North of Naples, wrapped tightly by the nation's mother river, lay a lonely, secluded land — Almería.
The eldest son of Duke Hillman, young Lord Pedro, with his handsome visage and well-built frame, was regarded as one of the finest scions of his house. He now rode his pure white mare leisurely through the streets.
The House of Hillman had risen only within the past century. To climb from common cloth to the title of an outlander duke was unheard of in the history of Naples since its founding.
Pedro's eyes gleamed like torches as he gazed proudly over the crowd of lower-ranked humans. To call them "lowly" was not mere arrogance — it was a matter of the eyes.
In Almería, the color of one's pupils dictated social rank: blue and brown eyes were common, white eyes the lowest, black eyes near to royalty, and red eyes supreme.
Among the royal bloodlines, red eyes reigned uncontested, though rare shades like pink or violet would sometimes appear. These oddities often produced brilliant swordsmen, but the status of the red-eyed was never in doubt — they bore the purest blood, the purest might.
Though his father preached equality — that eye color meant little — Pedro saw no reason to feign humility. On his coming-of-age day, he had bested his own swordmaster, relying purely on swordsmanship, no magic or incantations.
With such talent and lineage, a measure of pride was natural.
Thus, when the opportunity arose, he volunteered for a task of honor — to personally invite a distinguished guest to the upcoming ancestral festival.
In two days, all Almería would celebrate, and the festivities would last for seven days and nights. Merchants and travelers from all around would flock to witness it. As the hosts, the Hillman family would bask in unrivaled glory.
The thought spurred Pedro to nudge his mare's flank, quickening their pace.
The guest, it was rumored, was a reclusive scholar, a famed poet, or a minstrel. Likely just a bit of added color for the occasion.
Still, the troubled look on his father's face had lingered in Pedro's mind.
No matter — he would apply charm and pressure as needed.
He, a duke's heir, would surely succeed where others might falter!
Dust rose from beneath the hooves as he rode, paying no mind to trampled flowers and grass.
Tonight, his mother would personally prepare his favorite — a creamy stew — to reward his success.
Arriving at the designated place, he compared it with his memory.
A moss-covered wooden house, a modest courtyard overflowing with exotic flowers — yet what grew most abundantly were lupines, Almería's pride.
Pedro did not bother to knock on the weathered redwood door.
Leaving his two guards posted outside, he strode boldly into the yard.
Yet no sooner had he entered than he noticed a heavily weathered gravestone amid the flowerbeds.
A frown touched his brow. Best to finish this quickly.
Clearing his throat, Pedro announced,
"Greetings, esteemed one! At my father's behest, I have come to invite you to the upcoming ancestral festival. It would be a great honor to have you at our estate."
Confidence swelled in him.
Surely no one would refuse a personal invitation from a duke's son.
A voice floated from within the garden:
"Kafka's son, is it?"
Pedro stiffened in surprise.
The voice belonged to a woman — young, judging by the tone — not the reclusive elder scholar he had imagined.
Still, better a youthful lady than an old man, he mused.
What startled him even more was that she called his father's name without him introducing himself.
"Not going.
That fool dares to send a brat like you to deliver his invitation?
Tell him — if he wants me there, he should come himself tomorrow!"
Pedro opened his mouth to protest but found no words.
At that moment, a small snow-white fox darted from the flowerbed.
Its pure fur gleamed under the sun.
Pedro instinctively reached out to pet it — but the fox lashed out, scratching his hand with its sharp claws, leaving a bleeding cut.
In anger, Pedro flung the fox toward the door.
It hit the wood with a small thud and whimpered pitifully.
A woman stepped out from the house.
She wore a pleated gown dyed a deep, ancient indigo.
Every movement carried a serene, distant elegance.
Pinned to her dark hair was a single blue lupine flower, its delicate fragrance blending into the morning air.
She scooped the injured fox into her arms, gently stroking its fur.
The little creature buried itself against her chest, whimpering softly.
Pedro swallowed hard.
He had seen many beautiful women, being a duke's son — but never one like this.
Her beauty was not merely physical, but carried an unapproachable nobility, a grace that seemed to belong to another world.
Most strikingly — her eyes were red.
Like his own.
Although his hue was a shade lighter, by the standards of this world, they were equals.
His heart surged with sudden, foolish hope.
Could this be fate?
He masked his nervousness with a feigned scowl, intending to intimidate her a little — after all, some aloof girls secretly admired boldness.
Yet the woman simply glared at him coldly and slammed the door in his face.
Pedro stood stunned.
Recalling his father's strict command not to resort to violence, and unwilling to tarnish his image before this goddess-like figure, he could only retreat in frustration.
Back at the Hillman estate, the atmosphere was heavy.
Duke Kafka Hillman sat grim-faced, new wrinkles etched into his brow.
Beside him, his wife offered a strained smile of comfort.
"Dear," she said gently, "perhaps you should go yourself tomorrow.
Last time she didn't come either... She used to visit every few years without fail. Now, it's different... I don't know why."
Kafka's face darkened even further.
Fear — genuine fear — lurked behind his stern features.
He feared that woman — feared her in a way like a lamb fears a wolf.
It had been three years since he had last seen her.
With a long sigh, Kafka seemed to steel himself for an unavoidable confrontation.
Pedro, his younger sister, and his second brother watched in confusion, unable to grasp the undercurrents swirling around the adults.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
"Big brother, did you really fall for that girl?"
his sister teased, half-joking, half-curious.
"If she were really so extraordinary,"
his second brother added skeptically,
"the matchmakers would have long stormed her door!"
"When have I ever lied to you two?!"
Pedro huffed indignantly.
"Even calling her a 'flower on a distant peak' feels inadequate,"
he declared passionately.
Their parents, meanwhile, concluded their discussion.
Pedro strode forward with confidence, his face shining with pride and hope.
"Father, Mother, I have fallen in love!"
Kafka's grim expression softened slightly.
"My son," he said with mild amusement,
"normally none of the noble ladies could catch your eye.
I am curious — who could possibly tame your heart?"
"The very woman you sent me to invite today, Father,"
Pedro replied, almost beaming.
"A friend's daughter, perhaps? Whoever she is, she's as radiant as the morning star!"
Silence fell over the room, sudden and suffocating.
Kafka's face paled visibly.
Trembling slightly, he asked,
"Red eyes, black hair, favors simple clothing?"
Pedro nodded vigorously.
A furious roar shattered the stunned quiet:
"You damned fool!
You would dare set your sights on your own ancestor?!
Get out! Three days confinement — and if I see you step outside before then, I'll break your legs myself!"
The world tilted under Pedro's feet.
In an instant, all his beautiful dreams collapsed.
He slumped to the ground, his legs giving out, and was swiftly dragged away by the guards.
Kafka's face darkened to the color of coal.
The next morning, Duke Kafka, accompanied by ten personal guards, rode urgently toward the secluded wooden house.
As they neared, he dismounted well before the entrance, approaching humbly on foot.
At the redwood door, he knocked carefully.
Only after a soft voice permitted entry did he step inside, leaving his guards stationed outside.
Within the courtyard, a white fox lounged lazily in the sun.
The woman awaited him, gently stroking the creature's fur.
Her voice carried a hint of gentle rebuke:
"You really didn't want to see me that much?"
Kafka lowered his gaze in guilt.
"Pathetic,"
she chided, though not without affection.
"Last time it was because little Jiu was sick.
The timing was unfortunate. I had no ill intent."
Her eyes softened slightly as she cradled the fox closer.
"This child... I picked her up twenty years ago.
Being alone gets lonely after all."
"I've invited you many times to live at the estate,"
Kafka protested quietly.
"This place is too cold and desolate for you."
The woman's gaze drifted to the backyard.
There, neat rows of gravestones stood silently.
"I have my reasons for staying,"
she said.
"Every decade, I erase a grave.
Over the years, they have dwindled one by one.
When the last stone disappears... that will be the day I leave Almería for good."
She knelt beside a gravestone, placing a delicate hand upon it.
In an instant, the stone crumbled into dust, carried away by the autumn breeze.
Straightening, she spoke softly:
"Come.
Another decade has passed — in the blink of an eye."
As the horses trotted along the road back to the estate,
the woman looked around with mild curiosity:
"Strange how even a few years can change a place so much."
Her mood seemed lighter.
Upon arrival, she immediately set little Jiu free into the gardens to play.
The estate itself was much the same.
The old steward she once knew had likely passed away.
Humans, she mused, lived such fleeting lives — sometimes a single farewell was truly final.
A pang of sorrow stirred within her heart.
"Once you step onto this path,"
she whispered to herself,
"there is no turning back."
"Remember what I said... any of it."
"The dreams I chased — even though I caught them — changed the moment I held them in my hands."
"My life... it was neither as bad as I feared, nor as good as I hoped."
Memories of the past flooded her mind —
his gentle laughter, the nights of wine and dreams, the sound of their cups clinking together —
and the final shattering of their fragile illusions.
Tears welled in her crimson eyes.
"Compared to your pain, what are a mere few decades or centuries to me?"
In the courtyard, the duchess had already prepared a fine setting under the warm autumn sun —
a polished redwood table, silver cutlery gleaming elegantly, a parasol casting soft shade over the scene.
They feared the guest might find the house too cold and formal, and so arranged this welcoming feast outside.
At the gate, Pedro's second brother and younger sister nearly pressed their faces against the wall, straining to catch a glimpse.
"Big brother didn't lie,"
the second brother muttered, eyes wide.
"She's truly otherworldly,"
his sister sighed.
As for Pedro, he remained confined indoors, still brooding.
At the table, one dish after another was served — each small and exquisite, prepared with special care.
"Sister, please do try some,"
the duchess urged warmly.
"I cooked these myself, worried that the estate's usual fare might not suit your taste."
"Thank you. That's very thoughtful,"
the woman replied gently, savoring the food with quiet grace.
"Speaking of which, where is your eldest son?"
she asked with a faint smile.
"Last time I saw you, you were just a girl. Now you have children grown so tall."
"You flatter me,"
the duchess laughed.
"He's around somewhere... probably not hungry yet."
"Nonsense! A young man of twenty is always hungry at midday,"
the woman teased lightly.
Kafka quickly intervened:
"I'll have someone bring him food later."
But the woman shook her head, her voice turning firm:
"A family should eat together.
No exceptions."
Under her gaze, Kafka and the duchess exchanged helpless glances.
At last, they ordered Pedro's release.
The moment Pedro reappeared, his heart raced.
Seeing the goddess again, he paid no heed to his siblings' frantic attempts to warn him.
He rushed forward, wearing his most gallant smile, eager to impress.
The woman said little, eating slowly, elegantly.
After the meal, she made a simple request:
"I'd like to spend a moment alone with your eldest son."
Kafka and his wife could hardly refuse.
They hastily led the others away, leaving Pedro alone with her in the sun-drenched courtyard.
She leaned casually against the railing, gazing at the ripples in the pond.
Her voice was languid, almost teasing:
"How old are you now?
Didn't your mother teach you not to stare at women like that?"
Pedro flushed crimson, but her next words made his heart leap:
"Tell me — do you like me?"
Pedro, ever straightforward, nodded furiously.
She chuckled softly — a sound like wind through the autumn leaves.
"You know...
I already have someone I like."
Her gaze drifted far away, soft and serene.
Pedro's heart raced.
Was she hinting at him?
"Then... how much do you like him?"
he blurted out.
The woman spread one hand apart:
"About this much—"
then extended the other hand wide, raising it above her head.
"—no, this much—"
She hesitated, cheeks flushing faintly.
Laughing at herself, she squatted down, hiding her face behind her arms.
"Ah... I must have long fallen for him."
Pedro gave a bitter laugh.
So that was it.
The lies he had told himself — that maybe he had a chance — crumbled.
He smiled wryly:
"I thought love would be simpler than this."
The day of the grand celebration arrived.
Everything unfolded just as it always had —
the bustling streets, the festive songs, the radiant smiles on the townspeople's faces.
It was as if the events of that day had never happened, as if nothing had changed.
The lady — still beautiful, still aloof — moved through the festivities with quiet grace.
It was enough.
Pedro thought — it was enough.
His desires, his fleeting hopes — he had held them in his hands, if only for a moment.
That was enough.
Or so he told himself.
Later, as they sat idly in the courtyard, the conversation turned once again to the man she had once loved.
"What kind of man was he?"
Pedro asked softly.
The woman's expression remained calm, almost indifferent.
"A coward,"
she said.
"Someone who yearned for what he could never have.
Someone greedy, who could not hold onto the happiness in his hands."
"In short,"
she finished with a faint smile,
"a dull, unremarkable man."
Pedro tilted his head, skeptical.
"You speak with such disdain,"
he said,
"yet it's clear you loved him dearly."
The woman blushed, a rare softness creeping into her stern features.
"You young ones — pretending to understand grand matters of love!"
she huffed.
Pedro grinned.
"From where I stand, he must have been a fool,"
he said boldly.
"Leaving a woman like you alone — how wise could he have been?"
The woman's smile faded.
Her crimson eyes turned cold.
"And what do you know of him?"
Pedro fell silent, realizing he had overstepped.
After a long pause, he ventured cautiously:
"Then tell me... what exactly did you like about him?"
The woman's lips trembled.
At last, she whispered:
"I liked him... simply because I did."
Nothing more.
No grand reasons.
No rational explanations.
Just — because.
A chill wind stirred the courtyard.
Pedro shivered slightly.
Yet he smiled — genuinely, if a little sadly.
"You're a tsundere, aren't you?"
he teased gently.
The woman did not answer.
She only turned away, hiding her face from view.
The streets thrummed with life.
Men sang and drank; women gossiped and laughed; children ran, their golden hair flashing in the sun.
Fields of lupines bloomed along the roadside, swaying gently in the wind.
In the distance, somewhere above the rooftops, light snow began to fall — the first snow of the season.
The woman looked toward the horizon, her voice barely a whisper:
"Xia...
It's snowing again in Almería."
In the small courtyard behind the wooden house, the lupines had begun to bloom —
cluster after cluster of blue and purple blossoms, swaying like tiny, trembling hopes.
(A/N: Thank you for taking the time to read my story.I plan to update twice to three times a week.Your support means the world to me!)
