Chapter 49
The world around her momentarily blurred.
It felt like she had seen the muzzle of the gun aimed at her spitting fire. Or perhaps it was just a trick of the light—reflected sunlight glinting off polished metal under the almost-noon sun. The blinding flash stung her eyes, but the fear of death didn’t truly take hold.
*This is still the world of a novel,* she thought. *If I die here, it’ll be no different than closing the book.*
“No!”
A cry, raw and unworldly, rang in her ears, shattering the haze of disbelief.
Suddenly, a large shadow loomed over her.
With a loud thud, she was shoved back, sent sprawling to the ground by a force so strong it felt like she was a leaf being swept away.
The bright blue sky was obscured by the shadow of Clyde. In that instant, he was every bit a predator. His dark blue hair whipped around him like the mane of a black panther, and his speed was on par with that of a cheetah.
His broad arms encircled her as they hit the ground. Unable to absorb the momentum, Clyde scraped along the dirt with his back and shoulders, tumbling several yards before coming to a stop.
Edith found herself cradled within the safety of his cage-like arms, lying there as her head throbbed from the impact.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?”
Hearing Clyde’s urgent question made her realize she was still alive. His hands fumbled over her, checking for injuries.
“Ugh…”
She groaned, slowly lifting her head.
Her hand was smeared with blood. Strangely, though, she felt no pain—there were no injuries on her body that she could discern. Yet her palm was drenched in crimson.
“This blood…”
At that moment, their guards rushed over, scanning the surroundings for any further threats as they quickly checked on the two.
The source of the bleeding was soon found. Clyde, cradling one arm against his chest, stood up. Blood was dripping from his upper arm, staining his entire sleeve before pooling on the ground.
“There’s so much blood. What should we do?”
Still sitting on the ground, Edith shuffled toward him, pushing herself along with trembling hands caked in dirt and blood. She didn’t dare touch him, instead staring wide-eyed at the spreading red stain on his arm.
Clyde, having handed over his injured arm to the captain of the guards for first aid, used his free hand to reach out toward Edith.
“Edith, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But you—Clyde, you’re—”
He frowned faintly, his expression calm but tense.
“It’s bearable. Just a scratch, I think.”
The captain worked quickly, applying pressure to the wound and examining it before tying a makeshift tourniquet with his belt to stop the bleeding.
“Your Highness,” he reported, “the bullet appears to have grazed you. Judging by the amount of blood, the wound is quite deep.”
Other guards and attendants formed a tight circle around them, creating a human shield in case of another attack.
While they bolstered security, one guard discovered a backpack nearby with a bullet lodged in it. It was clear the bullet that grazed Clyde had continued on and struck the bag.
The captain knelt before Clyde, bowing his head.
“Your Highness, it would be wise to see a physician immediately. Shall I summon one of the doctors on standby here at the tournament grounds?”
Clyde shook his head, his expression steady but resolute.
“I’m hesitant to entrust my care to a doctor whose loyalties are unclear. Returning to the palace and consulting my personal physician would be the safer option. What is your assessment?”
The captain, experienced in dealing with emergencies and injuries as the head of the Royal Guard, examined the prince’s wound and replied calmly.
“Judging by the current state, Your Highness, it seems you can hold out until we return to the palace.”
“Then let’s secure the area and head back,” Clyde decided.
“Understood, Your Highness. I will have a carriage brought here immediately. Please wait for a moment.”
One of the guards hurriedly dashed toward the edge of the plaza to summon the carriage.
Despite their efforts, the bleeding from Clyde’s wound showed no signs of stopping. How deep was the injury to cause such profuse bleeding? Edith, seeing a gunshot wound for the first time, couldn’t tear her eyes away from the bullet hole in his clothes, where blood continued to well up and seep out. Her heart pounded erratically.
“It’s just a graze. Nothing serious,” Clyde reassured her, wiping the blood-stained hand on his trousers before gently brushing his fingers against her tear-streaked cheek.
“Nothing serious? Look at how bad it is!”
Tears threatened to fall. She tried to hold them back, but the moisture pooling in her eyes spilled over, tracing bright streaks down her face.
Clyde looked visibly flustered. With his uninjured arm, he pulled her close, wrapping her halfway in his embrace. He rested a hand gently on her back, patting her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her.
“Calm down. It’s really nothing to worry about,” he said softly.
The sequence of events replayed vividly in Edith’s mind. Though it had all happened in the blink of an eye, she remembered every detail: the shooter’s deliberate aim, the chilling focus in their eyes, and the muzzle pointed straight at her.
This wasn’t a mistake. The shooter had targeted her, not Clyde.
Why? She had no idea. But it wasn’t an accidental misfire.
Clyde wasn’t supposed to be here. Disguised in a plain coat with his face hidden by a hat and scarf, he had gone to great lengths to remain unnoticed. Unless the shooter was explicitly aware of his presence, they couldn’t have aimed for him.
If they had known Clyde was there, it was impossible to predict who the real target was. Yet, the fact remained that Edith—who had no real enemies to speak of—was suddenly in mortal danger. It could only be assumed that this had something to do with the palace’s intricate power struggles.
But Clyde had shielded her, taking the hit himself.
“Why did you do that? You got hurt, Clyde,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.
“You weren’t hurt. That’s all that matters. What if you had taken the bullet instead?”
“But still…”
Her words faltered as a sob escaped her. She bit her lip to suppress the wretched sound but failed miserably.
She had tried so hard to keep her distance from him, to remain merely his dutiful attendant, unmoved by his tempestuous declarations of love. She had told herself that his passionate confessions were nothing but a passing storm, a fleeting dream she needed to forget.
But now, she couldn’t stop crying. Her emotions had completely overtaken her, clouding her judgment and unraveling her resolve.
Among the guards and attendants surrounding them, Edith was the only one crying. She was the only one overwhelmed with emotion, the only one rendered helpless by the sight of Clyde’s injury.
“I’m such an idiot,” she muttered, her self-loathing slipping out in a whisper.
“Why would you say that, Edith?”
“Because I’m sitting here crying like a fool…sniffling…”
Her tears flowed freely, pooling on her hands as they hovered uselessly near his still-bleeding arm. It was unbearable to watch him injured, especially knowing it was because of her.
Her earlier careless thoughts about death—how it might simply be a way to escape the novel—now felt unbearably naïve. The blood Clyde was losing was vivid and real, not something abstract from the pages of a book.
His large hand, which had been firmly pressing against her back, relaxed. The warmth of his arm wrapped around her shoulder, enveloping her in gentle reassurance.
“That’s right. You’re the only one who cares,” he murmured softly, almost to himself.
Despite the situation, Clyde smiled. There was a strange contentment in his expression, as if he were truly happy.
“You’re the only one in the world who would cry over me getting hurt, Edith.”
Edith, her face flushed red with emotion, turned to look at him. She wiped the blur of tears from her eyes, only to find Clyde beaming at her.
Even though he was clearly in pain, his face was lit with joy. His injured arm hung limply at his side, but his grin was unguarded, and his almond-shaped eyes crinkled in delight.
One of the guards forming the human shield around them glanced at her. A younger, less experienced attendant briefly turned his head, and his gaze accidentally met Edith’s tear-streaked face.
“Uh, that’s…”
Suddenly, Edith’s mind snapped back to reality. The intimate moment of her uncontrollable tears felt awkward. She quickly searched for an excuse, a way to justify that she hadn’t crossed any boundaries with Clyde. Though her words were intended to dismiss her emotions, a faint sob still lingered in her voice.
“When we return to the palace, there will be plenty of people worrying about Clyde,” she said hastily.
As if on cue, a carriage pushed through the crowds toward them. Clyde rose, leaning heavily on his guards, and let out a small, ironic laugh.
“There’ll be plenty of people pretending to shed tears. Some will even wear mock solemn expressions,” he said with a smirk.
“No, that’s not true. You have many people around you,” Edith insisted, though her confidence wavered as he stared directly at her.
“Who exactly? Name one person,” he challenged.
No answer came. Edith tried to recall someone—anyone—who genuinely cared for Clyde. But as hard as she searched, no name surfaced.
Ignoring her silence, Clyde continued walking, his gaze steady ahead.
“Thinking about it, keeping the injury a secret would be better. I’ll only have to muzzle those here. The fewer people who know, the better,” he said.
“But how can you hide this? It’s serious. You’ll struggle to get through a tightly packed schedule like this.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Clyde replied firmly.
“Cl—” Edith tried to protest, but he cut her off.
“The only ones pretending to be concerned are those here, holding onto their roles. No need to broadcast it to the world. The more people who know, the worse it is for me.”
Reaching the carriage, Clyde took Edith’s shoulder for support instead of relying on his guards. The weight of his body shifted onto her, and instinctively, she helped hold him up. Their arms naturally formed a supportive frame around one another.
“Everyone listen closely. This stays between us. Once we arrive at the palace, only a private physician will be called,” Clyde instructed.
“Yes, Your Highness,” the guards responded sharply in unison. There was no hint of emotion—only a cold, calculated professionalism. While this was fitting for a prince’s closest aides, it felt distant and impersonal to Edith.
Far off, a few more guards rushed towards them. As they reached Clyde, they lowered their heads and reported breathlessly.
“Your Highness, we lost him.”
“You couldn’t even get a single trace?” Clyde’s voice was calm, but his frustration was evident.
“The shooter used a common musket. Height ranged between 5 to 6 feet, dressed in standard black military attire. He fled through the exit where the competitors dispersed,” the guard explained.
“That’s not enough to identify him,” Clyde said, his voice firm.
“Apologies, Your Highness. We’ll keep searching,” the guard replied, bowing his head once more in apology.
Edith replayed the scene in her mind. The bright flash of the muzzle, the deadly precision, but the face of the shooter remained a blur. His features were obscured by the hat and scarf.
“If you find anything later, report it immediately,” Clyde instructed.
“Yes, Your Highness. We’ll intensify the search,” the guard replied, giving a final, firm nod.
The carriage moved slowly toward the palace. Civilians, unaware it was the prince’s carriage, reluctantly made way, creating a narrow path. The carriage wheels rolled sluggishly over the rough road, the rhythmic sound of grinding dirt beneath a tiresome journey. Edith cracked the window slightly, glancing outside. The unease that the shooter could still be hiding nearby lingered, but her eyes found no leads.
Beside her, Clyde often glanced out the window as well. The bleeding had finally stopped, but his body still leaned heavily against the carriage’s side. His disheveled hair clung to his damp forehead, beads of sweat forming with each passing moment.
