Chapter 51
Someone’s Wound
“…Pardon?”
She was startled. How could she not be?
To return to Dellarta, Rasillia had been prepared to bear the disgrace of being branded an unfaithful empress. She had been ready to face deposition, no matter what shame was heaped upon her.
And yet—he said she could go.
Could it really have been this simple all along?
“Think of it as a convalescence. It’s a bit far, though.”
“In that case…”
“People will grumble that I’ve been away from the capital too long, but I’ll endure it. What matters more to me is helping you regain your memories.”
“…You mean Your Majesty intends to come with me.”
Of course.
It couldn’t possibly be that simple.
“I can’t be apart from you. You know that. The Blue Moon will always rise.”
“…I suppose it will.”
And despite herself, her heart wavered for a moment.
If he was going with her, she wouldn’t have to part from everyone.
Shaken by her own thoughts, Rasillia shook her head.
She must have lost her senses.
Everything she had now was meant for his true mate, not for herself.
“I’ll think on it some more. I can’t ask Your Majesty to make such a long journey just because I want to go.”
“Ask me.”
Those golden eyes came closer, as if to trap her gaze.
“You promised, remember? If there was ever something you wanted, you’d ask. If you want to go, then ask me.”
And then, the emperor would take something in return. Something small and seemingly trivial, but something that was becoming harder and harder to ignore.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Rasillia cut off her lingering attachment right there.
For everyone’s sake, she had to return to her place. Only then would the emperor find someone suited to his.
“…I didn’t expect you to refuse.”
Rescal murmured the words like a slow aside.
“Didn’t you want to go to Dellarta?”
“I’m facing a trial right now, am I not?”
“So the trial is more important to you than going to Dellarta?”
“…That’s the order of things, isn’t it?”
“What if order doesn’t matter? The trial can be delayed. We could go to Dellarta first.”
But the emperor would go with her.
Which meant nothing would truly change.
Forcing herself to spit out the honey that had entered her mouth, Rasillia shook off the sweet words Rescal had given her.
“Then I’d have to ask another favor, wouldn’t I?”
“Do you dislike asking me that much?”
It wasn’t the asking she disliked—it was the price he demanded in return. Those small, trivial requests left behind feelings she did not want to carry.
“…Yes.”
At that, Rescal frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not asking for your understanding.”
“…”
Rescal pressed his lips together, his expression clouded, then suddenly asked a question—his gaze still locked tightly on her.
“Do you know?”
“Know what?”
“That since you lost your memories, everything you say and do is different from what I’d expect.”
“…Is that so?”
“And what that means is…”
Rescal suddenly took a handful of her hair.
He lowered his head, brought it to his nose, and breathed in.
“…everything you do is different from the Cartahena Fielion you were before you lost your memories.”
It was a gesture as loaded with meaning as his words—or perhaps his words only felt more significant because of what he was doing.
With a faint smile, Rescal released her hair.
“Definitely different. Not once did I ever think the scent of Cartahena’s body was pleasant.”
“…”
Rescal regarded her with his usual impassive face.
But Rasillia had learned to tell apart the subtle shades of those expressions. And this one, strangely enough, was gentle.
“Don’t worry about the trial. Even if the priests try to pin a crime you don’t remember on you, you’ll come through unscathed.”
The expression was gentle; the words were not.
It was as though the emperor knew exactly what she was hoping to achieve through the trial.
“Is that even possible? The trial is held before the gods, and the verdict will be given in their name. You can’t alter the result, can you?”
“If necessary, I will.”
“I thought you despised breaking the law. Wasn’t that why you…”
“That was my affair. This is yours.”
In Rescal’s mouth, it became the most natural statement in the world.
Rasillia could not understand why the emperor still treated a possibly unmarked empress as his mate—and the less she understood, the heavier her heart grew.
Deposition won’t be that easy… but right now, it’s the best option.
She looked at him with eyes full of quiet regret. That, at least, was sincere. She prayed he would soon meet the true mate who could tame his blood.
“In that case, I can trust Your Majesty and face the trial at ease.”
“…So you insist on standing trial, no matter what—even if the verdict is already set.”
“Yes. Just as I’ve said.”
Rescal would certainly oppose her deposition. But the temple and the dukedom would throw their full support behind it.
The temple hadn’t hesitated to use the imperial seamstress just to drag the empress into court. They weren’t likely to meekly let the emperor have his way with the verdict.
In the end, they would have to open the lid and see.
“It’s late. You should get some rest now.”
Polite words, but the meaning was clear—he should leave.
The night had worn on.
Without her noticing, the color of the sky had begun to change. The blue of dawn was seeping in.
“But before that…”
Rescal took her hand. She had forgotten, during their talk, that her finger was still bandaged. He lifted it to his lips.
“My apologies—for hurting you.”
“…? That wound has nothing to do with Your Majesty.”
“It was made by an ungrown fledgling. That makes it no different from being made by me.”
Rescal released her hand with painstaking slowness—slow enough that she could remember exactly how he had taken it, how he had pressed his lips to it, and how he had let it go.
“I hope it heals quickly. And when it does… I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“…”
While Rasillia remained silent, Rescal walked away at an unhurried pace until he was gone.
No matter who made it, it’s the same wound.
That thought kept her from sleeping.
Because it meant that the emperor’s feelings were the same as Pipi’s—who had lashed out and wept simply because she loved someone else.
“Your gown must be so uncomfortable, Your Majesty. What are we to do…”
Yvette wrung her hands with a worried look.
Elliad’s trial procedure was strict.
From three days before the trial, Rasillia had been forbidden contact with anyone. Not even Yvette had been an exception; she hadn’t seen her face in all that time.
All Yvette could do was leave bread and water from the temple at the door.
Only on the morning of the trial was she allowed inside to help the empress dress.
Regardless of rank, anyone on trial had to wear a plain, coarse garment—no color, no decoration—so that appearances could not sway judgment.
Rasillia understood the reason, but there was one problem.
Not even the most basic undergarments were allowed.
Wearing a long, sack-like robe with sewn sleeves directly on bare skin was… unpleasant.
Trying her best to make the shapeless garment presentable, Yvette said,
“You must have suffered these past three days—locked in, and with such miserable meals… Oh, the temple calls it ‘bread of purity,’ but that doesn’t make it some miraculous loaf. How can a person live on just bread and water?”
“Three days isn’t so long. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“…If you say so.”
Yvette’s voice was small and dispirited.
For the past three days, she’d been half-sick with worry that the meager food and the stress of the trial would make the empress ill. But the empress had borne it all with perfect composure, without a single complaint.
It was admirable—imperial, even—but also left Yvette feeling oddly hurt.
“The gown’s on, Your Majesty. Even in this… oh, pardon my language—in this hideous sack of a thing, you’re so beautiful.”
At the words, Rasillia relaxed.
She had been carefully angling her body to hide the spot where the mark lay.
“I’m glad I don’t look too shabby. Is it time to leave for the temple now?”
“Yes. The guards will come for you when it’s time. You’ll ride in a carriage. Please wait just a bit longer.”
“All right.”
Soon, she would leave the palace.
She had left a letter tucked deep inside her vanity drawer, where someone cleaning might find it. Hopefully, that person would be Yvette.
There was little else to prepare.
Only one regret—she wouldn’t be able to see Pipi before she left.
“She must still be upset.”
The thought slipped out as Rasillia looked toward the window.
“…Ah. You mean Lord Ren…” Yvette clasped her hands.
“If he comes back while I’m gone, tell him I’m sorry. And thank you.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. …But that sounds strange. Why do you speak as if you’ll never see him again?”
Because she might not.
“Just tell him if he comes back.”
She turned her gaze away from the window.
Knock, knock.
“Your Majesty, we’ve come to escort you.”
It was time to go.
The Harrios Grand Temple was larger than anything she had ever seen.
Built atop the highest hill in the capital’s north, it was so vast it could not be taken in at a glance.
By size, it might not even be much smaller than the imperial palace.
An awe-inspiring place.
To maintain such a scale, it would take an enormous number of worshippers and priests.
Is that how they dared file a charge against the imperial house?
At the foot of the hill, a crush of carriages already waited—nobles who had come to witness the trial.
Each had brought their own knights, giving the air of war rather than a trial. The imperial guards lining the road to the temple only heightened the impression.
“We’ve arrived, Your Majesty. You’ll have to walk from here.”
“Understood. Open the door.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Click.
Serven opened the carriage door.
“As this is before the trial, I cannot offer my hand. You must disembark on your own.”
Those in trial garb could touch no one.
Gathering the stiff, rough fabric at her sides, Rasillia stepped down. She was barefoot; no other shoes were permitted.
“I’ll guide you to the courtroom.”
Once he saw her firmly on the ground, Serven gestured to the guards.
Step, step, step.
The guards fell into step around her, climbing the hill.
Nobles ahead stopped walking, waiting for her to pass.
After nearly thirty minutes of climbing, the temple’s great doors appeared.
She was led to a small chamber beside the courtroom.
This was where she would wait until the trial began.
“It won’t be long. I’m sorry, but I have to lock the door from the outside.”
The windowless space, furnished with only a chair, reminded her of the Seer’s chamber—but it did not trouble her.
“Go ahead.”
“My apologies, Your Majesty.”
Clunk, clink!
The door closed; the bolt fell.
She sat, steadying her mind.
This was the end. Soon, there would be a conclusion.
…Or perhaps not.
Vvmmm—
A shadow fell across one wall, plain and bare.
“…?”
The shadow deepened, widened—until it was no shadow at all, but a hole. The wall was opening to somewhere else.
“What the…!”
She sprang from her seat.
“Sister! It’s me.”
From the hole, now as large as the door, stepped the young lord of House Fielion—her half-brother—his face drawn tight with urgency.
“We don’t have time, Sister. You have to escape. Now.”
