You, My Devil - Chapter 2

“What do you mean by that?” Yuri frowned as the desert sunlight blazed into the Emperor’s reception room.

“I said that this year’s rain ritual will be overseen by the Second Prince, Fessis,” was the response. Next to Yuri, the Second Prince Fessis knelt on one knee in deference, bowing his head to the Emperor Nike.

“I humbly accept the will of Nike,” he said.

“Have you forgotten that presiding over the rain ritual is determined annually through a council’s evaluation of each candidate’s contributions to the nation?” Yuri’s sharp voice cut through before Fessis could finish speaking. “I thought I’d remind you, since Nike’s health seems to have affected his memory as of late.”

Yuri ran a rough hand through his blazing red hair, his gray, almond-shaped eyes smoldering with barely concealed anger.

“Such insolence before the Emperor! Have you no manners, no matter your youth?” Fessis reprimanded him harshly, his voice stern. Yuri responded with a sneer.

“For the past five years, I have led every battlefield, standing at the forefront, taking thousands—no, tens of thousands of lives. I haven’t exactly had the time to polish my etiquette, Brother Fessis.”

His words were no exaggeration. The first prince Nadine, chancellor of the kingdom; the sickly second prince Fessis; and the third prince Camille, a priest dedicated to serving the gods, were all bound by their responsibilities to remain in the capital. Thus, Yuri, the fourth prince, had been the one to march into war and crush enemy nations. His first battle alongside Nike had been when he was merely fifteen.

Each of Nike’s four sons had a different mother. After the death of the first prince Nadine’s mother from illness, the current Empress—Fessis’s mother—was brought into the palace. The third prince Camille was born from a later concubine. But no one knew who Yuri’s mother was. Rumor had it that he was the child of a witch who had ensnared the Emperor or perhaps an abandoned child Nike had found in the desert during a campaign. No one truly knew the origins of Yuri’s birth.

When the Emperor first brought the red-haired Yuri to the palace, his advisors quoted prophecies, warning Nike that this child would someday stab him in the back and seize the kingdom. They urged him to kill the boy. Instead, Nike burned all the kingdom’s prophetic texts, and those advisors who had advised him to kill Yuri were later assassinated, one by one. Many in the palace secretly believed that it was Yuri himself, even as a child, who had orchestrated those assassinations.

“It seems that all that blood you’ve spilled on the battlefield has clouded your understanding, little brother,” said Fessis smoothly, his pitch-black hair cascading down his shoulders as he looked at Yuri. Nike lounged on his gold-adorned throne, observing the exchange between his sons like an observer at a sport.

“Then by all means, teach me, wise Brother Fessis. Enlighten me on what I fail to understand. Although I know you’re rather occupied in the dungeons every day, refining your poison-making skills,” Yuri retorted.

For a moment, Fessis’s eyes, dark as an abyss, flashed with a murderous glint directed at Yuri. Then he smiled again, speaking in an even tone.

“As you said, little brother, the rain ritual host is traditionally chosen each year by the Emperor and the council.”

“Exactly my point, Brother Fessis. I’m suggesting we put it to a vote immediately.” Yuri grinned, his open smile belying his lack of restraint. He knew precisely how much the ministers feared him.

To preside over the rain ritual meant standing before the people as a direct emissary communicating with the divine. For the past five years, Fessis had been the one to perform the ritual, with Yuri excluded from consideration simply for his youth. This year, with his coming-of-age ceremony behind him, Yuri believed nothing could stand in his way.

Fessis spoke again, his voice serene.

“The ministers want a legitimate heir, my dear younger brother.”

The word “legitimate” fell from Fessis’s lips, and Yuri’s eyebrows shot up, his expression turning ice-cold. Legitimate. While everyone in the palace knew that Yuri was not born of the official consort, no one had dared to speak of it openly—until now. Yuri shot a furious glance toward Emperor Nike, seated above. Surely, he thought, the Emperor had foreseen this calculated provocation.

“It seems the number of enemy heads you’ve claimed in battle isn’t enough to satisfy the ministers, son. After all, there are still those who cling to bloodlines,” Nike chuckled heartily, his face smiling, though his eyes remained sharp with the cold gleam of an old warlord.

Since birth, Yuri had been thrust into a fierce rivalry among Nike’s sons, with the Emperor himself not only observing but orchestrating this ongoing contest. Yuri felt his teeth grind as he contemplated his father’s relentless testing. With a bitter voice, Yuri replied as though spitting out poison.

“I agree, Your Majesty. Perhaps it would have been better to sever the heads of those obsessed with bloodlines before going off to war.”

“Yuri! What nonsense are you saying?” Fessis interrupted angrily, but Yuri merely twisted his lips into a smirk.

“It’s a jest, Brother Fessis.”

“Haha…” Emperor Nike let out a loud laugh, showing no sign of being offended. Fessis, however, continued to glare icily at Yuri.

“You jest too far, little brother. This is not a battlefield. Remember that the palace is filled with ears and eyes at every corner,” Fessis said, his voice laced with a barely veiled hostility. Though he longed for the Emperor to sever Yuri’s head right then, Nike, as always, was lenient with his youngest son. It grated on Fessis, who detested the Emperor’s inclination to measure Yuri—someone he considered tainted—on an equal scale with himself.

Yuri snorted, staring back at Fessis.

“Of course. From now on, I’ll be especially mindful when speaking in your presence, Brother. With only three days left before the rain ritual, I’m sure you’ll be quite busy with preparations. So, I’ll take my leave now.”

After respectfully bowing to Emperor Nike, Yuri turned sharply and exited the reception hall. His breathing was rough; rage simmered within him. Who else had played a greater role in the conquest of Constance, Nike’s final territory expansion, than he?

Clenching his jaw, Yuri felt he would go mad if he couldn’t find a way to release this pent-up fury. Gathering his hunting gear, he mounted his horse and rode off into the desert, kicking up a storm of sand as he sped away from Granada Palace. At that moment, Yuri craved blood with an intensity he could barely contain. Someday, he longed to stain his hands with Fessis’s blood.

* * *

The desert night lay silent.

In Granada, the capital of Nike’s empire, the Emperor’s palace stood at the heart of the city, which was built around a desert oasis. Beyond the residential neighborhoods and bustling city streets, vast dunes encircled Granada, appearing and disappearing with the shifting winds, sometimes several times a day. Nomadic tribes had wandered these sands for centuries, braving searing heat by day and bone-chilling cold by night, raising children in the harsh desert and hunting under the blazing sun. According to legends passed down through generations, fertile lands flowing with milk and honey lay beyond the dunes.

The Emperor Nike had brought that legend to life. He expanded his lands through conquest, transforming barren fields into fertile grounds for farming. Nomadic tribes who had once lived scattered and divided into hundreds of clans now regarded him as the embodiment of a deity, worshiping him for his strength and vision. It was only natural that a powerful empire had flourished under his rule.

Constance was a small but culturally rich kingdom, nestled between rivers and the sea. Despite its small territory, it had long fostered art and culture. But this sophisticated nation fell helplessly before Nike’s brutal forces, which they had once derided as barbaric. Their downfall was swift, as they had never faced invasion before. A year after becoming Nike’s colony, many Nikites had settled in Constance, eager to absorb its refined culture.

Strategically, these settlers aimed to integrate Constance’s advanced skills into the empire. Instead of executing Constance’s royal nobles, Nike had taken them as hostages in his capital. The Emperor, the Empress, and their only daughter, Princess Heina, had been brought to Granada. For many of Constance’s people, this move offered a slim thread of hope; despite being forced to live as slaves, they believed that as long as their royal family survived, there remained a glimmer of possibility to reclaim their lost kingdom.

As the upcoming rain ritual approached, the entire capital buzzed with excitement. Only the silent, anxious glances exchanged by the people of Constance revealed their unease.

“Have you heard that they’re planning to offer Princess Heina as a live sacrifice in the rain ritual?” one whispered.

“What? Is that true? How horrific… these people are monsters…”

“Shh, be careful what you say. Besides, they say that Prince Yuri will almost certainly be chosen to preside over the ritual. Supposedly, it’s his reward for his great military achievements.”

“Yuri…?”

“Yes, the fourth prince of the Nike dynasty. They say he’s the most ruthless of them all.”

“Good heavens, you mean that demon with the fiery red hair—the one who killed Arzen right in front of his own father?”

“That’s the one. But I also heard from a merchant from Constance that strange rumors are spreading there lately.”

“Rumors? What kind of rumors?”

“…Come closer,” one man whispered.

“What’s with all the caution? Just tell me already.”

“There’s a rumor… that Arzen is actually alive. Supposedly, right before the match with Prince Yuri, the royal family swapped him out with another knight. Now, they say he’s secretly gathering a Constance resistance force. But who can believe it without seeing it with their own eyes?”

“Even a glimmer of hope is enough. If Lord Arzen is truly alive, he could be the one to revive Constance…”

“Shh! Nike’s soldiers are coming! Lower your head, quickly.”

* * *

Heina lay awake late into the night, unable to find peace. It had been over a year since she’d been captured and locked away in this secluded chamber, deep within Nike’s secondary palace. Her cell was a spacious, prison-like room, twenty paces wide and tall, and during this time, she had attempted suicide once and escaped seven times, all in vain.

She couldn’t die, nor could she escape this place. She could still remember Yuri’s chillingly twisted smile when he’d discovered the dining knife she’d hidden under her bed.

“What, were you planning to stab me with this?” he had sneered. “You think you could cut even a single hair with such a dull blade? Ha! You’re amusing, truly.”

When she broke a mirror to cut her wrists, Yuri nearly strangled her to death, and he only stopped after threatening to execute her parents, making her, for the first time in her life, beg through tears. Another time, she had shoved her maid with all her strength to try and flee, only to be intercepted by the Emperor’s guards spread throughout the palace. Upon Yuri’s return from his campaign and hearing of her attempt, he had tripled the number of maids who attended her.

She’d thought she might escape by different means, but nearly fell from a dizzying height when she tried to use the curtains to climb out of the window in the early dawn. The walls of Nike’s secondary palace were sheer sand, offering no footholds for climbing. She had barely crawled back into her room, drenched in cold sweat.

“I miss you, Mother…” she whispered, her voice breaking as she shed tears before a maid who came each night, under the guise of tidying her bed. For nearly a month now, she had pleaded, softly asking just to hear news of her mother’s well-being.

She had noticed a flicker of pity cross the face of the eldest, most reserved maid, and so she had increased her appeals. Yet this final attempt at appealing to their sympathy had also proved futile.

“So, this is how I’ll die,” she thought, gnawing at her damaged nails. The candles that once illuminated her room had long since burnt out, leaving only moonlight to filter through the large window, unsettling her with its ghostly glow.

That crescent moon, slowly filling out, marked her final night. It’s the same moon I once watched from Constance, she mused. How can it look so terrifying now?

There were only three days left until the rain ritual. That meant, in three nights—when the moon rose and set twice more—she would die before the citizens of Nike’s empire. The thought of being sacrificed for the welfare of those who had crushed Constance was a bitter tragedy she could barely endure.

Worse still was the knowledge that the people of Constance who had followed their royal family into Nike, clinging to the last scraps of hope, would be forced to witness her execution.

Will I be able to die honorably in front of my people? She wiped away the tears welling in her eyes. Leaning against the window, she stared intently at the faintly glowing moon with her reddened gaze.

She had barely lived for twenty years, with nineteen of them spent in the palace of Constance, surrounded by comfort, beauty, and privilege. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t fear death. The past year, filled with threats of death from Yuri, had been nothing short of a living hell. Every time she recalled the look in his eyes, a terror so deep her legs would nearly give out washed over her.

Yet she constantly reminded herself—she could not show weakness. Though her homeland had been conquered, as royalty, she could not beg for her life before her people or before the enemy. Her dignity, the one thing she had left, was something she could never afford to lose.

She even imagined spitting in Yuri’s face, sneering in thanks, knowing that ending this wretched existence would finally allow her to meet Arzen in the afterlife.

Heina clasped her hands together, praying to the moon for courage—to face death with dignity, not to crumble in fear and beg for her life.

Creak.

The sound of the wooden door opening startled her, and she turned, only to come face to face with the person she least wanted to see.

Yuri stood there, dressed in blood-spattered clothing and wearing knee-high leather boots laced up to the top. Her expression immediately froze as she took in his appearance.

“What… what do you want?” she stammered.

Yuri didn’t answer. Instead, he walked closer to the window where she stood, his cruel smile deepening as he ran a thumb over his lips. Heina, with her hands gripping the windowsill, could feel herself trembling.

“I went hunting,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Put a blade through the backs of five musk deer and two boars.”

A sickening sense of dread filled her as the scent of blood seemed to hang around him like a shroud. That was Yuri—the enemy prince, reeking of death like a devil incarnate.

He leaned against the windowsill beside her, his gaze fixed intently on her. Each time his eyes pierced her, she felt exposed and vulnerable, like she’d been stripped bare in the dead of winter. Goosebumps prickled along her arms.

“I feel much better now,” he remarked. Her eyes strayed to the streaks of dried blood along his pale neck, and a wave of dizziness washed over her. She had imagined countless times plunging a knife into his neck herself.

“Disgusting. Step back,” she managed, forcing the words out. But it wasn’t just revulsion—it was an overwhelming fear that constricted her breath.

She didn’t want to see blood. She didn’t want to remember the vivid red that had spilled from Arzen’s body.

Yuri only smirked, then suddenly grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back against his chest, forcing her to face the window. She preferred this to looking at the blood. His sharp jaw rested atop her head, making her shiver.

“Facing death must make you fearless,” he murmured, his cold voice reverberating above her. She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails bit into her palms.

“Open your eyes and take a good look. This is Granada, the capital of Nike. My birthplace.” Still gripping her waist with one arm, Yuri reached out with his free hand and opened the large window before them.

The chill of the desert night brushed her cheeks. Outside the palace walls lay clusters of shadowed buildings, dark and silent, surrounding a vast oasis reflecting the moonlight like a mirror. From the man-made forest around the oasis came faint, eerie bird calls. The night in Nike’s capital was smothering in its darkness, with only the distant moon casting any light at all.

Yuri began to speak slowly.

“A nation built on a mirage-like land, where sands pile up and vanish endlessly with the shifting moon. Your fallen homeland, Constance, could never have imagined what it means to live on barren soil, could it?”

Heina remained silent.

“But I doubt you’ve ever witnessed the breathtaking sight of countless stars rising and falling as you walk along those sand dunes at night. We Nikeans have lived and built our lives on these dunes for centuries.” Yuri inhaled deeply, letting the dry desert air fill his lungs. The faint scent of sand and dust always made his heart race.

A breeze caught Heina’s hair, blowing a few strands against his face. Yuri’s smile widened, and he tightened his hold around her.

“Let… let go,” she gasped, twisting uncomfortably, feeling suffocated by his grasp. Why should she have to listen to him romanticize this dreadful city? To her, Nike was only a brutal enemy that had destroyed her homeland.

Yuri’s cold voice slipped from his smiling lips.
“Stay still, unless you want to die a miserable death.”

Heina bit her lip, suppressing a shudder. No matter how many times she faced these humiliations, she could never grow accustomed to them.

She was his prize of war, taken after Yuri had led the conquest of Constance. When she’d first woken up in this strange room, she’d been greeted by his terrifying gaze, fixed intently on her. That night, he’d wrapped his arms around her and forced her to sleep in his embrace. Since then, she had been confined to this room, unable to set foot outside.

In an attempt to escape the horror, Heina closed her eyes and let her mind drift back to her homeland of Constance—a place she could never forget, even in dreams.

The flowers blooming beside the lake, changing hues with the seasons. The palace gardens, where she’d played hide-and-seek with Arzen. Endless groves of trees stretching beyond her sight. She missed the fountains that splashed cool water, filling the air with the gentle sound of flowing streams.

Yes, in three days, I’ll see Arzen again in heaven. Then this hell will finally end. She concentrated all her will on ignoring Yuri’s chilling presence behind her.

“…I have a request,” she murmured, her voice trembling despite her efforts to keep steady.

Yuri, who had been resting his chin atop her head, gave a slight, mocking smile.

A request. It was a word she had never spoken to him before, even in her most fearful moments. More often, she’d glared at him with eyes blazing with a rage and grief she couldn’t control, refusing to show any weakness.

“And what is it?”

Yuri’s eyes gleamed as he eagerly anticipated her next words. Was she finally about to beg for her life? So, this was how it would end for her, after all, he thought, feeling a dark satisfaction.

“…When I die…” Her voice faltered, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek, determined not to show weakness. “I ask that my body be buried in my homeland, in Constance.”

For a moment, Yuri said nothing. She swallowed hard, then continued, summoning all her strength. “It’s the first and last request I make as a princess of Constance. It’s not such a grand wish, is it?”

Silence stretched between them. Heina thought Yuri was considering her request. They say even the dead are granted one final wish—couldn’t he, as my killer, honor this last courtesy? Even a monster like you might grant this one small comfort to a captive princess, sacrificed for Nike’s rain ritual.

Then she felt him move, and a creeping unease came over her.

“…Ha…haha…” Yuri was laughing, a slow, cruel laugh as if he’d just heard the most absurd joke. Finally, he began to laugh outright, his sharp, grating laughter shaking her where they stood. His hysterical laughter filled the air, and the desert wind stung her eyes as it whipped up dust around them.

“Too bad,” he whispered in her ear, his voice still laced with laughter. “That’s going to be a problem.”

A shiver of dread ran down her spine. The wind felt colder, and his voice, rough with laughter, sounded almost demonic.

“I’ve changed my plans, Princess Heina.”