Chapter 6 - 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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Unlike most noble sons, the boy wore no hat, letting his long, golden curls tumble freely around his face.

 

And yet there was no doubt—he was the son of a wealthy noble family.

 

His slender frame was dressed in silk embroidered with pearls, a fine vest and cravat at his throat, riding boots hugging long legs clad in fitted breeches.

 

In some corner of his mind, Erald understood that this boy had found and brought Aston back to him.

 

He also understood that the boy had spoken to him with genuine concern—and that he ought to respond, to thank him. But those thoughts remained buried, unable to rise to the surface. His body refused to move, as if the slightest word or blink might shatter the dream and return him to reality. He kept his eyes wide open, terrified to wake.

 

"Could it be that your consciousness is fading? You've lost quite a bit of blood."

 

The boy, angelic in both voice and appearance, turned to the horses and dogs after addressing Erald.

 

"Please drink and rest here for a while," he said to the animals with equal gentleness, then held out both hands toward Erald, gloved in soft leather.

 

He stepped carefully over the uneven stones of the riverbank, fingers splayed just enough for balance.

 

From the way he moved and where he looked, Erald realized something—the boy's sight was impaired.

 

He wasn't blind—his steps were sure and focused—but he didn't glance down even once, despite the treacherous footing. It likely meant he saw little, even when he tried.

 

"U-um… are you all right?"

 

Now was no time to be dazed by beauty—or too woozy from blood loss to think. Alarmed, Erald scrambled to his feet. What if the boy stepped on a round stone and fell?

 

He rushed forward and grasped the offered hand before that could happen.

 

"It's just a small wound… I'll be fine. But thank you for your concern."

 

"Your consideration is appreciated. But lying isn't good, you know. My eyes may be weak, but they see color vividly. I can tell your eyes are blue—and that your ivory coat and white shirt are soaked in blood. Please, allow me to tend to your injury."

 

Staring up close at the boy, Erald forgot to respond. He simply stood there.

 

His chest tightened painfully as he found himself drawn into those large, violet eyes.

 

The boy's skin was pale—so pale it rivaled the dusted white of powder makeup—but it was all natural. His lips, too, were red like he had applied rouge, but there was no scent of cosmetics or perfume. His snowy skin and rose-tinted cheeks were untouched, pure. His youthful face was still soft with childhood roundness, framed by gentle brows and a noble nose that seemed sculpted by serenity itself.

 

"M-my name is… Erald."

 

Moving with the boy to the water's edge, Erald peeled off his bloodied coat and rinsed the wound in the stream.

 

He wanted to give his full name—but found himself hesitating.

 

He caught sight of the lace at his cuff, fluttering in the water, and suddenly became aware of how he must look now.

 

This boy probably thinks I'm a noble.

 

After all, the fine clothes and shoes, the elegant scent of perfume, and a highbred horse like Aston—no commoner would have such things. And perhaps, precisely because the boy couldn't see well, he had assumed the man beside him must be of noble blood.

 

"Erald… what a beautiful name," the boy said. "Mine is Chalon. Your hair and eyes remind me of my brother—and even your perfume is the same one he always wore. It almost doesn't feel like we've only just met."

 

Chalon, as he called himself, removed a glove and gently touched Erald's wounded arm.

 

Perhaps because Erald had only introduced himself by first name, Chalon offered his name the same way.

 

"Lord Chalon… your name is equally beautiful. It suits you perfectly."

 

"Please, just call me Chalon. May I call you Erald as well?"

 

"O-of course. I would be honored… if you truly don't mind."

 

"Not at all. It's a little embarrassing to be treated so courteously by someone who looks like my brother."

 

"Chalon… then your brother must be beautiful as well, I imagine."

 

"Well… I can't say for certain. I only know the colors and outline of his figure. But he's tall and strong, and people say he's very handsome. Apparently, we don't look alike."

 

In Chalon's voice and expression, there was both pride and something more—something complex, layered beneath.

 

But he didn't speak further. Instead, he knelt at the riverbank and began wiping the water and blood from Erald's injured arm.

 

He used the sleeve of what was clearly an expensive silk shirt.

 

"Your sleeve—it's getting stained…"

 

"I don't mind. It's a wound that may need stitching, but for now I'll stop the bleeding with a firm tie."

 

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it into a long strip like a bandage, and skillfully wrapped it around Erald's arm.

 

Though his fingers looked as if they'd never held anything heavier than a spoon, they tightened the cloth securely and tied the knot with surprising precision.

 

And yet Erald couldn't help but wonder—what if Chalon found out he was a commoner?

 

If he'd been his usual self, someone like Chalon wouldn't even have spoken to him—much less touched him.

 

No matter how kind the boy was, if he had known Erald was of low birth, he likely would've just returned the horse without a word. After all, nobles only speak to commoners when giving orders—or hurling insults.

 

"I think it would be best for you to receive proper treatment as soon as possible. You should ride the horse you called Aston and return quickly. This is only a temporary fix, and I'm truly worried."

 

"Thank you. The bleeding's already stopped, so I think I'll be fine—but yes, I'll hurry. Still… how did you manage to catch a horse running that fast?"

 

"I didn't catch him. Aston was worried about you. I believe he ran off to seek help. But… he seemed a little angry, too."

 

"…What?"

 

"Perhaps you struck him with the whip a little too much? He was worried, but also confused. Please be kind to him."

 

Chalon offered the gentle chiding with a soft smile.

 

He spoke as if Aston had personally explained the whole situation to him, and Erald blinked in surprise.

 

"You… you can understand horses?"

 

"No, not exactly. Horses can't speak. But sometimes their feelings reach me somehow. I suppose half of it is intuition."

 

There was a quiet humor in Chalon's smile—a warmth born of intelligence and kindness.

 

At first, Erald had thought him an angel. Then, like a porcelain prince—too perfect to be real. But now, with every word, every gesture, Chalon became something more tangible, more human… and even more mesmerizing.

 

The heat in Erald's chest was almost too much to bear.

 

"Chalon… I'll return home for treatment today, but… may I see you again?"

 

Even as he asked, he wondered if he was being too forward—too reckless.

 

But he didn't want this to be the last time. Not when he had just begun to believe it wasn't a dream. He wanted to see Chalon again—even just once or twice more. To speak with him, and know that this moment had truly happened.

 

"Yes. I was hoping to see you again, too. Next time, let's take our time together."

 

"Y-you mean it? May I… truly believe that?"

 

"If you don't, I'll be the one left waiting in vain."

 

Chalon's eyes narrowed with a smile, his slim brows tilting softly in amusement.

 

To long to see someone again… to wish for more conversation… that was no less than finding a reason to live.

 

Grateful for what felt like a blessing guided by heaven, Erald took Chalon's hand.

 

He helped him carefully across the riverbank, steadying him as they reached firmer ground, where the two horses and the pack of ten large white dogs came to greet them on their own.

 

Aston was a fine horse—but Chalon's mount was something else entirely. A flawless white steed, without even a trace of darker markings in its coat. Erald found himself stunned by the creature's beauty.

 

"What a magnificent horse. I've never seen such a beautiful white steed in all my life."

 

"Thank you. He's brave and utterly dependable—a true friend. My father insists I never travel alone without him. And the dogs… they're all gentle, clever companions."

 

As Chalon smiled and mounted his horse, his very figure seemed to glow with inner light.

 

Erald, who had long believed that noble blood was a myth—that the only difference between noble and commoner was the fabric on their back—now knew that wasn't true.

 

Even if Chalon were dressed in rags, Erald would've still believed he was a nobleman in disguise, fallen to hardship. No one would doubt it.

 

"I'm afraid I don't have the freedom to come and go as I please," Chalon said, reins in hand, "so I can't promise a day. But I do hope we'll meet again soon, perhaps earlier in the day."

 

"Yes, I hope so as well. Let's be sure to see each other again."

 

"Chalon…" Erald began—but the name caught in his throat.

 

Just moments ago, he had spoken it with ease, but now, overwhelmed by the nobility of Chalon's presence, even uttering his name felt like sacrilege.

 

He watched as Chalon rode off, his long golden curls swaying gently in the breeze.

 

Sensing the eyes on his back, Chalon turned after a few paces.

 

"Go home quickly and get that wound treated," he called out in a firm, slightly stern tone from atop his steed.

 

But the firmness only made him more endearing. There was kindness wrapped in that strictness, and it made Erald feel as though he might float away. He forgot all about the pain in his arm. His heart still raced with the wonder of a meeting that felt like a dream.

 

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