Chapter – 02
Since then, she had been confined without seeing even a sliver of light.
How did it come to this?
No, how did it ever get this far?
Tears streaked down her gaunt cheeks. Just when one trail dried, a new one formed.
Every time she moved her emaciated arms, the handcuffs rattled against the ceiling with a clanging sound.
The jailer said it had been four months since Psyche was imprisoned.
Over a hundred days had passed.
Born noble, she had tried to endure, but life in the dungeon was slowly devouring her soul.
“Why did it come to this…”
Moonlight seeped through the tiny, palm-sized window.
It pooled on the hard stone floor like a small puddle.
Staring at it, Psyche muttered to herself like a madwoman.
“Is… my husband alright?”
Her family and the elders had been captured and interrogated for treason.
Her husband, off at the battlefield, was inevitably going to be seized by the royal guards as well.
Perhaps he had even been executed on the spot.
Psyche let out a small, bitter laugh.
Even now, she worried about her husband.
“He doesn’t need me to worry about him at all.”
The once naive princess, married at twenty, was now twenty-four.
She was growing weary of a husband who, stationed on the battlefield, never even sent a single reply.
Whenever she tried to approach him, she got hurt; whenever she tried to lean on him, she stumbled.
When she fell, he never looked back, leaving her behind.
She let out a small, ironic laugh.
Perhaps marrying him in the first place had been a mistake.
Their marriage had indeed been an unhappy one.
People’s words had been right. Psyche finally admitted it.
Raising her paralyzed left arm, she slowly leaned her back against the wall.
At that moment, a sound came from the long hallway outside the door.
“…?”
A brief, agonized scream sounded, then vanished immediately.
Soon, the dark wooden door creaked open, and a tall, black figure stepped through the corridor.
“Who…?”
She stared at the shadowy man in the darkness with hollow eyes.
As he stepped closer, the cold moonlight revealed his black armor and face.
Psyche widened her eyes in shock.
Thud.
The jailer, dragged in by the man, collapsed onto the stone floor.
He was already dead.
Psyche recognized the figure in armor.
“…Ikali?”
With wide eyes, Psyche gazed at her husband, whom she hadn’t seen in four years.
Dark blood pooled between the cracks of the tiled floor.
The jailer lay motionless beneath her husband’s feet.
Fear etched itself across Psyche’s face as she stared at him through the bars.
He panted heavily, like a beast, his body swollen as if he had just traveled a long distance.
The sleek black armor covering him was stained in blood, making it impossible to discern whose it was.
Though the helmet obscured his face, the piercing blue eyes she glimpsed confirmed it—he was her husband.
The metallic scent of blood, combined with his labored breathing, filled Psyche with terror.
Yet, strangely, she also felt a sense of relief.
Despite everything, joy flickered within her.
Ah, so that’s it.
He came to save me.
He hasn’t forgotten me.
The realization hit her suddenly, and tears welled in her eyes as she looked at him.
“Ikali… Ikali…”
Even after four years of neglect, after his cold disregard in her youth, she hadn’t expected to feel this hopeful.
Yet, looking at him now, she felt a lump of reassurance in her chest.
The faint hope made it impossible for her to stop crying.
Her lips trembled as sorrow surged through her.
“I… I was so scared. But you came… You didn’t forget me… So…”
Psyche soon broke into sobs, her shoulders shaking like a child.
She thought he would approach and embrace her.
“….”
Meanwhile, Ikali stared silently at his endlessly calling wife.
He bent down and retrieved the keys hanging from the jailer’s waist, opening the iron door to enter.
Psyche thought he would praise her.
He would say how scared she had been, how well she had endured in his absence.
No matter how cold he was, he should be tender toward a wife who suffered in the dungeon.
He should embrace her, and once freed, all her waiting and pain would be rewarded.
Treason… such nonsense.
Engulfed in joy and regret, Psyche raised tear-filled eyes to him.
Then she saw the gleam of a blade.
Her words faltered.
Her tears stopped.
She stared at her husband in disbelief.
“What are you… doing?”
“There’s no time.”
“…Huh? Wait.”
With a chilling sound, he drew a sword from its old scabbard.
The moonlight caught on the blade, sharp and bright.
He had not drawn it to cut her handcuffs.
Psyche looked at the keys in his hand, then slowly turned her gaze back to him.
The hope in his watery eyes faded.
She stared at him pale-faced.
“Tomorrow, the entire Demioses family will be executed.”
“….”
“I will not be free either. None of us will escape.”
His eyes, partially hidden by the helmet, were devoid of life.
Psyche thought his gaze was no different from the cold edge of a blade.
Why had she only realized this now?
Her husband continued.
“…This sword is the family’s heirloom that separates the soul from the body. With this blade, there will be no pain. Far better than being executed in front of everyone.”
Psyche pursed her lips, yet tears continued to flow.
How could a person be like that?
How could he show no sympathy, no compassion, to a wife who had suffered over a hundred days in a dungeon?
She clenched the stone floor in frustration, but there was nothing to hold. Blood oozed between her broken nails.
Through sheer anguish, she finally spoke.
“…Is that all you have to say to a wife you haven’t seen in four years?”
Until now, whenever people called her husband a monster, Psyche had scoffed.
He had been kind and gentle; he could not be a monster.
Killing his foster father and breaking his sworn brother’s leg must have had reasons.
People simply misunderstood him.
He is a kind man… I know him.
She had called others foolish for speaking ill of him.
Now she realized the real fool was herself.
She looked at her husband standing with a sword, as if judging him like a stranger.
And muttered in anger:
“Monster.”
“….”
“You truly are a monster.”
She wanted to leave at least a scratch on him before dying.
She wanted to scold him with vile words, to wound his heart.
But even hearing her insults, his gaze did not change.
Instead, he murmured calmly, as if soothed by her words.
“The royal guards will arrive soon. After that, there will be no chance.”
He paused, catching his breath, and then pointed the finely sharpened sword at her neck.
Better than being executed before all, it was a way to separate her soul.
Better than being paraded and beheaded in front of everyone, like those who chose self-inflicted death.
“…I’ll follow soon.”
In the distance, they could hear the royal guard approaching, their rampage through the palace grounds having been discovered.
She lowered her head in resignation.
Ikali watched his wife, limp like a corpse.
“If we meet again, then…”
“….”
“Curse me, Psyche.”
Even without words, she knew she would.
The family heirloom sword passed through her body.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw the familiar ceiling of her room.
Startled, she tried to take a deep breath.
But the corset tightening her waist prevented her from doing so.
Psyche hurriedly threw off her dress and even the whale-bone corset outside the bed.
She lay face down on the bed, gasping like a wild animal.
No matter how she inhaled, the air felt insufficient, as if her lungs had holes.
Once she realized she was alive, she buried her face in the covers and cried like a beast.
When her husband had cut her with the heirloom sword, as he said, she felt no pain.
Perhaps it was the sword’s power, but she felt like she had returned to the first night she arrived at the duke’s house after her wedding.
Yet, the joy of being alive lasted only briefly.
Psyche could not stop crying.
Her heart hurt too much.
Her body was intact, but it felt as if her chest had been torn to pieces.
She clutched the covers, suffering for a long time.
Since arriving at the empire, Psyche Dosun had not left her bedroom for three days.
Anna, a maid who had come with her from the royal palace, was sweating in worry as she muttered.
“This is serious…”
Seeing the dress and corset scattered under the bed, Anna assumed Psyche was merely upset from the wedding night.
After all, throughout their journey from the kingdom to the duke’s estate, Psyche had chattered endlessly about seeing her husband again.
How handsome he must have become, and whether he would remember her—it was like a little girl talking, only three days ago.
‘She must be disappointed that the duke didn’t visit on their wedding night.’
Poor princess.
Anna genuinely lamented.
“What should I do? Won’t something really happen if this continues?”
“Indeed. She hasn’t eaten a bite of soup in three days. At first, we could hear her crying, but now—silence. Is she even alright…?”
“What is happening? How long has it been since they married…?”
The maids from the royal palace whispered amongst themselves.
Anna sighed deeply, then made a decision.
“I have to tell the duke. He must know her condition. If we leave her like this…”
“There’s no need.”
The maids turned in surprise.
Psyche was standing there, looking at them through the slightly opened door.
