UAED 08

Chapter 08

“It is truly kind of you to welcome us so warmly despite enduring such sorrow.”

Prince Elkanan’s Kerujan delegation had arrived. They began their schedule by expressing deep sorrow over Empress Crania’s sudden comatose state.

The banquet table, where Kerujan and Crania’s culinary traditions harmonized, was lavish and abundant. It was no exaggeration to say Prince Elkanan’s gratitude for their hospitality was genuine. Tomorrow, another banquet prepared by Caella would also be held.

Pheon watched Caella exchange greetings and pleasant conversation with Prince Elkanan. They truly suited each other well.

The ease he could never offer her, their shared upbringing in a warm maritime climate, and likely similar cultural refinement and conversational interests—all of it made them a perfect match.

Being married to a prince, the king’s younger brother, would surely be far more beneficial than becoming the grand duchess of an empire with only a flashy title.

‘I’ve acted foolishly.’

Pheon summed up his own actions with simple clarity. There was no greater fool than himself.

Before his return, he had remained indifferent even when Beatrice—the woman he had once protected so desperately—spoke with other men.

Even under the Golden Edict, he never felt jealousy or concern. He simply thought, “She must have something to discuss,” and moved on without a second thought.

Yet now, merely seeing Caella smile at a handsome prince twisted his insides, blinding him to everything else. Diplomacy? What diplomacy? Nothing could enter his mind.

Back in frigid Lusenford, he’d already struggled to rein in his gaze constantly following her—wasn’t this even more shameless and brazen?

At moments like this, Pheon involuntarily recalled the Emperor’s oft-repeated words, as if to remind him never to forget:

“You were born with the blood of a shameless thief. You must spend your life thinning that blood through effort.”

Though perhaps not something to tell a child, it was ultimately true. He was foolish, lacking, and thick-skinned.

He turned his head away. Having avoided Caella throughout his stay in Lusenford, he could simply choose not to look this time either—even without the Golden Edict binding him.

Now was the moment Hyperion Cybrand Ferraro would finally be fully excluded as a suitor for Caella de Chasser, the Ostein duchess blessed by the late Emperor.

Compared to the pale, fair northerner, Prince Elkanan—with his charmingly sun-kissed olive skin—suited Caella far better.

“To be honest, I was overjoyed to hear Her Highness was preparing a banquet for us. It is truly an honor.”

His cheerful disposition and eloquence had already made Caella laugh—wasn’t that enough? He was certainly better than a husband who imposed only duty while offering nothing but death and humiliation.

Pheon felt his heart being repeatedly pierced, but silently endured it without complaint. He knew well this pain was far too late—and therefore despicable. It was a shameful thing that must be hidden, over and over.

“It seems the prince prefers Her Highness’s attention over the Empress’s care.”

“Young people naturally get along better with their peers, Your Majesty.”

At Adeo’s words, the Emperor chuckled softly. In the past, he would have laughed heartily, but now he seemed drained, as though he’d lost all joy in life.

“Yes. It’s good for the young to grow close.”

With each word the Emperor spoke, Crania’s social circles would now begin speculating about a possible marriage between Duchess Caella and Prince Elkanan.

Prince Elkanan was not a bad match. As royalty, his status was unquestionable, and though the Kerujan royal family wasn’t as grand as Crania’s, they were wealthy.

Moreover, since Prince Elkanan wasn’t in direct line for the throne, he could live comfortably without royal burdens.

Pheon considered more earnestly than anyone else the benefits and abundance Caella would gain by marrying the prince—a life he could never, and had never, given her. Above all, she would be safe.

“Though it is regrettable that the Empress lies bedridden, the grown Grand Duke and Duchess have stepped up admirably, greatly easing my burden. Adeo, you’ve raised your daughter wonderfully.”

At those words, the three individuals overseeing the entire event bowed deeply toward the Emperor. Long may His Imperial Majesty, ruler of the Grand Crania Empire, live and spread his glory across the continent.

Only the illicit proof of the Empress, abandoned in the north, stared silently from the shadows cast beneath the Emperor’s brilliance—brighter than the sun and more radiant than gold.

The Emperor slowly curled his slightly trembling hand into a fist, hiding it as though fearing something.

*

“Pheon! Pheon!”

The one whose name was called had no choice but to turn around after striding away briskly.

He hadn’t wanted to stop, but the footsteps chasing him from behind would inevitably catch him. Beatrice Lavalle was running after him, her silver hair elegantly coiled to showcase its charm.

Each hurried step jingled the pearl necklace trailing from her extravagant gown. Pheon wasn’t irritated by her appearance—he was disgusted with himself for having failed to understand the situation even upon seeing her like this.

Where else could one find such a lavishly adorned hostage? He used to believe that all that finery was Beatrice’s desperate armor for surviving high society and the Emperor’s court—or perhaps the Golden Edict had made him think so.

Damn it. Even caught between the Emperor, the Mad Dragon, and constant invasions by foreign tribes, he should never have allowed himself such complacency. He should have suspected everything. He should have questioned the Golden Edict itself.

“Pheon!”

Once she finally stopped, she looked up at him reproachfully and cried his name again.

Behind Beatrice, far in the distance, stood Caella quietly watching them.

“What are you running after me for? You’ll just have to go back anyway.”

He gave a curt reply, deliberately avoiding looking toward Caella.

“Are you angry with me? Why have you been acting like this lately? Caella’s the same. I had to ask her where you even were!”

So Caella had told her. Pheon lowered his head.

Beatrice usually appealed to the deep emotional bond and shared memories built between them over the years.

That was likely the very incantation triggering the Golden Edict. Though Pheon was not easily swayed by shallow emotions, his softness toward the Empress and Beatrice made it possible.

“Angry? I’m not angry with you.”

He spoke calmly with a perfectly composed face. In truth, he wasn’t angry at Beatrice at all.

His fury was directed solely at himself—Beatrice didn’t even deserve his anger. She had lost all claim to it. Only boundless contempt and indifference remained, as though watching an annoying insect making noise.

“But then… why? Why are you like this?”

His unnerving composure left Beatrice stammering in confusion.

“How can you treat me this way? I came because I missed you and worried about you! You’re only in the capital once or twice a year—we barely get to see each other—and yet you act like this in front of everyone…”

Her cascade of complaints ultimately revealed not concern for Pheon, but embarrassment at being humiliated before Caella.

Though they’d played together since childhood, Beatrice had never liked Caella. Caella always had better clothes, better shoes, better toys—and above all, a father who doted on her endlessly.

Beatrice had often manipulated kind-hearted Caella to get what she wanted or tried to assert dominance by age, yet always had to bow her head before Caella’s superior status. Naturally, she could never see Caella in a favorable light.

Pheon had never existed in Beatrice’s emotions—only herself did. In that sense, they suited each other perfectly: both selfish, caring only for themselves, willing to sacrifice others.

“Beatrice, precisely because everyone’s watching, you should be more careful.”

He gently chided her, calm and composed.

“What good would it do for you to get caught in scandal?”

“But still—how could you be so cold? Do you know how humiliated I felt? You can’t treat me like that.”

You can’t treat me like that.

The tiresomely familiar phrase began again. Black venom dripped from her crimson tongue straight into his ears.

“You know, Pheon—I’m of age yet unmarried, waiting only for you. Everyone in Crain knows I’m your woman.”

He used to believe those words were sincere—after all, he rarely stayed in the capital Crain. Pheon stared at Beatrice for a moment, then suddenly asked,

“Then, will you come to Lusenford?”

“…What?”

Beatrice, who had just been preparing to heap more guilt on Pheon and reinforce the Golden Edict as usual, was taken aback for the first time.

“You’re right. I’ve neglected you far too long. Let’s go to Lusenford. It’s time.”

He’d send that innocent Caella across the sea and let himself and the foolish Beatrice wallow together in hell.

She, above all, deserved to die alongside him. This time, Pheon was determined to bear his own guilt.

“I’m sorry it’s so late, Beatrice.”

His apology as the noble Grand Duke carried only chilling coldness.

“I’ll speak to His Imperial Majesty right away. I’ve been far too inattentive.”

“No, Pheon, wait!”

What was he saying? Go to Lusenford—with its snow and dreadful cold? Honestly, Beatrice never wanted to become Grand Duchess of that frozen wasteland. Even if Duchess Monde welcomed her, she absolutely wouldn’t go.

“What’s gotten into you all of a sudden? I—I have no choice but to stay in Crain! His Majesty will forbid it—you know that!”

Crain—the dazzling city at the pinnacle of fashion and wealth she longed for.

Beatrice’s eyes weren’t on Pheon, but on the Emperor, the apex of power that moved him. Pheon was merely a tool to reach the Emperor—but that tool now smiled darkly.

“We should at least make the request, Beatrice. I’m sorry. I’m busy. I’ll see you later.”

His broad shoulders, draped in a black cloak, turned swiftly away before she could grab him. The Golden Edict must have pressed Pheon so hard that it made him obsess over her. Disaster. Beatrice stood frozen in shock, her face drained of color.

*

Grand events are always most exciting during preparation—the actual event itself is often less fun.

Caella felt the same. The diplomatic reception she’d personally arranged after so long was most enjoyable while planning; once it began, it was simply exhausting.

She smiled politely, occasionally glancing around for a glimpse of lustrous silver or a tall, jet-black figure.

Beatrice approached Caella, unable to hide her irritation, and demanded to know where Pheon “exactly” was.

As co-hosts of the event, Caella naturally knew Pheon’s whereabouts, and Beatrice dared not ask Duke Ostein directly about his son’s location.

‘I was always the easy target.’

Pheon and Beatrice were closer in age and had already formed a bond, as the Empress had brought the daughter of a friend plagued by debt to keep the lonely Pheon company.

When Caella was born, the Emperor had already given up on heirs from the Empress and begun fathering bastards—but Caella followed only Pheon, not those children. Pheon must have found his clingy cousin-sister, who was merely a duchess in name, quite annoying.

If only she hadn’t done that. Her childhood memories of adoringly chasing after her “older brother” had become deeply embarrassing and regrettable since coming to Lusenford—she could barely bear to recall them.

How could Pheon, raised cautiously as the Empress’s bastard son, have done anything about Caella—the officially acknowledged daughter of Duke Ostein blessed by the late Emperor? Before the harsh northern winter, the naive duchess’s childish infatuation was nothing but a nuisance.

Beatrice, who was Pheon’s contemporary and understood this dynamic, naturally saw Caella as utterly insignificant.

It was simple: Caella was weak toward Pheon, and Pheon was weak toward Beatrice.

Moreover, the most noble duchess was the youngest and, above all, kind-hearted. Thus, their hierarchy was firmly set. No matter how hard Caella tried, she could never surpass the bond already formed between Beatrice and Pheon.

‘No—if their feelings are so deep, they must finally end up together this time.’

That wasn’t a wish for Pheon’s happiness, but a curse from the utterly exhausted Grand Duchess of Lusenford.

You made such a fuss—now you deserve to suffer the same fate. Though she’d already done the deed, her conscience pricked her for lacking the shamelessness to match.

Had they met? What were they talking about? Surely, it would be a conversation filled with some special understanding only they shared.

During her four years as Pheon’s wife, Caella never possessed such a bond. Even when imprisoned as a suspected spy for conspiring to kill her father, she couldn’t properly voice her resentment.

How foolish.

“Your Highness.”

“Your Highness.”

Caella turned toward Prince Elkanan, hiding her intense self-loathing behind a smiling face. As a diplomat renowned for his meticulous use of Cranian honorifics, he demanded flawless courtesy.

“Is there anything you require?”

“You’ve already spoiled us so thoroughly that we lack for nothing. I hope we haven’t caused Your Highness undue strain.”

Their conversation flowed smoothly from there—exchanging courtesies between the two royal houses, discussing recent weather, and eventually turning to boating.

To any observer, Caella was the perfect hostess—gracefully engaging royalty and diplomats alike with wisdom and eloquence.

Pheon, having returned after shaking off Beatrice, watched Caella from afar. In Lusenford, her smile had gradually faded until he could barely remember when she’d last laughed—but now she was smiling. Though her face looked fuller, her smile seemed weak.

As Pheon watched silently, his brow furrowed. Weak?

“…Caella.”

When he finally approached her, Prince Elkanan cheerfully welcomed him.

“Ah, Your Grace! Please, join us. We were just discussing maritime music used in boating. Which composer do you favor?”

“The only maritime music I’ve heard recently is the sea shanties the Vinland tribes sing when raiding—so I’m afraid I can’t answer.”

The Grand Duke of Lusenford, for whom boating itself was a luxury, replied curtly. His gaze was already fixed solely on Caella, not the prince.

“Ah, you mean the northerners who plunder by sea—I’ve heard their raids have been devastating.”

“Yes.”

By replying dismissively on purpose, the conversation grew awkwardly silent for a moment—just long enough for elderly diplomats to swoop in and whisk Prince Elkanan away.

Once the prince was gone, Pheon turned to Caella and lowered his voice.

“You’re unwell.”