Chapter 41: Love is always mixed with hate

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Anna’s footsteps were light.

Lydia lifted her head and caught a glimpse of the red mark on the side of Anna’s neck.

That faint blush was like molten lava, burning Lydia’s heart.

What was that?

A goodbye kiss? Or perhaps… something more?

Lydia dared not imagine further; every thought was a lash to her soul.

Her heart felt as if it would bleed.

“Not… not long at all.”

Lydia lowered her eyelids, her throat tightening.

She forced herself to look away, pretending to be fascinated by the pebbles at the roadside.

She dared not look directly at that faint pink mark half-hidden beneath the silver hair.

“Let’s go.”

She tried to sound at ease as she stepped forward, moving half a pace ahead of Anna, unwilling to walk beside her.

As if this way, she would no longer have to see the heartbreaking evidence.

Silence, and still more silence.

Lydia always felt she ought to say something, that there shouldn’t be nothing between them.

But what was there to say? Though she called her “sister,” she barely understood Anna at all.

She didn’t even know what words should come at a time like this.

“Have you ever been to Scarborough Fair?”

Anna hummed an old, forgotten tune.

Lydia had once heard this song in her father’s camp. It told of soldiers, driven from their homes and forced to retreat south, standing on the road and gazing at their homeland, now nothing but scorched earth.

Scarborough, nestled by the river of the same name, always thundered with the sound of waves.

Their home lay along that river, where there were forests and mines, and orchards and rice fields spread across the hills.

A homeland many could never return to.

“Sister… you know this song too.”

“Mm, I heard someone sing it once.”

Without realizing it, Anna quickened her pace to walk beside Lydia.

“I’ve been this way before.”

The sunlight slanted in the west, the last rays like fire.

Anna’s silver hair was tinged with gold. Her gaze lingered on the distant hills, her expression solemn and lonely.

As if remembering something deeply buried in her heart.

The cold scent of pine, mixed with the wild wind, brushed faintly against Lydia’s nose.

She realized that perhaps she was glimpsing Anna’s past.

It was clearly not a pleasant memory. Perhaps it was a scar—open it, and one would see blood and flesh beneath.

Had she ever confessed such things to that young lady?

Some inexplicable sense of rivalry welled up in Lydia’s chest.

“Could you tell me about it, sister?”

Lydia gently bumped Anna’s shoulder.

“It’s fine if I tell you.”

Anna stretched like a cat, arching her back.

“I once took part in an expedition.”

“Expedition?”

The only event worthy of being called an “expedition” was the kingdom’s all-out campaign three years ago: the Northern Crusade, waged to reclaim lost lands alongside the five Heroes.

“Yes, three years ago.”

Lydia clenched her fists.

She had lost her father in that expedition, and soon after, her mother leapt from the tower.

She said she had become a bird, flying off to seek her beloved.

Behind her was a sky full of flames. She wanted to burn everything, even herself, for a funeral pyre.

Including, perhaps, her own daughter.

But Lydia survived.

To live, she first sold herself to a slaver in the royal capital, and was then resold to a certain border count.

When the count was about to “enjoy” her, she stabbed him with her dagger, and fled to Albion.

All she had was that dagger.

No one knew the hardships she had faced along the way.

All the root of her suffering… was that failed expedition.

Lydia hated the royal family who had recklessly launched the campaign, and despised those useless Heroes.

If possible, she wanted them to taste her agony as well.

Lydia desperately hoped Anna would say it, say she too was a victim of that expedition.

Then they could lick their wounds together.

But what Anna said next nearly shattered every expectation Lydia had.

She said she was the Hero of the Sword.

The very one condemned before all at the public trial, the chief culprit spat upon by the masses.

Why… was it you?

Anna’s gaze still rested on the distant hills, where her former comrades lay buried.

Lydia’s mind went blank.

For a moment, nothing else mattered; her blood boiled and then froze in an instant.

She stopped dead, her body stiff as withered wood.

Her father’s death in battle, her mother’s arson, her own enslavement and wandering, her blade slaying her enemies…

All the suffering born of that expedition was like a red-hot brand, burning her heart again and again.

Each burn was excruciating, each one left her wishing she were dead.

She didn’t know how to face the “sister” before her.

This was the source of all her suffering, the chief culprit of everything.

Why… did it have to be you?

She stared hard at Anna’s back, and her moonlight shattered all at once.

Like a jade plate smashed to pieces.

Why must love always be mingled with hate?

At last Anna sensed the silence behind her, silence deep enough to drown in.

She slowly turned around, and those eyes that Lydia once thought so clear suddenly dimmed.

“I’m sorry.”

She wanted to say something, to explain, but the words caught in her throat.

Anna silently bore all the pain.

“Sorry… what’s the use, sister?”

Lydia’s voice squeezed through clenched teeth, every syllable saturated with hatred.

“I have no home left, sister. What good is your apology? My parents—they’ll never come back.”

Tears burst uncontrollably from her eyes, like a mirror reflecting the face of the sinner.

“I’m sorry…”

That apology stabbed at Lydia’s wound. She suddenly drew her sword and thrust it at Anna’s chest, but her hands shook so violently she couldn’t aim.

No matter what, she could not bring herself to stab.

Anna only watched Lydia quietly.

In those red eyes, a whirlpool seemed to swirl, twisting sorrow, guilt, and a bottomless exhaustion.

She was long accustomed to cold stares, from anyone and everyone.

“I hate you… sister. No, Anastasia.”

She hated her, hated her to the core.

But… could she really kill her?

Her hatred was real, and so was her love.

She couldn’t forget the way Anna shielded her in the goblin nest; she couldn’t forget the fleeting smile when Anna handed her the commission slip; she couldn’t even forget the momentary loneliness in Anna’s profile as they walked side by side…

The storm of love and hate was about to tear her apart.

It was as if Lydia used up all her strength, abruptly sheathing her dagger.

She turned away, back to Anna, her shoulders trembling violently.

She locked both her love and hate inside the cage of her heart.

“The commission… isn’t finished yet.” She gritted her teeth, forcing out every word, “There are still people waiting for us.”

She hadn’t forgiven the one who had dragged her from the clouds into the mire—not by a long shot.

But for now, something more important needed doing.

There were people suffering, still waiting to be saved.

“Mm.” Anna answered softly.

Silence swept over them again.

Between them lay a chasm forged of suffering.

The setting sun stretched their shadows long, two parallel lines that would never cross again.

The road to the ruins of Scarborough would be a long, long journey.