She had seen the king cough blood many times before but never like this.

The rasping breath forced through his dry lips made it painfully clear how grave his condition had become.

“I will summon the royal physician, Father.”

Ophelia gently nudged Frederick’s back.

Right now, he needed to show concern, to look afraid for the king. If he recoiled or hesitated, he would lose Alfonso’s favor in an instant.

Fortunately, Frederick seemed to understand.

He drew in a breath, stepped forward, and supported the king’s arm.

“Your Majesty… are you all right?”

“Good… boy, Frederick…”

King Alfonso shook his head slowly, collapsing onto the edge of the bed before lowering himself fully.

“Enough. Even if you call the royal physician, it is useless now. They said the poison has already taken root—there is no cure.”

His trembling eyelids did not stop fluttering.

“…It seems I must now think of the end.”

“Your Majesty, please don’t speak that way…”

Ophelia forced a trembling voice, her tone filled with distress.

The king closed his eyes, as though even speaking had exhausted what little strength he had left.

“Take Frederick out, Ophelia. My head aches. I… would like to rest now.”

“…Yes, Father.”

She gently bowed her head and took Frederick’s hand.

His breathing was uneven and unsteady, not the rhythm of sleep, but the flicker of a consciousness slipping in and out.

Ophelia watched him for a moment before quietly leading him out of the room.

Once they were in the corridor, Frederick glanced around cautiously.

The instant he realized they were alone, he collapsed into her arms, as though his legs could no longer support him.

His small shoulders shook with fear at what he had just seen.

Ophelia stroked his hair slowly and held him close.

However, when he heard footsteps nearby, Frederick flinched and quickly stepped back.

“…It is time for my riding lesson. I should go.”

Ophelia felt a faint pang at how deliberately stiff Frederick sounded. She leaned close to his ear and whispered softly.

“Just a little longer, Frederick.”

He stopped for a brief moment. Then, with a small, silent smile, he nodded.

***

Time passed, and the day of Violetta Xavi’s memorial finally arrived.

Although Ophelia’s baby bump was barely visible, anyone standing near her would have noticed that she was pregnant.

Today, however, was the day that Frederick was to be formally proclaimed Crown Prince.

Drawing attention to another royal heir would only invite trouble.

So, as she made her way to the palace, Ophelia wrapped a thick shawl around her shoulders to hide the slight curve of her abdomen.

A heavy silence settled inside the carriage.

Renoir sat opposite her in silence, his expression tight with thought.

Ophelia watched him quietly, tilting her head in gentle curiosity.

“Why?”

He hesitated before glancing away.

“…The other officers’ wives gain weight when they’re with child, but Your Highness seems only to grow thinner.”

A breath of laughter escaped her lips; she had expected something far more dire.

“It was the same when I carried Veronica. I’m not sick, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

Morning sickness had made it difficult to eat anything for days. It was only natural she hadn’t gained weight.

“When you were pregnant with Veronica… I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“You couldn’t help it.”

At the time, Renoir had been fighting for his life on the battlefield. She had been lonely without him, yes—but she had never blamed him.

“We’ve arrived. Please step down carefully.”

When the carriage stopped outside the Ephemellen Palace, Renoir was the first to step out, offering his hand to Ophelia.

Ophelia placed her hand in his and stepped forward carefully.

Touching him had become so familiar that she couldn’t help but smile.

Inside, the palace was already crowded with guests.

“A memorial for Lady Violetta, all of a sudden? I can’t imagine what this means.”

“I know. I nearly fainted when I received the invitation from Marchioness Josephina.”

“Perhaps His Majesty has never forgotten her? Now that the queen is deposed, he has no reason to hold back anymore.”

“Imagine, still unable to forget some dancer from Larne after all these years.”

Their snide whispers stopped the moment they saw Ophelia. One sharp, cold, warning look from Renoir froze their fans mid-air. They laughed awkwardly and scattered as though they had never spoken.

From across the hall, Bianca approached, Penelope beside her.

“Your Highness, Marchioness Josephina sent someone insisting Penelope must attend today’s memorial. Do you know why?”

Penelope looked tense as well.

Ophelia smiled gently.

“You’ll know soon enough, Bianca. And… congratulations in advance.”

She hid the truth for now, she wanted to see their surprised faces herself.

Bianca relaxed slightly, her knitted brows easing.

“Oh—His Majesty is arriving. And look… that child….”

At the top of the grand staircase, King Alfonso held onto the banister for support, breathing heavily, while Frederick helped him down each step.

When they reached the front of the hall, the king sank into the throne, leaning back as if sitting required effort.

The nobles bowed deeply.

The king raised a trembling hand.

“All of you may rise.”

A hush fell over the hall. Up close, the king’s frail condition was undeniable. Whispers spread—how much the boy resembled him.

“The throne cannot remain without a queen.”

Alfonso declared, his voice rough but resonant.

“Thus, I name Violetta Xavi Queen posthumously.”

A ripple ran through the hall.

“And I shall adopt my firstborn, Frederick, as her son and proclaim him Crown Prince as the rightful heir.”

Shock rippled through the hall—open-mouthed stares colliding in utter disbelief.

“Furthermore, I shall grant Penelope Monteville the surname of Quilche and raise her as a princess.”

Whispers erupted at once, nobles scrambling to make sense of what they were hearing.

“How can a child whose mother is unknown be named Crown Prince? Even if the position has been vacant since the princess was deposed….”

“What does his mother matter? Lady Violetta has been declared queen. Once he is adopted, he becomes legitimate.”

“Shouldn’t Her Highness Ophelia, the queen’s actual daughter, become Crown Princess instead?”

“You don’t understand, the queen’s elevation is a pretext. This is all to justify naming the boy Crown Prince. Still… better him than Monteville’s bastard.”

The murmuring would not cease.

Even Ophelia had not expected the posthumous elevation to queen.

‘So he favors Frederick even more than I thought.’

It was all to solidify Frederick’s legitimacy as a direct royal heir.

Then—

Cutting through the uneasy hush, Bianca moved first. With graceful precision, she stepped forward and curtsied deeply before Frederick.

“Bianca Monteville greets His Highness, the Crown Prince—the little sun of Quilche.”

Her declaration silenced the hall. The nobles exchanged glances, startled. Then, as if none of them had whispered a word of doubt moments before, they dropped to their knees.

“We greet His Highness, the Crown Prince, the little sun of Quilche!”

Their voices rolled in unison across the hall.

As the proclamation settled, King Alfonso slowly extended a trembling hand toward Ophelia.

“Ophelia, come here.”

“Yes, Father.”

“As the eldest legitimate daughter, you will aid the Crown Prince well.”

He emphasized the words eldest legitimate daughter.

For everyone to hear. As though erasing Cassandra from the lineage entirely was not enough, he intended to erase even her memory.

Calling Ophelia eldest was a deliberate act of public rewriting.

‘He truly means to silence even the mention of her.’

No matter what Cassandra had done, she had still been his child.

“I humbly accept Your Majesty’s sovereign command.”

King Alfonso rose with great effort. Countless eyes followed his wavering movement. Reaching out as if to commend her, his trembling hand touched Ophelia’s shoulder.

But before he could withdraw his hand—

His body lurched.

He clutched his chest, his face contorted. Dark blood smeared the corner of his lips.

“Father?”

A harsh, tearing cough burst out of him.

“Kh—! Cough!“

Just as Alfonso lunged towards Ophelia, Renoir sprang forward and caught the king, preventing him from falling onto her.

He gave Ophelia a quick, urgent look, but she firmly shook her head and gestured towards the king. There were too many people watching. Renoir could not prioritize her protection over the king’s life in front of them all.

Closing his eyes and clenching his jaw, Renoir steadied the king and lowered him onto the throne. The moment Alfonso touched the seat, however, he lost consciousness.

His body sagged suddenly, and the hall erupted into chaos.