Epilogue – Chapter 1
Act 27. Epilogue
“Haaah……”
At the sound of Sith’s sigh, Isnal—who stood faithfully at his side—flinched.
“Huu……”
As Sith’s sighs, heavy with worry, grew louder, Isnal’s face gradually darkened as well.
“Haaaah……”
With each increasingly drawn-out sigh, Isnal felt a sense of crisis creeping in. He closed his eyes and began to chant a mantra to himself.
I hear nothing. I hear nothing.
“Hey, Count Lionel.”
I don’t hear it. I don’t hear it.
Pretending not to hear the voice calling him, Isnal slowly began to put distance between himself and Sith.
From past experience, he knew all too well that getting caught by a dejected Sith like this meant days—no, nights—of suffering under his emotionally exhausted tirades.
“Count Lionel, where do you think you’re going? Come here for a moment and listen to me.”
Damn it!
Just one step short of the door, he was grabbed by the collar. Isnal cursed inwardly. If only he could curse out loud, he might feel a little better—but his opponent was the emperor himself. Worse still, the man had a vile temper and a long memory.
With one exception.
Unless you happened to be that single exception, avoiding that foul temper was the wisest course of action.
Isnal, who had once suffered terribly after carelessly letting a curse slip aloud, pressed his lips firmly shut and quickly scanned his surroundings.
There was no way he was going to suffer alone. Hardships were lighter when shared. Being tormented together was far less unjust than being the sole victim.
This upright knight was, day by day, learning the art of survival.
Damn it all…
Before he knew it, only Sith and himself remained in the office. The palace attendants—renowned for having the keenest sense of timing in the empire—had already fled the moment they sensed danger.
Looking around the empty office, Isnal felt despair wash over him.
“I said, come here.”
Sith crooked a finger at him.
Isnal wanted nothing more than to run far away, but he had already missed his chance. At this point, rebellion might have been tempting—but rank was a merciless enforcer, and Isnal was a knight raised under absolute obedience.
In the end, dragging his feet while clearly expressing reluctance was the furthest his resistance could go.
“…Yes, Your Majesty.”
It felt as though glue had been smeared across the marble floor—his feet refused to lift. Like an ox being led to slaughter, Isnal dragged his unwilling steps toward Sith.
The moment he came close, Sith began venting his frustrations.
“Tell me, Count. Do you think this makes any sense?”
At Sith’s sudden raised voice, a heavy sigh escaped Isnal’s lips.
There was only one time when the emperor—renowned for his cool-headedness—openly displayed his emotions like this.
When it involved the empress of the empire and Sith’s partner, Biyonne Lotta Elliant Priston.
“You know as well as I do that I can’t sleep deeply unless I hold Bii, right? But then—of all people—the one who knows that best goes and says—!”
Sith trembled, unable to contain his indignation.
“She tells me I’m annoying and to go away! Does that make sense? Does it?!”
Last night, as usual, Sith had burrowed into her arms. Her body, plump and healthy from pregnancy, was warm and wonderfully soft.
Her slightly overheated warmth and the way her skin molded perfectly against his brought both peace of mind and an addictive comfort. To the point where he couldn’t fall asleep if he went even a single day without touching her.
Recalling how Bii had coldly slapped his hand away, Sith muttered gloomily.
“Are all women like that when they’re pregnant? Do they all find their husbands annoying? Huh? Is that how it is?”
“How would I know?!”
Isnal barely restrained himself from grabbing Sith by the neck and shaking him.
Recently, Sith’s emotional ups and downs had become increasingly severe. After observing him for some time, the palace physician had cautiously diagnosed it as pregnancy-induced hysteria.
Why such symptoms appeared in Sith—a man, not the pregnant empress—was something Isnal could not comprehend at all.
He had questioned the physician repeatedly, asking how that could possibly make sense, but the physician never wavered.
“There are husbands who even experience morning sickness in place of their wives. Compared to that, hysteria is hardly unusual,” the man had said, utterly unconcerned.
As a knight who lived with sharp blades at his side, injuries were nothing new to Isnal. Stitching sword wounds or setting broken bones was within his abilities. But this—this strange, inexplicable condition—was beyond anything he had ever heard of.
Since the palace physician insisted, Isnal reluctantly accepted it. But he had no desire whatsoever to understand it deeply.
What mattered to him was finding a way to cure Sith—and hoping that it would happen as soon as possible.
Watching Sith’s hysterics, Isnal thought, was far worse than marching across a battlefield.
Yet when Isnal begged the physician to cure him as quickly as possible, the man delivered a verdict like a bolt from the blue.
Time is the cure.
There was no real treatment—it was simply a kind of pregnancy syndrome. When Isnal asked when it would get better, the physician replied flatly:
“It varies from person to person. Some recover quickly, others not until childbirth, and some differ entirely. Just think of it as something that will resolve once the baby is born, and take it easy.”
At that moment, Isnal realized he might be capable of committing murder with nothing more than words. Had he not retained a shred of reason, blood would surely have been spilled in the palace.
Fortunately, Sith’s hysteria never surfaced during official duties. As emperor, he performed flawlessly, never showing the slightest lapse. Part of that was due to the empress’s warning that she would not tolerate any gossip spreading among the nobles.
Perhaps as a backlash, Sith tormented those around him whenever he was off duty.
Isnal’s greatest misfortune was that he was one of those people.
And worse—he was very close indeed.
“Do you know how much I’m holding back because they say it’ll shock the baby? Do you have any idea how hard it is for a man in his prime to restrain himself with the woman he loves right in front of him?!”
How would I know—I’m not even married!
Unaware of Isnal’s silent scream, Sith continued lamenting.
“And Bii—do you know how beautiful she is? She was beautiful even before marriage, but ever since she got pregnant, her beauty just keeps growing day by day. Just looking at her face fills me up. I’m not even asking to make love—just to touch her. So why refuse me?”
Isnal felt an overwhelming urge to clap a hand over Sith’s mouth.
What sin had he committed to be forced to listen to another man’s marital problems in broad daylight? If Sith weren’t the emperor, Isnal would have already shoved a sword between those lips.
“To make me unable to sleep unless I hold that soft body, and then tell me not to touch her—how is that any different from telling me to die? Huh? Don’t you think so?”
At Sith’s plea for agreement, Isnal finally grabbed his own hair and tugged at it.
O gods above, why do you subject me to such trials?!
Even calling upon gods he had never prayed to before did nothing to end his suffering.
“Ah, I want to touch Bii. If I could just press my lips to hers and breathe in that sweet breath, this thirst might ease a little.”
I’m leaving. Right now.
Unable to endure any longer, Isnal strode toward the door. If he didn’t escape immediately, he was certain he would lose his sanity first.
Sith watched him with an indifferent expression.
“I’m not finished talking. Where do you think you’re going?”
“…I will bring Her Majesty the Empress.”
There was only one person in the world who could stop Sith like this. Isnal hurried toward the Empress’s Palace. If he continued to endure this mental torture, he was certain he would soon break his knightly oath and commit treason.
Watching Isnal flee as fast as his legs could carry him, Sith grinned.
Soon, Bii would come to him. Knowing full well how much Isnal was suffering, Sith had deliberately provoked him further for that very reason.
Given Bii’s personality, she would never refuse a knight’s earnest plea—especially not one from the usually upright Isnal.
Just imagining her already lifted his mood.
Logically, he should have gone to her, considering she was carrying their child. But Sith was still sulking over last night.
More than anything else, her words—don’t even touch me—had shocked him deeply.
When he protested, saying a man in his prime couldn’t possibly refrain with such a soft body before his eyes, Bii had cut him off cleanly.
“Then don’t put yourself in front of my eyes.”
“…What?”
“I’ll be sleeping in my own chambers for a while. Please rest comfortably.”
Before Sith could even respond, Bii left for her palace without the slightest hesitation, her face utterly devoid of regret.
Left alone in the vast bedroom, Sith was stunned.
How could she suggest sleeping separately so easily?
And then actually do it?
Normally, he would have followed her without hesitation. Her choices were always right—he had never once regretted listening to her.
But this time, he refused to yield.
This was a matter of a man’s pride.
To gain the upper hand, it was far more advantageous to draw the opponent into one’s own territory first.
For today at least, Sith was prepared to fight her if necessary.
He swore—again and again—that the words sleep separately would never be spoken again.
* * *
“Your coming-of-age ceremony isn’t far off now.”
“Yes.”
As Bii lifted her teacup with a gentle smile, her elegant movements left Rant staring at her, utterly transfixed.
Bathed in warm sunlight, her golden-brown hair shimmered as though dusted with gold. Between her smoothly curved forehead and the graceful bridge of her nose rested vivid green eyes, like emeralds set in place.
As she lowered her gaze to drink her tea, those bright green eyes no longer fully faced him, and Rant felt a faint sense of regret.
“Is there anything you want?” she asked.
Perhaps she had sensed his disappointment. Her beautifully shaped red lips parted, and those clear green eyes looked straight at Rant.
Flushing, he quickly lowered his head to hide his face.
“Rant?”
She tilted her head, sending him a look full of concern.
Though he could no longer feel her warmth directly as he had in childhood, even that gaze alone was enough to warm his heart.
Rant loved the warmth he felt from Bii.
“No. There’s nothing I want, Sister.”
At his answer, Bii grew thoughtful.
The feelings Rant held for her were close to reverence. Like a chick imprinting on the first being it saw after hatching, she had become the standard by which Rant measured everything.
As far as Rant could remember, his earliest memory was of soil colder than ice.
Until the marquis’s men found him, Rant had grown up among slaves, abused to the point where survival itself was a miracle. Even among the many slaves, Rant was an outsider. No one cared for a child without parents.
Life as a slave was harsh and exhausting just to survive. A parentless child was nothing more than useless baggage—unworthy of care.
There, Rant merely existed, breathing—no different from an object rather than a human being. Even after arriving at the House of Elliant, nothing changed. Only the floor had turned from dirt to marble; the cold that seeped up from below remained the same.
Young Rant believed that was the life given to him. Having known nothing else, he accepted that bone-chilling cold as natural.
He had never known warmth.
Tap. Tap.
A slender white finger tapped the table as her green eyes remained lost in thought.
Rant recalled the day he first saw her. Standing with the sunlight behind her, she looked like a god descending in human form.
Her golden-brown hair glimmering in the light, her flawless pale skin so soft it seemed powder would cling to it, and the sweet fragrance that surrounded her—everything about her was worlds apart from anyone Rant had ever known.
Until her fingers pinched his cheek, he had thought he was dreaming.
The warmth he received from another person for the first time was warmer than spring sunlight melting winter frost.
He loved the way she smiled at him. So much that he felt he could do anything for that smile.
He tried his best never to let disappointment touch her face because of him.
The marquis’s title meant nothing to him, but for her sake, Rant resolved to fulfill any duty entrusted to him.
And yet, Bii always gave him a choice.
She always put Rant’s happiness first. That alone made him so happy that he felt he could even pretend to die if she asked.
Because that, to him, was true happiness.
