Chapter 45
When Süleyman went to the prison to interrogate the assassin,
Theron was strolling through the garden of his palace, tending to the flowers.
Holding a pair of scissors in one hand, delicately trimming the stems himself—
Theron looked like a living painting.
He truly appeared as the gentle and benevolent prince that everyone in the capital and beyond the palace walls spoke of.
“So, has my brother returned safely?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Hmm.”
Between the peaceful chirping of birds, the sharp snip of scissors rang out.
Theron looked at the wilted bud he had just cut off and sighed softly, as though he found it a shame.
“He’s still up to his usual foolishness, I see.”
The “he” Theron referred to was Berhan, Roxellana’s half-brother.
Though Berhan was Theron’s maternal uncle by blood, the man had chosen to follow Roxellana into exile after earning a poor reputation in their homeland.
“Eliminating someone of my brother’s caliber isn’t an easy thing to do.
And yet, he keeps failing and never seems to learn.”
“……”
The attendant standing beside him, holding a basket woven from reeds, bowed silently.
The garden was far too open a place to discuss such secrets—
but that mattered little, for everyone within these palace walls served Theron alone.
Even the attendant beside him wasn’t an ordinary servant—he was closer to a trained killer.
At Theron’s word, such people would kill—or die—without hesitation.
His palace was full of such loyal shadows.
“What news from the guild?”
“They say a fight has broken out in the black market over the exclusive rights to our latest goods.”
“How amusing. I’ve no intention of sharing, yet they still squabble like fools.”
Though known as a mild and gentle prince, Theron had another face—
he was the secret master of the underworld guild Diathe.
The guild’s influence reached not only the capital but major cities throughout the kingdom.
They dealt primarily in forbidden poisons and weapons, and by a young age Theron had amassed an astronomical fortune.
While Süleyman fulfilled his royal duty by taking up the sword on the battlefield,
Theron used his “illness” as an excuse to grow his guild from the shadows.
Thus, people saw him merely as a sickly, inconspicuous prince.
But the reason he sought power was not ambition for the throne.
He wanted freedom—from Roxellana’s relentless pressure to make him the next Sultan.
“Now that I think of it, the shipment by sea should be arriving soon. When exactly?”
“We’ve received word it will dock at Vinta Harbor in five days.”
“Good. See that preparations are flawless. This deal is something Mother has long awaited… and sometimes, one must be a dutiful son.”
When the attendant bowed and left, Theron continued his stroll.
He stopped before a flowerbed overflowing with brilliant blooms.
Among them was a strange, violet flower whose petals resembled butterfly wings.
It was aconite, also known as monkshood—a poisonous root plant difficult to cultivate in the kingdom’s hot climate.
Theron had personally devoted years to growing it.
Only recently had he handed a refined extract of its deadly toxin to Berhan.
“…It would have been nice if that arrow had struck true. What a pity, brother.”
Theron gently caressed the purple petals.
This flower, once used as poison in distant lands, reminded him of himself—
Beautiful enough to be mistaken for decoration, yet hiding a lethal venom within.
How could anything be more alike?
“Heh…”
A bitter smile appeared on his lips.
From the earliest days of his childhood, Süleyman had loomed large over his life.
Theron’s mother, Roxellana, though of noble birth, had never received the late Sultan’s affection.
He had four wives—including Roxellana—but only Hürrem was recognized as his legitimate queen.
In a kingdom that had never known such distinctions between wives and concubines,
Hürrem’s elevation to queen had thrown the entire royal court into chaos.
When the late Sultan died suddenly for reasons unknown,
and Hürrem ascended the throne per his will, Roxellana’s fury deepened beyond measure.
“Curse this world! Curse this kingdom that has made me so miserable!”
Her hatred, once unleashed, naturally turned toward Hürrem and her son, Süleyman.
And the one destined to raise a blade against them—
had to be her own son, Theron.
He grew up hearing the same words again and again:
“You must become Sultan.”
He had never expected parental love.
To Roxellana, a child was merely a tool for vengeance.
So Theron sought strength to escape her grasp.
He dirtied his hands with every vile deed imaginable until his power surpassed hers—
but in the end, it all felt hollow.
“What have I been living for?”
As a prince with a rightful claim to the throne, he wasn’t entirely uninterested in it,
but he loathed the idea of rebellion for his mother’s sake more than death itself.
“Sometimes, I almost pity you, Mother.”
How cruel love can be.
Even when death takes the one you loved,
an arrow that’s lost its target keeps flying aimlessly through the sky.
At times, he felt a strange sorrow for Roxellana,
whose twisted love had long since consumed her.
“Love… what a meaningless thing.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
At that moment, the image of a woman lying on his bed flashed through his mind.
“…Ishtar.”
The woman known as the daughter of Ashtar.
To Theron—who found little interest in anything—she was strangely intoxicating.
The so-called “Prophetic Cat” who could lend power to Süleyman hadn’t interested him in the slightest.
After all, any cat could be picked up from the street and given a fancy name.
But the more often he encountered her,
the more that “cat” refused to let go of his heart.
When he realized that the woman was the same one who had been with his brother,
his desire turned into something unbearable—almost madness.
“This is the first time I’ve ever wanted someone like this.”
Born into nobility and surrounded by beauty,
Theron had always had women around him.
Yet none had ever stirred his heart.
But now, for the first time, he wanted—he craved—someone.
That someone was Ishtar.
The crimson sunset touched his golden lashes as he sank into thought.
Looking up at the darkening western sky, he murmured softly, almost wistfully:
“…By now, she’s probably in my brother’s bed. Isn’t that right, Ishtar?”
The image of her transformation came back to him—
a small cat turning human in his arms,
a moment so miraculous it defied reason.
What he had felt then was her pure, gentle power—
the same warmth that was said to be the essence of the goddess Ashtar herself.
“It’s strange… knowing that the one I desire rests in my brother’s hands fills me with anger—yet also with joy. How curious, Ishtar.”
Standing alone in the garden, he spoke as if she might hear.
She always made him feel strange.
Every encounter filled him with fleeting joy—followed by inexplicable sorrow.
And yet…
the same delicate neck he longed to protect,
he also wanted to twist between his fingers.
Was this affection? Or hatred?
Whatever it was, he realized he was just as twisted as his mother.
“Stealing a cat already tamed by another master… that could be amusing. I look forward to it.”
Humming softly, Theron began to walk again.
A red rosebud rested in his hand.
He crushed it with his bare palm.
The petals, once ready to bloom, crumpled and scattered to the ground.
The falling sunlight stretched his shadow long across the garden,
strewn with the remains of what had once been a flower.
She was the first bloom to ever stir his heart.
Even if it withered easily,
better that it be destroyed in his hands than bloom for someone else.
