Yes, love. Swan was in love. Not with him, but with this man. Heat rushed into Atlion’s eyes. His lips parted wordlessly for a moment before he clenched his fists tightly. He averted his eyes, trying not to look at Swan, but in the end his face contorted with the unbearable knowledge.

He loved Swan. He loved her even at the moment she no longer loved him. He had been drawn to her from the first moment he had seen her. Even as he resolved to cling to her fragile body and never let go, he found himself helplessly captivated by her.

Atlion, feeling feverish to the point of coldness, swallowed dryly and murmured to Swan in a low voice.

“Stand up.”

“Please, Your Majesty. I won’t leave you any more…”

“I said stand up.”

Swan shook her head frantically, sobbing. She seemed determined to push him to the limit. Gently, Atlion reached out and lifted the trembling woman to her feet. Startled, Swan tried to shake off his hand, but her gaze shifted to his face – ashen and streaked with premature grey. She stared at him, eyes wide.

Swan couldn’t understand the look on his face. It was as if she were looking at a festering wound, one where pus was mixing with flesh and peeling away. His eyes had the same painful, raw quality – it was strange to see him like that.

“Go back.”

“Please spare Theo.”

“Swan.”

“Theo has done nothing wrong. Really, nothing at all. He just became a father to my poor daughter.”

Swan turned to look at Theo. His face, too, was now streaked with tears. She looked back at Atlion and tilted her head up to meet his gaze.

“He’s the one who gave me a place to belong. Someone who will never leave me…”

“Enough.”

“Your Majesty, please get Theo out of here. I will stay here…”

Swan murmured incoherently, as if in a daze. The grip on her arm ached and her words spilled out chaotically, driven by fear.

“I can’t… I can’t win against you.”

“…….”

“I’m afraid of you.”

“Your Majesty….”

“You who no longer love me.”

Tears gathered in his deep blue eyes before sliding down his cheeks. Swan, about to make another plea, stopped and looked up at him in shock. Atlion let go of her arm and stepped back. His pale face, illuminated by the reddish torchlight, glistened with tears.

***

Theo was taken from the execution site to the Imperial Palace. The chamber to which he was taken was vast and beautiful, the kind of place reserved only for foreign dignitaries.

Swan, supporting his injured body, led him into the room. Once there, she carefully inspected his wounds with a cloth soaked in warm water brought by the maids, then applied ointment. Any more serious injuries requiring stitches would be attended to by the court physician the following day.

“I’m fine.”

“Still…”

“But you said you were staying here.”

Swan dropped her eyes to avoid his. Theo watched her quietly before gently taking her hand in his. The warmth of his palm settled on the back of her hand. Swan lifted her head and gave him a small smile. He was a good man. The reason she could be happy without standing before him as man and wife was because of his unwavering kindness.

They had declared themselves husband and wife, but their life together had been more about enduring and surviving side by side. They didn’t kiss or share a bed, but they were family. Simply calling each other family was enough to make their bond a perfect home.

“You still love him, don’t you? I mean His Majesty, the Emperor.”

Theo’s question broke the silence as Swan, her gaze lowered, continued to tend to his bruised, reddened hands. She flinched slightly, then raised her head. The thought of Atlion wiped the smile from her face. At the same time, a dull ache pierced the edge of her heart. Sometimes it hurt so much that it felt irreparable.

Even when she tried to make a new start with Theo, those feelings remained. She would see Theo’s small, ordinary habits and think of Atleon. There was no real connection between them, but her mind would still wander there. Theo wasn’t Atlion. He was someone else entirely. And yet…

Even when she looked at Theo’s back, Atlion’s silhouette would appear in her mind. Tears welled up again, moistening the corners of her eyes. She thought she had completely moved on, but obviously she hadn’t.

“Swan.”

“N-no, that’s not true.”

“Swan.”

Her nose felt stuffy and her expression crumpled. She finally looked at Theo, who was smiling kindly, his swollen, bruised face making the gesture all the more bittersweet. She tried to summon anger against Atlion as she stared at Theo’s injured face. But instead, the image of Atlion, tears streaming down his face, kept coming back to her.

For two and a half years she didn’t know how to live. Not facing him made it seem possible to forget. She worked tirelessly, nurturing and caring, filling every day to the brim. If she kept herself busy, the man she had once loved – yes, the man who had become nothing more than a past love – could easily be forgotten, or so she thought.

She hadn’t expected it to last so long, so tenaciously. Perhaps it wasn’t love, but a lingering attachment.

“You still love him.”

“His Majesty doesn’t love me.”

“He loves you.”

Not wanting to show her tears, Swan had turned her face away from Theo. Now she looked back at him. Theo, who continued to insist despite her denials, smiled weakly. But even through the smile, his expression seemed strained – perhaps angry, perhaps pained.

She lowered her gaze and tears once again streamed down her cheeks.

“His Majesty loves you.”

“He only feels responsible for me. Because I gave birth to his child. He thinks I should stay by his side.

“If it were only responsibility, he would have taken only Una.”

Swan had no answer. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead, she remained silent, staring down at Theo’s bruised hands. Then hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. A sense of foreboding gripped her, and she stood abruptly, turning her gaze to the door as it opened.

“Madam.”

It was Raoul. Swan instinctively moved to shield Theo and looked at Raoul with fearful eyes. But then he bowed his head. The rigid man, his expression hardened, finally spoke.

“His Majesty is in critical condition.”

***

“He has drunk too much.”

The Imperial Doctor spoke in measured tones. Though a sigh threatened to escape as he looked at the Emperor’s pale face, accentuated by his emaciated features, he suppressed it. Raising his eyes, he turned to the Empress Dowager. The woman, still as beautiful as a rose, stood over her son, a black veil draped over her head.

“When will he wake?”

“I expect he will regain consciousness by midnight, but as Your Majesty knows, his condition is more of the mind than the body.”

“It is a matter between husband and wife. Or rather, a matter between m*n.”

The Empress Dowager, who had been looking down at her son, turned her eyes to the doctor. Even he couldn’t be held entirely responsible for the situation – it was, after all, madness in the truest sense of the word. Sedatives had been prescribed, but things had escalated to this point. It was a problem of the heart.

If it had been the Marquise d’Amiens, she would have punched the doctor in the face and caused a riot. But not Mirabella. She knew exactly what the doctor could and couldn’t do.

Her son’s madness, for example, was something only he could cure. He had to face the things he could never have, the mistakes he had made, the truth he had to accept. What was irrevocable would remain so forever.