The Queen’s Midnight Toy: Why Don’t You Hate Them?

The air held a silence more viscous than the previous night.

The magical wall sconces outside the bedchamber were dimmed, leaving only a few in the corners emitting a warm, yellowish glow, dividing the spacious room into patches of soft light and deep shadow.

Iris did not ask Furenna to read poetry or do anything else as she had last night.

She merely instructed her to stand quietly in attendance by the bedroom door.

Iris herself reclined on the largest central sofa, still clad in the soft, deep purple sleeping robe, her hair loose.

She toyed with an irregularly shaped crystal that glimmered with a dark crimson light in the dimness, her gaze somewhat vacant, fixed on the magical fire burning silently in the fireplace, exuding a crisp scent of pine.

Time passed soundlessly.

Furenna stood like a pale sculpture at the boundary of light and shadow, striving to minimize her presence.

Yet each breath seemed to stir the overly still air.

Prolonged standing and sustained mental strain began to seep out, bringing subtle dizziness and bone-deep weariness.

She had to muster all her strength to maintain her straight back and steady posture.

Suddenly, Iris moved.

She casually tossed the crystal in her hand onto the nearby low table, producing a crisp, light sound.

Then, she slowly turned her head.

Her crimson eyes pierced the dim light, landing precisely on Furenna.

That gaze lacked last night’s playful probing or the day’s assessing scrutiny; it was a flat, bottomless stare.

“Come here.”

Her voice was not loud, but in the silence, it was clear enough to tighten one’s heart.

Furenna obeyed, walking to a spot about three steps from the sofa, stopping to stand with hands at her sides.

“Closer.”

Iris’s tone was flat, but brooked no argument.

Furenna’s heart quivered slightly as she took a small step forward.

“To my side.”

Iris patted the empty space on the sofa beside her—a position even closer to her body than last night.

The air seemed to congeal.

This distance, this command, under the dim, intimate light, was filled with aggression far exceeding last night’s and a certain indescribable implication.

Furenna’s fingertips turned icy instantly.

She knew any resistance or hesitation now could trigger unpredictable consequences.

But moving closer meant placing herself in greater danger, meaning that cold scrutiny and control would have nowhere to hide.

After a brief, suffocating silence, Furenna ultimately moved her feet slowly, walked to the sofa, and sat down in the spot Iris indicated, adopting the same rigid, barely-on-the-edge posture.

This time, she could clearly sense the body heat lower than a normal human’s and that even clearer aura mixed with cold fragrance and dangerous magic emanating from Iris.

Iris did not look at her, still gazing at the fireplace flames, as if merely bringing an object closer for observation.

But the next second, she suddenly, without warning, turned sideways.

Her arm reached out, actually wrapping directly around Furenna’s shoulders, pulling her body back against the sofa’s wide, soft backrest!

The motion wasn’t rough, even carrying a strange, languid force, but it was irresistible.

Caught completely off guard, Furenna was pulled into the soft cushions, her body instantly stiff as iron, her breath stopping.

Iris’s arm rested across her shoulders, fingertips merely an inch from her neck, the cold touch transmitting through the thin fabric.

The curve of her entire neck, so close to Iris’s lips, felt like an invitation for a kiss.

Furenna felt her skin instantly tighten, the blood in her body seeming to freeze.

Her heart pounded like a drum, a tidal wave of fear engulfing her.

“Relax.”

Iris’s voice was low and calm, as if capable of smoothing the tumultuous waves in one’s heart, yet carrying an undeniable command.

She wasn’t looking at Furenna.

She merely rested her chin lightly on Furenna’s shoulder, her nose almost touching her hair, inhaling the faint, clean scent on her as if enchanted.

Furenna was almost encircled within Iris’s arm and the sofa, forming an extremely passive, nearly immobilized posture.

“Don’t move.”

Iris’s voice sounded in her ear, carrying a post-bath huskiness and a thread of undeniable command.

“Just like this. Keep me company watching the fire.”

Furenna’s heart hammered wildly in her chest, blood rushing to her head only to be forced back by icy fear and reason.

Every muscle in her body was taut, every nerve screaming danger, but her body dared not make the slightest unnecessary struggle.

She could feel Iris’s steady breath brushing past her ear, could smell that close, bewitchingly cold, sweet scent.

This posture, this distance, had completely shattered the “master-servant” boundary, filled with blatant, condescending control and a kind of eerie, intimate illusion.

Iris seemed quite satisfied with her stone-stiff posture.

The fingers resting on her shoulder even unconsciously, very subtly, traced the line of her shoulder blade, as if feeling the texture of an object.

Then, she made no further movement, merely watching the leaping flames in the fireplace silently.

Silence spread once more, but this time, filled with suffocating pressure and an indescribable, eerie atmosphere.

Furenna felt cold sweat begin to seep from her back, dampening her undergarments, bringing a clammy chill.

The weakness within her, under this extreme tension and sense of humiliation, seemed temporarily numbed, leaving only the heavy, rapid pounding of her heart thundering in her ears.

An unknowable amount of time passed—perhaps only minutes, yet feeling as long as a century.

Iris suddenly spoke, her voice still that almost conversational flatness, yet under this bizarrely intimate posture, it sounded exceptionally clear and exceptionally dangerous.

“Furenna.”

She called her name, tone calm.

“I heard… you were betrayed by humans, attacked by the very people you protected, and finally fled into the deep, beast-infested mountains and forests, where my subordinates found you and brought you back.”

Her words were like a cold scalpel, precisely piercing the deepest, most unwillingly touched scar in Furenna’s memory.

Those images—the frightened, disgusted, finally murderous gazes of her kin under the cold stained glass of the Holy Temple; the blades of former companions; the absolute prohibition of the Goddess’s Blessing forbidding retaliation against her own race; the physical and spiritual agony of being pierced and shunned; stumbling alone into the dark forest in despair and pain, pursued by shouts and arrows; finally, a field of crimson and darkness before her eyes…

Her heart felt as if seized by an invisible hand, sharp pain and icy despair instantly sweeping over her.

Furenna’s body involuntarily trembled violently, her breathing suddenly became ragged, all color drained from her pale face, even her lips quivering slightly.

This wasn’t an act; it was the most instinctive, genuine reaction to having an old wound abruptly torn open.

The fingers resting on her shoulder clearly felt this violent tremor.

Iris’s crimson eyes shifted slightly.

She turned her face, looking at Furenna’s near face, momentarily lost, filled with pain and struggle, with a gaze that seemed to see through everything.

“The Goddess’s Blessing prevented you from raising your sword against humans, even when they sought your death.”

Iris’s voice was soft, as if narrating a story unrelated to herself.

“How ironic, isn’t it? You believed in her, protected them, yet in the end, were bound by that belief, betrayed and hunted by those you protected.”

“That feeling… must have been unbearable.”

Each word was like a red-hot branding iron, searing Furenna’s bloody memory.

She clenched her teeth on her lower lip, almost drawing blood, barely suppressing the sob threatening to burst from her throat and the more violent tremors of her body.

Deep within her amber eyes, the frozen flame danced and burned frantically, mixed with profound pain, boundless anger, and a trace of deeply wounded sorrow she herself was unwilling to acknowledge.

No… can’t… must control it…

Under Iris’s such close, penetrating gaze, in this posture of complete control, any intense emotional fluctuation could be thoroughly discerned and interpreted by the other.

Anger, hatred, pain… these emotions, though “real,” once out of control, could expose the unextinguished, rebellious core belonging to “Hero Furenna” deep within her heart.

That did not align with the image of the “servant” she was currently portraying—trying to “resign herself,” to be “submissive.” It was a fatal flaw.

She had to respond, had to give a reaction, one that could explain her intense emotional fluctuation (which couldn’t be completely hidden) without arousing deeper suspicion.

The truth… perhaps, a partial truth, might be the best cover at this moment.

Furenna took a deep, trembling breath, forcing herself to loosen her clenched teeth, striving to keep her voice from completely breaking.

She still did not look at Iris.

Her vacant gaze was fixed on the leaping, warmth-less flames in the fireplace.

Her voice was hoarse, dry, carrying an incompletely concealed tone of pain, as she spoke slowly:

“Yes… that feeling… was indeed… hard to bear.”

She admitted the pain—the reaction a “normal person” should have, within Iris’s expectations.

Then, she paused, as if struggling to organize her words.

The cold hand resting on her shoulder seemed to press down slightly more firmly, as if urging, or like some silent form of control.

“But…”

Furenna closed her eyes.

Her long lashes cast fragile shadows on her pale cheeks.

Her voice lowered, yet carried a strange, almost suffocating calmness.

“I… don’t blame them.”

The moment these words left her mouth, she felt the hand on her shoulder pause almost imperceptibly.

Furenna paid no heed, or rather, she was currently immersed in the difficultly constructed, half-true, half-false emotional expression.

She continued in that hoarse, weary, yet clear voice:

“They… were merely afraid. Afraid of power they couldn’t comprehend, afraid of the unknown, afraid that I, whom they saw as an ‘anomaly’… would bring disaster.”

“In the face of despair and blind following, people… easily make wrong choices.”

“What I believed in, what I protected for the Goddess… was never a particular person, a particular group, but that… possibility of light worth protecting, existing within human hearts.”

“They… merely lost their way, temporarily, at that time.”

Her words held no fierce accusation, no venomous curse, only a profound, seemingly exhausted weariness and a kind of almost divine, compassionate… forgiveness.

This aligned with her former “Light Hero” background, with her faith in the Goddess, and also with the most “reasonable” emotion this weakened, weary, seemingly “resigned” shell could display—not intense hatred, but the dull, sorrowful acceptance of someone whose edges have been worn down by reality, whose spirit has been exhausted.

More importantly, this answer attributed her previous intense painful reaction to “the painful memory of betrayal,” not to “hatred and resentment towards humans or the current situation.”

This was a relatively “safe” emotional exposure.

Iris did not speak, merely watching quietly the side of Furenna’s face, so close, eyes closed, lashes trembling.

Beneath the calm scrutiny in her crimson eyes, something extremely complex, difficult to interpret, seemed to flow slowly.

Surprise? Assessment? Finding it interesting? Or something else?

After a long while, she finally spoke slowly, her voice lower, deeper than before, carrying a strange, almost sighing quality:

“Don’t blame them… merely because they were afraid, lost…”

She repeated Furenna’s words, her fingertip lightly tracing the fabric on Furenna’s shoulder, bringing a shiver of cold.

“Even when they raised blades against you, drove you to desperation, nearly took everything from you… you don’t hate them?”

Furenna slowly opened her eyes.

Her amber eyes held the lingering, not-yet-dissipated glimmer of pain, but the deeper flame had been forcefully suppressed, leaving only a weary, nearly vacant calm.

She shook her head lightly, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible:

“Hate… solves nothing. It only makes those who are lost… sink deeper into being lost.”

“I am already… tired.”

The last three words were uttered extremely lightly, carrying a bone-deep, marrow-penetrating exhaustion.

This exhaustion was real—stemming from the weakness within her body, from the mental torment of recent days, and from the weight of the memories themselves.

Iris said nothing more.

She withdrew the arm wrapped around Furenna’s shoulders, sat up straight again, and turned her gaze back to the fireplace flames.

As if that aggressive imprisonment and soul-piercing interrogation had never happened.

But in the room, the suffocating atmosphere—mixed with icy control, painful memories, and an eerie calm—lingered, refusing to dissipate.

Furenna remained stiffly leaning against the sofa, not moving immediately.

The cold sweat on her back had turned icy, her heart still beating heavily, but that violent emotion that had nearly burst from her chest had been forcefully pressed back down by reason and pretense.

She did not know if her answer had passed, if it had aroused deeper suspicion from Iris.

But at least, at that moment, she had not lost control, had not exposed that most dangerous, unyielding flame.

Iris watched the fire silently, her profile shifting between light and shadow in the flickering firelight.

After a long time, she finally spoke indifferently, her tone regaining its usual languid flatness:

“The tea is cold. Go change it for a hot cup.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Furenna’s voice was still somewhat hoarse.

She moved somewhat stiffly, slowly standing up.

From prolonged rigidity and weakness, her steps were a bit unsteady, but she steadied herself and walked towards the low table holding the tea set.

With her back to Iris, her pale face bore no expression.

Only deep within her lowered, amber eyes, in that cold, dead, deep stillness, that cluster of unextinguished flame burned silently, stubbornly, in an unseen corner.