YATED 13

They should just run away together!

Princess Ostein, looking haggard, gathered every last ounce of strength left in her body and shouted in fury—her voice trembling with indignation.

It almost seemed as if she believed, with unwavering conviction, that they absolutely must do so. Yet, the frail princess—who looked as though she might collapse at any moment—held very little authority within the Kraniya Empire.

But to Pheon, her words were absolute—though even she herself would likely never believe it.

It was laughable and pathetic how, after having delivered upon him such a miserable and humiliating death, he now clung so desperately to Caella, who no longer had any connection to him at all. He knew Caella would find him repulsive.

Yet Pheon, who had always been tormented by the golden chains of duty and responsibility, dared not disobey her. Regardless of whether she reacted differently now compared to before her regression, he had to at least attempt exactly as she had commanded.

Perhaps it was penance from a fool—or perhaps simply Pheon’s own stubbornness.

“It’s been hard to meet lately.”

Immediately upon leaving the Ostein townhouse, he went straight to meet Beatrice Lavalle.

Ever since his half-hearted, ringless, passionless proposal—utterly devoid even of the word “marriage”—she had been avoiding him with one excuse after another. Naturally so—after all, she had no intention of marrying him, just as her mother, Duchess Monde, wished.

But Pheon had already stationed a loyal watcher over her, so it was easy enough to appear suddenly before Beatrice when she was alone.

“Pheon.”

Beatrice was utterly flustered. He rarely entered high society even while in Krain, and he had always been considerate enough to avoid meeting her—so why had he come looking for her again?

She hastily glanced around, worried someone might be watching. But Pheon calmly looked only at Beatrice.

Beatrice rushed forward and immediately embraced him.

“How did you get here? Someone might see us…”

“It’s fine. There’s no one around.”

She looked up at him. With those deer-like eyes and that tender gaze alone, Beatrice had long known how to steal hearts and command attention. Pheon, however, looked down at her lovely pink eyes without a trace of emotion.

There had been times when those eyes had comforted him. Times when he had dreamed of marrying her. At twelve—or was it thirteen?—it had been the fleeting first love of an innocent boy.

Now, for Pheon—who was living his twenty-eighth year for the second time—those eyes had long faded, their luster worn thin by time. Having seen the revolting truth hidden behind them, and having broken free from the golden chains, all that remained was the bitter realization that even his memories had deceived him.

“…I heard the news. His Imperial Majesty the Emperor has arranged for you and that Caella…”

Beatrice’s voice faltered, and tears welled in her eyes.

Pheon knew she could shed tears at will whenever she wished. At the same time, he caught the old contempt buried in her words “that Caella.” Beatrice looked down on Caella.

“What do you want to do?”

Therefore, her tears weren’t worth responding to—not that he had the energy to bother. Pheon was just as indifferent—almost cruelly so—to those he deemed worthless, just as he had been with Caella in Lusenford.

“What do you mean, ‘what do I want to do’? How can you even ask such a thing, Pheon? Of course I want to stay with you—but how could I possibly defy the Imperial Edict?”

Knowing she held no power, Beatrice let her tears fall helplessly, gripping his hand with desperate urgency.

Through her tears and her grasp, the black golden chains seeped into him again. Every such sentence was a spell in itself. Each added word endlessly reinforced the binding enchantment—crafted precisely to make Pheon obey her words unquestioningly.

“Pheon… will you… will you forget me? No. I’m all alone here. You know that. I have no one but you.”

Suppressing the involuntary urge to flinch at those curse-like phrases, Pheon asked exactly as Caella had once cried out:

“Shall we run away?”

He spoke words he would never have uttered—yet he spoke them. Beatrice turned deathly pale.

“That… how… that’s impossible, Pheon. Come to your senses.”

If she were truly going to pretend to be a love-struck maiden, she should have at least played along properly. Even Beatrice—who could calculate exactly how many tears to shed—was utterly stunned and unable to perform convincingly in that moment.

“The Imperial Edict—it’s the Imperial Edict!”

The Imperial Edict—the very word implanted deep within him to ensure his obedience. So why was Pheon suddenly acting this way?

“Then you’re fine with me marrying another woman, I suppose.”

His tone was calm. Everything aligned exactly as he’d foreseen, so he wasn’t even surprised.

But his voice was naturally very deep, and even when he spoke plainly, listeners always flinched in fear. Beatrice anxiously scrutinized his inscrutable face.

“How could I possibly be fine with that? I’ve only ever looked to you! How can you say something like that, Pheon…?”

Leaving her weeping into his chest, shoulders shaking, Pheon couldn’t shake the feeling of annoyance.

He was annoyed—and disgusted. Because of these golden chains disguised as pitiful tears, he kept learning anew just how foolish he had been.

“Running away… how could we possibly run? His Imperial Majesty won’t leave us alone. It’s not that I’m okay with you marrying someone else—it’s just… my heart feels like it’s being torn apart.”

She had once muttered to herself—bitterly thinking Pheon was a fool who understood nothing—while standing before her dead husband’s corpse. Recalling those words, Pheon simply waited for her to finish on her own.

Though Beatrice spoke many words, none truly reached his ears. Now, all the spells she’d carefully woven were nothing but empty, meaningless prattle to him.

“I understand.”

Pheon gave a vague nod.

“You understand what I mean, right, Pheon?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you dare forget me. Promise me you’ll love only me.”

He gave no answer to the woman who would surely have mocked him for looking at Caella instead of her on their wedding day.

Another day had passed in Krain, and darkness was falling once more.

Beatrice cast spell after spell upon him, repeating again and again that he must never abandon her, before parting with an air of helpless resignation. The two lovers, feigning affection while concealing their true intentions, were each dreadfully busy.

*

“Come here.”

The Emperor, who had summoned Pheon briefly, beckoned to him.

“Come closer. It must be overwhelming—being told to marry so suddenly.”

Ever since the Empress collapsed, the Emperor had treated Pheon with unusual warmth. Having once been thoroughly broken by the Emperor’s own hand, Pheon knew all too well that this kindness could turn to cruelty in an instant—so he attached no special meaning to it.

Yet the nobles, excluding him, were astonished. The Emperor had never shown such tenderness toward the Empress’s illegitimate child—whom he’d always banished to the front lines.

To the Emperor, Pheon was pure humiliation—the Empress’s only child, and worse, a robust son at that.

Among all the Emperor’s bastards, none matched Pheon in talent, versatility, and noble bearing. Rumors persisted endlessly about the mystery man the Empress had loved—surely he must have been incredibly handsome.

“It’s just… I feel uneasy about marrying while Your Imperial Majesty is worried for Her Imperial Majesty the Empress.”

Was there any way at all to undo this? Though countless lives depended on his shoulders—lives that would vanish meaninglessly if this marriage were canceled—Pheon refused to give up and kept probing for possibilities.

“Yes, yes. I understand your feelings. But the Empress’s collapse has jolted me wide awake. You must settle down and become a proper head of household.”

The Emperor nodded and gestured to the chief steward standing nearby. The steward approached respectfully and presented a velvet box to Pheon.

Pheon took it without hesitation. Even if it contained a poisoned dagger or some deadly toxin, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Open it.”

But inside the box was not a blade—only jewels. A stunning bracelet of citrine and diamond, intricately woven to sparkle brilliantly, and a rather large diamond ring.

“One of the Empress’s jewels. Still, it’s a marriage—surely you ought to have an engagement ring to propose with.”

“…Thank you for your thoughtful consideration, Your Majesty.”

“The ring should be provided by the man.”

He had once given Caella a ring as well—but he’d been so careless he couldn’t even recall its design or how he’d obtained it. All he remembered was that Caella had always worn it with great care.

He remembered once, from afar, watching her cry while searching desperately after losing it. In Lusenford, rumors spread that the Grand Duchess had enchanted the wedding ring to communicate with the Emperor’s side.

“It must have been Beatrice’s doing. That brief disappearance of the ring back then must have been deliberate.”

Amidst the Lusenford nobles’ hostility toward the foreign Grand Duchess and the Emperor’s spies, Lusenford had spiraled into extremes. Whom could he blame? In the end, it was his own fault as Duke.

“It’s an honor, Your Majesty.”

Though he felt no real honor, he had become adept at uttering hollow courtesies. Offering the usual polished phrases nobles employed, the Emperor now regarded him almost as a beloved son. A bitter smile tugged at Pheon’s lips.

*

What to do about this marriage? He had returned, done his utmost to prevent death, and his mother, the Empress, had quietly collapsed.

Much had changed—yet the marriage remained fixed, absurdly so. But in truth, Pheon couldn’t possibly reject this marriage according to his current plans. Even at today’s luncheon, Duke Ostein had tightly grasped Pheon’s hand.

“Take good care of my daughter.”

Adeo knew well that Pheon was currently the best possible match for Caella.

But Pheon himself knew clearly that he was the absolute worst. Hadn’t Caella herself raged at him? Each time he faced her, Pheon keenly felt just how pitiful and powerless he was before her.

It was even more pathetic that, no matter how much he thought it over, the only conclusion he could reach was that he had to marry her to protect her.

“Your Highness, Lady Lavalle has entered the Soleil Palace again today.”

Sir Renard, approaching quietly, reported Lady Lavalle’s increasingly suspicious activities, casting a cautious glance at Pheon.

From the very first report until now, Beatrice had visited the Soleil Palace—the Emperor’s private chambers—every single day, secretly and without fail.

It was shocking news: the belle of high society, not yet married, regularly slipping into the Emperor’s palace unnoticed by others. Pheon, who had precisely pinpointed this crucial detail that no one else knew, merely smiled in response.

“She must be busy.”

Sir Renard sensed that his resolute lord had changed greatly lately. Pheon issued orders with unclear purposes, and each time Sir Renard carried them out, he uncovered new truths that left him deeply shaken.

“What should we do?”

“Keep watching.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Night had fallen over Krain, and unknowingly, Pheon found himself lingering near the Ostein townhouse. While Caella was ill, he had frantically tried to stop this marriage—but the diplomatic situation involving Kerujan had become crystal clear.

The entire Empire agreed: the Ostein Duchy could not be handed over to Kerujan. Therefore, the Ostein heir had to be wed to Lusenford.

“The Emperor is already arranging Princess Ostein’s marriage entirely to his own liking.”

Even if Pheon overturned this marriage, Caella still wouldn’t get the marriage she wanted. In the worst case, Adeo might die again—which was precisely why Adeo had entrusted his daughter to him.

With no time to gather strength, Pheon was nearly helpless. This time, the political landscape—unknown to him before his regression—was now glaringly obvious, reading easily and troubling him deeply.

It was then that Pheon, walking through the darkness, caught sight of someone slipping quietly out of the Ostein townhouse.

*

Objectively, Caella was in no condition to run away just yet.

Her fever hadn’t fully subsided, and the household anxiously fretted over whether her illness might worsen. Caella had always been prone to frequent minor ailments since childhood.

“But it’s death either way, isn’t it?”

That was right. She’d die if she stayed sick, die if she defied the marriage and the Emperor subjected her to something worse than death, and die even if she obediently went to Lusenford.

After all, she was merely a cunning spy of the Emperor, pretending to be meek and obedient! The people of Lusenford had already decided she was the woman who would bring misery—not happiness—to their Duke.

Ha ha ha ha—a clear laugh burst out. Though it was followed immediately by painful coughing, Caella was no longer in her right mind.

It would be far better for her dear father—who she was already grateful just to have survived—to have a troublesome daughter causing him grief than to burden him further, especially when he was already so tense every time she entered the Imperial Palace.

The seemingly harmonious Ostein household was, in truth, each carrying their own heavy burdens.

“I never thought I’d actually go through with it.”

Caella looked back at the receding Ostein townhouse. During her time as Grand Duchess of Lusenford, everywhere had been dreadfully quiet, and winter had seemed endless.

In her utter isolation, she’d developed a habit of bitterly replaying the past, and her thoughts sometimes drifted meaninglessly—turning vague regrets like “I should have done that then” into concrete plans.

In the bone-chilling cold and loneliness, Caella had vividly imagined running away before her wedding. She’d rehearsed it so many times she could execute it instantly now.

She stole a maid’s clothes, smeared soot on her face, and wrapped her platinum hair in a headscarf. She’d learned harshly in Lusenford how cruel the world truly was. Even if she fell into ruin, anything would be less miserable than Lusenford.

“If they catch me, I’ll die.”

Or they’d drag her back to Lusenford. Either way, death awaited.

A painful death, a less painful death—either way, a horrible death. Ha ha ha. Caella laughed silently. Then, until the very end, she would do exactly as she pleased and die as cleanly and quietly as possible.

To the warm south. Unlike Lusenford—with its unnervingly silent, deadly snow—she would go to the lively, warmly vibrant south. Ever since Lusenford, Caella had always wished to die in the warm south.

“Is the Jutilang household gate closed already?”

“I heard they’ve been closing early lately.”

Sharing a smelly hired carriage with strangers was no trouble at all.

The northern tower where she’d last lain was far filthier. After taking the carriage and disembarking in the residential district where commoners lived, Caella resolved to walk a very long distance. She well knew that elopement wasn’t something done elegantly on horseback with guards in tow.

Once she’d walked far enough, all that remained was to pass the city guards at Krain’s gate. As she carefully stepped forward, anticipating the heightened security due to the Empress’s recent condition, a voice stopped her.

“It’s dangerous to go any farther.”

The voice, unable even to properly address her as “Princess,” seized her abruptly.