#21. Withers Without Love
“I’ll handle that matter appropriately. I don’t like giving your brother any advantage either, so don’t worry about it.”
Ophelia stared at the man who seemed far too close with Mahanas for someone who claimed not to care. Her gaze inevitably turned cold.
Idren looked down at her. Ophelia suddenly realized how much taller he was than her. It was an unpleasant fact.
Recalling how that large body hadn’t budged at all last night made her feel even worse. Her lips tightened.
That was when Idren, who hadn’t avoided her piercing glare, finally spoke.
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned about something else?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The marriage.”
And with that, the man brushed the back of her neck. His slightly rough fingers grazed the exposed skin. The unfamiliar sensation made her instinctively tense up. Ophelia stiffened her neck.
Idren pulled off a small leaf stuck to her nape and spoke in a calm voice.
“This time, I intend to claim all my rights in this marriage.”
He discarded the light green leaf on the ground and met her eyes with his icy blue ones.
Neither of them had ever asserted their rights, so they had simply lived as if they didn’t exist. But Idren did have a few rights.
For instance, the right to take a spouse.
Of course, Ophelia also had the right to take him as a husband, but Idren knew she would never care about that.
If they hadn’t been bound by marriage, she wouldn’t even have considered taking him as a lover.
Idren knew well how little interest she had in him. And how coldly she treated everything outside her narrow circle.
That was why, in their previous life, Idren had given her the bedroom to herself. He had no desire to be with someone who didn’t want him.
He had intended to do the same this time… though perhaps, she could be baited—just enough to draw her attention.
That was when Ophelia, who had been staring up at him, opened her mouth.
“Don’t act like this is your first time getting married.”
Her lips curled into a smirk. Idren recognized it for what it was—mockery.
Before he could react to the vivid emotion on her face, Ophelia said flatly,
“Weren’t you the one who ran away from the bedroom and left me to handle domestic affairs alone?”
It sounded like a reproach, but it held her true feelings. Idren realized then that she really thought of it that way. He let out a stunned laugh.
“You thought I ran away?”
Ophelia didn’t understand what he meant.
After consummating their marriage, he had suddenly stopped sharing the bedroom. He had sent a short letter, though she could hardly remember what it said.
Something like: You must be uncomfortable, so I’ll stay away.
But she had genuinely been fine. Sure, the wedding night had been a bit rough, but that would improve with time. So she dismissed his letter as the excuse of a man afraid of her.
Some men withered when they weren’t loved.
She hadn’t planned on letting her husband wither, but neither did she want to love him. So she simply let him do as he pleased.
Idren had seemed to try, in his own way. On a snowy day, he had come to her room to kiss her, to hold her hand. That had been after they started sleeping separately.
But he eventually gave up. It was clear from how he stopped trying altogether.
She had remained in the same place, unchanged.
It was ridiculous for him to act like it was her fault now, when he had been the one to give up. Ophelia shot back,
“Then what was it?”
“Did it never occur to you that I was being considerate?”
“Considerate? Ah…”
Now that she thought about it, the letter had sounded like that.
But truly, it was unnecessary.
Ophelia stared at the man, whose lips twisted like a wounded soul. He made that face all the time. It seemed to be a habit.
“Whether or not you sleep with me, I don’t care.”
“……”
“And it’s the same with giving me work.”
The man blinked at her with eyes like starlight.
At least, the tears didn’t fall.
Still, for someone so quick to crumble, she could already tell this marriage wouldn’t be smooth.
Not wanting to break him before they even began, Ophelia softened her tone slightly.
“Remember what I told you on our wedding night, when you tried to justify yourself?”
Then she walked past him.
Idren could only stare at the woman who had dragged him into the depths—and then abandoned him there alone.
The third son of House Soer, Fenrel Soer, had served the young king for nearly seven years.
Fenrel had known the king even before he claimed the crown. Back then, the young prince had been dispatched to the border region where Fenrel’s family lived.
When Fenrel first saw him, he had been in his twenties, and the prince was just a child. Fenrel hadn’t believed a boy with lash scars on his back would last long.
Pitiful as he was, the prince hadn’t even known how to wield a weapon. Life on the brutal border was no place for someone like him.
But Fenrel had been wrong. The prince survived—and eventually became king.
Of course, the prince had killed many of his own kin to sit on the throne. But Fenrel had no choice but to support him.
He and his family had been among those who would have died if the prince hadn’t acted.
Rather, he had admired the young man’s determination. From the start, the prince had been full of will to live.
Even Fenrel, whose situation had been better, had often thought dying might be easier. But the prince had never uttered such words.
Only after he became king did Fenrel understand why he had clung so fiercely to life.
“I’m going to propose to Princess of Reden.”
The young king’s eyes shone as he said this.
Knowing how firm his will was, Fenrel had no choice but to dissuade him.
What the king needed was a new political alliance. He had broken ties with Brynwell, who had been close to the previous king. He needed a country of equal power.
Reden, though steeped in history, had no real influence. The Reden royals were known far and wide for their extravagance.
Still, Fenrel eventually had to agree with the king’s wish.
“Maybe it’s because of her that I’ve survived this long.”
His resolve was unshakable.
“Ophelia is different from other royals. She’s brave and kind.”
The sincerity on his face was undeniable.
That night, the king shared parts of his past—something he rarely did.
The young man, not yet fully grown, blushed when speaking of his shame and humiliation, but his eyes sparkled when he spoke of the young Princess of Reden.
“If I die, those memories disappear. So I couldn’t die.”
How could anyone oppose him after that?
Fenrel had no choice but to admit: the king needed Princess Ophelia. If giving up a political alliance brought him a foundation for living, it wasn’t a bad deal.
Indeed, the king preparing for marriage had never seemed more alive. He was the picture of a man in love—just as young as he should be.
It was a fortunate thing. To love someone was simple on the surface, but truly difficult.
Love, taken wrong, was poison. But handled well, it could be the greatest miracle.
Fenrel believed without doubt that the king would find magic—not poison.
But over the past few days, he began to question that belief.
The king had changed the moment they crossed the canal into Reden. Gone was the romantic, hopeful youth. In his place was a man haunted, like a survivor of some nightmare.
He seemed to age overnight, acting like someone long tormented.
“I’ll be returning tomorrow.”
That was what the king said as he ordered the bridal gifts to be delivered to the Reden palace before dawn.
Fenrel saw the exhaustion etched on his face. It was so deep it could be mistaken for pain.
In just two days, the romance had vanished. Hope was replaced by cynicism, and the king had become a stranger.
While Fenrel remained confused, still unaware of the cause of this change, the royal wedding loomed.
That dawn, standing in the palace hall where the treasures were piled as ordered, the king looked down coldly and said,
“Prepare the carriage to bring the princess.”
