Chapter 6
She had wanted to spend her first night with him properly — to truly become his wife.
But never, never had she wished for it to happen in this way.
A month had passed since that night.
Oscar came to Lydel’s room almost every day, performing their marital duty with a detached, mechanical air before leaving again.
They had shared a morning together only once — that first time — and even then, it was not because he wanted to be with her. He simply had not calmed his anger until dawn began to break.
When Lydel lay motionless from pain and exhaustion, tears silently streaming down her face, Oscar said nothing. He merely left the maids to clean up and walked away.
After that first night, Oscar was never rough with her again. His hands no longer carried anger or violence; he even asked if she was in pain, showing a kind of detached concern.
Perhaps he regretted how reckless he had been with a woman untouched before him. After all, he was once an honorable knight.
But when, days later, Lydel heard a message from him delivered by a maid, she realized there could be no deeper despair.
Oscar had forbidden her to even leave her room without his permission.
“I have no intention of raising a cuckoo’s chick.”
The words he had spoken that night echoed endlessly in her mind.
Mina cried, saying it was all her fault.
She had only summoned Ethan because she thought it would help Lydel, never dreaming such a thing would happen. She apologized again and again.
Lydel smiled and forgave her. “It’s not your fault. I was the one who angered my husband,” she said.
And then she realized — even in this misery, she could still smile.
Days passed with Lydel confined to her room, her life reduced to something close to imprisonment.
The deputy commander’s sister often came to visit her. Always dressed in fine gowns, her beauty polished and her smile full of ease, she looked far more like the lady of the castle than Lydel ever had.
“You needn’t worry about the household. I’ll see to everything. Even if you stay in your room, nothing will be amiss.”
Her words implied all too clearly that Lydel’s presence or absence made no difference at all.
Mina, worried for her, tried to coax her outside — saying the weather was fine, the flowers beautiful. Surely Oscar wouldn’t object if she only walked within the castle grounds.
But Lydel never asked him for permission. Knowing how much he despised her, she didn’t have the strength to step outside as though nothing were wrong.
Then, something strange began to happen.
Oscar, who had never asked such things before, started inquiring often whether she wanted anything.
Perhaps he feared she might complain to her father.
But Lydel knew she would never do that — and besides, she knew the one thing she truly wanted was something he could never give. So she always replied that she needed nothing.
Each time, Oscar’s expression darkened, and as if in frustration, he took her in his arms.
One night, he handed her a beautiful dagger. When she asked what it was for, he said it was a gift.
It wasn’t her birthday or an anniversary — it was simply the first gift he had ever given her since their marriage.
Surprised and bewildered, she couldn’t help feeling a flicker of joy, however fleeting.
“Thank you. I’ll treasure it,” she said.
The warmth of happiness spread through the cracks of her heart.
But Oscar added curtly:
“A knight’s wife must always carry a dagger — to protect her honor if ever threatened by a ruffian. If you keep it close, you may finally learn what it means to guard your husband’s name.”
From that day on, Lydel carried the dagger everywhere. She would lift it to the sunlight and gaze at its gleam, never tiring of the sight. At night she placed it under her pillow before sleep, just as he had instructed.
She even carried it as she moved about her room — never letting it leave her side.
Another evening, she heard laughter from outside. Curious, she asked a cleaning maid what was happening.
The maid explained that Lord Oscar was hosting a feast for the village children — something he did twice a year since becoming lord of the castle.
“Children are the treasures that weave the future,” he would always say.
When Lydel peeked out the window, she saw a young woman leading the children across the lawn.
The woman had glossy chestnut hair tied back and wore a simple dress — yet she was beautiful, her smile bright as the sun.
And in that instant, Lydel understood.
This was the woman Oscar cared for — the one he cherished and welcomed into the castle with all his heart.
He greeted her with a tender smile Lydel had never once seen directed at herself, embracing her gently and kissing her cheek.
Unable to bear the sight, Lydel closed the curtains at once.
That night, Oscar did not come to her.
The next morning, the deputy commander’s sister paid her a visit just to mention — almost cheerfully — that the young woman had spent the night in the castle’s guest chamber.
Two months after that first night, Lydel realized her body was changing.
Mina told the head maid, and a physician was summoned.
The diagnosis came swiftly — she was with child.
That night, Oscar finally appeared and spoke just one sentence.
“…From now on, take good care of yourself.”
No excitement. No joy. No satisfaction.
His voice was as calm and impersonal as ever.
A single tear slipped down Lydel’s cheek.
She had hoped — foolishly — that the news of her pregnancy might soften him, might finally make him look at her differently.
But that fragile hope shattered immediately.
During her pregnancy, Oscar continued his visits — once every three days, as though fulfilling a duty.
He would ask about her condition, instruct her to tell the maids if she needed anything, and always end the conversation the same way:
“Take care of yourself.”
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Before long, a wet nurse had been chosen — a respectable woman whose own child was due a month before Lydel’s.
The nurse told her that a baby could hear its mother’s voice from the womb, and suggested she read or speak to the child.
So Lydel took up a beautifully bound book Oscar had once given her — one she had only admired from afar.
For the first time, she opened it and began to read aloud to the child within her.
It was a gentle love story — about a brave prince rescuing a beautiful princess from an evil dragon.
At last, the time came, and Lydel gave birth to a healthy baby girl.
Everyone had worried her frail body wouldn’t withstand labor, but the delivery was far easier than expected.
It wasn’t a boy — not an heir.
Lydel feared Oscar would be disappointed. And indeed, his expression revealed nothing at all.
He merely told her to rest and left without even holding the baby.
So yes — she understood what that meant.
The child had Oscar’s wintry eyes and jet-black hair.
Mina rejoiced that her features otherwise resembled Lydel’s own.
Lydel named her daughter Emilia.
When Oscar asked if she had any preference, she spoke the name, and he accepted it without question.
He never realized — it was the name of the princess from the very book he had once gifted her.
To Lydel, Emilia was a beloved treasure — the child born of the man she loved, a fragment of happiness she could still call her own.
News of Emilia’s birth spread quickly. Lydel’s parents, siblings, and relatives all sent congratulations, and nobles across the country celebrated the former princess’s safe delivery.
Gifts arrived daily; guests filled the castle; banquets were held in endless succession.
From her quiet chamber, Lydel could hear the constant bustle of laughter and music.
And while the world rejoiced, she lay silently, healing her battered body — unable even to hear her daughter’s cries, for the baby was already in the wet nurse’s care.
