Chapter 11
When Grand Duke Magnum placed a cigar between his lips, Ern lit it for him.
In moments, smoke from seven men filled the room—each puff heavy with unease.
The question in every man’s mind was the same: Who will take the last seat among us?
“His Majesty had better settle for some ordinary woman,”
Duke Magrot muttered, exhaling smoke.
The best option, they all knew, would be a woman from a family so humble that she could never pose a threat.
The worst would be someone from a middling noble house—ambitious enough to want in, yet not powerful enough to be worth the alliance.
The seven noblemen wanted nothing more than to keep the current balance of power intact.
There was nothing left to divide among them, after all.
“More to the point—why did His Majesty suddenly change his mind?”
“I’m not sure myself,” Ern replied, wearing an awkward, uncertain expression.
But inwardly, he recalled what had really happened.
That very morning, the Emperor had seemed ready to postpone naming his Empress indefinitely.
But—
He changed his mind right after meeting Lady Morata.
Lady Morata.
The woman who would become the Empress.
Ern knew her name well.
The Morata duchy and the Imperial family had worked together to raise her for that role.
“Was it the future Empress who swayed His Majesty’s will?”
“Don’t be absurd. When has the Emperor ever changed his mind because of a woman?”
“Johannes Drenegger? Never. That’s ridiculous.”
“My dog would laugh at that.”
The question died under a volley of ridicule.
Anel Morata had once been the talk of society, but not anymore.
Her worth had fallen so low that even mentioning her name here felt irrelevant.
The Morata family was all but hollow, and the Emperor had shown no interest in his Empress-to-be.
At least, that had been the case until this morning.
What in the world did she say to make him change his mind?
Ern lowered his eyes.
Lady Morata—he hadn’t paid her much attention before.
But now, it seemed she warranted a closer look.
The day before the coronation.
Inside the grand hall of Solis Palace—the central palace where the Empress’s enthronement ceremony would be held—Anel was making her final inspections.
Fortunately, the countless lessons she had taken in preparation for this day meant that her work went smoothly.
Contrary to everyone’s expectations of disaster, the preparations were proceeding without issue.
Everything—except one matter.
The naming of the Imperial Consort.
“This is just ridiculous…”
Giselle, who had followed Anel into the palace, grumbled beside her.
“No matter what anyone says, it’s your coronation, my lady! And yet, when I tell them they should be attending to you, everyone just dumps their work on me!”
Giselle seemed angrier than Anel herself.
And it was understandable—she had begun to openly pity Anel now, while also resenting the situation that forced her into this pitiful loyalty.
“I’m sorry, Giselle,” Anel murmured softly.
“I know you’re being looked down on because of me.”
That was what angered Giselle most.
As Anel’s standing in the palace shrank to almost nothing, Giselle’s own status fell with it.
She huffed in frustration, but when Anel apologized, guilt tugged at her instead.
“No, my lady. It’s not your fault.”
“If I had more influence, things would’ve been easier for you.”
So soft-hearted… it’s why she gets trampled on, Giselle thought.
If Anel remained this gentle, how would she ever survive the Imperial Palace?
The thought of the bleak future ahead made Giselle sigh.
Perhaps she should start currying favor with the servants of the yet-unnamed Imperial Consort.
“But, my lady—who do you think His Majesty will name as consort?”
Anel gave a faint, uneasy smile.
“I don’t know yet. Perhaps His Majesty will tell me tomorrow.”
After that unpleasant exchange with Johannes, she had practically fled back to the Empress’s quarters.
She couldn’t bear to stay near him.
His gaze, his breath, his voice—even his laughter—were all strange and unfamiliar.
She had never been so close to any man before.
Even Samyu had never touched her so casually.
That unfamiliar proximity frightened her, and she had been too overwhelmed to resist—
even when he had declared that he would name a consort during her coronation.
I should have said it then—that it was madness. That no noble would welcome it.
She regretted staying silent, but soon resigned herself.
It wasn’t something she could control.
All the blame would fall on the Emperor anyway.
Anel was nothing more than a puppet.
No one would blame her—only pity her.
Sure enough, once word spread that the Emperor would announce the consort at the coronation, the looks from the maids around her shifted.
Where before their gazes had been curious and appraising, now they carried a hint of disdain.
Such was the fate of an Empress who was not respected by her Emperor.
If the Emperor did not honor her, neither would the palace.
For the Imperial Palace moved only according to his will.
No one dared insult her openly yet—but the longer the Emperor’s indifference continued, the further Anel’s standing would fall.
That was her destiny.
“I just hope whoever becomes the consort isn’t too harsh,” Giselle murmured, glancing at Anel.
If the woman was even slightly ruthless, Anel could easily end up pushed aside—or worse, confined forever.
I really did back the wrong mistress, Giselle sighed wearily.
“Whoever it is, I’ll have to accept it,” Anel said quietly.
“You’re too good-hearted, my lady,” Giselle muttered, shaking her head.
“Lady Morata.”
A man’s voice interrupted them.
“Marquis Lars,” Anel greeted.
Ern Lars.
Of course she knew the name.
She bowed politely and lifted her gaze.
The Emperor’s right hand was an elegant man—handsome enough to startle her.
She had imagined a frail scholar type, but he exuded calm strength instead.
“It’s an honor to meet you. Ern Lars, Marquis of the Realm,” he said.
“…Your reputation precedes you,” she replied softly.
His features were refined—gray hair neatly brushed back, warm brown-gray eyes—but his presence was firm, adult, unreadable.
He was said to be about ten years older than her, and indeed, he radiated quiet gravity.
Even Giselle seemed flustered by his appearance, sneaking glances at him.
“I trust the preparations for the coronation are going well?”
“Thanks to your concern, everything is proceeding smoothly.”
“I wish I could have offered more assistance, but matters of state have kept me too occupied,” he said, his tone regretful—though his expression betrayed no true remorse.
Anel gave a faint, wry smile.
“It’s all right. It’s my duty, after all.”
Her calm reply seemed to surprise Ern.
He had expected complaints, perhaps even tears, from a young woman barely past twenty.
Instead, she was poised—almost stoic.
“I heard the matter of the Imperial Consort has caused you some trouble,” he said.
“…My duty is to follow His Majesty’s will.”
Ern found himself intrigued.
Her eyes—she had the eyes of someone who had already seen the world’s end.
Resigned, yet unyielding.
Exactly the sort of woman His Majesty would dislike, Ern thought, suppressing a smile.
He glanced toward the maid standing beside her.
Truth be told, he hadn’t come today intending to meet Anel.
It was that insolent maid who had caught his attention.
Pretty face or not, she was still a servant—and tomorrow’s Empress deserved better than to be addressed so casually.
Without thinking, he intervened.
“I know it’s not my place, but may I offer a word of advice?”
“Advice?” Anel blinked, startled, but nodded.
“It’s good to be kind to your subordinates, Your Majesty,” Ern said firmly. “But if you overlook those who cross the line, you’ll lose more than their respect.”
His tone was sharp, and Giselle’s face turned scarlet.
Anyone could tell those words were meant for her.
Anel looked at Giselle awkwardly.
She knew her maid sometimes overstepped.
But Giselle was the only one she had brought from her family estate—the only servant who had grown up with her.
Because of that bond, she had turned a blind eye too often.
That had been her mistake.
This wasn’t the ducal house anymore.
In the Imperial Palace, where countless eyes watched, she should have been more careful—for Giselle’s sake if not her own.
“She’s never been outside the Morata estate before,” Anel said gently. “I’ll make sure she learns proper conduct.”
“I would advise that,” Ern replied coldly. “If word spread that a maid, not even a lady-in-waiting, spoke so familiarly to the Empress—it would be His Majesty’s dignity that suffers most.”
He gave Giselle a cutting look, one that made her flinch and retreat behind Anel.
Humiliating. So humiliating.
Her fists clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms.
“Then I shall see you tomorrow at the coronation, Lady Morata,” Ern said, bowing slightly.
“May fortune be with you.”
