YAED 09

Caella was never in particularly good health to begin with. In Lusenford, she would constantly catch colds, nearly die of pneumonia, or suffer after eating the wrong food.

The hardy Northerners, who had survived Lusenford’s harsh weather, looked upon their frail Grand Duchess with great disfavor.

Not only had she taken the position everyone believed rightfully belonged to Beatrice, but her family had fallen into ruin and offered no benefit to Lusenford whatsoever—and yet she was physically weak as well. In Lusenford, weakness was a sin.

But how could one change the constitution they were born with? Caella took meticulous care of her health, yet taking precautions didn’t prevent illness from coming.

From the start, it had been impossible for Caella—who was born and raised in the South—to adapt to Lusenford’s brutal climate. She had been born delicate and raised with utmost care.

“You can leave your seat for about twenty minutes. It’s fine.”

Caella looked up at Pheon, who stood quietly beside her and spoke softly. His voice was naturally very low and clear; no matter how quietly he spoke, it always rang distinct.

Or perhaps it only seemed that way because all of Caella’s senses were perpetually focused on him, straining to understand every word he uttered.

“Go.”

His downward gaze brushed past her indifferently after a cursory glance. It was that all-too-familiar look of a “husband,” and Caella barely managed a reply.

“You’re not unwell, are you…?”

“You’re running a fever.”

How could she not be? She must have appeared utterly clumsy, obvious even to outsiders. She never did anything properly. Unconsciously, Caella hunched her shoulders.

Indeed, she was unwell. From that morning, an odd heat had rolled down her spine, her joints ached, and her strength steadily drained away. The fever climbed higher and higher, stabbing persistently at her head.

Was it because she’d finally relaxed upon hearing her father was alive? Or because she’d endured the absurd ordeal of dying only to be thrown back into the past—and then spent her days running around trying to please the Emperor?

The cold seeped through the thin dress she’d worn to follow fashion, but since the event had only just begun, she endured.

She hadn’t expected to be handling this matter in this life, but ever since the Empress collapsed and her father survived—everything had already unfolded differently from before. She had to endure; she was already hardened to it, and she believed in herself.

“Wear something more. What even is that outfit?”

Pheon’s expression hardened slightly as he looked down at Caella.

In Lusenford, one had to wrap themselves in furs just to survive.

Only when she was fully covered—even her head wrapped in animal fur—did they feel any semblance of reassurance. But Klein was full of madmen who sacrificed health for fashion. Layering such flimsy fabric a few times wouldn’t provide any real warmth.

Given Caella’s frail constitution and the strain of preparing for the event, it was only natural she’d developed a fever—but wearing such clothing on top of that meant she’d surely fall seriously ill. She’d break out in cold sweat, unable even to groan, and barely scrape through the next few days.

“Go inside right away.”

The venue’s doors and windows stood wide open, letting the outside wind blow straight through.

“You’ll just say you had to be somewhere else.”

Yet Caella didn’t move, only stared at him.

“Beatrice unnie said she was looking for you. Just go to her.”

Unlike her usual polite and respectful manner of speech until now, this was the natural tone he remembered well—but her voice was icy cold.

“I’ll manage my own body. Don’t worry—I won’t collapse and cause trouble for you. Just go to Beatrice.”

The petite princess rattled off her words in a quick burst, then abruptly turned and left his side. Pheon tried to grab her, but too many people surged between them. Before those who approached to speak with her, Caella forced a measured smile and attended to her duties.

“How’s the banquet?”

“I’ve just checked, Your Highness. Everything is running smoothly thus far.”

“I see. Be sure to let me know immediately if anything comes up.”

She had to be in two places at once—both in front of and behind the stage. Even if she felt ill, she still had to do it.

“Your Highness!”

Caella was called from every direction. If the banquet failed, no one knew how the Emperor—who valued face above all—might react. By the Emperor’s whims, she could die again, shot down as mere pastime.

Thus, her illness wasn’t the real issue. Such things never mattered when faced with death. So what if she felt a bit unwell? In Lusenford, she’d learned that only by enduring could she carve out even the smallest place for herself.

Again?

Her husband—the one who should have been her only family—always furrowed his brow whenever she mentioned being unwell, as if asking, “Again?” Of course. He must have found it tiresome. How annoying it must have been to have a wife constantly falling ill.

Take the Grand Duchess inside.

Inside.

Inside.

Thus, whenever she was unwell, he always removed her from his sight. Because she was sick, she had to go inside; because she was sick, she had to stop whatever she was doing; because she was sick, the Grand Duchess shouldn’t do anything at all.

Consequently, in Lusenford, Caella kept shrinking smaller and smaller, until she eventually had no place left to stand. As a result, she grew accustomed to enduring pain silently.

Clearly, this time too, they intended to brush her illness aside carelessly. It was merely a pretense of concern. So she shouldn’t foolishly flutter with hope—instead, she had to push him toward Beatrice. It was only right.

Whatever the outcome of that tiresome love that had dragged on her whole life, Caella felt she’d find some relief if it would just keep going—no matter how.

“Aren’t you too cold, Your Highness?”

Caella smiled brightly and walked toward Prince Elkanan. The prince smiled back at the lovely princess whose rosy cheeks glowed adorably.

From afar, Pheon watched Caella’s smile and thought she looked dangerously fragile. She’d likely collapse from the cold right in the middle of smiling. She’d lie shivering uncontrollably, unable even to close her eyes, and her breath would abruptly stop. Caella was far too delicate—and yet, blindingly brilliant at the same time.

“Your Grace, I’m delighted to see you again in Klein!”

Pheon’s shoulders stiffened rigidly. No one noticed the sudden, startled heave of his chest.

“How is Lusenford? Are you in good health?”

Many in Klein admired the Grand Duke.

Despite his great flaw—being the Empress’s illegitimate child—those who longed to exchange even a brief greeting with the man who single-handedly guarded the North swarmed toward him. Thus, Pheon barely grasped the reality flowing past him without his notice.

“Lusenford remains as it always has been.”

He managed to reply with difficulty, forcibly dragging his shameless gaze away from Caella and mechanically composing his expression. His tongue automatically produced suitable small talk about the weather, comparing the northern and local climates.

Yet every frayed nerve in him remained fixated on the woman who kept smiling despite her fever. He understood. Worrying was no longer his burden. He hadn’t the right to do so.

Rumors had already begun circulating that marriage negotiations between Kerujan and the Crania Empire were imminent. Alliances between friendly nations were ultimately solidified through marriage. In that sense, Prince Elkanan and Princess Ostein seemed a perfectly suitable match.

“What a fine-looking couple.”

“Their age gap is just right, too.”

Ever since the Emperor had first mentioned it, everyone now nodded in agreement. Some did so merely to flatter the Emperor, but honestly, they did look well-suited—so they spoke even louder, affirming once more how right the Emperor’s words had been.

The Emperor saw everything, heard everything—he was the sun present everywhere. His eyes and ears stretched across the entire Empire.

Even to Lusenford, that land ruled by bitter cold, they reached. From his palace, the Emperor could immediately discern whether the Grand Duke properly guarded the Empire or harbored other intentions.

“After all, His Majesty, who inherited the late Emperor’s will, would never neglect his niece’s wedding.”

“What a tender gesture. Even while Her Imperial Majesty the Empress lies stricken, he doesn’t forget his role as a dependable uncle.”

The excessive flattery was nearly ear-splitting. The Emperor loved being seen.

He especially relished praise that painted him as benevolent, compassionate, and considerate—precisely because he was none of those things, he obsessed over becoming them. When people chanted such words, he truly believed them.

Pheon, too, was arrogant like the Emperor. He truly believed himself to be a decent feudal lord. Thus, he trusted the people of Lusenford, trusted Beatrice, and gradually lost faith in Caella. His arrogance was so severe it could only be broken through defeat and death.

Thus, he turned his back on the light he yearned for and stepped into the shadows.

The Emperor, quietly watching Prince Elkanan and Caella from afar, had clearly just returned from the Empress’s side. Around him hung heavy curtains and drapes, shielding him from the painfully bright sunlight.

“Hyperion?”

“Yes.”

The Emperor, his face shadowed, gestured for Pheon to come closer. As Pheon approached, the Emperor turned his head and slowly scrutinized him.

Pheon immediately realized the Emperor was searching his face for traces of the woman he loved to the point of obsession.

Ever since childhood, his violet eyes, his strong yet subtly delicate features hidden beneath sharp lines, and his smooth skin—all reminiscent of the Empress—had allowed him to survive, at least until now.

Whether this was fortunate or revolting, Pheon couldn’t say, but he showed nothing outwardly. After dying and returning to life, enduring such things should have been easy by now. Immediately, Pheon brought up an even more distasteful matter—and the Emperor reacted right away.

“Marriage to Duke Monde’s daughter, you say.”

“Yes.”

He nodded heavily, adding with a sense of guilt for having delayed what should have happened long ago.

“I hadn’t intended to do it immediately—only after Her Imperial Majesty the Empress awakens.”

He casually mentioned his mother to imply, “That was my plan.” He had to act before Beatrice could stop this marriage from progressing further. He needed to quickly bind her to him and set fire to this hell.

A happy married life? That had no place in his existence. How could he dream of marital happiness after starving his perfectly healthy wife to death? His life should be filled only with excruciating pain and barren suffering.

“Hyperion, how old are you again? It’s long past the time to speak of marriage.”

“Twenty-eight.”

An age by which betrothals and marriages should have long been settled.

“I… should have paid more attention.”

“Your mere words are already gratitude enough, Your Majesty.”

“No, no.”

The Emperor waved his hand.

“You’re the Empress’s son—how could I possibly neglect you? If you’re her son, then you’re my son as well.”

The very thought of being the Emperor’s son was revolting, but Pheon had learned not to show it. After dying pierced by arrows and spears beside his pitifully deceased wife, it was high time he’d learned such restraint.

In any case, the chance the Emperor would grant his request was nearly nonexistent. Though he spoke kindly, the Emperor would only be satisfied to confirm once more that Pheon remained a valuable chess piece Beatrice could still use effectively against him.

But what if the Emperor changed his mind and permitted marriage to Beatrice? That wouldn’t be so bad either. After all, since his return, revenge was all he had left. Either path would bring him joy.

“…How is Her Imperial Majesty the Empress?”

He couldn’t even call his mother “mother” before the Emperor. Even that was something the Emperor couldn’t bear.

As a boy, he’d been endlessly scolded for not using the proper title. The Emperor refused to admit his own infertility caused the Empress’s inability to conceive, and thus despised Pheon—proof the Empress bore no fault.

Yet if Pheon ever failed to show concern for his mother, the Emperor would accuse him of being an unfilial son.

“She remains the same.”

The Emperor muttered, dragging a hand across his withered face.

“She’s still unconscious. These physicians are utterly useless. Or perhaps medicine simply hasn’t advanced far enough yet—they can’t even determine the cause.”

In truth, renowned physicians affiliated with the Imperial Medical Academy suspected the Empress collapsed from the Emperor’s constant torment and the relentless harassment of her illegitimate child. Some also questioned the room filled with suspicious magical artifacts where she’d been found.

Could those artifacts—the Emperor’s very eyes and ears—have malfunctioned? But no one dared voice such thoughts before the Emperor.

“I see.”

Pheon lowered his eyes and feigned appropriate sorrow.

“I’ll care for you in the Empress’s stead.”

“I apologize for bringing this up at such a complicated time for you. After much deliberation, I came to believe fulfilling the role you entrusted me with is the best way to repay both Your Majesties.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Exactly right.”

The Emperor nodded repeatedly, murmuring over and over, “You’re absolutely right.”

“If only Gregory were half like you. That boy has no sense at all.”

A child resembling the Empress—this was what the Emperor had desperately wanted but ultimately never obtained.

“He’s still young; perhaps he simply hasn’t had the chance to display his talents yet.”

But the Emperor made no reply. Clearly, in his eyes, Gregory still amounted to nothing—even though he was the son the Emperor had painstakingly chosen from among his illegitimate children.

“Don’t worry about the North.”

“Good.”

The Emperor nodded and closed his eyes. Pheon turned his gaze away. In the distance, Caella was laughing at one of Prince Elkanan’s jokes.

Someone as cheerful as Prince Elkanan would surely draw out Caella’s hidden vivacity—graceful and ladylike as she was on the surface.

He’d be incomparable to a gloomy, taciturn man like Pheon, who’d only ever looked at other women and ultimately killed his own wife.

If Caella had struggled to endure even in Lusenford, she’d surely thrive in Kerujan. The warm southern kingdom would benefit her health and allow her to stay clear of the war soon to erupt in the Crania Empire.

No—even if she couldn’t withdraw, Pheon had to make sure she did. This time, Caella must not die pointlessly in Lusenford; she must live peacefully and long, untouched by war. That was the penance Pheon owed.

Yet although the Emperor could endure anything, it was hard to stop worrying about ailing Caella. She kept appearing before his eyes, relentlessly.