What Remains in the Damaged Place - Chapter 31

“First, he wants you to run,” Lirette began, her voice distant as she recalled the haunting memories. “To escape with all your strength, to fight with everything you have. That’s the only way he can truly feel the thrill of the hunt… He even goes so far as to intentionally injure his prey just before capturing them, to heighten their fear.”

“…”

“But once you’re caught… everything changes,” she continued, her shoulders hunching as if the weight of the memories themselves was physically bearing down on her. “If you resist after being caught, the pain only gets worse. You get beaten more, hurt more.”

Just like how an animal, trapped in a snare, tears its flesh apart while trying to escape, Dylan’s human hunts were no different.

“For him, it’s just a game. But for the person on the other end… it’s anything but. You know that, don’t you? How often have people lost their lives after making the mistake of provoking him?”

As she spoke, a sudden chill crept over Lirette, despite the warmth of spring outside. It wasn’t the temperature—it was the creeping sensation of past trauma resurfacing, a physiological reaction to the memories of fear and helplessness.

‘I told you not to resist…’

Her throat throbbed as though something was constricting it.

Even though Hayley had scratched the side of her neck, it wasn’t the injury that was bothering her now. It was the phantom sensation of two large hands tightening around her throat—hands that had often grabbed her hair and then gripped her neck like a vise. The feeling was so vivid it was as if it had happened just yesterday.

Lirette’s hand instinctively moved to her neck, tracing the spot where those hands had once been. Even now, it felt like they hadn’t quite let go.

Whenever she had tried to flee from Dylan, it had felt like running through a maze, endlessly lost. There were times when she had wished he would just catch her already—so she could put up a fight, get beaten, and be done with it. Some days, the torment of trying to escape felt worse than the actual beating.

She had even thought about provoking him further when he caught her, hoping to anger him enough to make it quick.

But every time he pinned her down, all the defiance, all the fury that had boiled up inside her, would vanish. Terror, in its purest form, would take over, swallowing up every other thought.

Dylan never killed anyone quickly.

He played with them first, breaking them piece by piece, until he was satisfied. Only after he had torn them apart emotionally and physically would he finally let them go. Lirette had seen too many people destroyed by him, in ways too horrifying to describe.

In a way, she was surprised he had bothered to heal her wounds every time. It seemed almost ironic—his idea of “caring.”

‘I care for you, Lirette,’ Dylan had once said to her.

But Lirette never believed him. It wasn’t care. It was just another form of torture.

“…”

Lirette realized she had said too much.

She hadn’t meant to speak so openly. Perhaps the distance she had put between herself and Dylan had made her feel safe enough to let her guard down. She had spoken freely, sharing her darkest memories.

For a moment, she worried.

After all, Valderion and Dylan were on the same side—at least from her perspective. They were allies. Would he take offense at what she had said about his comrade? Would he feel she had insulted someone close to him?

But when she looked back at Valderion’s face, she found no trace of emotion.

His expression was as calm and unmoving as a frozen lake in the dead of winter. There was no anger, no sympathy, not even curiosity. The complete absence of reaction made him seem colder, more distant, almost menacing.

Lirette studied his face with a strange, unexplainable feeling.

For the first time, she found herself genuinely curious about what he was thinking.

“You’re truly… impossible to figure out,” Valderion said after a long pause, his voice low and contemplative.

His head tilted to one side as he took a drag from his cigar, letting the smoke swirl around his darkened eyes. His gaze lingered on her, studying her intently.

“If you think about it,” he continued, “you should have reacted the same way with me.”

“…”

“You didn’t hesitate to stand up to me,” he added with a wry smile.

“I wasn’t standing up to you. I was making a fair request,” Lirette responded, her tone firm.

“Yes, you stood up to me fairly,” he said, a trace of amusement in his voice.

Lirette glared at him, but there was no real bitterness behind it. As she reflected on his words, she couldn’t help but wonder at the truth in them.

He was right.

Despite everything, despite the fact that she had even physically clashed with him at times, she had never felt the same crippling fear in his presence as she had with Dylan. With Valderion, her defiance and stubbornness had always been her strongest motivators. Maybe that same stubbornness had buried her deeper fears, keeping them at bay.

Lirette swallowed down a bitter laugh.

Emotions were strange, sometimes paradoxical.

Her life was tangled in a web of bitterness and resentment toward the imperial family and House Justitia. Even now, living under their roof, she was constantly uneasy and anxious—unable to sleep peacefully at night. And yet, the very emotions that unsettled her—her anger, her resistance—were what kept her alive.

Valderion was a source of those feelings. Her opposition to him, her need to resist him, was what pushed her forward. In a way, it kept her from drowning in her past.

Hatred, it seemed, had the power to erase helplessness.

Her father’s words suddenly came to her mind: “Some people live their entire lives fueled only by their hatred for others.”

Only now, after all these years, did Lirette begin to understand what he had meant.

“From now on,” Valderion said, his tone sharp, “react properly.”

“…”

“Fight back. Or if you can’t, scream like you did earlier. Do something—anything. But don’t act like you’re already dead.”

His gaze bore into hers as he leaned closer, closing the distance between them once more.

“Don’t act like a corpse.”

His eyes gleamed with intensity, and though nothing was physically touching her neck anymore, Lirette once again felt the tightness there.

No—perhaps this time, it was the lump in her throat.

“I won’t tolerate anyone bearing my name falling apart like that,” he murmured, his words striking her like a blow. He leaned back, his expression one of finality.

“That’s why I trained Camon to be a proper hunting dog.”

“…”

“Better to bite and kill than to be bitten and killed.”

Valderion’s words revealed a glimpse into his upbringing—how his mind had been shaped by a life of privilege, power, and a kind of ruthless pragmatism. Raised in a noble house that rivaled the imperial family itself, he had never known submission or fear. His confidence and arrogance were traits he wore as naturally as his name.

Lirette felt a strange unease wash over her.

House Justitia and the Imperial Family.

In her mind, they were one and the same—a collective source of her hatred, the reason for her father’s tragic death. She had every reason to despise them both.

And yet, now these two figures in her life—Dylan and Valderion—seemed to split apart in her thoughts.

Dylan had sought to break her spirit, to crush her will.

Valderion, on the other hand, told her to fight, to keep her will alive.

“This matter should end here for today. If you need a doctor, I’ll summon one,” Valderion said.

“…No, that won’t be necessary.” Lirette shook her head and stood up from the sofa, politely declining.

The strange feeling lingered, as if something within her had shifted. It dawned on her, slowly but surely—something she had understood intellectually but had not fully accepted until now.

Valderion and Dylan were entirely different. No matter how intertwined their fates seemed in her mind, they were not the same.

***

Hayley was dismissed the same day the incident occurred.

Her sudden absence had a profound impact on the atmosphere of the household, more significant than Lirette had expected. For Lirette, the change was immediate and palpable.

Today, for the first time in a long while, she descended to the kitchen without rushing. She sat down at a quiet corner table with a simple meal of golden-brown toast and stew made from slow-cooked tomatoes.

As she took her first bite, warmth spread through her, not just from the food but from the calmness of the moment itself.

I’ve eaten sandwiches, but… she thought, glancing at the food.

There was a time when she had shared a meal intended for Valderion. Since then, every time she met him in the evenings, sandwiches and sangria would be prepared for their shared late-night encounters.

But today was different.

There was something deeply satisfying about eating food that was entirely her own, without sharing it with anyone else. She savored the simplicity of it, taking another spoonful of stew just as she became aware of the stares around her.

Looking up, she found several pairs of eyes on her.

Since the servants’ mealtimes were staggered so that someone was always on duty, the dining area was never completely full. Yet, in her month of working here, she had never felt quite so observed.

Are they looking because of the wound? she wondered.

Her fingers brushed unconsciously over her bandaged cheek. Hayley’s claws had left visible marks, and though the worst of it had healed, she still wore a covering of ointment and cloth to protect it. Her neck, however, had fared better and only required the application of ointment.

No, they’re staring because they know.

Hayley’s dismissal had been dramatic and public.

She had been dragged out by the knights, screaming her protests at the top of her lungs. Her furious shouts of injustice echoed so loudly that Lirette, even while sitting in Valderion’s study, had heard her cries reverberating through the hallways.

The entire household knew.

Even now, as Lirette ate quietly, she could still feel the lingering tension of that day. The servants were no longer just looking at her out of curiosity about her injuries. They were watching her because she had survived something most wouldn’t dare to confront—Hayley’s wrath.

She had not only survived, but Hayley was gone.

That alone changed the way people looked at her.