Holy Night: My Husband is Definitely a Paladin - Chapter 298
TL: Elphie / PR: Marm
Irene covered her ears. Princess Ceciliaās screams didnāt stop with just one.
Pleading sobs. Bloodcurdling shrieks. Then, they grew weaker.
Until it finally stopped with a wet, slicing sound and the sickening tear of flesh.
Even without seeing it, Irene knew. Michael had killed Princess Cecilia.
Clatter. A noise from within the room.
She looked up, startled, and saw a figure crouching in the corner move.
It was Princess Cecilia, shivering and clad in the clothes of the dead.
She trembled violently, her wide, haunted eyes locking onto Ireneās.
Then, in a broken, quivering whisper.
āWhyā¦ whyā¦ am Iā¦ over thereā¦ deadā¦?ā
At that moment, the sound of shuffling footsteps was heard again.
The footsteps didn’t hesitate, coming straight to the room where Irene and Princess Cecilia were.
Bang!
With a brutal shove, he forced the half-open door wide. Then, he stepped inside.
His gaze locked onto the trembling Princess Cecilia, curled in the corner.
From the moment Irene first saw him here, he had been drenched in blood.
Now, fresh crimson coated him once moreāthick, wet, and clinging.
It wasnāt just blood. Tiny, shredded bits of flesh clung to his clothes, splattered like grotesque decorations.
Dark strands of hairāblack, like Ceciliaāsāwere stuck to him, tangled in the mess.
āHow strange.ā
Michael muttered, staring down at the cowering princess.
āI killed you. So why are you still here?ā
He reached out, fingers twisting cruelly into her hair and yanking her up.
In his other hand was a worn, battered sword.
āP-Please, spare meā¦ā
It wasnāt Michael who Cecilia begged for mercy. Instead, she reached out, not to him, but toward Irene, standing just beyond the door.
At her movement, Michael turned. His eyes followed Ceciliaās outstretched hand. And then, he saw Irene.
The moment he did, he stopped, as if he was waiting.
As if he needed her command.
Cecilia, still trapped in Michaelās grip, suddenly convulsed.
Her eyes rolled back, her body shuddering like she had been struck by lightning.
She went limp, and after a moment, she jerked awake, her face twisting with raw fury. She thrashed against Michaelās hold, snarling like a wounded animal.
Her bloodshot eyes locked onto Irene.
“Let go! Let me go, damn you! Youā! Irene Rhodiam! You wretched b***h! What kind of artifact did you use?! You died! I saw you die in that dungeon!”
Irene froze. Even in the midst of her confusion, she understood.
That there was a Cecilia who had regained some of her memories, just like her.
This was the Cecilia who had been responsible for her death.
Irene took a step toward them, then stooped to feel the floor.
As she entered the room, she saw a severed wrist still clutching a sword.
Irene pulled the sword from its grasp.
The sword in her hand had never been swung in battle and never met an enemyās blade. Its edge was still sharp.
Cold and unforgiving, Irene tightened her grip.
Then, step by step, she closed the distance.
The moment she had died, pain wasnāt the only thing she had felt.
She was no saint. And so what had burned the fiercest within her as she died was rage.
A fury so blistering, so absolute, it had drowned out all else.
Anger at Cecilia for deceiving her and sending her to a miserable death.
āYouā¦ lied to me.ā
When she had died, she hadnāt wanted to accept it.
Not because she wanted to believe in Cecilia.
But becauseĀ admitting it meant acknowledging the truth. That she had been nothing more than a fool.
That she had walked into her death like a lamb to slaughterāall because of that womanās pitiful tricks.
It had been too humiliating, too pathetic.
So she had desperately clung to denial.
But not anymore.
Because now, she had been given something far greater than closure.
She had been given a chance to avenge herself.
Cecilia thrashed, sobbing, clawing at the air as if she could grasp salvation itself, but Michaelās grip was unrelenting.
āPlease! I was wrong! Spare me! Please, I beg you!ā
The closer Irene came, the more frantic Ceciliaās screams grew.
But Irene didnāt falter.
She raised the sword in her hands.
āPlease, pleaseā¦ā
Ceciliaās voice cracked. Realizing that death was at hand, she clasped her hands together and begged for mercy.
Irene exhaled, and a tear slipped down her cheek.
Hah.
So this was it.
This was what she must have looked like, too: pathetic, frail, and helpless.
At the end of it all, this was how she had begged for her life, too.
And the princess must have laughed at her, thinking of her so miserable in a safe, warm place.
Irene did not pity Cecilia in the least.
So if she just brought her hand down, she could finally put an end to all the misery of the past.
Ireneās hand trembled as she gripped the sword.
She wanted to kill.
But she couldnāt easily take the princessās life.
Because she had died once before, she understood the weight of sin, the agony of death.
That was why she hesitated.
At that momentā
āIrene.ā
Michael gently grasped her hand, the one holding the sword.
Then, carefully, he took the blade from her grip.
“You donāt need to stain your hands with filthy blood.”
