***

Finding Cyrene had been entirely by chance.

Ilion’s mother had left when he was young, and his father had instructed him to consider her dead, to act as if she had never existed. Ilion accepted this without question. Even when the news of her death came, his father didn’t bother to wear mourning clothes.

Perhaps because he had so few memories of her, Ilion felt little sadness. Not even a single portrait of Creusa remained in the Marquisate.

It wasn’t until he was fifteen that Ilion understood the source of his father’s deep-seated anger: the endless scandals surrounding his mother. Her affair with the Emperor, the illegitimate child she bore, and her eventual death – never to return.

His father had loved and hated Creusa with an intensity that consumed him, so deeply it was beyond his control. Ilion could not comprehend such overwhelming emotion, especially from his father, who was usually so calm and self-possessed.

His father had buried Creusa in his heart, while Ilion simply lived as if his mother had never existed. He assumed it would always be so. Though he had heard rumours that Creusa had given birth to a child, he neither knew its name nor cared. The Emperor had taken the child away, and his father had told him to ignore the matter, so Ilion never gave it a second thought.

But one day, when he was visiting the Imperial Palace and returning after filing a report, he noticed a woman standing out in the crowd. Something about her caught his eye. It wasn’t logical or deliberate – rather, it felt like an inevitable pull, as if bound by blood or shaped by fate. Whatever it was, it drew him in, powerfully and inexplicably.

“Stay away from her.”

His pale assistant repeated the warning several times. Cyrene. The name meant nothing to him at first. Why should it? He had never known the name of the illegitimate child his mother had borne. Even if his father had known, he’d never spoken it aloud.

It wasn’t until Ilion overheard bits of conversation that the pieces began to fall into place. The crown prince’s pet. A beautiful doll. This Creusa’s daughter. Less than an animal.

His sister.

Ilion learned everything of Cyrene’s circumstances easily – perhaps too easily. There was no need to dig; it was one of those open secrets that everyone knew but no one spoke of.

He just thought she was pitiful and beautiful.

Though he had almost no memory of his mother, seeing Cyrene gave him some understanding of why his father had never been able to let Creusa go. She was so beautiful. The pale platinum hair that danced in the wind, the sparkling blue eyes that peered out from under long lashes, the delicate face that seemed to fit perfectly in the palm of one hand, the high bridge of her nose, the slender neck that led to her frail shoulders – all of it.

He had assumed she lived well. After all, the Emperor had taken her in. Whatever else might be true, she was still his daughter.

But the more he discovered, the more incredulous he became. It was as if every assumption he’d made about her life was crumbling under the weight of reality.

His half-sister, born to a different father, had been handed over to the Crown Prince like a stray dog taken in out of convenience. She had never once escaped his control, living her life as if she were a flower carefully cultivated in a greenhouse – tended with the utmost care, only to exist as Areos possession.

And it was likely that she would remain so for the rest of her life.

Just as the emperor had once claimed the most beautiful thing for himself, now the crown prince possessed the most beautiful thing. The image of Cyrene, sitting silently in her gilded cage, lingered endlessly in Ilion’s mind.

He thought he wanted to save her. Was it because no one else seemed to care about her, yet she was his sister? Or was it because that moment had imprinted itself so deeply in his consciousness? Or perhaps, like everyone else, he too had been captivated by her.

Ilion tried in vain to erase her from his memory.

He mocked himself for indulging in such futile heroics. Even the idea of “saving” her was flawed. The beautiful woman in the cage likely didn’t even realize she was imprisoned.

…Then why?
Why, despite knowing all of this, did he keep returning to the place where he had first met Cyrene?

His assistant, walking beside him, desperately tried to dissuade him, but to no avail.

And as expected, there she was again—a beautiful doll seated in that same spot. The crown prince’s possession. The legacy Creusa had left behind. Ilion’s sister. What more could there be?

His mind spiraled into a chaotic tangle of thoughts.

When Cyrene noticed him, she hesitated, stepping back. Her lips pressed tightly together, and her blinking eyes held a faint trace of fear.

“Are you all right?”

His assistant asked, clinging to him with a face that looked on the verge of tears. But Ilion noticed nothing except Cyrene’s face. Her wide eyes blinked slowly before she retreated further away.

Then, as though to escape, she moved to the farthest, seemingly safest corner of her gilded cage. Whether it was truly a place of safety, he couldn’t be sure.

“My lord, please…”

Something glimmered briefly through the gap in the curtains. Ilion couldn’t shake the desire to get Cyrene out of that cage. He clung to any reason he could find, anything to justify his feelings.

Because she was his sister. Because living her entire life in a cage was cruel. Because she was beautiful. Because he wanted to see her smile.

And the crown prince mocked him for it.

“If you truly feel no desire for Cyrene, you can have her.”

He said, laughing, as if it were absurd, as if it amused him endlessly.

“I don’t keep useless things. If she truly means nothing to you, then she’s defective, and I’ll discard her whenever I please.”

Ilion thought it would be simple. Cyrene was his sister. She was Creusa’s daughter. Just a pitiable, unfortunate girl—nothing more.

“Let’s not bring up unnecessary talk of family.”

None of it should have mattered. Knowing she was his sister, how could he possibly feel anything resembling desire for her?

But Ilion was slow to grasp another truth—Cyrene was also the crown prince’s sister.

***

“Mm…”

Cyrene sat in front of the mirror, tilting her head from side to side. A single hairpin adorned her hair, one Ilion had placed there, calling it a gift. For the first time, she realized how much joy such a simple gesture could bring.

Fingering the butterfly-shaped pin, she pulled it out and re-pinned it in different places, experimenting. Of the many beautiful and expensive gifts Areos had given her, this humble pin felt the most precious. Perhaps it was because she loved butterflies, or perhaps because it was from Ilion.

Opening a drawer, Cyrene ran her fingers over the neatly arranged jar of ointment inside. Though she had never used it since it had been given to her, its very presence seemed to ease her pain. Smiling softly, she closed the drawer – but suddenly a cold voice sounded from behind her.

“You seem to be in a good mood.”

“…Your Highness.”

Areos had approached her silently, his hands now pressing firmly down on her shoulders. In the mirror, his expression was cold and unyielding, sending a shiver through her entire body. Cyrene bit her trembling lips tightly.

“It doesn’t suit you.”

His hand reached for the pin in her hair, pulling it out without hesitation. Cyrene wanted to snatch it back, to cry and scream for him to return it, but she held herself back, her fists clenched tightly at her sides.

Leaning over her from behind, Areos opened the drawer. He grabbed the neatly arranged jars inside and tossed them onto the vanity table. The harsh clattering echoed in the room, followed by the sharp scent of ointment as the lids flew off and rolled away.

“A gift from Marquis Laska, isn’t it?”

“…”

She lowered her head and kept her mouth shut, but his rough hand seized her chin, forcing her face upward.

“Ugh…”

In the mirror, his golden eyes glowed with a terrifying intensity. A sickening crunch followed as he crushed the pin in his hand. The once-brilliant butterfly wings, so radiant they seemed almost ready to take flight, now lay on the floor, broken and mangled.

“He seems to like you very much.”

The shattered pin, now beyond repair, fell onto the carpet with a dull thud. Cyrene’s whole body trembled, her thoughts spinning. Her feelings for Ilion—so fragile, so dangerous—terrified her, afraid they might somehow be exposed.

But what was it? She blinked, questioning herself. Was it because she thought Ilion was kinder than Areos? Was it because she desired him physically? Or was it simply because she wanted to see him again?

Her heart was a tangled mess, unable to define the emotions swirling within her. She wanted to meet Ilion, to touch him, to hold him. She found herself yearning for all of him. Sometimes, she even imagined flying away to wherever he was, far from all of this.

“Cyrene.”

Areos’s voice brought her back to reality as he pressed a kiss to her pale cheek. His narrowed golden eyes pierced through her, leaving her breathless, unable to draw even a single deep breath.

“…Bring it.”

The order was curt and cold. A maid, standing at a distance, hesitated before retrieving Ilion’s coat from deep within the wardrobe. Cyrene parted her lips slightly, but no words emerged. The flower Illion had given her, the handkerchief she had carelessly left behind—one by one, all the small tokens she had received from him were thrown at Areos’s feet.

Cyrene’s blue eyes quivered violently, her emotions laid bare. The crown prince, wearing a leisurely expression, casually ran his hand through her hair.

“Burn them.”

At those words, her lips moved instinctively, driven by a desperate impulse.