Ivan watched Lydia, still stunned by what had just happened.
But before he could gather his thoughts, a sharp pain tore through his abdomen. He staggered. His hand instinctively gripped his side. Warm blood soaked through his shirt. His wound had reopened—more violently this time.
Meanwhile, Lydia, who had been heading back to her quarters, suddenly stopped in her tracks. Something tugged at her. She remembered her book—the one she dropped when he had pulled her earlier. Sighing, she turned around to go retrieve it.
But the moment she stepped back into the corridor, her heart sank.
Ivan was on the ground. Blood pooled beneath him, and his body twisted slightly in pain. His breathing was ragged, shallow.
Her eyes widened. "Ivan!"
She sprinted to him, dropping to her knees beside his body. Her hands hovered above his wound, unsure whether to touch or not.
"I’ll call for help!" she cried, already raising her voice.
"No!" His voice was harsh, filled with panic. "Don’t—don’t call anyone. Just leave."
"What are you saying?" she snapped, shaken. "If I leave, you’ll bleed to death!"
"I said leave me!" he growled, his voice already weaker.
He tried to rise on his own, gripping the wall for support. But his knees buckled under his weight and he collapsed—right into her arms. The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. His silver mask fell off, clattering onto the floor beside them.
For a second, Lydia froze. She had never seen his face up close. Now, here he was—vulnerable, sweating, in pain.
"Lean on me," she whispered.
He hesitated, but his body had no strength left to resist.
Clutching him tightly, she began dragging him toward the palace halls. His full weight bore down on her, nearly making her stumble, but she didn’t stop.
She kept shouting for help as they moved. "Someone help!"
"Don’t call them!" he hissed again through gritted teeth.
But her cries had already reached the ears of a few servants and guards. They rushed over, startled by the scene—but the moment they saw Ivan, fear froze them in place.
Ivan glared at them, his voice like steel. "Don’t touch me. I’ll kill you."
They backed off instantly.
Lydia was panting from the effort but managed to pull him into his chambers. The guards hesitated at the door, exchanging nervous glances.
A physician rushed in soon after, carrying a trembling kit in his hands, his face pale. "Your Grace—"
"Touch me," Ivan spat through clenched teeth, "and you die."
The physician stepped back at once.
"Everyone leave," Lydia ordered, facing them. "All of you. Now."
No one dared argue. Within moments, the room emptied, leaving just the two of them.
Ivan, still lying on the couch now, glared up at her. "Don’t touch me either. I swear, if you lay a hand on me—"
She didn’t wait for him to finish.
Ignoring every warning, she rushed forward and tore open his blood-soaked shirt. The wound had split apart badly—it must’ve reopened the previous day, judging by how swollen and red the skin looked.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath.
Ivan barked at her again, trying to push her away with one shaky arm. "I’ll kill you! I’ll—"
"Shut up!" she snapped suddenly, pressing a finger into his wound.
He winced hard, biting his lip to stop from screaming.
She stared down at him, furious and shaking. "How exactly are you going to kill me when you’re dying, hmm?"
"Let me help you," she said, her voice softer now. "After that, I’ll leave if you want. You can kill me later if that pleases you, but at least let me treat you first."
He didn’t respond. But he didn’t stop her either.
Quickly, she worked to clean the wound, pressing a clean cloth firmly against it to stop the bleeding. Her hands moved quickly but gently. Her fingers trembled with worry. She tied the cloth carefully, making sure not to hurt him more than necessary.
By the time she finished dressing the wound, Ivan had passed out.
Lydia sat back on her heels, breathing hard. She looked at him—his bare chest rising and falling slowly, sweat glistening on his skin. His face, usually so stern and terrifying, now looked so peaceful. Almost boyish. Innocent.
The man who threatened to kill everyone... now slept like a newborn.
She grabbed a bowl of warm water and a soft cloth, dipping it before gently cleaning the dried blood from his skin. She wiped his forehead, his arms, careful not to disturb his wound.
When she finished, she sat there, just watching him. His brow was furrowed. He was burning up. Fever.
Lydia got another towel, this time dipping it in cold water. She pressed it lightly to his forehead, hoping to ease his temperature.
Her eyes lingered on his face.
She couldn’t help but reach out and brush a few strands of hair from his eyes. Her fingers grazed his cheek softly, tracing the lines that told stories of pain and survival.
Her heart was pounding in her chest.
"I wish you knew," she whispered. "I wish you knew how much I wanted to talk to you."
But he never gave her the chance. He kept shutting her out, always pushing her away.
"Why are you ?" she murmured, blinking away the sting in her eyes. "Why won’t you let anyone in?"
She stayed with him for hours, quietly watching him breathe. Eventually, exhaustion overcame her. She fell asleep in the chair beside him, her head resting on the edge of the bed.
A sudden movement startled her awake.
Ivan was tossing in his sleep, face twisted in distress.
"No," he mumbled, his voice hoarse. "No... let me go..."
She leaned closer. He was dreaming. But it wasn’t just any dream—it was a nightmare.
In his mind, a small boy no older than four cried helplessly as he was dragged across a dark hallway by a tall woman. Her face was blurred and shadowed, but her grip was cruel. She threw the boy into a dim, windowless room—that room—and locked the door. The child pounded on the wood, screaming.
"I want to go to my mother! Please!"
On the bed, Ivan twisted again, sweat pouring from his temples.
Lydia gently placed her hand on his chest. "Shh... it’s okay..."
She started singing softly, a lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was little. Her voice was quiet, trembling a little, but steady.
"I’m scared, Mother..." Ivan whimpered in his sleep. "Please save me... I don’t want to die..."
A single tear escaped from the corner of his eye.
Lydia’s throat tightened. Her own tears followed. She reached out and gently wiped his face.
Who was this man, really? A monster? Or just a broken child in a man’s body?
She looked at him closely, heart aching.
No... he wasn’t a devil. He was someone who had been shattered a long time ago. Someone drowning in his own pain, locked away inside himself.
"I wish I could take it all away..." she whispered.
She climbed onto the bed slowly, laying beside him. Careful not to hurt him. She rested her head near his shoulder and resumed singing softly, barely above a whisper.
And together, they slept.