TRPAT 64🔐

Chapter 64

And now, the present.

“…Such days did exist. I don’t know if you remember them, Brother.”

In the span of just a few days, Hihyo Palace had grown warmer and cleaner. Yet its master, Yetekerid, seemed hardly any different from the last time.

A faint fragrance rose from the camphorwood brazier Argana had specially ordered to be brought in, but even that seemed to leave Yetekerid unmoved.

“Did you come here just to talk about miserable old stories again?”

“If they sounded miserable, then I apologize. I was only wondering why you never came to see me. While walking and thinking, I somehow ended up here at Hihyo Palace.”

At Argana’s calm lie, Yetekerid moistened his parched lips and let out a hollow laugh.

Even without sickness, his foreign looks—so much like their mother’s—already gave him an otherworldly air. But now, with a shadow of illness layered over them, he looked irritable, sharp, and even dangerous.

“Why didn’t you ever come to see me?”

When Argana asked again, Yetekerid covered his face with a tired hand and hunched his shoulders.

“Why does that matter? Isn’t the only thing you truly care about whether I killed those people or not?”

“I told you before—I don’t believe you’re the culprit.”

“And yet you’re doubting me again. Isn’t that why you’ve come?”

Their gazes clashed in midair like blades.

This time, it was Argana who unexpectedly looked away first. She fiddled absently with the beaded ornament dangling by her cheek.

“Brother… don’t you feel wronged?”

“What?”

“If it were me, I would. You’ve lived your entire life trapped in here, barely allowed outside. You even fell ill because of it. If my mother had done such a thing to me, I could never forgive her—no matter that she gave birth to me.”

Yetekerid let out a laugh. It was a strange one—part emptiness, part anger, mixed with disgust, hatred, and grief.

Heavy silence settled between them.

Like an underground current, it divided the two without sound, but with irresistible force.

How much time passed like that, neither of them knew. At last, it was Yetekerid who broke the silence.

“…My mother spent her whole life hating the Dar. She died that way.”

“….”

“She was a gift of peace. A human, yet not treated as one—forced to leave her homeland. Who could truly understand her feelings?”

Princess Ryoslav Vy of the northern kingdom had detested coming to Dar from the very start.

She had begged and threatened her parents many times, saying she would rather die than marry into a land of desert barbarians. But it was useless.

Her homeland was not the strongest northern kingdom, but it was clever—never making enemies anywhere.

At that time, Dar was expanding its borders by the day, and Astrakhan Khan had only recently declared himself emperor.

For her homeland, securing a marriage alliance with Dar seemed the wisest move.

So, they sent their most beautiful princess.

But for Ryoslav Vy, it was nothing but tragedy.

“She suffered from terrible depression. I’m told she was already afflicted even before I was born. After my birth, her neurosis grew worse.”

One by one, maids found they could no longer endure her deepening moods and growing cruelty.

Her eldest, most cunning handmaiden cleverly redirected her mistress’s rage onto Yetekerid, allowing herself to escape punishment.

Thus began the boy’s torment, starting from the age of just four.

“Perhaps… perhaps that was her way of keeping herself from going completely mad. Looking back now, maybe that was the reason.”

“Don’t make excuses, Brother. Mother wasn’t sane. No normal person could beat a child of six or seven like that.”

Yetekerid barely listened, his gaze far away as he continued.

“After you last visited… she never beat me again. Instead, every day, she whispered in my ear: This country must be destroyed. Your father deserves death…”

Even ten years later, the terror of those words remained sharp.

Whenever he saw his father’s features reflected in the mirror, he wanted to claw his face apart. Yet the resemblance he bore to his mother gave him no comfort either.

A child forced to accept that his very birth was a sin, weakened each day by whispers telling him to kill his father and ruin the empire—that child grew gravely ill in mind and spirit.

“To my mother, I was another wretch born of Father’s blood—one who deserved to die. But she kept me alive, to fill me with hatred.”

“….”

“In time, I came to believe her words were true.”

Even now, that belief lingered.

Yetekerid had no attachment to Dar.

If someone were to bring down the empire in a single night, he would not bat an eye.

“But I have no intention of staining my hands with innocent blood. As you said—if I wanted revenge, I would have struck at Father himself, or at you, or at our other siblings. Even knowing it would be futile.”

“I know. I didn’t come here suspecting you of that. What I wanted to ask is whether you might have… helped someone.”

“….”

“Did you aid another, Brother?”

“What, are you suggesting I slipped someone poison? That I might consider it less of a stain than killing with my own hand?”

His sharp, ringing voice cut through the air.

For a moment, Argana almost thought she heard the echo of his childhood voice.

She gazed at him for a long time, then sighed and raised both hands slightly in surrender.

“Very well. I’m sorry, Brother.”

“….”

“But about Ishuder… I think I need to ask more about him.”

Yetekerid’s brows knit as he gave her a fresh look.

“What about Brother Ishuder?”

“Does he come here often?”

“From time to time.”

“And what does he do?”

“Oh, the same as you—lectures me, nags at me. As if hoping I’ll bare my soul.”

He spoke indifferently, then suddenly frowned as if realizing something.

“Wait… are you doubting Brother Ishuder?”

“Why? Shouldn’t I?”

Yetekerid gave another derisive snort.

“I know you dislike him, but to suspect him of this? That’s far-fetched.”

This time, Argana pressed her lips together and said nothing.

She knew he was right. Maybe that was why she had come here again—to confirm it, to hear something, anything.

But she gained nothing, only deeper frustration.

“When Brother Ishuder visited, he rarely stayed longer than a quarter of an hour. If you wish to claim he stole enough of my medicine in that short time to brew poison, then say what you will. But what motive would he have? Do you truly believe he would do such a thing?”

Again, Argana kept silent.

The investigation was ongoing. She had received every report, but none connected Ishuder to the case.

In truth, there were hardly any leads at all.

The only new fact was this: every one of the victims had dined at the same time.

They narrowed down suspects based on that, but all swore innocence.

Who was truly being targeted in all this?

Argana had turned the question over endlessly.

Then, suddenly, she realized—perhaps the intended target was Yetekerid himself.

His reclusive nature made him easy to frame. His mother’s tragic past could be twisted against him, painting him as the culprit.

The goal would be to strip him of his authority as a prince.

If so, then Ishuder wasn’t the only suspect. Every other child of the Khan could be.

Yoshmut had already lost his title of prince.