are scared of him?" Katherine asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Why they never look him in the eye? Because the moment he became the Grand Duke, he killed every single servant and guard in this palace. The halls were soaked in blood. Do you know how old he was?"
Lydia shook her head, her breath catching in her throat.
"Only sixteen," Katherine said. "Sixteen years old. And he painted these walls with screams."
Lydia's heart felt heavy. "Are you sure?" she whispered. "Most things people say… they're just rumors. Lies."
Katherine stood slowly.
She raised her skirt and pulled it aside, revealing a deep scar across her leg. The skin was uneven, twisted like something had once torn it open.
"These aren't rumors, Your Highness," she said. Her voice broke. "They're the truth. I was there. I saw everything."
Lydia stared in shock, unable to speak.
"I'm the only one who survived," Katherine whispered. "He let me live. He made me watch everything. So I would remember."
Lydia's mouth hung open. Her lips trembled. Her heart felt like it had been torn apart.
She didn't know what to say.
Or what to feel.