94. The Portrait That Couldn’t Be Drawn

“Is something worrying you?”

“No. Nothing.”

I shook my head and followed him.

For now, it seemed he wouldn’t kill me. But if I became an obstacle to his goals, who knew which way his blade would turn.

We walked silently down the corridor.

In the northern mansion, portraits of the late Marchioness, the previous owner, hung in various places. Even though the ownership had changed, the previous owner’s meticulous decorations and unique taste remained untouched.

In contrast, the walls of the Imperial Mansion were bare. Only a few paintings hung, with no indication of who the master of the castle was. When Deon left, it would be difficult to guess who the previous owner had been.

He had unintentionally erased himself. The only thing that stood out was my room, floating alone in the mansion.

At the far end of the corridor, bright light streamed through a wide-open door. Flickering candlelight reflected off the peach-colored wallpaper, casting a warm glow outside the door.

The area around my room was brightly lit, almost like another world. Tall candlesticks were placed there, making my room seem out of place with the rest of the dark and cold mansion.

It was clearly a woman’s room. It was surprising that Isella and Deon had left it as it was. It didn’t match the quiet and desolate atmosphere of the Imperial Mansion.

“Find something you want to do before the banquet.”

Deon suggested as we walked together down the corridor.

Something I want to do…

I wanted to do something that was costly yet not too exotic or active.

Suddenly, I thought of their portraits. The portraits of the previous generation’s blood bags that remained in the North.

It had been over half a year, yet he seemed to have no intention of preserving my likeness in a painting.

If they were going to leave the room as it was, hanging a portrait of me on one of the bare walls might not be a bad idea.

“Why don’t I have a portrait like the others?”

At my question, he abruptly stopped walking.

“Because… there’s no need to draw you.”

Deon murmured, uncharacteristically low.

“How about drawing a portrait while I stay here?”

Creating a portrait usually took a long time. Especially for noble portraits, which were often meticulously painted to be shown to matchmakers when seeking marriage prospects.

They were painted in intricate detail, with rough edges smoothed over and multiple layers added for perfection. But a sketch could be completed quickly with a long sitting.

Even in the distant North, artists were invited. In the capital, finding an artist immediately shouldn’t be an issue.

Still, was the time too short? I walked slowly, but he didn’t follow.

I turned around.

Deon stood still, staring at me intently. His gaze was calm and steady.

Our eyes met in the air, but he didn’t avert his gaze, as if imprinting my image into his mind, like a painter observing their subject.

I took a step toward him. The setting sun’s light cast a red hue on his face.

His uniform appeared dark red.

He was elegant and striking, like a figure in an oil painting. His beauty was intimidating, impossible to capture in a drawing. The red tint on his pale face gave him a more vibrant look. The slight furrow in his brow reminded me he was not a painting but a living person.

The heavy silence in the corridor added to the tense atmosphere. He stared at me for a long moment before speaking.

“I will never allow anyone to draw you. Never.”

“…”

“If any of my subordinates say they will draw your portrait, come to me immediately.”

“What are you going to do?”

I didn’t really need to ask. His expression already made it clear that anyone who dared to speak those words would be crushed immediately.

He furrowed his brow and looked out the window with a dark expression. It seemed he was struggling to suppress his rising anger.

Why was he suddenly so angry?

It didn’t take long for me to understand.

In the North, the use of the previous generation’s blood bag portraits was for one singular moment: the funeral. By asking him to draw my portrait, I was essentially telling him to prepare for my death. It must have felt like someone diagnosed with a terminal illness asking for their funeral portrait or burial clothes.

But Deon, you’ll regret not having my portrait. If you don’t miss me, it’s useless, but the portrait will be the only way you’ll be able to see me.

I held back my unspoken words and instead added a condition he might accept.

“You said you wouldn’t keep me here. But what if you forget my face in the separate residence? Wouldn’t it be better to have at least one portrait of me now?”

His furrowed brow slowly relaxed at my words.

“I won’t be able to visit often, but… it’ll be fine.”

What does he mean by “fine”?

He was always so ambiguous. He held hands with Isella in a political alliance yet acted as if he truly loved me.

No matter how kindly he behaved, the fact that he excluded me from all events and broke my trust remained.

Looking into his blue eyes made my eyes ache, just like in the carriage. His face was so close it was hard to look away.

I closed my eyes. He came so close as if to capture even my eyelashes, gently cupping my face. His touch was soft and tender, unlike the man who had driven me to the separate residence.

And I didn’t seem like someone who hated him either. My heart still raced uncontrollably at his gaze and touch.

I tried to calm my racing heart.

Those eyes deceived me, and the arms around my shoulders had pushed me away and betrayed me.

I had many reasons to push him away. His cruelty in treating me like a blood bag, his merciless killings in the war. Yet, I always softened in front of him.

* * *

I went to the garden behind the mansion. The birdcage I had hung was still there, suspended from the tree branch.

I should have come straight here as soon as I arrived. I felt guilty toward the bird.

I saw the bird curled up inside the nest.

Tweet.

It chirped softly, seeming happy to sense my presence, and poked its head out.

When I carefully extended my finger into the cage, it rubbed its feathers against my nail.

“What…”

I tried to remain composed, but a sound escaped my lips. Even though I made a noise, the bird didn’t back away and met my gaze.

The bird seemed perfectly healthy.

In fact, it looked plumper than before.

Most noticeably, its feather color had changed. It used to have a greenish hue, but after molting, the tips now had a pinkish tint. New feathers had sprouted on its head.

When I touched its face with my index finger, the bird bowed its head again. I thought it looked chubby because it hadn’t finished molting, but as I petted it, I realized that wasn’t the case.

It wasn’t just covered in feathers… the bird had definitely gained weight.

It was chubby. It had always been unable to leave the nest, but now it seemed too heavy to fly. Its body appeared larger than its wings.

Oh my.

When I brushed its feathers the opposite way, bare skin without feathers was revealed.

The leg that looked like it was caught in a trap seemed fine. A tiny ribbon was tied to the end of its twig-like, yellow-brown leg. It looked like someone had tied a piece of scrap fabric around it.

The bird balanced itself and walked around, the ribbon not seeming too heavy for it.

I had been deceived.

Even from a distance, I had guessed as much, but seeing the bird’s condition up close confirmed it. Deon’s claim that the bird was wasting away was a lie. It had been a ploy to get me into the carriage.

And I think I knew why the bird had become so plump.

In the feeding tray, instead of the usual grains, there were wriggling worms, which I used to give as a special treat one at a time. They were alive, indicating they had been placed there not long ago.

The tray was overflowing with worms, so much so that they were trying to escape by climbing over each other and raising their heads.

Some worms had already escaped, falling to the floor or getting stuck in the gaps around the cage and dying.

I stared blankly at the worms scattered all around. The bird had already eaten its fill and turned its head away even when a worm crawled next to its beak.

I used to carefully give one or two living worms with tweezers each day. The maids should have known this. Who had carelessly overfed the bird? Better than not feeding it at all, but still…

The hand that had touched the feeding tray was clumsy, belonging to someone who had never raised a bird before.

“What do you think of the bird?”

Deon, who had followed me to the garden, spoke. I frowned and looked at him.

“You said it was starving.”

I asked, incredulous, and he tilted his head.

“It is starving.”

“Where?”

“Look. It’s not eating.”

He picked up a worm with his finger and waved it in front of the bird. The bird tilted its head and backed away.

It circled the tree leisurely before returning to its cage.

When he continued to poke the bird with the worm, it turned its head away, annoyed, and even pecked at his finger. Despite being pecked, he didn’t harm the bird and withdrew his hand.

“It’s not eating because it’s full.”

Deon knew nothing about birds. I tried to explain slowly, but my tone inevitably sounded reproachful.

“Full?”

He placed the worm in the cage and dusted off his hands.

“It can’t be full. It’s still so small.”

Did he think this bird would grow as big as an eagle?

When Suren and I occasionally strolled through the capital, we saw birds used as messenger pigeons in shops.

The birds were trained smartly, sometimes even performing tricks like opening their own cages. They entertained their owners and sometimes even solved puzzles. Suren and I had stood in awe, watching those birds at the shop.

Those birds were much smaller than eagles but certainly not as tiny as Mochia. Shops didn’t sell birds as small as Mochia.

Mochia was too fragile and small to be used as a messenger pigeon. It probably couldn’t even fly with a letter tied to it. A strong wind would likely blow it off course, and it might fall.

It seemed lighter than paper. It probably wouldn’t be able to spread its wings properly and would fall soon after takeoff. Even if it did manage to fly, it might end up as prey for other wild animals.

“This bird should only grow to fit in this cage. Never use it for any other purpose. If you’re thinking of using it as a messenger pigeon, forget about it.”