YAED 10

Chapter 10

“Are you all right?”

She couldn’t fool her father’s eyes—eyes that always worried over and cherished his daughter. Caella forced a cheerful smile at her dad, who had quietly approached and asked.

“I’ve caught a bit of a cold. But it’s fine.”

“You must’ve overdone it. Do you have medicine?”

“I already took some.”

The medicine she hastily procured had, in truth, no effect at all. Her fever spiked violently, her body grew stiff, and pain began to set in.

What was she going to do if she felt like this from the very first day of the event? She sighed inwardly but still did what needed to be done. What else could she do? As always, she’d just have to endure.

The Emperor, perhaps gloomy over the Empress or feigning ill health, slipped away quietly midway through. Prince Elkanan engaged Duke Ostein in a long, intimate conversation. And Beatrice Lavalle was once again clinging to Pheon’s side.

“Pheon, please let me greet that prince too.”

Pheon swiftly plucked a cup of wine from a passing servant’s golden tray and handed it to Beatrice.

“Just drink this for now.”

He silenced Beatrice with wine and concealed his irritation.

But Caella, watching from afar, turned her head away. Her vision was already swimming—better not to look at such scenes. There was nothing new about it anyway. He had always made sure to care for Beatrice, and Beatrice alone.

“Today was absolutely wonderful!”

“Thank you for the splendid banquet, Your Highness.”

“Not at all, Your Highness. It’s thanks to His Majesty’s attention, not mine.”

Though her breathing was growing rougher by the moment, Caella gave her utmost until the very last second.

Duke Ostein would be working late in the Imperial Palace tonight. The negotiations with Kerujan were only just beginning in earnest. Leaning against the now-empty banquet hall’s main entrance after everyone had left, she exhaled a breath scorching with fever.

Her duties were done. Regardless, this event hosted by Princess Ostein would surely be deemed an unbroken success, and Duke Ostein’s reputation would rise accordingly.

It was already fortunate if her father remained merely a reliable aide to the Emperor—at least that would slightly lower the chances of him being assassinated.

“Excuse me, Your Highness.”

She clutched her head and turned to look. A knight she knew—but whom she was ‘supposed not to know’ at this moment—stood politely, offering a cloak.

“I am Sir Renard, knight under His Grace Grand Duke Lusenford. His Grace, concerned that Your Highness’s attire was too thin, sent this.”

He had neatly folded the very cloak the Grand Duke wore today and sent it by way of his knight. He had always been like this, even before his death.

Whenever she looked unwell, he’d either send a message telling her to go rest immediately or say just one curt line before sharply turning away. He never once visited her when she was bedridden from illness. If he thought she might need something, he’d at most send Sir Renard or Lord Wilberk to deliver it.

The only person he ever personally cared for was Beatrice Lavalle. To that woman, he’d hand wine himself or give anything directly—but to Caella, he’d only ever send subordinates.

That was likely his way of showing special treatment, but simultaneously, it was his way of telling Caella, “You’re not the one.”

Caella bit her lip hard and glared at the cloak.

If she wasn’t “the one,” then he shouldn’t have sent anything like this in the first place. He shouldn’t have said things like, “I’m worried your clothes are too thin.”

“Sir Renard. Please escort me to His Grace.”

“Yes?”

“Hurry. Lead the way.”

Though all she wanted was to collapse and sleep, and though her body desperately needed rest, she moved forward with Sir Renard—who had always brought her things “ordered by His Grace”—heading straight toward Pheon.

It didn’t matter if he was having a rendezvous with Beatrice Lavalle. Caella couldn’t tell whether the heat consuming her body came from fever or from wounded, twisted feelings of resentment.

It would’ve been better if Pheon had been with Beatrice—then she could’ve definitively drawn a line right before their eyes. But unfortunately, he was quietly conversing with one of his knights.

“Your Grace.”

Pheon stared in surprise as Caella strode straight toward him.

Her face was flushed scarlet from fever—he wished she’d just go rest—but she’d come in her sleeveless dress without even accepting the cloak Sir Renard held folded in his hands. Her expression was firmly angry.

“Do you pity me?”

“What?”

Moisture glistened in Caella’s famously sky-blue eyes—praised for holding the very heavens—now clouded by feverish tears.

No—was he the one making her cry? Caella snatched the cloak from Sir Renard and thrust it abruptly toward Pheon. No, she just slapped it onto his arm.

Pheon was utterly flustered—Caella had never behaved so rudely toward him before.

“Do you pity me?”

“Caella.”

Just what was going on? Sensing the tension, the maids trailing Caella and Pheon’s knights quietly slipped away.

“What are you talking about?”

“Why do you send a servant to deliver things like this?”

Her voice faltered from pain, so Caella strained her throat even harder to speak clearly—only making her words sharper, more cutting as they struck Pheon. He took the cloak she shoved toward him.

“Caella.”

“Did you send this because you pitied me—so much that you couldn’t bear not giving me something, even if through a servant?”

“That’s not it at all.”

“Then why give it to me?”

The strength drained from her questioning voice. Exhausted and weary, Caella asked again.

“Why?”

Why was he affectionate in such an unaffectionate way? He’d probably been kind from their very first meeting—though she couldn’t remember it clearly, having been too young.

He’d waited for her when she tagged along despite seeming annoyed, picked her up when she fell, and afterward always held her hand.

Even after she moved to Lusenford, he’d meticulously replied to every poorly written letter, and whenever they met in the Imperial Palace, he remained her unchanged first love.

But that affectionate warmth, built up over time, had tragically been entirely one-sided. His heart drew a firm line—exactly here and no further.

The moment Caella took the duchess seat that should’ve belonged to Beatrice—whether by her own will or not—Pheon treated even their childhood memories as if they’d never existed.

“Are you just testing how I’d react?”

It was absurd, outrageous, even laughable. What had his past kindness toward Caella meant, coming from the very man who’d imprisoned her without the slightest courtesy?

Had he treated her well only because she was Princess Ostein—and the moment that connection snapped, she became nothing? Was he just giving alms out of pity?

What memories had there even been in Lusenford? Her husband, who rarely looked at her, occasionally sent things—but that was just false hope, nothing more.

In the end, she’d been imprisoned and discarded by Pheon. If they’d truly shared affectionate childhood memories, how could he have done that? He should’ve listened to her protests—even just once.

“Is this amusing to you?”

She couldn’t remember the days when she’d warmly called him “older brother”—that speech was forgotten. Far more familiar was the tone she used now: cold, deliberately excluding the Grand Duke of Lusenford. Her words seemed jumbled together.

“If my goodwill upset you…”

“So I’m only worth sending through someone else—not worth bringing to in person?”

“Caella.”

There had been countless times when she’d swallowed her words because she feared his hatred, desperately wanting to appear even slightly better in his eyes.

“You always send someone to deliver things to me—you never bring them yourself.”

Had she held it in for so long that now, her true thoughts burst out uncontrollably? No—she felt she’d burst if she didn’t say it.

“Giving things through others is what you do to those you don’t want to meet. If you couldn’t even come yourself despite being at the same event, you shouldn’t have sent anything at all.”

How far was it from here to where she stood? Did he really need to send a knight?

Back in Lusenford, she’d rejoiced over tiny gifts delivered by Sir Renard—only realizing later that Pheon had used those to go through the motions of being a husband, without ever seeing the face of the duchess he disliked.

Pheon had treated her this way even before their marriage.

“Do you always treat me like this because I’m so pitiful and laughable?”

Though chills now made her teeth chatter and her head throbbed, Caella fixed her blurred vision firmly on Pheon.

She knew he wasn’t literally the husband who’d killed her—but the fact that he’d been this unchanging even before their marriage made her inexplicably heartbroken. Her fever and jumbled memories drowned her reason.

“Don’t pity me! I don’t deserve your pity, Your Grace!”

Out of pity—though she was properly his wife—he’d reduced her to a beggar, knocking feebly outside his door for scraps of affection.

Caella forcefully spoke her truth to Pheon—who remained unchanged from her death until now—then immediately turned away. Knights and maids of House Ostein, who’d been waiting at a distance, hurried after her, barely hiding their shock.

Caella, who had never once stood as an equal to her husband, the noble Princess Ostein, dragged her feverish, aching body forward, each step heavy with exhaustion. Her vision spun dizzyingly from the high fever.

Was she heartbroken because she’d hoped Pheon—who’d saved her father—would finally draw a line against Beatrice, only to see him caring for her again as always? She felt foolish for still not having her wits about her. Her foolishness stung behind her eyes, making them burn and ache.

“Miss.”

“I’m going home.”

The world spun violently—she had no choice but to return home now. She forced her feet to move.

At twenty-one this time, this would be her final break with Pheon. The little brother who once smiled sweetly at her had turned serious—so he, too, had no further reason to see her. Their relationship had been nothing more than that: a one-sided bond Caella had desperately clung to despite endless regrets.

“It’s not like that…”

But another voice calling out to her drowned out the knight’s attempt to stop her.

“…Ella, Your Highness! Princess Ostein!”

It was unmistakably Pheon’s voice, even from afar.

Was he really going to try now? Caella, biting her lip hard, stopped to confront him once more. But before she could even turn toward him, a heavy, warm cloak settled over her chilled shoulders, enveloping her in thick warmth.

“Your Highness.”

His striking eyes and sharp nose—traits inherited from the famously beautiful Empress—were twisted in evident distress as he looked down at her.

“I’ve committed a grave discourtesy.”

The man who’d never once looked her way, whether she cried or pressed him for answers, now seemed utterly lost. Hearing his apology—his very first—for the first time left Caella speechless with shock. Even his tone had changed.

“I’m truly sorry. I never intended to wound your heart, Your Highness.”

His expression of deep remorse was unmistakably sincere. Receiving an apology from Pheon, seeing his attitude shift—was it really this easy? She regretted not confronting him sooner.

Back in Lusenford, if she hadn’t waited silently but instead demanded answers and shown anger, would he have understood? No—even then, as the duchess who’d stolen Beatrice’s place, he’d likely have dismissed her anger as arrogance.

Yet now, Pheon offered her a formal, respectful apology.

“Fearing rumors might spread, I tried to avoid public attention—but my thinking was terribly shortsighted. Forgive me.”

Instantly, his honorifics, formality, and tone all rose. He treated her exactly as she always treated him. Moreover, his reason for apologizing was perfectly valid.

After all, why would a man in love with Beatrice—especially after the Emperor had subtly hinted that Caella and he got along well—want to become further entangled with her? She lowered her gaze. Her blurry vision was surely from fever, not heartache.

“If you’ll allow me, I’d like to escort you home. Please grant me your permission.”

Once again, she confirmed it: to Grand Duke Lusenford, Princess Ostein had always been someone he never wanted entangled with him—until the very end.

The bond she’d clung to so desperately slipped hopelessly, completely, from her fingertips.

*

Her fever burned so fiercely she could barely think. Her face was surely flushed an unbecoming red.

But after daring for the first time in her life to angrily confront Pheon head-on, did it even matter if her face was red or blue?

Caella kept her eyes lowered. Her husband, who always rode outside her carriage, had for the first time boarded the same carriage with her.

Clip-clop, clip-clop—the horses silently crossed the darkened streets of Klein City. Knights from Houses Lusenford and Ostein escorted the carriage.

Princess Ostein’s breathing was labored. Though wracked with severe chills, not a single strand of her hair was out of place.

Somehow, she still felt trapped in Lusenford, where the cold wind pierced her bones. It was as if she alone were locked in an eternal winter.

“Fearing awkward rumors might arise from our association, I chose to deliver it separately—and hurt your feelings. I’m deeply sorry.”

His apology, delivered in flawless military formality, came once more. With that, their childhood bond was utterly erased. Caella gave a small, bitter smile.

“No one would spread such rumors, Your Highness.”

Her whole body ached as if beaten—so much so that speaking of pain felt effortless.

“Everyone in Crania already knows who Your Grace admires.”

Even after marriage, the Duchess was practically abandoned—Pheon’s fervent, almost obsessive devotion to Beatrice was common knowledge. Caella felt another sharp, needle-like pain behind her eyes.

“Who would dare link someone like me to Your Grace in gossip?”

Though she’d longed for it, it was already decided: this man would never grant her even a glance. She’d tried so hard—too hard—and now, utterly exhausted.

“No one would believe such rumors anyway.”

Only after her death had she firmly ended her foolish, one-sided infatuation. She really had been that naive.