As the nights that I was obliged to spend with my husband drew nearer, I found myself slipping into a state of nervous exhaustion.

Although he usually treated me with disregard, bordering on contempt, he never failed to visit my room two or three times a week. Once a month, around the time of ovulation, he became even more relentless. His intentions were painfully obvious, yet I still couldn’t fully understand them.

“Bear my child.”

Every time we lay together, he would whisper it like a prayer.

“Don’t even think of running. Just conceive.”

Letting out a soft, unrestrained m*an, I stared up at the ceiling before slowly shifting my gaze toward him. Even in the darkness, his blue eyes gleamed with a piercing clarity. That vivid, icy color sent a faint shiver down my spine.

A strikingly handsome face. A body honed to strength and perfection—befitting a war hero, a knight.

‘So this is what he wants. An heir to carry on his superior bloodline.’

But I couldn’t get pregnant anyway.

My cycles had been irregular for a long time. Now, they had nearly stopped altogether. Of course, I had lied to my physician, claiming there was nothing wrong with me.

There was no need to tell him this night was meaningless—nothing but futile effort. He wouldn’t believe me, even if I did. After all, he had forced this marriage despite my repeated refusals, despite how many times I told him it could never happen.

“How is it, my lady?”

He murmured, his voice laced with mockery as he moved against me with destructive force.

“What does it feel like to spread your legs for a man you’ve always considered beneath you?”

“……”

“To lie there, moaning so shamelessly under someone far below you—how does it feel?”

Even as he spat those humiliating words, his movements relentless and almost violent, there were moments when he handled me with unexpected care—like I might shatter at the slightest touch. At times, he would caress me as though I were something fragile… or even sacred, something to be revered.

There were moments—dangerous ones—when I almost believed he cherished me.

He thought I had always looked down on him for being born a commoner.

But that wasn’t true.

Not once had I ever believed him to be beneath me.

From before he rose as the commander of the revolutionary army and toppled the monarchy, to now—when he had taken me, the fallen princess of that very kingdom, as his wife—never once had I thought of him as inferior.

If anything, it was he who looked down on me.

He despised me, treated me as something lesser.

And perhaps… he had every reason to.

Because I was, in truth, a terrible woman.

He was a hero of the people. The man who led the civil revolution to victory—the commander of the military forces of the Estantian Republic.

And I?

I was the enemy of the people. A fallen princess.

My father, the king of the Estante Kingdom, had been executed by the revolutionary army. The royal family—Beatrix’s bloodline, including the crown prince who fought to the end—had been utterly destroyed by the hands of the citizens.

Among all the royals, I alone survived.

The only reason was because I had been a saintess.

Though it had not been entirely by my own will, I had saved countless lives in that role. I had gone to the front lines to treat wounded soldiers, restoring morale. I had traveled to disaster-stricken villages, healing the injured.

Because of that, I heard there had been much debate among the revolutionaries over whether I should be allowed to live… or die.

But ironically, the very people I had saved—at the cost of my own life—had become the reason I was allowed to keep living.

“Pray to your god to let you bear a child.”

Only after reaching his cl*max several times, emptying himself inside me without holding anything back, did my husband finally pull away. I couldn’t say I hadn’t felt anything at all—but after enduring such a long and repeated union, I was too exhausted to even move.

“That’s your only way to live.”

Turning his head away, he left the room without another glance, the door closing behind him as I lay face down, utterly motionless. There were moments when I resented how he would leave so coldly—his desires satisfied, his purpose fulfilled, never once looking back.

‘My only way to live?’

Would he really k*ll me if I couldn’t bear a child?

‘What a shame.’

I was already dying anyway.

A quiet, humorless laugh slipped from my lips as I found myself pitying him. A hero of the revolution, yet he had married a royal—one he despised so much—just to cut off a single bloodline.

Of course, even if my husband didn’t wish for my death with such intensity, his wish would soon come true regardless.

So, for him… it would be nothing but a cause for celebration.

***

“Ugh… my whole body aches.”

It had already been over three months since our marriage, and yet I still couldn’t grow accustomed to the soreness that followed each night spent with him. The first night after our wedding had been even worse. The memory of how relentlessly he had taken me—so intensely it had seemed almost inhuman—rose unbidden, and my cheeks flushed faintly.

As I forced myself upright, my muscles aching as if they might fall apart, a sudden warmth trickled down—

Blood.

A nosebleed streamed from my nose.

“Oh my! My lady, are you alright? Are you feeling unwell somewhere?”

Laura, who had come to wake me, gasped in shock and quickly pressed a handkerchief to my nose to help stop the bleeding.

Those born with divine power were called saints—or saintesses. But even among them, it was rare to possess the ability to heal others to the extent of saving those on the brink of death.

Perhaps because of that…

Unlike others, every time I used my power, I had to offer a portion of my own life in return.

Only a few people knew this truth—my father, myself, and my elder brother, the crown prince. The fact that lives were saved at the cost of another’s would tarnish the sanctity of the saintess myth, so it had always been kept a secret.

My father had used me.

To preserve a monarchy already rotting under his tyranny, he paraded miracles—saving the dying—to justify its continued existence. Because I was a saintess chosen by the heavens, he claimed, the authority of the Beatrix royal family had been granted by divine will.

And his reasoning had worked.

The white bed linens, still bearing the shameful traces of last night, were now stained in places with streaks of blood that had come from me.

I hadn’t been this weak before.

It seemed my life was truly nearing its end.

The frequent nosebleeds were proof enough.

“You’re not feeling discomfort anywhere, are you? Should I call for the doctor?”

“I’m fine. I just… think I’m tired. I’ll feel better after some rest.”

“Still… on nights you share a bed, you hardly get any rest at all…”

“I’m really fine. You worry too much, Laura. Where’s my husband? Has he already left for work?”

Laura stood there, fidgeting anxiously, unsure what to do, and somehow I ended up being the one comforting her.

Strangely enough, the servants treated me kindly—despite me being the so-called witch of Beatrix. Meanwhile, their master regarded me with nothing but cold indifference. In some ways, this place felt more comfortable than when I had lived as a princess.

“My lady, today is the Republic’s founding anniversary celebration, so the master has not yet left.”

“Ah… so it’s today.”

How troublesome.

Today marked the anniversary of the Republic’s founding—the day the Beatrix royal family fell and the new government was established. A full year had already passed. In that time, the nation had stabilized quickly and begun to take proper shape. As it was the first anniversary, the celebration would be a significant event, with all high-ranking officials gathering in one place.

Naturally, my husband—as the commander of the revolutionary army and the current head of the military—would have to attend.

And since it was an event for couples…

I would have to go with him.

Even though I, of all people, stood as a living symbol of the fallen monarchy—a remnant of the very regime that had been destroyed by the citizens for its excess and oppression.

“Yes, my lady. The master said that once you wake up, he’d like to have breakfast with you.”

“Is that so? Then let’s get changed and head down.”

Refusing him was not an option in this house.

After washing up briefly and tidying my appearance, I made my way to the dining room.

“What’s with the blood this early in the morning?”

As if last night had never happened, my husband was already dressed in full uniform—neat, precise, and impeccably composed.

By nature, he was a disciplined man befitting a knight and a soldier—calm, controlled, never one to show much emotional fluctuation. And yet, when it came to me, he was entirely different—devoid of patience, as though restraint itself no longer existed.

It seemed he had already heard what happened. His voice carried a sharp edge, laced with irritation.

Was that concern… or just another jab?

I couldn’t tell.

“Trying to make yourself look pitiful on purpose?”

He truly had a talent for asking if I was unwell in the most unpleasant way possible.