Urgent knocks echoed from beyond the parlor door.

“Come in,” came the low reply.

Before the words even finished leaving his lips, the door burst open. Azel stood there, breathless—he must have run all the way here. His usually neat hair was a mess, and the sharp lines of his face were drawn tight with alarm.

Kyle, who had been leaning back on the sofa with one hand covering his eyes, slowly straightened up when he saw him. His tired gaze drifted toward Azel.

“I already sent the car back to the ballroom,” Kyle murmured languidly.

“That’s not the issue… Tell me it wasn’t you, my lord,” Azel pleaded, his voice taut.

“Right,” Kyle answered.

Of course, it was Kyle.

Azel let out a long, strained sigh. His superior had never once given the answer he wanted—today was no exception.

“The Crown Prince appeared at the banquet bleeding everywhere,” he said at last.

Kyle didn’t even blink. 

“I see.”

That single, indifferent answer shattered Azel’s fragile composure. The calm he’d tried to build, the countless sheep he’d been counting in his mind—all gone in an instant.

“My lord, why? You’ve held back all this time,” Azel pressed. 

His tone was firm, but his voice trembled. He knew too well—provoking Celeste could only bring disaster. Kyle would be cast into danger again, thrown back into the storms he barely escaped from before.

Kyle’s lips curled into a small, humorless smile.

Yes, he’d endured. He always did. He’d kept his head down, balanced between two scales of the imperial family, and pretended ignorance to survive.

But how much longer?

The thought rose like an old wound breaking open. This absurd bet was nothing more than the Emperor’s excuse to parade him in front of the court, a convenient way to tie him down—to sell him off with some noble’s daughter under the guise of marriage.

He needed time. Time before he was bound to Ness again. Time before he returned to the sea.

That blazing obsession of the Emperor’s… Kyle had seen it with his own eyes. And perhaps, he thought, a little warning was due—a reminder that his world was not something to be seized at whim.

And for that… Maude was perfect.

The woman standing at the very peak of fascination and desire—every man’s eyes turned toward her. He needed her.

In his mind, her face shimmered faintly like a dream, and the blue in his eyes deepened.

“At worst, she’ll slap me across the face,” he muttered dryly.

Azel’s expression hardened instantly.

“A slap? You call that nothing?”

Rage flickered behind his gray eyes. 

“I’ll tell my father. Don’t you dare go to the palace alone.”

Kyle let out a soft sigh, weary more than angry. He knew the Count of Clifton—Azel’s father—would never hesitate when it came to his son’s commanding officer.

“Don’t interfere. That’s an order.”

“I’ll disobey, then,” Azel shot back. “You can lock me up if you must.”

Without waiting for a reply, he gave a sharp bow and left the room.

Kyle’s gaze lingered on the door long after he was gone. A familiar heaviness settled between his ribs—the dull ache of guilt that always came after loyalty.

“…Haa.”

A sigh. Deep and quiet. The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.

***

The next day, Maude appeared at the palace as if nothing had happened.

The Emperor, Leopold, greeted her with the same warm smile as ever—he saw no reason to suspect anything. Maude, however, thought otherwise.

“Your Majesty, I ask that everyone leave us.”

Leopold’s brows rose slightly, but he obliged. With a single wave of his hand, the attendants hurried out, closing the doors behind them.

Now only three people remained: Maude, the Emperor, and the Empress Celeste.

The summer light filtering through the tall windows was serene, almost peaceful.

Leopold’s gaze drifted to the strip of white cloth wound around Maude’s arm. Against her black gown, the small bandage stood out starkly—an odd sight for the daughter of a duke.

Maude caught his glance and smiled faintly as she began to unwrap it.

“Oh dear… what on earth happened?” 

Leopold murmured, his concern genuine. The wound beneath was deeper than he expected. He looked ready to summon the royal physician that instant. Celeste, on the other hand, turned her head away sharply.

She found it irritating—the bandage, the mourning-dress-like gown, and the woman who wore them. Everything about Maude grated on her nerves.

Maude’s cool gaze fell upon the Empress.

Celeste—the frail flower of the highest court. Allamanda, they called her behind her back. A nickname whispered by nobles who knew too much.

Her golden hair, her golden eyes—none of the dark traits of the royal blood ran through her. The gossip said she was a child untouched by the Emperor’s shadow, an imposter who bloomed too brightly.

For years, Celeste had fought to prove her place among them, to make that golden bloom seem imperial.

‘How pitiful,’ Maude thought coldly. ‘To see your son’s ruin, and still cling to your title.’

“The Crown Prince did this,” Maude said, smiling once more.

Leopold’s expression hardened. The warmth in his face vanished, replaced by an icy chill. Celeste began to tremble.

“He told me,” Maude continued softly, “that every time I see this scar, I should remember him.”

The memory of that night flashed through her mind—his hand, his fury, the sharp sting across her skin. The wound looked almost beautiful now, like a red moon floating above dark waters.

Leopold closed his eyes tightly, unable to look. The room fell into heavy silence.

Celeste’s pupils widened in horror.

“My father doesn’t know yet,” Maude added.

At that, Celeste’s head snapped toward her. Hope flickered in her eyes—pathetic, trembling hope. Maude laughed under her breath.

Always watching for her father’s favor, always surviving on scraps of power.

It didn’t matter. The allamanda would be uprooted soon enough.

“I’ll offer my apologies first,” Leopold said solemnly.

Maude bowed in return.

“The royal physician will tend to your wounds. As for the Crown Prince…” The Emperor’s voice chilled further. “His punishment will be yours to decide.”

“Your Majesty!” Celeste cried, her face flushing red.

Leopold’s cold stare silenced her instantly.

“I never wish to see the Crown Prince again,” Maude said evenly.

“So be it,” the Emperor replied without hesitation.

“Your Majesty!” Celeste’s cry broke into a scream as she collapsed to the floor.

“That night,” Maude went on calmly, “the Grand Duke helped me. Please see that he suffers no consequences.”

“The Grand Duke?” Leopold’s tone softened, just slightly.

“Yes,” she said, her expression unreadable.

“…Very well.”

Before he could say more, chaos erupted outside. The door swung open, and Rhaion stormed in. His eyes immediately locked onto the bandage on Maude’s arm.

The look on his face—shock, disbelief, and guilt—was almost laughable.

‘Disgusting,’ she thought.

Maude stepped aside. A vase crashed to the floor, water spilling across the red carpet and roses scattering like blood. Shards of glass grazed Rhaion’s cheek, drawing a thin trail of crimson. Celeste screamed.

“Escort the Empress out,” the Emperor commanded.

Servants rushed in, helping the trembling Celeste to her feet and leading her away.

“Rhaion,” Leopold said coldly, “you are hereby transferred to the Bergen Base.”

“Father!” Rhaion shouted, his voice breaking.

“Go—and stay there as if you were dead.”

The words cut deeper than any blade.

“The Capital Command will go to Kyle,” the Emperor added.

“Father!”

That look—sharp, merciless—was not the gaze of a father. It was the cold glare of an emperor.

Rhaion realized then that he had always been standing in Kyle’s shadow. Always the useless son, always the echo of another man.

He let out a hollow laugh, empty and bitter.

And when his eyes met Maude’s—cold, unwavering—he laughed even harder.

Her gaze was the same as the mire he was drowning in.

There was no escape now.