The Tyrant's Terminally-Ill Childhood Friend (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 1

Sometimes the body’s memory is clearer than reason. Perhaps all memories we wish to forget linger like scars for that very reason. If we call past memories scars, then what is newly etched upon them should perhaps be called bleeding wounds.

The fingertips of the woman lying on the bed quickly curled inward. Each time the man’s lips touched her skin and then pulled away, a bloom of heat was seared into her body. Her nails, twitching as if in convulsion, left long marks on the man’s arms and the backs of his hands, yet he paid no heed, focusing solely on unraveling her composure.

His lips traced her cheek, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone, and even the rapidly rising and falling chest beneath. A sigh escaped the woman’s lips as the act deepened.

It felt as if heat rose wherever he touched. The skin he had just kissed, the wrist he held captive, the gaze that stared at her with such indulgence—all of it made her burn. Yet as he looked down at her, having thrown her into such disarray, he acted as though none of it had anything to do with him. Still, she knew. She could see clearly the thirst etched into those pale blue eyes fixed upon her.

Her flushed lips, heaving chest, and fevered skin—all of it stoked the desire coiled deep within him. Had it not been for the reins of patience, his hands would surely have parted her legs at once. He would have touched her most intimate place, kissed skin no one else had ever touched—not satisfied with merely leaving playful, childish marks, but devouring her whole until she trembled.

Yet despite such vivid desire, the man’s reason for restraint was simple.

“Your Majesty… do I still look like her to you?”

“…….”

The man’s brow, lost in lust, furrowed slightly.

“You know very well she’s dead. And the only one in your hands now is me.”

Only I am by your side, and only I can quench your thirst.

At the serpent-like whisper of the woman, the man’s tightly closed lips parted.

“…Say my name.”

“Peter.”

She could feel his patience thinning. This was the moment she loved most.

The moment when this man, seemingly unshakable by anything, could be drawn into her skirts with just a single utterance of his name.

The moment when the madness and desire he had so desperately suppressed would crash over her like a tidal wave.

“Peter.”

She whispered again, her fingers tracing his skin. The touch caressing his fevered cheek resembled the temptation of a serpent. His eyes wavered—and just as she opened her mouth to speak once more—

“…Enough.”

He roughly shook off her hand. His expression remained composed, yet she knew well it marked the limit of his restraint.

His low voice rasped harshly from his throat.

“Don’t get arrogant. Remember why you’re here. Remember your purpose.”

“Of course I know. I’m merely your doll.”

A doll to replace his dead lover. A plaything thrown to him to soothe his madness.

She existed solely to whisper sweet words into his ear.

And so, even today, she whispered honeyed words into his ear—but his reply was cold.

“I will never truly desire you.”

Because even as he lusted after her, he loathed that very fact.

Amid that contradiction, the woman—Lowell—kissed the man and smiled inwardly.

No, you will come to love me.

And the moment you love me most, I will leave you.

‘Remember this well, Peter.’

I will be your most brilliant madness—the sleepless white night.

[This is the timeline separator]

When standing at life’s lowest point, certain things inevitably come to mind. People often call it a “life review” or “life flashing before one’s eyes.” The world refers to the lingering regrets one cannot let go of even at death’s doorstep as such.

Lowell’s life review was a boy. A boy whose face was more beautiful than anyone she had ever seen. Peter—her childhood friend who loved her more than anyone, and whom she herself had loved.

Whenever she steeled herself for death, the same voice always echoed in her mind.

[I wish you’d die in spring.]

A voice as clear as wind wandering through wheat fields. A memory that replayed itself whenever her eyelids grew heavy.

[That way, I could bring many flowers to your grave.]

The boy in her memory always wore the same expression.

Those pale blue eyes firmly fixed on her. A face as devoid of laughter as his flat, toneless voice.

Even the faint, forced upward curve of his lips whenever their eyes met.

Lowell quietly gazed at that boy, smiled, and replied.

[I’d rather die in winter.] [Why?] [Because snowflakes are flowers too.]

Then, even if Peter never came, Lowell’s grave would be blanketed in pure white blossoms.

Considering they were only fifteen at the time, it was a rather absurd conversation—children barely fifteen discussing death.

Yet for Lowell and the boy, this exchange held nothing surprising.

Because Lowell was terminally ill.

Lowell Hessen—the youngest daughter of House Hessen, which held the warmest and most famed territory in the Belf Empire.

She had been frail since birth. Frequent illnesses were part of daily life, and falling ill with each changing season was an annual ritual—but until then,

Lowell had merely been a bit weaker than other ordinary children.

But that winter, at age ten,

everything changed after she suffered a terrible fever.

It was the memory of death buried deepest in Lowell’s mind. The delirium from fever, the whole-body ache—still vividly clear. Even when she once tumbled down a slope and scraped both legs raw, Lowell had returned home staunchly without shedding a single tear. But then, overwhelmed by pain and fear, she had sobbed uncontrollably.

After teetering on the brink of life and death several times, Lowell fortunately survived by the narrowest margin.

But the problem lay elsewhere.

[My lady will likely live no more than five years.]

Her vital organs had been damaged by high fever and could no longer function properly.

Though House Hessen dismissed the diagnosis, insisting the physician must be a charlatan, the words soon became reality. Lowell could never return to her former life. Even a gentle breeze would bring sudden fevers, and the slightest movement would drain her strength, leaving her constantly drowsy.

Neither her family’s wealth nor all the knowledge she had learned to become a fine lady could help her. Her ruined organs could not be repaired by any means.

Her parents sought physicians far and wide and tried every remedy, yet the answers they received were always similar.

[I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more we can do. To be honest… it wouldn’t be surprising if she collapsed tomorrow and never regained consciousness.]

The physician said the best they could do was prolong her life day by day—hoping she’d open her eyes again tomorrow, yet accepting she might never wake again.

Her family eventually accepted Lowell’s fate.

From then on, Lowell lived apart from her family. Though they shared the same mansion, she saw her parents and siblings only on the rare occasions they came to visit her.

[Your brothers are about to enter private school now. They’re simply too busy to visit often.]

Her parents filled her room with expensive and fine things as they said this, but Lowell sensed the truth: they stayed away not because of her brothers, but because watching their daughter—who would someday leave them—was too painful.

But Lowell was fine. She wasn’t alone.

Peter—a noble boy from the capital, also in poor health, sent alone to House Hessen’s estate to recuperate.

Though she didn’t know the full details, Lowell felt a kinship with Peter. It was clear what it meant for a child to be sent alone to convalesce without any family.

‘He’s been abandoned too.’

Like her—sickly, and cast aside by his family.

It wasn’t surprising that two children in similar circumstances became close friends.

Yet as seasons passed, a gap emerged between Lowell and Peter. While Lowell gradually withered toward death, Peter’s condition steadily improved.

By the fourth year, Peter had grown healthy enough to end his convalescence and return home—unlike Lowell, whose gaunt frame and obvious illness were plain to see.

Thus, this conversation also took place just before Peter’s departure.

[…But Lowell, I still wish you’d die in spring.]

Lowell tilted her head, puzzled by Peter’s words. When their eyes met, Peter took her hand. His small fingers climbed her palm and gripped her wrist as if to bind her.

[I’ll return to the capital, but I’ll come back to see you before spring arrives.] […But I’ll probably be dead by then.] [I’ll find a way to save you.]

Lowell’s eyes widened slightly at his words. But her expression quickly returned to its usual calm. She was too exhausted to nurture hope from just those few words. Moreover, it was hard to trust a child as young as herself—how could a mere boy find what even her parents, after searching everywhere, could not?

She sighed as she spoke.

[My parents consulted many physicians too. But everyone said there’s no way to save me. You know that.] [There is a way, Lowell.]

But Peter was resolute.

[I can’t say much yet… but there truly is a way.]

A way to extend one’s lifespan.