The Wasteland’s Spring Breeze

“Ma, madam?”

The servants could no longer address me as “wife” in a dismissive tone. They constantly gauged my mood.

That didn’t stop me from tearing apart the baby clothes, sprinkled with diamond dust sent by my husband.

The gifts were endless, from the black pearl bracelet that supposedly emitted good energy for the mother to the adorable baby shoes crafted by elves that only royalty could possess. I knew I would be the first one out the door before I tore it all down.

My labored breaths were filled with rage.

“How could he, to the very end!”

How could he continue to mock me like this? I couldn’t tell if the anger welling up inside me was merely due to the humiliation of being mocked or from an inexplicable sorrow.

But one thing was clear, the mistake I had made.

His revenge had never stopped. Cliff Moore still hated me.

He recognized my inability to love the child and mocked me in the most miserable way possible.

What other reason could there be for someone who had never once acted like a father, nor intended to, to send such gifts?

He may appear as a father who loves and eagerly awaits his child, but his message was clear.

Surrounded by all these luxuries, the baby will not receive the love that matters most.

The child will grow up surrounded by expensive diamonds but will never receive a single loving touch from his father. That’s what he was saying.

And Cliff Moore knew all too well how terrible a punishment that was.

Because I knew. My father had done the same.

I was the one who had never received a single warm word, a single touch from my father, despite all the jewelry and dresses.

And he was once the only one, besides my brothers, who saw me wither away under the weight of my father’s wealth.

Material things do not fill the void. They make you struggle more, make you suffer more, and ultimately turn you into someone like me, a failure who can do nothing.

He is repeating the same harm my father inflicted, all because of me.

He was saying that because he could not forgive me, a descendant of Crawford, he would not love the child either. He was hinting that my cursed atonement would not end with me but would be passed down to this child as well.

Let’s die.

Let’s end it all.

That’s what I thought then. That’s what I decided then. I must be the one to sever this wretched bond.

Only after receiving my husband’s mocking message did this extreme courage finally reveal itself.

For the sake of my miserable self, and for the cursed child who would inherit the sins of their mother, I had to bring this to an end.

That was the least bit of affection I could give to the child.

I threw myself off the balcony. As I stumbled, the servants looked at me with suspicion, though I insisted that I merely lost my footing.

However, they seemed to think that I had thrown myself off as an excuse to call for my husband, who never sought me out, rather than to rid myself of the child.

My husband immediately appeared that day. His flushed face and disheveled hair were unlike him.

He looked as he did back when he was a slave, utterly disheveled.

I made several more attempts afterward, but all were in vain.

My husband now refused to respond to the king’s summons, turning away all who visited the marquisate.

It was surprising to see him snarl and bare his teeth even at Count Elders, a close friend of the king, who came to take him.

But I did not change.

I did not give up and continued to seek an opportunity. This would be my first and last act of freedom.

No, perhaps this was my maternal instinct.

Or maybe, in truth, I had used the child as a part of my selfish excuse.

Either way, it meant that I had finally begun to dream of death by my own hand. A determination I had never felt before stirred within me.

“Argh!”

“It’s a boy, madam, a healthy baby boy!”

The child was born safely. Perhaps sensing the instability of his mother, he was born before the full term of ten months.

I swallowed my rising tears, forcing myself to erase the affection that kept trying to reach out to the baby.

“Would you like to see his face? He looks just like the Marquis!”

I refused the maid who tried to hand me the baby. Rosalyn had been replaced, and another maid was now attending to me. With a warm appearance, she possessed a character as gentle as her looks.

When I shook my head, a brief flicker of confusion crossed her kind face.

I didn’t want to see him. I knew I would weaken if I did.

Because I am not strong, I might be swayed again without resistance. I would not dare to hold my child in my arms until the day I die.

“Your Excellency, look, look. He looks just like you! Oh, look at his features. I’ve never seen a baby this handsome!”

The maid immediately cradled the baby and ran toward the door. That’s when I realized my husband was present.

My husband also rejected the child. Even though I knew he wouldn’t welcome the baby, a momentary sadness seeped into my heart, forcing me to bite my lip.

Instead of accepting the baby, he turned his body toward me.

Despite the blood-soaked sheets and the nauseating scent of blood filling the room, he walked toward me as if in a trance, as if temporarily stripped of the murderous aura he usually radiated.

The paleness of his face, the staggering of his massive frame as he approached me, I attributed these to my dizziness from losing too much blood.

I finally felt that the time had come.

I rolled my tongue, feeling the small berry hidden inside my mouth. It was the fruit of the amasa flower, the main ingredient used in the cosmetics of noblewomen.

The oil extracted from this small berry, when heated, is used to create a glossy finish for beauty products. However, the oil from the raw, unprocessed berry contained a poison six times more toxic than cyanide.

When the Crawford family faced ruin, my nanny had secretly visited me in prison and handed it to me, telling me not to meet a shameful end.

During the five years of my marriage, the red berries she had given me sprouted several times on the windowsill of my bedroom and had now returned to me.

With just a slight bite, the deadly poison inside would be released. My teeth dangerously held the smooth surface in place.

Before I knew it, my husband had reached my bedside. His dark, pale face looked down at me without expression. His jet-black eyes gazed at me intently.

“Ezen.”

It was when he tried to reach out to me. My husband’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but then hesitated and repeated the motion.

Why did his expressionless face seem somewhat distorted?

He extended his hand. I grabbed the large hand approaching my face.

I could feel the warmth of my husband’s hand on my cheek, a warmth that now only lingered in my distant memories.

His hand softened, as if he was gently stroking me. Perhaps touching my skin made him uncomfortable, and yet, because I clung to his hand, he found it unbearably awkward.

At that moment, I gritted my teeth. The berry popped.

A sweet fragrance filled my mouth as the oil flowed out.

“Cl- Cliff…….”

As I swallowed, the half-crushed berry slid down my throat in an instant. A burning heat began to spread within me.

My husband froze. His eyes widened as he sensed something was wrong.

I felt a sense of satisfaction, knowing I had managed to surprise him, even if it wasn’t quite a shock.

“I… I am a sinner… to you… and though you… could not forgive me… even so… you cannot… control… my death… This, at least…”

My vision blurred, and blood began to surge up into my mouth. I hoped I could at least finish saying what I had prepared, but it seemed that might be impossible.

“My own….. My freedom….. is mine… to choose…..”

“Madam! Oh my goodness, madam! What are we to do, madam!”

The bedroom became chaotic. Amidst the panicked maids rushing toward me, I saw my husband standing frozen.

As my vision dimmed, I looked at his face one last time.

Finally, and far too late, our cursed bond comes to an end.

I closed my eyes. The darkness enveloping me was a welcome embrace.