Kaella was not, by nature, a robust person. In Lyussenford, she lived in a cycle of relentless colds; pneumonia had brought her to death’s door more than once, and her system reacted violently to the slightest dietary indiscretion.
The sturdy Northerners, who had thrived for generations in the brutal Lyussenford climate, held a deep, ingrained disdain for their frail Grand Duchess. She had occupied the position everyone believed belonged to Beatrice Lavalle, her own family had collapsed, leaving her of no utility to the region—and on top of that, she was sickly. In Lyussenford, physical weakness was a sin.
But how could one rewrite the constitution they were born with? Kaella was diligent in her health, yet caution offered no immunity to the inevitable. Truthfully, as someone born and raised in the warmth of the south, she could never have truly adapted to the harshness of the North. She had been born frail, raised in delicate comfort, and remained perpetually unsuited for the frozen land.
“You can step away for about twenty minutes.”
Kaella looked up at Peon, who stood beside her speaking quietly. His voice, naturally low and resonant, remained perfectly audible even in a whisper. Or perhaps it was simply that every nerve in Kaella’s body was fixed on him, straining to catch his every syllable.
“Go.”
His gaze flicked toward her, then drifted away with casual detachment. Accustomed to the indifference of this ‘husband,’ Kaella barely managed to find her voice.
“I’m not sick…”
“You have a fever.”
How did he know? She must have been more transparent than she realized. She never did anything right. Kaella couldn’t help but hunch her shoulders.
It was true; she was burning. Since morning, a fever had been rolling down her back, her joints aching with a dull, heavy throb. Her strength was bleeding away, and a frantic heat pulsed behind her eyes.
Was it the delayed reaction to the relief of her father’s survival? Or the surreal, exhausting ordeal of having died, returned, and then scrambled to appease the Emperor? The cold air of the hall bit through her gown—a flimsy, fashionable thing—but the event had only just begun, and she was forced to endure.
She had never expected to oversee this in her second life, but everything was unfolding differently: the Empress’s collapse, her father’s survival. She had to hold on. She was well-versed in endurance; she had confidence in nothing else.
“Put on something more. What is that?”
Peon looked down at Kaella, his expression tightening.
In Lyussenford, furs were not a luxury; they were a necessity for survival. If they had wrapped her in layers of pelts, he might have felt a shred of ease, but Krain was filled with people who prioritized fashion over their own lives. A few layers of thin fabric were useless against the chill.
Kaella was already fragile, and the exhaustion of the banquet preparations made her collapse inevitable. He could see it—she would soon be teetering on the brink of death, drenched in cold sweat, unable to even muster a groan.
“Go inside. Now.”
The banquet hall, with its doors and windows wide open, invited the biting wind to sweep through unchecked.
“They will think you are hiding somewhere.”
Kaella remained stationary, meeting his gaze with a stubborn stillness.
“Beatrice Lavalle was looking for you. Why don’t you go see her?”
Her tone shifted; the polite, practiced mask she usually wore dropped, revealing a biting coldness.
“I can take care of my own body. I won’t collapse and cause you any trouble, so don’t worry about it. Just go to Beatrice.”
The small daughter of the Duke spat this out and turned away. Peon reached for her, but a throng of guests pushed between them. In the crush, Kaella forced an appropriate smile, her mind frantically cataloging her remaining tasks.
“The banquet?”
“We have just finished checking, Your Excellency. So far, no issues.”
“Good. If anything happens, report it to me immediately.”
She had to occupy every corner of the stage simultaneously. Illness or not, the work demanded her presence.
“Your Excellency!”
Voices called to her from every direction. If she ruined this, she didn’t know how the Emperor—who valued prestige above all—might react. She had already died once at his hands for the sake of his amusement; she would not offer him a second chance.
So, being sick was irrelevant. It had never mattered in the face of death. What was a little fever? She had learned in Lyussenford that if she endured long enough, she could eventually carve out a place for herself.
*Again?*
The husband who should have been her only family always furrowed his brows when she spoke of illness, asking if she was sick *again*. She knew how it sounded: a bothersome, frail woman who was never quite right.
*Bring the Grand Duchess inside.*
*The Duchess, inside.*
*Inside.*
Whenever she fell ill, she was swept out of his sight. Because she was sick, she had to retreat; because she was sick, she had to stop working. That was how Kaella had been slowly eroded in Lyussenford, until she had no place left to stand. She had become accustomed to suffering in silence.
Judging by his reaction now, he was simply trying to brush her aside again. It was a hollow pretense of care. She refused to be foolishly moved by it. She had to push him toward Beatrice; it was the only way. Whatever the outcome of that tiresome, lifelong devotion, Kaella would only feel at ease if they were together.
“Aren’t you too cold, Your Highness?”
Kaella smiled brilliantly as she approached Prince Elkanan. The Prince beamed back at the lovely young woman with her rose-tinted cheeks.
To Peon, watching from a distance, Kaella looked incredibly precarious. She was smiling, but he knew she was moments away from succumbing to the cold and collapsing. She would be left shivering, unable to even close her eyes, her breath fading into the air. Kaella was so fragile. And, in that moment, devastatingly dazzling.
“Your Highness, I am glad to see you again in Krain!”
Peon’s shoulders stiffened. No one noticed his chest heave, a sharp, startled intake of breath.
“How is Lyussenford? Are you in good health, Your Highness?”
In Krain, many admired the Grand Duke. Those desperate to curry favor with the man who defended the North—despite the taint of being the Empress’s bastard—flocked to him. Thanks to them, Peon was able to anchor himself in the reality surrounding him.
“Lyussenford is as it always is.”
He managed to answer. He forced his eyes away from Kaella, freezing his expression into a mask of polite indifference. His tongue moved through the expected motions—the weather, the climate of the North, the state of the Empire. Yet his frayed nerves were entirely locked onto the woman smiling despite her fever. He knew. Worry was no longer his burden; he didn’t even dare to claim the right.
There was already talk of a marriage proposal between Kerujan and the Krania Empire. Alliances were solidified through blood and rings. Prince Elkanan and Lady Ostain looked like a perfectly suitable pair.
“My, what a lovely couple.”
“The age gap is just right, too.”
Once the Emperor voiced his approval, everyone else began nodding in a synchronized wave. It was fawning, designed to appease the throne, but even to an objective eye, they were well-matched.
The Emperor was a sun that saw everything, heard everything, and occupied every corner of the Empire. His eyes and ears were everywhere. Even in Lyussenford, in that land of bitter cold, he was present. He knew exactly whether the Grand Duke was truly defending the Empire or harboring secret designs.
“Indeed, it is expected that Your Majesty, who inherited the late Emperor’s will, would look after his niece’s marriage.”
“What a kind-hearted soul. Despite the Empress collapsing, he does not forget his duty as a reliable uncle.”
The sycophancy was nauseating. The Emperor obsessed over being seen as benevolent, merciful, and kind—precisely because he was none of those things. If people repeated the lie often enough, he believed it to be the truth.
Peon, too, had once been arrogant. He had believed himself a decent lord. He had trusted the people of Lyussenford, he had trusted Beatrice, and he had steadily failed to trust Kaella. That arrogance was a poison, one that could only be broken by the crushing weight of defeat and death.
He turned his back on the light he craved and stepped into the shadows. The Emperor was watching Prince Elkanan and Kaella from afar, having just returned from the Empress’s bedside. The curtains were drawn around him, sealing him off from the blinding sunlight.
“Is that you, Hyperion?”
“Yes.”
The Emperor gestured for Peon to approach, his expression dark. As he drew near, the Emperor turned, eyes scrutinizing him. Peon knew instantly what he was looking for: traces of the woman he had loved with such obsessive intensity.
Because of his violet eyes, the delicate, refined features hidden beneath a strong jawline, and the smooth skin that mirrored the Empress, Peon had survived since childhood.
Whether it was a blessing or a curse, Peon showed nothing. If he had died and returned, he had to be able to endure even this without flinching. Peon introduced an even more distressing topic, and the Emperor reacted immediately.
“A marriage to the Duke of Monde’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
He nodded heavily, the guilt of the present layering over the failures of the past.
“Not immediately, but I intend to do it after the Empress wakes up.”
He spoke of his mother as if it were a casual decision. He had to act before Beatrice could intervene. He needed to trap her and set this hellscape on fire.
A happy marriage? That was a luxury not meant for him. How could he dream of joy after starving his own wife to death? His life was meant only for desperate pain and desolate misery.
“Hyperion, how old are you? The time for marriage talk has passed long ago.”
“I am twenty-eight.”
It was an age when engagements and weddings should have been distant memories.
“I… I should have paid more attention.”
“I am grateful for your concern, Your Majesty.”
“No, no.”
The Emperor waved a dismissive hand.
“You are the Empress’s son; how could I be neglectful? If you are the Empress’s son, you are my son.”
To be called the Emperor’s son was bile in his throat, but Peon had learned to mask his revulsion. If he had learned to endure the sight of his own wife dying in agony, he could handle this.
The Emperor would likely never grant the request, or he would only do so after confirming that Beatrice remained a useful pawn to use against Peon. But what if he allowed the marriage on a whim? That wouldn’t be bad. Regardless, since he had returned, his only path forward was retaliation. He was ready for either outcome.
“…How is Her Majesty the Empress?”
He could not call his mother ‘mother’ in the Emperor’s presence. The boy who had dared to do so had been silenced by a barrage of threats and reprimands. The Emperor refused to admit his own infertility, and he hated looking at Peon—the living proof that the Empress had always been capable of bearing a child.
If Peon didn’t inquire, the Emperor would surely curse him as an unfilial son.
“The same.”
The Emperor muttered, rubbing his gaunt face.
“She is still unconscious. Doctors are useless. Or perhaps medical science hasn’t reached that point yet. They haven’t even found the cause.”
In truth, the elite doctors of the Imperial Medical Society speculated that the Empress had collapsed due to the Emperor’s relentless harassment of his bastard son. Others questioned the room filled with magical artifacts where the Empress had been found—had the Emperor’s own tools of surveillance malfunctioned? No one dared utter such things to his face.
“Is that so.”
Peon lowered his eyes, feigning a sorrow he did not feel.
“I should take care of you, in her stead.”
“I apologize for bringing this up when your mind is troubled. After much deliberation, I believed that fulfilling the role you entrusted me with is how I can best repay both of Your Majesties.”
“True. True. True. That is right.”
The Emperor nodded, muttering to himself.
“It would have been good if Gregory resembled half of you. That boy is far too immature.”
A child who resembled the Empress. The one thing the Emperor had craved, he had failed to obtain.
“He is still young, so he hasn’t had the chance to display his talents.”
The Emperor remained silent. Even after choosing Gregory from among the bastards to sit upon the throne, he was clearly dissatisfied.
“Please do not worry about the North.”
“Yes.”
The Emperor nodded and closed his eyes. Peon turned his gaze back to the floor. In the distance, Kaella was laughing at one of Prince Elkanan’s jokes.
If it were someone cheerful like the Prince, he would be elegant and gentle; he would coax out the lively, hidden side of Kaella that Peon had crushed. It would be incomparable to a man like him—a man who was dark, blunt, who stared at other women, and who had ultimately killed his wife.
Kaella, who had tried to hold on until the end in Lyussenford, would thrive in Kerujan. In the warm South, her health might improve, and she would be far from the war that was destined to tear the Krania Empire apart.
No, even if she couldn’t step back, Peon would force her to. Kaella would not die in vain this time; she would live a long, peaceful life, untouched by the coming war. That was the atonement Peon was obligated to make.
But though he could endure the Emperor’s presence without breaking, the ache of worry for the sick woman across the room was harder to suppress. She kept catching his eye.