YAED 01

Chapter 01

At the far northeastern edge of Lusenford—already the northernmost region of the Cranian Empire—stood an abandoned tower where criminals were imprisoned, right on the border with the Mad Dragon’s forbidden territory. Inside lay the Grand Duchess Lusenford. At only twenty-five, she waited for death, her hair fallen out, reduced to skin and bones.

It was cold. And unbearably painful.

How long had it been since food last came? With her mind weakened from starvation, even thinking had become impossible. She had melted snow for water, but even that had reached its limit.

Caella, the traitor of the North, the Emperor’s puppet, the cunning seductress—that’s what they called the Grand Duchess Lusenford. She would die starving in this tower, where drafts blew in freely but no escape was possible.

Her husband, Grand Duke Lusenford himself, had imprisoned her here, so it was likely his order that had cut off even the meager food supply.

‘What did I do wrong?’

Hunger was a horrific agony, and with her head and stomach throbbing, thinking was nearly impossible—but Caella kept asking herself. Because she didn’t know what she’d done wrong. Perhaps, then, her very existence was the mistake. As Grand Duchess Lusenford, she’d struggled to overcome the North’s harsh bias, helplessly trailing after a husband who loved another woman, until she ended up here.

She was accused of leaking military and frontier intelligence from Lusenford to the Emperor and sowing discord between the Duke and the Emperor. Although it was true the Emperor deeply hated Lusenford’s Duke—her husband—Caella remembered no such betrayal. It seemed she’d been utterly set up.

By whom?

‘…Did anyone here even like me?’

Caella didn’t know. She was so thoroughly isolated that she couldn’t even guess who’d framed her.

Throughout her marriage, this Southerner had been treated as an outsider and ostracized. After all, even though her father—her paternal uncle to the Emperor—had been executed by the Emperor’s own hand, Caella remained his niece.

The people of Lusenford endured brutal weather, rampaging mad dragons, and constant invasions by foreign tribes, relying each time on imperial supplies. And they detested the Emperor fiercely for wielding those supplies as leverage to impose his will. How much more must they have hated Caella, who replaced the originally chosen duchess?

The Grand Duke of Lusenford, Hyperion Sabrand Ferraro—banished to the frontier in disgrace, forever despised by the Emperor as the Empress’s bastard, failing even in love—loathed having Caella de Chasser’s name linked to his.

Hyperion Sabrand Ferraro. Even now, as consciousness faded amid unbearable pain, that name remained vivid to Caella. It was hard to forget the name of the man she’d adored since childhood.

‘There will be war.’

Caella’s death—ignored as a niece by the Emperor who’d already distrusted and monitored Pheon—would make a convenient excuse. How dare they kill the Emperor’s niece and break the marriage he arranged! That worthless bastard without a father, that mongrel—they’d shown him mercy only out of respect for the Empress, allowing him into the imperial family, yet this is how he repays it! Thus, multiple crimes could be piled onto one.

In any case, relations between Pheon—the Empress’s illegitimate child by an unknown man—and the Emperor had been terrible from the start. For his imprisoned mother, the Empress, Pheon would inevitably wage open war against the Emperor.

And yet, even now, she worried about her husband charging into battle. What a fool she was—powerless, weak, too stupid to accomplish anything, yet dreaming too high, loving a man who belonged to another.

‘…Ah. I did one thing wrong.’

If Caella had done anything wrong, it was failing to give up on a man who’d devoted his entire life to one woman. Ever since childhood, when he was still her “older brother” Pheon, he’d cherished and loved his childhood friend, Lady Monde, Beatrice Lavalle.

Because Pheon and Beatrice shared a bond of mutual affection, and because Beatrice was held close by the Emperor, Pheon loved her desperately all his life—and kept Caella at a distance. That love was strange and blind, almost reminiscent—though perhaps incomparable—of the Emperor’s own obsessive fixation on the Empress.

Pheon had elevated his lifelong creed of never betraying Beatrice into something akin to religious faith. Naturally, such a man treated Caella as if she didn’t exist—and eventually came to despise her. Yet she’d stubbornly kept loving him. Wasn’t that her crime?

She didn’t know. Nothing mattered anymore. Everything hurt so much that she only wished for a swift death. Her mother had died when she was young, and her father had been senselessly murdered by his half-brother, the Emperor. Stripped of her father’s title, sold off into a forced marriage, and now branded a traitor to die—what a wretched, miserable life.

Caella had given her absolute best in Lusenford, yet received no reward. In the end, death came to her as if it were only right—or perhaps as comfort.

Ah, her vision darkened. The cold and hunger were so severe that, oddly, she welcomed them. She wished to die quickly. Soon. Please, let this agony end.

Just then, a grating noise sounded, and the heavy, tightly shut door creaked open.

“Let me check.”

She heard a voice too. Lying amid filth and stench, Caella couldn’t even turn her head. Reduced to bones and skin, she had no strength left to move. Once a noble imperial granddaughter—the current Emperor’s niece—her end was now so wretched. Boots clicked against the floor.

“Oh dear. This is troublesome.”

The stench rushed out through the open door. Through her hazy vision, Caella saw a woman leaning toward her.

‘Beatrice?’

“You’re still alive, Caella. You recognize me, don’t you?”

Caella stared blankly at the woman, who spoke with sarcasm, her thoughts drifting slowly.

Why is she here? Did Pheon summon her? Well, now that his wife is imprisoned as a criminal, his marriage to Caella is over. He must have felt free at last to call his one true love. They should be happy together.

But wasn’t Beatrice held hostage by the Emperor? How did she get here? Ah, she didn’t care anymore.

Ravaged by illness, starvation, and pain so close to death, Caella had no strength left to think.

“Poor thing. You’ve become so pitiful. But you’re still alive.”

Beatrice muttered plainly, mocking her. As Lady Monde, she’d always felt inferior to Caella—the noble, refined Princess Ostein—and resented it deeply.

“How inconvenient.”

As if Caella shouldn’t still be alive.

“Hey, Caella. They say the last sense to go before death is hearing. Let me tell you an interesting story before you die. And then you’ll drink this.”

Beatrice Lavalle smiled, pulling a small vial from her robes. Too weakened by cold, hostility, and complications to resist, Caella could do nothing.

“Don’t want to die?”

Want? The pain was so severe that death felt like liberation. Caella wanted to die. She’d wanted it for a long time—perhaps even before being sent to this tower.

“Still, it can’t be helped. The innocent Caella de Chasser must die so the noble and righteous Grand Duke Lusenford won’t become the sinner.”

Beatrice prattled on, clearly delighted.

‘I’ve been fooled.’

Caella realized it instantly. Both she and her husband had been tricked—played by Beatrice all along.

But it was too late. All Caella could do was watch as Beatrice opened the vial and dropped poison onto her parched lips. Rather than anger at being deceived, she welcomed the poison sliding down her throat. She was so hungry she could greedily drink even poison. If this agony ended sooner, she’d be glad—she’d finally reunite with her parents. She was no longer in her right mind.

“It’ll be over soon. I’ll tell you an amusing story until the end.”

As death traveled down Caella’s esophagus—deprived of food for days—Beatrice, that lovely woman, spoke as if singing.

“Poor, poor little Caella. Noble granddaughter of the late Emperor, daughter of a bastard, Princess Ostein. Did you know? About Duke Ostein—your father.”

Had the cold numbed her pain? Why did the voice of this woman—the one she could never equal no matter how hard she tried—ring so clear now in her brief life?

“He died by my love’s hand. His Imperial Majesty, you know. Our Vincent shot your father, bang!”

The woman who’d watched her husband hang himself called the Emperor—her husband’s stepfather—“my love.” Had her ears failed her? But Beatrice kept speaking, her voice dreamlike.

“Do you know why Vincent happened to be cleaning his pistol that day while with your father?”

Caella’s father—the late Emperor’s beloved illegitimate son, Duke Ostein—had officially died in a firearms accident. The Emperor supposedly “accidentally” shot his half-brother, Duke Ostein, while cleaning his pistol.

Beatrice poured poison into Caella’s dying mouth and ears. To Caella’s dim eyes, she looked utterly delighted.

“That pistol—your ‘husband’ Pheon gave it to him.”

Beatrice stressed “your husband,” satisfied to see shock register in Caella’s fading eyes. It thrilled her to see this annoying girl—always of higher status—now in such wretched, shocked despair.

“Well, it wasn’t ideal, but playing the dutiful stepson keeps Lusenford safe, ensures the noble Empress remains well, and keeps my beloved safe.”

In the same breath, Beatrice spoke dismissively of the Empress, then referred to herself as if mocking Pheon.

“He gave it to Vincent as a gift, knowing exactly what it would be used for. Where else would a fine pistol come from, after all? Everything comes from this cold place.”

Lusenford was famous for weapon-making—even intricately decorated dueling pistols.

“Since it began that way, isn’t it fitting it ends like this? You worked quite hard these four years, didn’t you? So stupid you never realized everyone hated you.”

Beatrice laughed gleefully, her giggles tinged with malice.

“Idiot. It was too easy—boring, even. The harder you tried to play duchess and wield authority, the more suspicious you became. How could you fall for it so pathetically?”

Ah. With her nearly halted mind, Caella finally understood who’d framed her. Beatrice had been behind it all. She was dying because of her.

“Well, it’s unavoidable since Pheon is on my side. He’s been my servant since childhood. I trained him that way—so he could never escape. Both of you are stupid as a pair—though I did make you that way.”

Beatrice smirked down at Caella.

“Poor Caella. Married the man who killed your father, received no love, and now dies unjustly?”

Caella couldn’t deny it. Instead, a welcome sleep finally arrived.

Death.

She was happy—it meant an end to exhaustion and pain.

*

“…Miss! Young miss!”

Startled by a startlingly clear voice, Caella jolted awake with a gasp.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! You must be frightened… Are you alright, miss?”

Cecil, a maid in the House of Ostein, worriedly watched her young mistress, who was breathing heavily and looking around fearfully.

“Miss, are you in pain? Did you have a bad dream?”

Sensations flooded back vividly—the voices, the warmth, the velvet sofa she’d lain on, the soft dress draping her body, and her plump, healthy arm. Everything felt unnervingly real.

“Goodness, look how pale you are. Must’ve been a nightmare.”

Caella, gasping, grabbed Cecil’s outstretched hand. Rough, dry, calloused—but warm. So wonderfully warm.

“Are you alright, miss? Calm down. It was just a bad dream. Were you scared?”

Scared? She’d been terrified, agonized beyond fear. But now—no pain, no cold, not even the dreadful hunger remained.

Caella looked around, unfamiliar with this room after so long. This was clearly her bedroom in the Ostein townhouse before her marriage—the four-poster bed with white curtains, clean thick blankets, sturdy cabinets, plush sofas with subtle patterns, and a mirror hanging opposite the bed.

She jumped up, still holding Cecil’s hand, and hurried to the mirror.

“Miss?”

Cecil gasped as the Duke of Ostein’s only daughter stared fiercely into the mirror, then slapped her own cheek with her free hand.

“Oh, miss! Miss!”

The Princess Ostein sharply slapped her pale, still-baby-faced cheek hard enough to leave a red mark. She shook her head, hastily smoothed her hair, then turned to the flustered Cecil with a deep breath.

“Why did you wake me? What’s going on?”

Her cheek stung. The brief pain felt normal. Was her mind suddenly sharp? It always had been—living in the North was like walking on a knife’s edge. And yet she’d died… so what was this?

“The Duke, His Grace, sent for you, miss—and your cheek is red. At least let me bring a compress.”

“It’ll fade on its own. Good thing you woke me—thank you!”

“Miss…!”

Though her hand trembled from slapping herself, Caella stormed out. She needed to figure out whether that horrific, endless dream had been real—or if this now was the dream.

‘A dream? Don’t make me laugh. Where do dreams that long and detailed come from?’

How could the daily torment she endured in northern Lusenford be just a dream? Either she’d gone mad, or some vile magic was at play—only two possibilities.

‘Or perhaps it’s an illusion.’

Tears welled up, and Caella quickly wiped her eyes. Maybe this was just a fleeting illusion conjured by her desperate, dead self—back in the one time she’d been happy.

Ah, this corridor—sunlit through evenly spaced large windows—felt familiar. Forgotten paths returned to memory. Though slightly unsure, Caella confidently made her way to her father’s study—the grand staircase, the open terrace, the beige stone floors instead of carpets—all unmistakably Ostein style.

She knocked on the study door, trembling. Was this a well-crafted dream? Or some cruel trick by the Lusenford people?

“Come in.”

Her heart dropped. The voice from inside was achingly familiar, crystal clear despite years in memory. How was this possible? Cautiously, Caella pushed the door open.

“Your father must go to the palace today—you’ll have dinner alone. Might be late, so go to bed early.”

Father. It was her father—alive, adjusting his collar, completely unharmed. The man whose head had been shattered beyond recognition now stood whole. Caella stared, stunned.

“T-the palace?”

“His Majesty summoned me.”

Deja vu. The situation replayed exactly as she remembered—eerie, unsettling. She recognized his navy coat, gray vest, and light brown trousers. And she knew precisely how blood would soon drench them. Yes—he’d worn this very outfit the day he died.

“Why?”

She didn’t know why he’d gone to the palace that day. So she asked.

“Who knows? Found out sometime.”

His blunt reply betrayed reluctance. Caella clutched her confused head.

“But why’s your face like that? Did someone hit you? What happened?”

Her last memory of his face—now filled with worry—leaned close to examine her reddened cheek.

“It’s nothing.”

She began rummaging through the study. No time for tearful reunions or nostalgic recollections. Even if this were a dream, failing to act properly would leave her regretting it upon waking.

“Nothing? Your cheek is bright red! And why are you taking that out?”

Duke Adeo de Chasser gaped as his daughter, cheek swollen, opened the study safe and pulled out a protective magical artifact—a family heirloom. She handed him a gold necklace and pleaded earnestly.

“Just in case—please wear this.”

“What? Why all of a sudden…?”

“It blocks one attack. You never know what might happen—please wear it. Don’t take it off, promise? I’m begging you, Father.”

Standing on tiptoe to place the amulet around her much taller father’s neck and tucking it into his shirt, she wouldn’t let him refuse. He’d always been an ordinary, indulgent father to his only daughter.

“And…!”

Time was short. Caella nearly begged before he left.

“Don’t trust His Majesty, Father. Never. Please.”

Everyone knew: the Emperor was a psychopath hiding behind a noble facade. Unable to argue, her father left, and Caella bit her lip hard before bolting upright.

If she interfered where the Emperor met her father, both might be in danger. The Emperor was terrifying—he’d slaughtered all his full-blooded siblings on petty pretexts despite being the rightful heir, and had even kidnapped his current Empress, breaking off her foreign engagement to imprison her ever since.

His cruelty peaked when he tormented Pheon, the bastard son the Empress bore—mentally abusing a boy barely in his teens, holding his mother hostage, and exiling him to barren Lusenford to fight mad dragons.

“Miss your mother? Then grovel like a dog and submit.”

He’d insult one day by calling the Empress a filthy whore, then praise her next as a noble lady. Meanwhile, he himself fathered bastard after bastard, pitting his children of different mothers against each other for the throne, watching with amusement. A madman wielding absolute imperial power.

But Caella had to do something to protect her father from this madman. That magical artifact—designed to block one attack—might stop a single bullet. But would there be only one?

The thought jolted her upright.

“Prepare the carriage!”

Truthfully, she’d been ravenous since she woke. She craved soft cake, tender lamb, stewed vegetables—anything. She couldn’t even recall when she’d last eaten, and part of her wanted to grab food with both hands like a savage. But resisting the urge, Caella headed straight for the palace. If she must die, better with her father than alone and unjustly in the North—even in a dream.

“To the palace.”

The Ostein carriage once again passed through the palace gates at dusk. Caella leaped out before it fully stopped and sprinted toward the “Sacred Grove”—where her father would be murdered. Everyone except the Emperor called it the Monster’s Garden.

If she must die, let it be by the Emperor’s bullet, alongside her father. Or at the very least, she had to stop the Grand Duke of Lusenford—her husband—here.

Sure enough, far ahead at the garden entrance stood a towering man with broad shoulders. In his hand was the case containing the gun that would kill her father.

“Your Grace!”

She ran wildly through this nightmare, stopping the man she’d never dared approach.

Princess Ostein, Caella de Chasser, burst before Grand Duke Hyperion Sabrand Ferraro of Lusenford.