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Chapter 6
Betrayal is betrayal.
“Hyperion, I trust you.”
The Emperor, momentarily out of his mind because of the Empress, spoke with utmost seriousness, but Pheon did not believe a word of it. He had long since learned through bitter experience that those tiresome, overused phrases were nothing but blatant lies.
Though the Emperor claimed to trust him, he possessed numerous legendary magical artifacts—mirrors that could see anywhere—and used them constantly to monitor Lusenford, even planting spies densely throughout the region.
Thus, Pheon distrusted everything, just as the Emperor did. Caella was naturally included among those he distrusted. No matter how hard she worked for Lusenford, blinded as he was, he never truly saw her—only suspicion filled his heart from beginning to end.
If any other Lusenford native had secretly accepted money from the Emperor and acted as a spy, he would have granted them another chance and shown leniency—but to her, he never offered even one opportunity.
Caella’s miserable death in that narrow tower, pierced by countless sharp spears and arrows, was far too honorable an end for the Grand Duke. To die beside Caella, when he hadn’t even deserved to stand at her side—truly, it was too much.
“They say Prince Elkanan is coming from Kerujan. He’s no ordinary man.”
Elkanan of the Kerujan Kingdom—the second most powerful man in the realm, second only to his king brother.
Pheon had already experienced Prince Elkanan’s visit once before his regression and vaguely recalled his handsome, well-groomed face.
Unlike Pheon, Elkanan was outwardly affable and always smiling, so he held many conversations with Caella. He must have been a great comfort to her after suddenly losing her father—but in the end, it was Pheon, not Prince Elkanan, who was chosen as her husband.
“Of course His Highness Prince Elkanan is outstanding—King Hugel must trust him completely to send him.”
Pheon replied indifferently. Before his regression, the Emperor had arranged his marriage to Caella solely to tighten the leash around his neck once more and burden him with endless defeat—to teach him that what he truly desired would always remain out of reach.
The Emperor was cunning. He placed bait—or rather, inescapable indoctrination—before young Pheon: someday, you’ll reunite with your mother; someday, you’ll marry your childhood sweetheart, Beatrice Lavalle.
Because his happiest memories were those days of childhood spent with his mother and friends, Pheon instinctively pursued only that past, with no other choice.
His hazy memories of his mother and his seven-year-old first love gradually vanished, buried beneath an absolute duty that dictated, “It must be this way.”
“Therefore, you and Adeo will have to handle it.”
Even Duke Ostein furrowed his brow. Pheon spoke calmly.
“It’s an honor, Your Majesty—but perhaps Crown Prince Gregory should take charge. This is no task for a mere duke.”
In the past, he would have desperately tried to prove his worth whenever such matters arose. Yet, no matter what he did, he’d only flounder helplessly within the life the Emperor had designed, never even knowing what he himself truly wanted. It had all been futile.
“That’s right, Your Majesty. It’s only proper that Your Highness’s heir assumes this duty, not this unworthy younger brother.”
Pheon let Adeo’s words wash over him. Having died properly once and returned to life, he had finally found a measure of calm.
The calm to feel anger, the calm to wait and endure, the calm to listen half-heartedly and offer honeyed words—and above all, the calm to quietly observe where his own heart was truly headed.
All his attention drifted toward the petite Princess Ostein, who stood silently with her lips firmly sealed. He found himself astonishingly, absurdly aware of this poised, elegant, and intelligent lady.
Was it out of guilt? No—if he truly felt guilty, he wouldn’t have fixated on how healthy Caella had looked before their marriage or how pleasantly plump her cheeks had become.
“He’s still far too young.”
The Emperor cut him off mercilessly. He probably thought this would make Pheon even more grateful—like tossing a bone with no meat to a dog already bound by its leash.
“He needs to relearn basic manners from the ground up.”
Had the Crown Prince simply stayed at Altein Palace when the Empress collapsed, he wouldn’t have heard such words. Displeasure filled the Emperor’s voice.
“Yet he is still of Your Majesty’s blood.”
Not me, though. Just as the Emperor always had, Pheon drew his own clear line—only his manner of drawing it was slightly more courteous.
“He must have inherited something from Your Majesty.”
Caella, who had no choice but to remain silent, looked at Pheon in mild surprise.
‘Didn’t he used to speak far less smoothly than this?’
To be precise, Pheon had always been taciturn. Though he clearly expressed his opinions, he never won against the Emperor’s forceful will—because each time, he couldn’t help but think of his mother and Beatrice, held tightly in the Emperor’s grip.
It had been the same after their marriage, whenever facing the Emperor’s envoys or letters in Lusenford. Though Pheon had always refused the Emperor’s demands with sound reasoning, the Emperor remained obstinate, leaving Pheon no choice but to bear even greater sacrifices himself.
‘Could it be because Her Imperial Majesty the Empress collapsed?’
That might be it. Pheon might have judged that his most important person could no longer serve as a hostage.
Compared to his beloved mother, Beatrice weighed less heavily—perhaps that’s why he was now drawing a line with her too. It would be easier for him that way. Caella lowered her eyes as she thought.
For a long time, she’d had no one on her side. Thus, information reached her rarely, and she always had to analyze situations carefully after keenly observing others.
That habit still lingered. Naturally—it had barely been a week since she died in the cold northern tower of Lusenford, poison on her lips.
“Learning comes first.”
After pondering for a long while, the Emperor shook his head, as if nothing else made sense.
“You must set an example—then Gregory will learn much from you.”
Did Pheon himself truly have anything worth learning? Manners and essential education came only once a year from the Empress during their rare meetings, and even that wasn’t enough.
Everything else—social graces and politics—he’d grasped through brutal trials under the Emperor’s and nobles’ merciless gazes, through suffering firsthand.
Yet even then, he remained clumsy, and the compulsions and sense of duty imposed upon him only hindered any cleverness. He hadn’t even realized he was shackled—so inevitably, he died.
“I am far too inexperienced myself to set any example.”
“Ah, enough. Stop your false modesty and do it yourself. You’re the right person for this. Caella will handle the banquet. If she has questions, tell her to ask Adeo—not me.”
The Emperor waved his hand dismissively, as if refusing to hear another word. Ever since the Empress collapsed, he’d seemed to age several years in just these past days.
“The three of you will work together. Of all people, you three are the only ones I can trust right now.”
With words like that, refusal was impossible.
“Understood, Your Majesty.”
At Duke Ostein’s words, Pheon bowed his head together with Caella.
*
Having unexpectedly been assigned to discuss the visiting delegation, Caella found herself not only unable to return home but back in Altein Palace instead. She stared at the dining table, biting her lip tightly.
No matter how grave the circumstances, the Kraniya Empire was immensely wealthy. Its vast lands fostered a rich and diverse culinary culture, so the imperial palace’s table could never be plain or modest—especially considering the famously fussy Emperor himself was a true epicure.
Caella, who had suppressed her appetite these past few days amidst constant shock and tension, now felt a deep, primal hunger stirring—not just in her stomach, but deep within her soul.
Today’s menu featured a rich onion soup slow-simmered to perfection, a hearty potage brimming with potatoes and vegetables, crispy grilled turbot served with roasted vegetables, thick slices of beef with asparagus, and an apricot torte generously layered with cream, accompanied by three different drinks.
She could eat as much as she wanted. Caella shut her eyes tightly, fighting the urge to devour the entire table.
‘Get a hold of yourself. You can’t lose your dignity in the Imperial Palace.’
Starvation was agonizing. Trapped in that tower, she had tried to stave off hunger by drinking melted snow—but eventually, she’d wanted to stuff anything into her mouth: rotten wood, stones, dirt.
By then, she lacked even the strength to lift anything to her lips, which was perhaps a mercy. Lying on the cold stone floor, she’d curled her body in pain, coughing violently as she awaited death.
All the while, she kept imagining those warm, tender, flavorful meals over and over again.
“Let’s eat first. A full stomach helps the mind think clearly.”
Pheon watched Caella, who stared uneasily at her soup. With her hair tied neatly with a ribbon, she sat demurely like any proper lady carefully managing her portions.
“Eat plenty, Caella.”
“A-ah, yes… okay.”
He simply wished that Caella—whose brief, mumbled speech sounded almost like informal talk—would eat heartily and enjoy her meal. Though he’d only glimpsed her corpse for an instant, that moment was forever imprinted in his memory.
Her lustrous platinum hair had become dry and patchy, her exposed skin marred by malnutrition and frostbite. He wanted the Caella who had died with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes to eat well now.
But apparently, he had no right to wish for that. Caella, treating him like a stranger to be handled with care, avoided his gaze and picked up her utensils.
“Your schedule to return to Lusenford will be delayed, I presume.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I must remain in Krane longer, especially during these times.”
Caella began her meal alongside this strange man in this strange world. The rich potage, coating her tongue luxuriously, was deliciously thick and savory.
Before she could unconsciously scrape her bowl clean in an unladylike manner, she glanced at Pheon once or twice. Seeing the man who had left her to starve helped her regain some composure.
“How’s the Mad Dragon these days?”
“Quiet.”
Pheon answered confidently.
“He’ll remain quiet for several months to come. The North is at peace.”
“Is that so? That’s welcome news indeed.”
While others would frown and accuse Pheon of neglecting his duties as Northern Guardian if he seemed idle, only Adeo genuinely rejoiced.
“That’s truly fortunate. At least the North remains calm—everyone can enjoy peace. That’s excellent news. Did you prepare defenses in advance?”
“One must always be prepared. I say this because we’ve detected no unusual movements from monsters or spirits.”
“His Imperial Majesty will surely be pleased.”
“His Imperial Majesty doesn’t know.”
Unlike Caella, who had already emptied her potage bowl, the gentlemen ate very slowly.
“He doesn’t know?”
The Emperor had recently grown hypersensitive about the Mad Dragon Guosalante’s sudden rampage in the North.
After all, the Mad Dragon was a colossal being capable of annihilating the Empire at any moment. Fortunately, thanks to the ancient pact forged a millennium ago between the Mad Dragon and Kraniya, his magic held no power within imperial borders.
But the dragon’s devastating flames and the monsters and spirits under his command were another matter entirely—which was why the Grand Duke of Lusenford had no choice but to confront the Mad Dragon personally.
If the North were to fall, the Empire would be in grave peril. So how could the Emperor, who devoted such care to Northern defense, be unaware of this?
“I held back from reporting it, as it didn’t seem an appropriate time. If it’s safe, there’s no need for His Majesty to worry.”
“That’s true, but…”
Adeo nodded. His half-brother’s unnatural obsession with his wife was legendary—he’d even turned a blind eye to his illegitimate child. In such a state, could the Emperor truly be of sound mind?
“There are many matters His Majesty cannot attend to right now—we must handle them wisely on his behalf.”
Caella, busily eating her second bowl of onion soup, suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth. She nearly burst into a startled cough—those words sounded dangerously close to treason, as if they were taking imperial duties into their own hands.
And for those words to come from the Grand Duke of Lusenford—someone who would never dare say such a thing! Oblivious, having nearly suffered disaster while eating like a possessed spirit, Caella tried to cough as quietly as possible.
“His Majesty’s health is also a concern right now. He must absolutely avoid overexertion.”
Calmly handing a napkin to the distressed Caella, who was making odd choking sounds, and smoothly sliding her water glass closer, Pheon offered a reasonable justification for his seemingly rebellious remark.
Caella, too flustered to even say thank you properly, snatched the napkin, covered her mouth, and hurriedly left the dining room.
Only after stepping out did she finally let out a loud cough, gasping for breath as she stared back toward the dining hall.
‘Has he gone mad?’
To make such a bold statement right in front of attending servants!
Caella imagined how the Emperor might react upon hearing those words. Back when she was Grand Duchess, such a remark would have instantly enraged him, prompting an immediate summons of the Grand Duke of Lusenford and an ensuing uproar.
The Emperor, whose hobby was scrutinizing the Grand Duke’s every move and finding fault, would never stay silent. Pheon had always been forced to grovel before the Emperor—if not, support to desolate Lusenford would cease entirely.
Yet here he was, calmly suggesting they handle matters the Emperor couldn’t attend to because they were worried about his health?
Who was this man, speaking so casually words that no one in the Empire would dare utter? She looked down at the napkin tightly clutched in her hand.
‘Why did he hand this to me?’
Did he pity her like a helpless younger sibling? Suddenly struck by paranoia, Caella quickly steadied her breathing and reentered the dining room.
‘Pity? Don’t be ridiculous. That’s too far. Get yourself together.’
The man who watched her intently, his eyes filled with the Emperor’s signature violet hue, fixed his gaze on her.
“Are you alright?”
Caella quickly nodded at her kind father’s question and took her seat.
Absentmindedly reaching for her water glass, she noticed it had been moved—not to its usual spot, but placed much closer to her. Judging by the position, Pheon must have slid it over.
Sitting in the sunlit dining room, Caella recalled the meals she’d shared alone with him in gloomy, drafty Lusenford.
“Your mouth seems better suited for talking than eating.”
Those words had sealed shut the chattering lips that used to prattle on during meals about how their days had been.
In Duke Ostein’s dining room, father and daughter chatting over meals was the most important part of daily life—but in the barren North, silence reigned over the marital table.
Caella looked down at her soup bowl. Even though she’d once starved to death, that memory gripped her far more powerfully than any ravenous hunger.
Her appetite faded. Perhaps that was for the best.
