You, My Devil - Chapter 3

“…What do you mean?”

“I’ve decided to postpone your death until the next rain ritual.”

“…What?” Heina’s composed expression cracked, her face twisting in shock.

“Looking back over the past year, I realize Constance’s former princess has proven to be quite… useful,” he murmured, his low, husky voice vibrating in her ear. A surge of anger and despair rose within her, leaving her voice shaking.

“What… what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’ll let you live,” he replied with a mocking tone. “Are you pretending not to hear from sheer joy at the gift of your life?”

Heina’s entire body went rigid with horror as she processed his words.

Heina bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t fathom his intentions, nor could she bring herself to believe his words. Was he really telling the truth? Was he truly saying he wouldn’t kill her?

“So, as for your burial in Constance… I’ll consider it after a year, once the next rain ritual has passed,” Yuri said with a mocking smile. Now that the Emperor had decreed it, this year’s ritual would be led by Fessis, and Yuri had no intention of offering her up as a sacrifice to him.

A raindrop suddenly landed on his bony hand, which was wrapped around her chest. The night sky was dry and cold, yet her tears fell steadily onto his hand.

“I didn’t expect you to be so moved that you’d cry,” he sneered, watching as more drops wetted his hand. Without even looking at her, he knew her perfect, doll-like face was twisted in silent anguish, her tears streaming uncontrollably.

“In the end, even in this hellish life, staying alive is still better, isn’t it?” His taunting voice lingered near her ear, peeling back the hidden truth she’d desperately tried to deny. If she was honest, she would have preferred death. She would rather be free than live as a captive. Tears spilled continuously down her cheeks, searing her skin with their warmth as she closed her eyes.

Above them, the moon climbed higher, slowly filling into fullness.

* * *

“Prince Yuri has arrived.”

A shrine attendant reported softly.

Camille, who was in the center of the temple burning incense and preparing for the deity’s reception, turned around. As Yuri stepped into the temple past the stone pillars, Camille warmly greeted him.

“How can you go off hunting before you’ve even shaken off the weariness of the battlefield? It’s been so long since I last saw you that I can hardly remember when it was, Yuri.”

Camille’s striking blue eyes followed Yuri. While it wasn’t unheard of for men in Nike to have blue eyes, Yuri had never seen anyone with irises as clear as Camille’s. Moreover, Camille’s gaze always seemed to land perfectly on Yuri’s face, so much so that Yuri often forgot Camille was blind.

“How could I possibly hold back after what Fessis has done?” Yuri replied, frustration evident in his voice.

“Haha, it seems your temperament remains unchanged, which is comforting to see. My apologies to Brother Fessis, though,” Camille chuckled softly, grasping Yuri’s hand, which openly displayed his emotions. A dimple appeared on Camille’s finely sculpted left cheek as he smiled.

“I’ve heard about the rainmaking ritual. The key is to stay composed, my dear brother.”

Guided by Camille, Yuri stepped into the garden behind the temple. Only then did the turmoil in his chest begin to settle.

The small garden, open to the sky, was filled with a variety of flowers that had broken through the barren ground and now stood proudly reaching for the sun. In this water-scarce land, the scene was a testament to Camille’s painstaking care. At the center of the garden, fragrant steam rose from tea prepared by an attendant and placed on a circular stone table.

Clink.

Camille, practiced and steady, lifted a teacup. Yuri quietly observed his older half-brother, Camille, the High Priest of Nike, whose serene demeanor was as unshakable as ever.

Camille, the Third Prince of Nike.

As a child, he had nearly died after drinking a poisoned potion given to him by someone. Though he survived, the ordeal cost him his sight. Inevitably, his fate was sealed—he would dedicate his life to serving the gods. Among Nike’s four sons, Camille was the gentlest by nature and the one who least resembled their father. His mother had been a daughter of the Rashahin tribe, the smallest minority group at the time when Nike had unified the nomadic peoples.

She had caught the attention of the Emperor of Nike while playing the pipa, and that was how she came to bear Camille. After giving birth to him and entering the palace as a concubine, she fell ill, wasting away until she died. Her illness was labeled as madness, and in her final days, she couldn’t even recognize her own son, refusing food until she eventually passed.

The palace dwellers unanimously agreed that her free spirit had been unable to adapt to life in the imperial household. Unlike the Emperor’s other three sons, Camille showed no trace of their father’s cruel and tyrannical disposition. Both his appearance and his gentle temperament were reminiscent of his maternal lineage. Camille, in fact, was the most beautiful among Nike’s four sons, which led most of the populace to believe he was a celestial being, descended to the mortal realm at the gods’ behest.

“So, do you feel better now after basking in the desert’s energy?”

“If I could cut off the heads of those ministers still harping on about the so-called prophecy that doesn’t even exist anymore, I’d feel much better,” Yuri muttered, his voice betraying his barely contained fury.

Camille reached out and gently stroked Yuri’s head. He was the only person in the imperial palace who could touch Yuri without fear.

Yuri’s fiery red hair slid smoothly through Camille’s fingers, shifting direction with the movement. Yuri tilted his head slightly, allowing Camille’s touch to reach more easily. His pale eyelashes cast delicate shadows on his white face as his eyes lowered.

Camille spoke in a soft voice.

“My dear brother, are you still brooding over the rainmaking ritual?”

“I never thought even Nike would side with the ministers clamoring about rightful succession,” Yuri responded bluntly.

Camille continued in a measured tone.

“Yuri, the more you act out, the more it will seem to others that you care about that prophecy.”

Yuri raised his head and gazed silently at his half-brother, Camille, who was sincerely concerned for him. By the time Yuri was old enough to understand words, no one in the imperial palace would speak to him.

Even the wet nurses who had nursed him were replaced once a year under the pretense that he was cursed. When the young prince passed by, some maids would whisper loudly enough for him to hear, calling him a demon.

His father, Nike, was constantly away at war, and his brothers—far from offering solace—seemed eager to harm him at any opportunity.

The first person who had ever opened their heart to him was the Third Prince, Camille.

“Who’s there?”

Rustle.

“Don’t run away. Come here. Would you read to me? I can’t see, you know.”

The first time they met, Camille’s personality seemed as angelic as his appearance. He didn’t appear to care about the rumors surrounding Yuri—or perhaps, the young Yuri thought, he simply didn’t know about them.

The imperial palace was rife with gossip: the red-haired demon had cursed Camille, blinding him. It was said that after a failed attempt on Camille’s life, someone had shifted the blame onto Yuri. The rumor spread like wildfire, with people whispering that to avoid the demon’s curse, one must never cross him. This only deepened Yuri’s loneliness.

Whether Camille was aware of these rumors or not, he had never once pushed Yuri away.

By Camille’s side, Yuri would read to him. He never admitted that he couldn’t yet read the words on the page. Instead, he crafted stories about a desert god riding a sandstorm into Nike to save its people.

Camille would listen with a serene smile, absorbing every word of Yuri’s made-up tales.
“Read to me again next time, Yuri,” Camille would say.

“Camille, aren’t you… afraid of me?”

Camille responded with his characteristic gentle smile, locking eyes with Yuri as he asked in return,

“Do I have any reason to be afraid of you?”

It wasn’t until Yuri grew older that he realized Camille’s sincerity.

“Please don’t say such things in front of a servant of the gods. Everything is as Nike and the gods who protect him have willed it. Even his birth is no exception.”

The day Yuri saw Camille’s serene blue eyes fill with quiet anger, directed at those who insulted him, Camille became the only person Yuri could trust in the imperial palace.

“I need something certain,” Yuri declared, meeting Camille’s striking gaze. “Something that can fundamentally reshape the people’s perceptions.”

Camille took a sip of his fragrant tea, a soft smile gracing his lips.
“Your coming-of-age ceremony is approaching, isn’t it, Yuri?”

Yuri felt as though Camille could see straight through to the depths of his soul. Ever since Camille had officially dedicated himself to serving the gods after reaching adulthood, Yuri found it impossible to lie to him. That was precisely why he had come. If there were enemies within the palace, he needed to sway the people of Nike. His coming-of-age ceremony had to leave an indelible impression, one that solidified the belief that Yuri was the next rightful emperor.

“What do you wish for me to do, my brother?” Camille asked, his face a masterpiece of divine craftsmanship, adorned with a serene, picture-perfect smile.

“Set a date for me, Camille. A date that will surely ensure success.”

Yuri gazed at him with desperation. If he became emperor, the first thing he would do was uncover the one who had blinded Camille and gouge out their eyes in retribution. Camille, as a priest, could not commit violence; vengeance was Yuri’s burden to bear. He had his suspicions, but he needed a confession. When a blade pressed against their throat, the guilty would surely spill their sins.

To achieve this, Yuri had to ascend the throne at all costs. If Fessis or Nadine became emperor, Yuri’s death would be inevitable. Even if he claimed the throne, his survival wouldn’t be guaranteed—only the roles of victor and victim would shift.

The logic of the imperial palace, a truth Yuri had learned through bitter experience, was simple:

Only the strong survive. Kill, or be killed.

“The power of your star is growing stronger, Yuri,” Camille murmured, his low voice resonating through the room.

“That must be a good omen, Brother.” Yuri’s eyes gleamed sharply. He was willing to shroud everything in darkness to make his star shine brighter.

Camille set down his teacup and rose, tilting his head back to face the heavens. His lips moved silently in prayer, and Yuri held his breath, watching him from behind.

How much time had passed? At last, Camille broke the silence, speaking in a quiet, measured tone.

“Your coming-of-age ceremony will take place on the night after the rainmaking ritual, when the moon wanes into the shape of a goat’s horn.”

“I will follow the word of the gods,” Yuri replied, dropping to his knees and bowing his head before Camille had even finished speaking. Yuri had never once doubted that the gods had chosen him.

Camille’s words were always correct. This time would be no different—it had to be so.

After Yuri left the temple, Camille let out a soft sigh.

“Oh, gods. That child has fought against his destiny with everything he has. And yet… must you truly demand this of him?”

* * *

That year, Nike’s dry season stretched on unnaturally long.

The vast territories radiating outward from the capital, Granada, grew visibly parched with each passing day. For the people of Nike, who had endured centuries of drought, control over water symbolized a ruler’s supreme power.

Camille, along with the temple priests and scribes, calculated the date of the rainmaking ritual each year based on historical records and the movements of the stars. The ritual usually marked the beginning of the desert’s rainy season.

Yet, even ten days after the grand rainmaking ceremony, no rain had fallen on Nike.

“There are reports of growing unrest as the rain delays far longer than anticipated. If this continues, chaos may erupt across the nation.”

“The grievances of the people, worn thin by prolonged drought, are steadily growing louder.”

Fessis’s brow furrowed slightly as he listened to the concerned reports during the council meeting held in the imperial palace. Struggling to maintain an air of composure, he forced a leisurely smile onto his face.

“It has only been ten days. To debate the rise and fall of our nation over a mere ten days seems far from a wise judgment for a people like us, who have withstood centuries on this arid land.”

“A mere ten days, you say, Brother Fessis?”

A voice Fessis was far from happy to hear interjected from across the table. He cast a sidelong glare at Yuri, who sat slouched in his seat. Yuri smirked.

“In the past five years, rain has never failed to fall within five days of the ritual. Surely you, who have overseen these ceremonies all this time, would know that better than anyone.”

“Statistics are just that—statistics. The gods will respond in their time, and the ministers need not concern themselves,” Fessis replied, barely keeping his simmering anger in check.

Yuri chuckled.

“Perhaps Brother Fessis’s touch has lost its effectiveness? Hahaha.”

Yuri made no effort to hide his amusement, further irritating Fessis. Watching Fessis’s growing displeasure, the ministers hastily raised their voices.

“Prince Yuri! Such reckless remarks are unacceptable!”

“Just a joke, ministers,” Yuri replied with a shrug, his lips curling into a casual grin. He reached for a decorative red apple, an offering from a colony, and bit into it nonchalantly.

Fessis, who had been glaring at Yuri, slowly began to speak.

“…Perhaps Yuri is right, after all.”

All eyes turned to Fessis, including those of Emperor Nike, who had been silently observing from the head of the table. His sharp gaze bore into Fessis.

“Switching the offering at the last moment must have angered the gods. So, saying my influence has waned isn’t entirely incorrect.”

Yuri paused mid-bite. His crimson eyebrows, matching the color of his hair, arched upward.

Fessis continued in his usual calm tone.

“Even after conquering Constance with the gods’ blessing, we failed to present offerings from that vassal state. It’s only natural the gods would be displeased.”

The ministers began murmuring among themselves.

Yuri locked eyes with Fessis, his lips curling upward in a smile. But while his mouth smiled, his gaze radiated deadly intent.

Is that the best excuse you could come up with, Fessis?

Cunning as ever, Fessis was shifting the blame for the failed ritual onto the choice of offerings. Yet, wasn’t it Fessis himself who had suggested that sacrificing living humans—an ancient tradition—might provoke resentment from the many subject peoples under Nike’s rule?

Yuri chewed the inside of his cheek as he watched Fessis deftly redirect responsibility.

“Well then, the solution is simple,” Yuri said with a cruel smile.

The emperor, Nike, who had remained silent, finally turned his gaze to Yuri.

“Do you have a plan, Yuri?”

“Isn’t it straightforward? We simply return to the original plan and sacrifice a princess of the Constance royal family.”

Yuri’s languid reply came as he casually tossed the half-eaten apple onto the table.

The bright red fruit rolled across the long rectangular table, heading toward Fessis.

Thud.

A small dagger flew through the air and impaled both the rolling apple and the table beneath it in one swift motion.

The ministers froze, holding their breath. The juice from the punctured apple trickled down, staining the table.

Unable to contain his rage, Fessis shot to his feet, the force of his movement knocking his chair backward. His usually composed expression twisted in anger.

“What do you think you’re doing, Yuri?!”