《Bronze Roses and Century's Ghost[English]》


 Through

    Eleanor Ashcroft''s thick lashes fluttered open, her fingertips brushing the gilded pocket watch on the nightstand. Oak beams cast jagged shadows above, echoing last night''s storm warning from the brass speaking tube. As she burrowed into goose-down pillows, the clatter of riding boots echoed through the stone corridor.


    "Lark! Cook''s prepared truffled poulet au pot." Her mother''s knock sent jasmine perfume swirling through the carved oak door.


    Silence answered, save for the fireplace''s crackling whispers.


    "Oh, and Professor Thorne from Cambridge telephoned regarding..." The deliberate pause hung like cobweb silk.


    The four-poster bed creaked in protest. When the door swung open, the Baroness gasped at her daughter''s chestnut curls ¨C a tempest-tossed nest worthy of lightning sprites.


    "What did he say?" Amber eyes still clouded with sleep mist.


    "Your private tutorial begins at nine." The Baroness hid behind her lace fan. "The youngest quantum mechanics professor in St. Michael''s history. No wonder girls duel with slide rules."


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    Eleanor snatched a tortoiseshell comb. "Mother, I''ve no designs on Professor Thorne."


    "Of course, my pearl." The Baroness'' wink sparkled. "Though they say his grandfather was the Duke of Devon''s..."


    The grandfather clock''s chime severed her words. Eleanor clutched the silver tureen close, its warmth seeping through woolen cloak. Beyond leaded windows, Yorkshire skies darkened with devouring clouds.


    This peculiar family ritual began on her snowy birthnight. A gypsy seer had crooned over crystal spheres: "When seven times seven kindnesses are done, blue fire in the storm shall claim the pure..." For seventeen years, Ashcroft Manor dispensed daily alms, like this broth for the blind weaver.


    Elms twisted into hag''s claws in the gale. Eleanor raced over slick cobblestones, puddles mirroring phantasmal clouds. Sudden silence fell, even the ravens holding their breath.


    In the lightning''s ghastly glare, she saw the crone beneath blazing elderwood ¨C bone-dry yet wreathed in cerulean flames.


    "Madame! Stay clea..." Thunder devoured her cry. Milky blue eyes crinkled as bark-like hands caressed her cheek.


    When the sulfurous bolt struck, villagers swore they saw two figures waltzing in phoenix fire, dissolving into rain-soaked smoke. Only the silver tureen remained, its lid spinning slowly in mud until the Ashcroft crest settled on the engraved virtue: Benevolence.

 Save

    Lightning tore through Caelos'' obsidian sky as Eleanor von Adler regained consciousness. The sting of Burgundian hail bit into her skin where her convent''s woolen habit clung to flesh. She tasted copper¡ªwhether from the storm or the blood soaking the cobblestones, she couldn¡¯t tell. Memory flickered like the dying embers of a pyre: the searing white light, the smell of burning parchment, the abbess screaming "God¡¯s judgment comes!" before...


    "Still breathing?" Her whisper dissolved into the tempest. When lightning illuminated the carnage again, she saw the truth¡ªtwelve headless Teutonic knights in black tabards lay arranged like blasphemous clockwork around her, their severed hands still clutching zweih?nder swords pointing toward her trembling form.


    The glass alembic vial at her breast pulsed faintly¡ªher alchemical mentor''s last gift before the Inquisition took him. Eleanor clutched it as scarlet rainwater pooled in the raven sigil engraved on its surface. Her retreating steps faltered when stone scraped against her spine¡ªthe western curtain wall of Castle Schwarzmond, its gargoyles weeping rust-colored tears.


    Three hundred paces through the slaughter brought her to the granary. The reek of burning tallow candles and something fouler guided her shaking hands. When her boot caught on a corpse''s gambeson, the dead man''s arm snapped upward with rigor mortis finality, cold fingers closing around her throat.


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    "By Lucifer''s chains¡ª!" Her curse died as another flash revealed her attacker''s identity: Lord Reinhardt von Hohenzollern, Imperial Regent to the Holy Roman Emperor, his throat slit so deeply the vertebrae glistened. Yet his dead grip tightened, forcing her to smash his wrist against an iron sconce until bones cracked.


    The secret hatch opened with a groan of protesting hinges. Below the blood-slicked stairs, Eleanor found the oubliette¡ªand the dying man who''d haunt her nightmares. Moonlight through arrow slits revealed his Burgundian crusader''s cloak, the silver griffon clasp marking him as a Knight Hospitaller. But the inverted cross branded into his chest still smoked faintly.


    "Who are you?" She pressed a wine-soaked rag to his wound. The alembic vial glowed brighter when his gloved hand seized her wrist. His eyes opened¡ªone sapphire blue, the other milky white with a scar cutting through like a comet¡¯s tail.


    "The Antichrist...comes..." Blood bubbled at his lips as he shoved a cipher wheel into her palm, its symbols matching those on the vial. Outside, wolf howls merged with the dying storm. Eleanor barely noticed the crusader''s last breath frosting into a word:


    "Eleison..."

 Drug

    Caelus Draconis tore open his coat, holding an oil lamp close to inspect his wounds. Eleanor Ashcroft gasped in horror. His waist was pierced by a sharp weapon, still bleeding profusely. His left shoulder bore three deep gashes, the flesh torn open to the bone. His right leg had been crushed by something heavy, the flesh mangled¡ªit was a miracle the bone hadn¡¯t snapped in two. His chest was marred by several gruesome, gaping wounds, pale and swollen from the rain. When she turned him over, Eleanor¡¯s eyes widened, and she sucked in a sharp breath. If the front was severe, the back was fatal.


    Five triangular shurikens were embedded in his back at different angles, only their tips visible. The skin around the wounds had turned a faint purple, and the discoloration was spreading. The weapons were poisoned¡­


    How was he still alive? It was unbelievable! But if the poison wasn¡¯t removed, he would surely die. Yet pulling out these deadly projectiles could kill him instantly. Eleanor bit her lower lip, refusing to hesitate any longer. Summoning what little courage she had, she decided to save him. She rinsed her mouth with water from a bucket, her trembling hands gripping the first shuriken. With a forceful tug, she pulled it out, a stream of black blood following. She squeezed the wound, then pressed her lips to it, sucking out the remaining poison. The foul, metallic taste nearly made her vomit, but she continued until the blood ran red. After each shuriken, she checked his breathing¡ªshallow and unsteady, but he clung to life. Eleanor felt a surge of relief. If he died halfway through, all her efforts would be for nothing.


    Her cheeks ached from the exertion, and her mouth was numb from the poison. After rinsing her mouth and cleaning the other wounds, she marveled at his will to survive. The rest was up to him¡ªshe had done all she could.


    She hastily stripped off his soaked clothes, tore strips from the bedsheet, and bandaged his wounds. From a chest under the bed, she pulled out a set of coarse clothes and dressed him in the largest ones she could find. Dragging him onto the bed, she thanked the gods it was low enough¡ªotherwise, she¡¯d have had to leave him on the floor.


    Eleanor peeled off her own cold, wet clothes and tossed them into the corner with the bloodied ones. She slipped into the rough garments and collapsed by the bed, exhausted. Thank heavens it was a double bed. She checked his breathing again¡ªslow but steady. Good. Closing her eyes, she drifted into a restless sleep.


    Her dreams were chaotic, faces flashing like scenes from a film. Thunder and lightning jolted her awake, the unfamiliar surroundings closing in on her. A wave of sorrow rose in her chest, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. A thought crystallized in her mind: she had died, only to be reborn in another place. She might never return¡­ Drowsiness overtook her again.


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    When she woke next, she stared into the darkness for a long time, exhaling deeply. She told herself firmly: Since I¡¯m here, I must adapt. If I can¡¯t die, then I must live. Her hand reached out to check his breathing, and she felt a surge of relief. In that moment, she truly hoped he would survive¡ªshe didn¡¯t want to be left alone in this darkness. The feeling was unbearable.


    She wasn¡¯t sure if it was dawn yet. Just as she reached for the flint, she heard voices outside the shed. Her heart raced.


    ¡°He escaped?¡± A cold, sinister voice.


    ¡°We¡¯ve checked the bodies¡ªhe¡¯s not among them,¡± another voice, deliberately hushed.


    Footsteps circled the room, drawing closer to the haystack where they hid. Eleanor¡¯s heart leapt into her throat. She muttered a silent prayer.


    ¡°We found something,¡± the hushed voice said.


    ¡°His sword?¡± The cold voice replied. ¡°He took five of my Soul-Chasing Nails. The poison should have taken effect by now. He can¡¯t have gone far. Send men in every direction.¡± A dark chuckle followed. ¡°This time, he won¡¯t escape.¡± The voice lowered further. ¡°If he lives to return, neither of us will keep our heads. And we¡¯ll never get another chance like this. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Understood. What about the bodies here?¡±


    A pause. ¡°No survivors. Bury the corpses and burn the place. Leave no evidence. Then spread the word that it was¡­ You know what to do.¡±


    ¡°A brilliant plan. I¡¯ll see to it at once.¡±


    ¡°Good¡­¡±


    The footsteps faded, and Eleanor let out a shaky breath. The man they were hunting¡ªcould it be him? Logically speaking, someone pursued by murderous scoundrels was likely¡­ a good man.


    Outside, the fire grew. If the smoke seeped in, they¡¯d be in trouble. After a moment of observation, she was relieved to find the hidden compartment well-sealed. She silently thanked the lovers who had built this secret space¡ªand her own luck in discovering it. The thought of what could have happened sent a chill down her spine.


    She lit the oil lamp and searched for ventilation holes. On the right wall, she found three small stone openings, damp with condensation. Eleanor pressed her face to them, inhaling fresh air. The holes must lead outside¡ªotherwise, smoke would have filled the space. Returning to the bed, she set the lamp down and checked his breathing. It was stronger now. She pulled the blanket over him, pausing when she noticed his hand. It was¡­ beautiful. Long, elegant fingers, perfectly proportioned, with smooth, rounded nails. The pale skin only accentuated their grace. She couldn¡¯t help but take his hand in hers, marveling at its strength and refinement. It was a hand that could be both gentle and deadly¡ªshe remembered how it had gripped her throat earlier. Moving the lamp closer, she suddenly wanted to see his face. Before, it had been covered in blood.


    Brushing the tangled hair from his face, Eleanor froze. He wasn¡¯t just handsome¡ªhe was the kind of man whose looks grew on you. The kind that, once noticed, became impossible to forget. A second-glance killer, with a charm that lingered long after.


    Shaking her head, she decisively blew out the lamp and climbed into bed. The crackling of the fire above filled the silence. What else could she do but sleep? Her mind replayed the image of his face, and she groaned, covering her eyes. That face was going to haunt her.

 Wake

    Eleanor Ashcroft instinctively reached to check Caelus Draconis¡¯s breathing, only to recoil in shock. Fumbling to light the oil lamp, her eyes met his¡ªdark, sinister, and burning like the fires of the abyss. A chill ran through her, her body trembling uncontrollably. Damn it! How could his eyes be so different from his face? The distance between an angel and a demon was just the space between two eyes?


    ¡°Name¡­¡± His voice was icy, low, and slightly hoarse.


    ¡°Eleanor Ashcroft¡­¡± She felt as though she were under a spell, answering without thought.


    ¡°Eleanor¡­ Ashcroft¡­¡± The demon slowly repeated her name, as if tasting each syllable.


    She had never imagined that her name, so full of light and kindness, could be spoken with such disdain.


    He coughed lightly and averted his gaze. Instantly, Eleanor collapsed to the floor, her strength drained. What had just happened? Was this some kind of dark magic? God, this is terrifying!


    ¡°Who sent you?¡± His voice was slow and deliberate.


    ¡°Heaven¡­¡± Eleanor avoided his piercing eyes, her own darting nervously.


    ¡°Though the poison lingers¡­¡± he murmured.


    ¡°Lingers?¡± Eleanor exclaimed. She had sucked it all out, hadn¡¯t she? Ignoring his darkening expression, she rushed to his side and pulled back his shirt. The wounds still bore a faint greenish hue. The poison was indeed still there. As she stared in shock, a sharp pain shot through her hand. She looked down to see a small red dot on her palm. What was this?


    ¡°A rare and deadly poison,¡± he said, his voice like a whisper from hell. ¡°Brewed from the blood and bones of the dead, mixed with eighteen lethal toxins. When five red dots appear on your palm, your body will rot like a corpse. And this poison¡ªBone Crimson¡ªonly I can cure.¡± With every word, Eleanor¡¯s body twitched violently. By the end, her scalp was crawling.


    She had saved a demon, not a wolf like the foolish Dongguo of legend!


    ¡°I¡¯ve done nothing to you! You should be grateful, not vengeful!¡± Eleanor couldn¡¯t believe it. Did they have some deep-seated enmity she didn¡¯t know about?


    ¡°Gratitude?¡± His lips curled into a sinister smile. ¡°That word means nothing to me.¡±


    ¡°You¡­¡± Eleanor blinked furiously, wanting to hurl insults but finding herself speechless. The old saying was true: the kind are always trampled upon. She turned to leave, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible.


    ¡°Though the poison lingers, killing you would be effortless. If not for the inconvenience of your corpse, do you think you¡¯d still be breathing?¡± His voice was like ice, cutting through her resolve.


    Eleanor spun around, pointing an accusing finger at him. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ too much!¡±


    ¡°Keep pointing at me. There are other¡­ interesting poisons you might enjoy.¡± His tone was casual, as if discussing the weather. Then he closed his eyes, dismissing her.


    Eleanor¡¯s face turned pale as she quickly hid her hand behind her back. She looked up at the ceiling, silently pleading for a thunderbolt to strike him down. This man was inhuman, unreasonable, and utterly impossible!


    Fuming, she glared at him for a long time before her stomach growled. She opened the thermos, grabbed a bun, and began eating, all while stealing glances at him.


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    His complexion was still poor. For a moment, she considered letting him starve. Such a wicked man deserved it!


    But¡­ he looked so unwell. Her conscience pricked at her. The chicken soup had been meant for him, after all. With a heavy sigh, she decided to set aside her anger. She couldn¡¯t bring herself to act against her nature. Besides, if he died, who would cure her poison?


    ¡°Hey! Do you want some chicken soup?¡± she asked, her tone deliberately harsh.


    He didn¡¯t even open his eyes. Infuriating!


    ¡°Wasting food is a sin, you know!¡± she said, trying a softer approach.


    Still no response.


    ¡°Fine! I¡¯ll drink it myself!¡±


    Nothing.


    ¡°Hey¡­?¡± Still ignored, Eleanor finally gave up and set the soup down. Her gaze fell on the bloodstain on his shoulder.


    Had his wound reopened? Hesitantly, she lifted his shirt. The sight of the bloody mess made her heart race. How could he not even groan in pain? Was he made of iron? Her sympathy overflowed. Despite everything, she couldn¡¯t help but feel sorry for him. After all, she had saved him. She tore more strips from the bedsheet and gently padded the wound. Without any painkillers or antiseptics, she wasn¡¯t sure what else to do. As she pondered, she looked up and found his dark, coal-like eyes watching her.


    ¡°Um¡­ does it hurt?¡± she asked, immediately regretting the obvious question.


    ¡°You¡­ are truly surnamed Ashcroft?¡± His gaze lingered on her, as if searching for something in her expression.


    ¡°Yes! I¡¯m Eleanor Ashcroft! Earlier, you asked who sent me. What did you mean?¡± She softened her voice, trying to match his tone.


    ¡°Playing dumb?¡± His eyes narrowed.


    ¡°I really don¡¯t understand!¡± Eleanor met his gaze squarely.


    ¡°The Cloudshadow Manor has only one surname¡ªCloudshadow,¡± he said slowly, his eyes still probing hers.


    ¡°You mean¡­ everyone in the manor is named Cloudshadow?¡± Eleanor asked, shocked.


    ¡°And you claim to be an Ashcroft?¡± His sharp gaze made her shrink back.


    ¡°Well¡­ isn¡¯t it possible that I¡¯m a visitor or a friend from afar? Surely not everyone shares the same surname?¡± she ventured cautiously.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know that Cloudshadow Manor excludes outsiders?¡± His voice turned icy again, clearly displeased with her explanation.


    ¡°I really didn¡¯t know! Is that why you poisoned me with that¡­ Bone Crimson thing?¡± Eleanor asked, frustrated. She was innocent! Seeing his darkening expression, she decided to come clean.


    ¡°Actually¡­ I¡¯m not from here. You have to believe me¡ªI was brought here by¡­ a thunderbolt. Do you believe me?¡± Even as she said it, she doubted he would.


    ¡°I believe,¡± he said, his tone almost angelic.


    ¡°You do?¡± Eleanor blinked in disbelief.


    ¡°I believe you¡¯re spouting nonsense. Even your lies are clumsy,¡± he sneered.


    ¡°I knew you wouldn¡¯t believe me! But it¡¯s the truth! I have no ill will toward you. In fact, I saved your life! If I wanted to harm you, why would I bother saving you? I could¡¯ve just killed you, right? And the poison¡ªit¡¯s not my doing. The weapons are over there!¡± She pointed to the bloodied clothes in the corner, desperate to prove her innocence.


    ¡°At most¡­ I might not have sucked out all the poison. But I did my best! If I hadn¡¯t removed most of it, you wouldn¡¯t even be alive to glare at me or poison me with that Bone Crimson nonsense, would you?¡±


    ¡°I have ways to make you tell the truth,¡± he said coldly, as if ignoring her entire speech.


    ¡°I¡¯m telling the truth, I swear!¡± She wondered if his ¡°ways¡± involved torture.


    ¡°But using Soulbinding on you again would be a waste,¡± he said mockingly.


    ¡°So it¡¯s called Soulbinding?¡± She shuddered. ¡°I haven¡¯t even accused you of invading my privacy, and you call it a waste? Ridiculous!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve proven my innocence. Now cure me!¡± she demanded.


    ¡°Did I say I believe you?¡± His tone was like a bucket of cold water.


    ¡°You don¡¯t believe the truth, and you call using your magic a waste. What do you want? Are you happy if I die?¡± She glared at him, though his injuries made her hesitate to act on her anger.


    His gaze shifted to the soup on the table. In a tone that brooked no argument, he said:


    ¡°Feed me.¡±


    Grumbling internally, she picked up the spoon. Fine¡­ the patient was king. And she couldn¡¯t bring herself to refuse.


    ¡°Open up.¡±


    He hesitated at the strange plastic spoon but complied. As she fed him, she thought she heard a faint chuckle¡ªdefinitely mocking. His lips moved, and she caught his words:


    ¡°You¡¯re afraid of me?¡±


    ¡°No¡ªI¡¯m not!¡± she denied quickly, avoiding his eyes.


    ¡°Look at me.¡± His voice was hypnotic.


    ¡°Why should I?¡± She wasn¡¯t about to obey his every command.


    ¡°You don¡¯t dare,¡± he taunted.


    ¡°Nonsense!¡± She couldn¡¯t resist a challenge. Her gaze shifted from his lips to his eyes. This was only the second time she had truly looked into them, and she was instantly drawn into their dark, swirling depths¡ªfilled with evil, loneliness, and despair. Though he wasn¡¯t using his magic, his eyes were mesmerizing, pulling her in until she couldn¡¯t look away. Only when he lowered his gaze did she realize she had spilled the soup.


    ¡­The eyes are the windows to the soul. But where does the heart hide when the eyes are devoid of light, drowning in darkness and fear?

 thunder

    A deafening clap of thunder shattered the silence. In the darkness, Eleanor jolted awake, her ears straining against the cacophony of the storm¡ªand the ragged, labored breathing nearby. Fumbling for flint and tinder, she lit the bedside candle. The flickering light revealed Cyrus slumped against the wall, his ashen face contorted in agony. Veins throbbed at his temples; his hands, clenched into bloodless fists, trembled against the bedsheets.


    "Don¡¯t¡ª" he snarled as she reached toward him, the warning more feral than human. Another thunderbolt shook the chamber. Eleanor stumbled backward, catching herself against the cold stone floor. Cyrus staggered upright, his mangled leg buckling beneath him. The bandages¡ªonce white¡ªnow bloomed rust-colored where dried blood fused linen to flesh.


    "Stop!" Eleanor lunged to brace him as he collapsed. "Your wounds¡ª" Her words died as lightning illuminated the room. Cyrus shuddered violently, his forehead pressed against her collarbone. Surprise froze her for a heartbeat¡ªuntil understanding dawned.


    The storm. He was terrified of the storm.


    Her arms hesitantly encircled his shoulders. "Shhh," she murmured, the childhood lullaby slipping out unbidden¡ª"Beneath the silver willow¡¯s sigh, the nightingale shall guard your sleep..." His breath hitched, hot against her neck. For three verses, they remained thus: a knight broken by pain, a woman humming nonsense rhymes to drown the thunder.


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    When the tempest retreated, Cyrus recoiled as if burned. "Enough coddling," he rasped, though his grip on the bedpost betrayed weakness. "Fetch the bandages."


    Eleanor bit back a retort. The man bled defiance as freely as he bled ichor. Working in silence, she peeled away the ruined cloth. Ribbons of muscle glistened beneath torn flesh. Each dab of the cloth drew a hiss through his teeth, yet he refused vocal complaint. Only when her fingers grazed his collarbone did he speak: "Your bedside manner lacks refinement."


    "Complaints may be lodged with the abbess," she shot back, winding fresh linen across his ribs. "Assuming we survive to see dawn."


    Dawn brought brittle sunlight and a corpse-quiet stronghold. Eleanor scavenged the scorched kitchens in vain before spying wild apples glowing like rubies on the hillside. She returned with her skirts pillaged into a makeshift satchel, only to find Cyrus poised like a viper in the shadows.


    "Three hours," he accused, eyes narrowing.


    "Three apples." She tossed him one, its skin gleaming with dew. "Poisoned, naturally. A slow death via horticulture."


    A flicker of amusement ghosted across his face¡ªthere and gone. He bit into the fruit, juice staining his cracked lips. "Adequate."


    Nightfall reignited their uneasy truce. Cyrus watched her through slitted eyes as she rebuilt the fire. "Why?" The question hung between them, sharp as a dagger.


    "Why what?"


    "Why risk your neck for a stranger?"


    Eleanor prodded the embers. "You¡¯d prefer I left you to bleed out?"


    "Most would."


    "Then most are fools." She met his gaze unflinching. "A man who fears thunderstorms needs looking after."


    For once, Cyrus had no retort. The fire crackled. Somewhere beyond the ruins, an owl called to the rising moon.