SWY 39

Chapter 4: The Old Site

“…Hah.”

Lestel let out a hollow laugh as he watched Derry run off like a rabbit escaping a hunter. He didn’t know what to make of him, just saying, “I’ll go,” before bolting without another word of explanation.

Judging by how Derry had genuinely worried over Sharhan and only drank the bare minimum needed to survive, it couldn’t have been an attempt to run off alone. The water was made with his own ability, so he could’ve hoarded it if he’d wanted to.

“What does he think he’s doing? He doesn’t even have any combat ability.”

The only weapon he had was Sharhan’s dagger, which he’d ended up taking along without even meaning to.

Caught between worry and doubt, Lestel sighed and turned away. He couldn’t leave Sharhan behind to follow Derry. Whether Derry returned or not, he could only hope he’d make it back safely.

“Ugh…”

Sharhan let out a faint groan. Lestel hurried to his side. His face was flushed. Without proper treatment, Sharhan had drifted in and out of a high fever, his body burning up one moment and going cold the next. It looked like the fever was spiking again.

“He left the robe behind too.”

Derry had always treasured that robe. To Lestel, it was as loathsome as Lord Luhas himself, but for Derry, it was a precious gift from his teacher. And he’d willingly handed it over when Sharhan began to shiver from the cold.

Lestel sighed again, remembering how Derry had looked up at him nervously, his face full of guilt. Then he gently pulled the robe off of Sharhan’s body.

“Damn it. It’s festering.”

The wound had festered because it hadn’t been treated in time. He knew he had to drain the pus and cut away the infected tissue, but there was absolutely nothing out here in the wasteland. He couldn’t even start a fire to sterilize the blade, no tinder, no fire stick.

“You have to pull through, Shan. If you die like this, I’ll never forgive you. I’ll chase you to the depths of hell.”

“Mmm…”

“Do you remember the day you left the academy? I got up at dawn like always to wake you, but shit, your room was empty. It wasn’t until much later I found out you’d received urgent news and had to leave. Do you have any idea how I felt?”

At the time, he thought Sharhan had snuck off to train alone, determined to beat him in the next exam. He’d stormed around, ready to tease him: “So you were secretly training behind my back? Wouldn’t it be humiliating if you still lost to me?”

But Sharhan was nowhere. Not at the training grounds, not even in the library. It wasn’t until much later that he learned Sharhan had received emergency news and returned home that very night. The despair he’d felt then was indescribable.

It crushed Lestel to realize that Sharhan had considered him so insignificant. He felt betrayed. They always bickered, yes, but deep down he’d believed their bond was more than that of childhood friends or rivals. That belief shattered.

“To you, I really was just another son of House Ailun.”

That thought tormented him for a long time.

To Lestel, Sharhan was the only one. The absolute. Irreplaceable. His one and only person. He was a childhood friend, a rival, a brother, all in one.

He had been Lestel’s shield, and sometimes, a piercing spear. The closest person to him, and at times, the most distant. Sharhan was the beginning and end of every kind of relationship that couldn’t be defined in a single word.

“The day my mother died… from that day on, you became everything to me.”

Lestel spoke softly, brushing Sharhan’s sweat-soaked hair back, though no one was listening.

Fourteen years ago, when Lestel was nine, his mother died. She had always been frail but managed to hang on. Then one day, after a terrible shock, she collapsed and never got back up. The shock had come from discovering her husband’s affair.

Marquis Ailun, Lestel’s father, was a cold, calculating noble, full of pride and devoid of love. A man of blue blood in every sense. He married for the sake of the family and had Lestel. But when his sickly wife could no longer bear children, he sought another woman, openly, without even hiding it.

Even when Lestel’s mother passed, the marquis held only a perfunctory funeral. He didn’t shed a single tear. When his son sobbed in grief, he called him weak. And in his bedchamber that night, his mistress, Claire, the current marchioness, was waiting.

Marquis Ailun had lain with his lover the night his wife was placed in her coffin. Though he waited a year to remarry for appearances, Lestel had already known of the affair.

The person who stayed by his side while he cried in the woods, overcome by grief and fury, was Sharhan.

Sharhan had simply sat beside him and held his hand. Even when it got sweaty and slippery, he didn’t let go. When Lestel finally fell asleep from exhaustion, Sharhan hugged him from behind and patted his back.

He still remembered the warmth of that little body, the clammy hands, the quiet sniffles, and the faint smell of milk that clung to him. The heartbeat against his back had been such a comfort.

Lestel never once forgot that day. And from that day on, his feelings for Sharhan began to change.

They bickered daily, played tricks, even threw punches. But what grew between them was love. Lestel touched him playfully, posed as a rival to keep Sharhan away from girls.

And even though he desperately wanted more, he never dared show it, afraid that even this fragile balance might break. But behind all those days, beneath every interaction, was Lestel’s deep, enduring love for Sharhan.

He had believed Sharhan would return once family matters were resolved. But his absence stretched on. When break came, Lestel ran home like mad, only to uncover the truth, another wave of despair.

“Actually, I was going to go down to your hometown during break and confess to you.”

He was going to tell Sharhan that he loved him. That he had for a long time. He was going to cling and beg him to be his lover. But what awaited him wasn’t a warm smile or exasperated laughter. It was a cruel truth.

As he abandoned his house and wandered in search of Sharhan, Lestel’s heart was slashed open again and again, sometimes in despair, sometimes in hope.

That sheltered noble boy, proud of his clever mind and decent swordsmanship, survived multiple brushes with death and changed.

And three years later, when he finally found Sharhan, Lestel felt both euphoria and a sinister spark. That spark was the magic contract.

He reached for his chest. The moment he changed into the hunter’s clothes, he’d grabbed the contract and the brooch. He had left everything else behind, but not those two.

Especially the contract. It was the one thing that could ensure Sharhan would never leave again. The only way to bind him. It was Lestel’s lifeline.

His courage to confess was gone, but his feelings for Sharhan only grew deeper. He no longer had the right to wear his heart on his sleeve, but his obsession intensified.

He wanted more than what they had. He wanted their bodies to be one. He promised himself it would happen. In his mind, he’d kissed Sharhan countless times, made love to him countless more.

And in doing so, he realized he could never go back.

‘Shan, I love you.’

Lestel hugged him, knowing full well that Sharhan couldn’t hear. In the near future, Sharhan would surely hate and resent him.

But even knowing that, this boundless love, obsession, and maddening desire wouldn’t stop.

At some point, Lestel had dozed off without meaning to. When he woke, he immediately checked Sharhan. His fever had gone down, and his face looked more relaxed. As he touched his lips to check the temperature, a shiver ran down his back.

“It’s snowing.”

When he opened the door, snow was falling in thick flurries. Judging by the sun’s angle, he must’ve slept no more than an hour.

But in that time, the snow had piled up. As he stepped out, his foot sank all the way past his ankle. The icy cold made him shudder, then exhale in relief.

“Well, at least we’ve got water now.”

His biggest worry when Derry had suddenly left was water. He could survive somehow, but he’d been considering leaving Sharhan alone to go look for water. Now he didn’t have to.

Lestel crouched and scooped up snow in his palm, rubbing it together. It melted into water from his body heat, washing away the dirt on his hands. He washed his face the same way, then scooped up clean snow and held it in his mouth.

The freezing chill and the sensation of moisture spreading in his parched mouth reminded him just how thirsty he had been.

After wetting his throat several times, Lestel filled his mouth with snow again. But instead of swallowing, he turned to Sharhan. His lips were slightly parted, searching for moisture, his fever seemed to be rising again.

Lestel sat right beside him and leaned in. As his cracked, dry lips neared Sharhan’s, his heart began to pound absurdly.

‘Shit. Why the hell am I nervous?’

He’d imagined kissing those lips so many times, sucking on them, biting them. He thought he’d be smooth when the time came. But his throat bobbed involuntarily, and he accidentally swallowed the water.

“…”

Embarrassed, Lestel lifted his head. His face was flushed red.