Chapter 5 - King Cinderella: Two Hearts Entwined in Sin

Translator's Note:

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Here you go, and I wish you a good read.

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"Cinderella… no, you're more than that now. You look noble, beautiful—my dear Erald. Back then, you were just a child lying motionless like a felled tree, and I did terrible things. I won't deny that. But you've grown into a man now. Let's leave the past behind us. From here on, we'll build something… mutual. We'll be a man and a woman who desire one another."

 

If she had told him to leave as a son-in-law, he might have been able to brace himself. But this—a thunderbolt out of a clear sky—left his thoughts in shambles. All he could see were her blood-colored lips rising in the white haze of his shock.

 

At some point, she had crossed the room, reaching out to touch his neck—ready to kiss him.

 

He had never once allowed their lips to meet. The instinct to protect himself, to flee, overtook him, and he recoiled violently. His back and elbow slammed hard against the door, but he felt no pain.

What he felt instead was a chilling revulsion that reached into his bones, shaking him with cold.

 

"…I thought… you'd given up on me…"

 

"I did, once. But who else is there? Without money, there's no love, no pleasure, nothing. I compromised, married a commoner from a neighboring country, and what did I get? He died and left me with nothing. It's only natural that a son pays for his parent's mistakes, don't you think? Luckily for me, you're beautiful. With the right perfume and clothing, you're perfect. Let me feel, just once, what it's like to be embraced by a king or a prince."

 

The reek of powder and overpowering perfume clung to her like a second skin. Erald shook his head.

 

He had once tried to confront her with dignity, as a grown man. But this—this was too sudden, too vile. He was speechless, barely holding back the bile rising in his throat. For him, standing was an effort. Breathing, a battle.

 

"These… the perfume… the clothes, the shoes… how did you…?"

 

Erald drew in deep, secret breaths and reached behind him, fingers curling around the doorknob. He turned it and slipped out into the hall—fleeing from the scent of the woman that suffocated him.

 

"Oh, I bought them with the money I made from selling the books. They were yours, so of course I used them, naturally? I never saw the point of books, really. I sold everything from that locked case of rare editions. With the profit, I bought the best perfume and the finest clothes. Hats and shoes, too. Enough for three whole outfits. You should be happy."

 

"No…"

 

The words struck Erald like a blade. He gasped, then bolted.

 

He flew down the stairs like a shot, tearing down the west corridor as the setting sun painted the walls gold, his vision warping with tears.

 

Even as he ran, he knew—it was too late. She wasn't bluffing. This wasn't a lie.

 

Still, he prayed. Still, he ran.

 

He crashed into the library, breath ragged, hope burning.

 

It had become a habit: each day, he would scan the shelves from floor to ceiling, ensuring that not a single book had been taken without his knowledge. But the locked case—the one that held the most valuable treasures—he didn't check every day. It was locked, after all.

 

She had threatened to sell them before. But it had never come to pass. So, somewhere deep inside, he had believed—despite everything—that even his cruel stepmother, even that wretched man who called himself his brother, must have had some shred of decency.

 

He had believed—desperately, foolishly—that at the very least, the books left by his late mother… the one inheritance that truly belonged to him… would remain untouched. Would remain his.

 

"…Ah—!"

 

The lace at Erald's sleeve trembled as he reached for the lock of the bookcase.

 

At first glance, it seemed intact. But the moment he touched it, he felt it—broken, forcibly removed.

 

He opened the doors with a trembling hand.

 

Only dust and despair remained inside.

 

"It's not normal, you know. That kind of obsession with books. If you didn't notice for two whole weeks, they couldn't have meant that much to you—could they?"

 

Erald collapsed before the ruined shelves. Behind him, his stepmother's voice coiled like a serpent, and he choked on a sob.

 

Two weeks. She had said two weeks. The knowledge crushed him.

 

Why… why hadn't I opened it? Why didn't I check it every day?

 

"Ugh… ugh…!"

 

His mind screamed that if he stayed, he would kill her.

 

Erald sprang to his feet and ran.

 

Behind him: "Stop right there!"

 

Then louder: "Someone stop him!"

 

But no one did. He escaped.

 

He fled into the stables, found his horse—his beloved black stallion that his stepmother had kept only for appearances. Aston.

 

Erald mounted in a frenzy of pain and fury. The autumn wind stung his tear-streaked cheeks. The golden light of the setting sun burned against his skin. He kicked Aston's flanks, cracked the whip, and charged into the woods at full gallop.

 

He knew full well that those who take their own lives are not granted Heaven.

 

But he wanted to disappear.

 

He hated everything in this world—its filth, its cruelty. He wanted to fall from the saddle, snap his neck, and vanish without a sound.

 

He hated his stepmother. He hated his stepbrother. He hated himself—for smiling at this perfume and these new clothes, even for a moment.

 

Even his mother's wish—that half of his soul be bound to the mansion through the legacy of her books—now felt stifling. He hated himself for thinking such a thing.

 

He could not bear his own defilement.

 

O God… please… take me to Your side.

 

Beneath a sky painted in shades of orange, Erald loosened his grip on the reins.

 

His torso lurched forward. His hips lifted from the saddle. His thighs lost the warmth of the horse beneath him.

 

His body, long bound to the earth, suddenly felt free—rising, weightless, as though it were being drawn toward the sky.

 

And in that moment—floating in the air—he truly believed: an angel would catch him and lift him into paradise.

 

"…Ugh—ahhh!"

 

But it wasn't a soft ascent.

 

As if his intent to die had been seen through, Erald slammed against the earth with brutal force.

 

His large frame rolled like a wheel, crashing and tumbling across the forest floor.

 

"Agh… hngh…"

 

His body screamed with pain—so much he thought he might tear apart. His chest heaved in agony. Coughs wracked his lungs. Groans poured from him uncontrollably.

 

He instinctively pulled his left arm in close—and felt something warm and wet sliding down it.

 

Injured, he had only one hope now: Aston. But unburdened of his rider, the horse galloped away, vanishing into the woods.

 

Lying prone on the forest floor, Erald lifted his left hand toward a beam of sunlight filtering through the leaves. He saw blood soaking through the lace at his sleeve.

 

Like a sky slowly being devoured by sunset, the stain spread wider and deeper. He had likely cut his arm on a branch or something similar—but thankfully, there seemed to be no object lodged in the wound. It would heal.

 

I wanted to die. And yet… here I am, worried about my injuries…

 

How pathetic. Should he be ashamed? Or should he thank God for giving him a body too strong to break… and use this second chance to change?

 

After all, here he was—relieved that the wound wasn't fatal. Perhaps following that instinct was the natural thing to do.

 

"Aston… Aston! Where did you go, Aston!"

 

Though he had no intention of returning to the estate, Erald staggered to his feet and called out for his horse.

 

He thought perhaps Aston had gone to drink, so he took a few steps toward the stream and called again. But only his own voice echoed back. Aston did not return.

 

And while he searched, the bleeding worsened.

 

He looked back and saw it—dark drops staining the green grass and black soil.

 

They fell closely spaced, like a trail of his life slowly leaking into the forest.

 

Was the wound deeper than he thought? Would he die here after all?

 

That had been his wish, hadn't it? And yet, now he was afraid.

 

He'd wanted to cast everything away—but maybe he had only been trying to escape the pain of the present. Maybe… maybe he hadn't truly lived at all.

 

"Aston… come back, please… Aston!"

 

Somehow, he made it to the edge of the stream, but Aston was nowhere in sight.

 

Erald collapsed to his knees by the riverbank.

 

The few steps it would take to reach the water felt impossibly far.

Without Aston there, his will—and his strength—were gone.

 

All he could do was sit there, watching the dry stones stain red.

 

"Are you all right? You seem to be hurt."

 

His body nearly spent, Erald raised his head to the sound of a voice—gentle and androgynous—and the faint barking of dogs.

 

The evening sun poured unfiltered over the narrow stream winding through the woods.

 

And there, bathed in that warm golden light, was a figure leading two horses, surrounded by a pack of pure white dogs.

 

A boy… no, an angel. A boy who looks like an angel…

 

He seemed less like a human being than a vision—a being too beautiful for gender or earth.

 

Encircled by ten great white hounds, with two horses in tow, the boy looked nothing short of divine. One of the horses was Aston—but Erald couldn't speak. He stayed kneeling by the river, stunned and unmoving.

 

Is he… really human? What a beautiful, precious creature…

 

 

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