Due to his mixed heritage, Damon exuded a contradictory and chaotic aura. His skin resembled melted honey, full and healthy in color. However, the tiny scales covering his chest, abdomen, and limbs hinted at reptilian characteristics.
Margaret knew that he could tear a lion apart with his claws. If his mouth were pried open, one could see prominently sharp canine teeth—perhaps better termed as snake-like fangs. These fangs harbored a certain neurotoxin, likely inherited from his giant lizard ancestry. Injected into a person's body, it could swiftly bring about the opponent's demise.
In reality, before becoming Margaret's personal guard, Damon lived a life of constant battles.
He was confined to the underground arena of the capital, wearing heavy shackles, defeating designated opponents time and again. Sometimes it was raging wild beasts, at other times fellow kin, or bloodthirsty human warriors. After each gladiatorial bout, Damon would turn the arena into a bloody and nauseating mess before dragging his battered body back to his cell amidst the cheers of the audience.
This life continued for thirty years or even longer—Orcs had longer lifespans, and their perception of time was quite blurry.
One day, he finally didn't have to step into the arena anymore. Duke Russell selected him as a guard for his just-turned-five-year-old daughter, recognizing his outstanding combat abilities. Russell Duke, feeling magnanimous, bought him and threw him into a competition with twenty other young men in the training camp.
Damon endured all the arduous trials, triumphing over his competitors step by step. He donned a proper guard uniform, entered the Duke's mansion, and saw the delicate duke's daughter for the first time.
In a small garden adorned with white roses, Damon half-knelt, swearing loyalty to Margaret. He didn't even dare to kiss the back of her hand, as if such an act would defile her, and his poison fangs and claws might accidentally harm his important mistress.
After many years, Damon knelt by Margaret's bedside, still appearing cautious. He tried to make his body smaller, though such efforts were futile. The skeletal structure of mixed-race Orcs was much stronger than that of ordinary humans. Many years ago, he could carry Margaret around with one arm, but now that Margaret had passed her growth spurt, her height reached just below his ribcage.
"How did you get in?" Margaret had no desire to get up. She propped her head up with her arm and lazily inquired, "Who taught you to barge into a lady's room?"
Damon lowered his eyes, taking a while before responding. His voice was low, deep, and peculiar, akin to the grating of metal against the floor. "I heard you were back."
So he couldn't wait to see her.
Margaret looked at Damon. Her personal guard always seemed to want to be closer to her, closer still. She didn't understand the source of this dependence and wasn't sure if he was truly loyal.
After all, he was too silent, and his crimson eyes never revealed human emotions. Margaret sometimes had the illusion that she wasn't a master but an important possession in Damon's private domain.
He depended on her, missed her, was unwilling to share her with anyone, and had even snarled at Douglas's back.
"Okay, you've seen me." Margaret frowned. She was sweating all over, and her nightgown stuck uncomfortably to her body. Her legs were also sticky, and she wasn't sure why. "Go out first; I want to take a bath."
Damon subconsciously tightened his fingers, crumpling the clean handkerchief into a wrinkled ball. He respectfully excused himself, and as he stood up, his gaze swept over Margaret's chest. His breath seemed to be seared by fire, and an involuntary low growl escaped his throat.
Margaret wore a thin silk nightgown. She always adhered to her mother's requirements, living modestly and conservatively. Therefore, this loose and ordinary dress covered her all the way to her ankles.
However, the side-lying position exposed a gap at the neckline, allowing Damon to catch a glimpse of the sleeping and innocent nipple inside.
He spent an extra half second before turning his body away. The sharp teeth trembled slightly in his mouth, eager to bite into that cute and cherry-like sweetness.
This base desire surged through his limbs but was forcefully suppressed. Damon hurriedly left the girl's bedroom, traversed the carpeted corridor, and ran all the way to the deserted garden before daring to bend down and hold his scorching body. He cursed himself as a despicable creature.
"Forgive me, forgive me..."
His voice was filled with pain, and his crimson eyes seemed on the verge of bleeding. There were no maids around, and the gardener responsible for trimming the roses was absent. The mixed-race Orc's confession turned into a secret self-reproach, which then transformed into unrealistic fantasies.
He gently sniffed the tattered handkerchief, a low whimper rolling through his throat.
After bathing and cleaning herself, Margaret found herself wide awake. She glanced at the dim sky outside and decided to take a small vial of her homemade magic potion to perk herself up.
At Grants Academy, Margaret excelled in the study of white magic and economics, with alchemy courses being her top-scoring subjects. Whenever she was tired of socializing and endless etiquette classes at home, she would retreat to her laboratory, experimenting with various magical potions. The finished products were stored in beautiful glass bottles and placed on her dressing table, resembling ordinary perfumes. This little trick allowed her to deceive her mother, who detested magic.
Thinking about her mother made Margaret's body tense. She chose a more conservative ladylike gown from the wardrobe, adorned herself in front of the mirror, and went downstairs.
In the southwest corner of the Duke's mansion, there was a huge and beautiful glass greenhouse. Margaret carefully navigated around various precious flowers, walking on the slightly moist path. Amid the towering vines that threatened to engulf anyone, she found a middle-aged lady trimming leaves.
"Mother."
Margaret lifted the hem of her dress and curtsied.
Mrs. White, noticing her daughter, only furrowed her brow slightly. "Why aren't you sleeping yet?"
Her tone was gentle, yet not mild, as if staying up past nine in the evening was a grave sin.
"The wedding is just three months away. You should take care of your skin instead of wandering around late at night like an unruly woman."
Margaret had heard similar admonitions many times before. She lowered her head in apology, then spoke in a calm tone, "Mother, I want to break off the engagement with Douglas."
Mrs. White stared at her with an incredulous look. Those similar blue eyes quickly revealed a mix of disgust and panic. "Have you done something wrong?"
Wrong could mean many things. It could be premarital infidelity, an affair with another man, or foolish actions that angered Douglas.
Mrs. White would never have imagined that her daughter was raped at the border by an enemy crown prince while the honorable Douglas stood by in cold blood. Had she known this fact, she would have screamed and grabbed Margaret by the hair, scolding Margaret for acting like a lowly whore and mare, and why she didn't kill herself on the spot to preserve her chastity.
Margaret gripped her skirt harder.
The physical wounds had all healed. The magic potion for healing had been used the night she returned to Seagate City.
But under her mother's probing eyes, all the unpleasantness seemed to have nothing to hide.
"No." Margaret said, "I haven't done anything bad. Mother, I just don't like him anymore, and there's no point in honoring the marriage contract anymore. Our family can get along just fine without a royal marriage, can't we? Father is still healthy, my brother's position is stable, and when I graduate from Gerta, I can pursue a career in medicine..."
Before she could finish, Mrs. White let out a scoff.
"Don't say anything stupid. margaret, go back to bed, tomorrow you'll be sober."
Margaret opened her mouth, "Mother..."
"You will be the wife of His Highness, Queen of Eastern Holy Land. It is an honor for the White family and a source of pride for me. No woman can ever have this happiness like you." Mrs. WHITE dismissed her daughter's display as pre-wedding anxiety, and soothed her without much concern, "Go back to your home and obey. Anxiety and fear will only detract from your beauty and make him stop liking you."
And she said a lot of things.
Such as that a lady should behave like a lady, and that when you get married you should put down your messy magic and fulfill your duties as a wife. Such as one must not be too naive, and must always enlist Douglas's heart, and not let him get into other scandals before marriage. For example, one should take good care of oneself and know how to be considerate of her husband, so that she can gain his liking for a long time.
Margaret heard the question and whispered, "Is it because Mother is not beautiful and considerate enough that she can't win Father's favor?"
Duke Russell maintained four mistresses. Every night, the castle echoed with the unrestrained laughter of men and women reveling in pleasure.
Lady White's lips trembled, her face turned pale. Suddenly, she grabbed the scissors beside her and viciously lunged at Margaret.
"Get out! Get out! Who taught you to speak to your mother like this, you lunatic freak!"
The sharp scissors cut into Margaret's forehead, and fresh blood dripped down, soaking her eyes.
She covered the bleeding wound, silently turned away, and left the suffocating glass conservatory. In front of her, the castle sparkled with brilliant lights. The Duke, shirtless, chased after naked women, laughing as they passed by a window.
Margaret suddenly felt a burning anger.
Anger at the unchanging suffocating life over the years, anger at Father's debauchery and Mother's severity, anger at herself for living forever confined in a frame of seriousness and diligence.
She tightly pursed her lips, as if speaking would unleash the venom coursing through her stomach, corroding and destroying all semblances of tranquility.