Chapter 7
“Hey, Giselle!”
The cook, Coon, called out teasingly to Giselle, who was carrying Anel’s luggage.
Giselle turned her head sharply, clearly annoyed.
“Do you need something?”
“How’s the lady doing?”
“Do I look like I’d know?”
Giselle was sick of it all.
Her father had died because of her fiancée, and yet the whole world was urging her to hurry up and marry him.
Even Giselle — who believed that no matter how miserable Anel was, she could never be as miserable as herself — couldn’t help but pity her now.
No matter that Anel possessed the power to make even a bird flying past the emperor’s palace drop dead, or beauty enough to make flowers in the imperial gardens wither from envy — none of that seemed enviable anymore.
“But still, she’ll be the future empress. She needs to recover soon.”
“You can have the title of empress. I wouldn’t take it even if you paid me a fortune.”
“Oh please. Even if you offered that fortune, do you think His Majesty would ever look your way? There are prettier girls than you all over the palace!”
Giselle kept walking, refusing to rise to the bait.
And I was the idiot for even responding, she thought bitterly.
How could anyone share a bed with a man who executed a hundred people the moment he took the throne?
She rolled her eyes. For the first time, she truly sympathized with Anel’s sorrow.
The cook spat toward the departing maid’s back and kept muttering.
“Well, whatever it is, the emperor must have his reasons. Some scheme that folks like us could never understand.”
The young servant beside him nodded vaguely, not really understanding.
Of course His Majesty Johannes D’Neger, ruler of the world, would have his own reasons — reasons beyond the imagination of common folk like them.
After all, he was a man who had risen from a mere illegitimate child to become emperor.
The man who carried the weight of everyone’s expectations now sat with his eyes closed in boredom.
Even as waves of fierce opposition thundered around him, Johann didn’t so much as flinch.
If anything, he wore a faint smile — as though the uproar were sweet music to his ears.
From the vassals who had helped him ascend the throne, to the nobles who had turned a blind eye to his “almost rebellion” — all were now united in opposition.
“Please reconsider, Your Majesty.”
“It’s not just any lady — it’s Lady Anel Morata. Her father was exiled for treason! A traitor’s daughter cannot be empress.”
“Indeed, this concerns the very honor of the Empire.”
“And moreover, Lady Morata was once already engaged — and jilted.”
“Yes, by none other than the former crown prince, Grand Duke Samuel Gears. Your Majesty, this is a marriage that brings no benefit, only risk. If your intent is to choose a weak empress with little power, wouldn’t it be better to pick a noblewoman from a humbler house—”
At that moment, the eyelids that had seemed unlikely to ever move slowly lifted.
A pair of rare green eyes were revealed — clear, flawless emerald, proof of his imperial blood.
The only reason the council had supported his coronation was that blood.
He was the sole illegitimate son born between Emperor Magnus and Maribella Magnum, the duke’s eldest daughter — who had once been the emperor’s betrothed.
To call him “illegitimate” was almost an overstatement, given that his parents had been engaged.
Had the empire not needed a political marriage to bolster its weakening power, Johann would have been born a legitimate heir.
The only stain on his birth was that Maribella had conceived him before the wedding.
But considering the late emperor’s lecherous nature and foul temper, no one dared cast the first stone.
After all, who could have predicted that the engagement would be broken off?
Both his maternal and paternal lines were impeccable — ancient and honorable beyond reproach.
In fact, the Magnum dukedom was considered more prestigious than even the royal house of Kartar, from which the former crown prince’s family descended.
Had he been legitimate, Johann would have been the most “rightful” emperor in the history of the realm.
So when those green eyes fixed upon them, the nobles fell silent.
They knew well enough: one wrong word, and they might join the hundred who had already been executed.
“You all have such long tongues,” Johann murmured lazily, leaning back in his chair as if bored beyond endurance.
“First of all, Duke Morata was exiled not for treason, but for embezzlement of state property. You’ll correct that, won’t you, Count Tons?”
His tone was polite, but the blade beneath the words gleamed sharp.
The count immediately bowed in apology.
Yet every noble there thought the same thing: Does anyone really believe the duke was exiled for that?
They all knew the truth.
That the old man had collapsed in shock after the betrayal, only to be carted off to a northern asylum — and that the emperor had left his daughter with no choice.
Either make her the empress and vanish quietly, or watch her entire house be wiped out.
“My apologies, Your Majesty. I will correct myself at once.”
Johann’s gaze swept slowly across the chamber.
Several of them, he decided, would need to be dealt with — in due time.
If he was going to start trimming the weeds, best begin with the ones who couldn’t keep their mouths shut.
He committed their faces to memory.
“Anel Morata will be empress.”
“…!”
The nobles’ expressions changed instantly.
Each of them strained to read his mind.
But Johann added nothing more.
With no further clue from him, the three most influential nobles fell silent, thinking deeply:
Duke Magnum — his foster father and greatest ally.
Duke Magrot — Magnum’s right-hand man, elevated to fill the newly opened seat.
And Marquis Rodion — the cautious centrist who had long survived by keeping neutral, the quiet rallying point for the younger lords.
All three had sworn loyalty to the new emperor — pledging to forget the old royal line and devote themselves entirely to him.
But loyalty, in truth, was just a word to justify survival.
Even as they bowed, each man held something else tightly in his hands — their own weapons, their own ambitions.
They had to measure this young beast carefully — to see what lay beneath his stillness.
Among them, the sharpest blade belonged to Duke Magnum, the man who until recently had been Johann’s “father.”
When Johann announced his intention to dispose of his old friend, Duke Morata, Calpen Magnum knew the day had come — the day his own creature bared its fangs.
He had raised Johann, given him his crown — yet had never once been able to read his mind.
Even when Calpen told the boy at ten, “Your fate lies with the imperial family,” or asked him at twenty, “What is it that you desire?” — Johann’s answer had always been the same.
“Wait, Father.”
Just wait.
He would take care of everything himself; all Calpen had to do was stay behind and watch.
Never in his life had Calpen imagined he’d become someone else’s pawn.
He had always been the player, never the piece.
And certainly never such a small, replaceable one.
“Is this matter worth dragging out any longer?” Johann’s voice was smooth, almost amused.
To him, even Calpen was just a small piece on a much larger board.
He had never once confided his intent or his plans.
Calpen’s role was only to wait — and to obey.
“No, Your Majesty,” Calpen answered quietly.
Now was not the time to provoke the emperor.
“Then, Your Majesty,”
At last, the long-silent Marquis Rodion spoke.
“What of the imperial consort?”
The words electrified the room.
If they couldn’t replace the empress… then perhaps they could claim the position of consort.
The nobles were desperate to send their daughters to the new tyrant — to secure a foothold in the new regime.
An empress in name only — but a consort, that could still hold power.
Rodion, too, had a daughter of marriageable age.
A foolish girl who had spent months pestering him, saying she wanted to marry the emperor.
He sighed inwardly.
A son-in-law this terrifying… but how can a father refuse his daughter?
“We shall follow tradition,” Johann said at last.
At that word, many quietly exhaled in relief.
Traditionally, the emperors of Stein kept two consorts.
That meant the odds of one’s daughter being chosen had just doubled.
“But… slowly.”
He meant: Don’t rush me.
The nobles bowed low. None dared press further.
Instead, they would have to pressure someone else —
The new mistress of the Imperial Household,
the prey the predator had thrown to the hyenas—
the empress.
