She had finally achieved her goal. The suppression operation, which was more like a local skirmish, still hadn’t made the expected progress, and it had taken quite some time. Atlion was nowhere to be seen. Raoul was also absent. Swan dragged her feet, trying to retrace the path she had taken with him. But it was dark and the fighting was fierce. Soldiers were fighting, killing each other with their swords. She moved forward, watching the brutal scene.

“Madam!”

Suddenly a familiar voice cried out. Swan was startled and turned quickly. It was Raoul. Seeing her, the man had an angry look on his face as he chased after her. Afraid of being caught, she tried to shuffle away, but in an instant she was cornered.

“What are you doing?”

“Let me go!”

Swan struggled to free her arm from Raoul’s grip. He knew it was rude, but he couldn’t let her go. His eyes, filled with anger, were fixed on her.

“Please, go back. Didn’t His Majesty provide you with a carriage? He gave you the life you wanted, so why don’t you go? Go be with your husband whom you love and miss…”

“Shut up!”

Suddenly, Swan used all her strength to shake him off. Annoyed by the argument, she tried to walk past him. But Raoul grabbed her again. Swan glared at him as she groaned in frustration.

Suddenly there was the sound of a sword breaking. In the midst of the chaos, both Raoul and Swan, each focused on the same person, were able to hear the short, faint sound.

Raoul’s hand released her. His foot moved first. The officer behind him began to follow. Swan ran after them.

***

Atlion knelt, his neck exposed, his broken sword stuck in the ground, waiting for his world to end. In truth, his world had long since ended, and all that remained was the act of closing his eyes.

For the Emperor to take his own life was a disgrace to the royal family. The reason his attempt at self-harm had failed was that he had never intended to die. If his goal had been to end his life, he would not have stopped at merely hurting himself.

A life in which pain could be diverted by self-harm had become unbearable. In other words, he could no longer move forward in a world where he had lost Swan. He could no longer fulfil his duties and responsibilities. Despite the fact that these were the very things he found most ridiculous, this was the reality.

The man who had once found love foolish, the man who had believed that expressing love was something only young, romantic girls did, had become even more foolish. It was as if he had been cursed. From the moment he was wounded by every rejection from his wife, he could no longer live a normal life.

For the Emperor, there was only abdication or death. It had been less than ten years since his father’s death, and it was unthinkable for the eldest son to live a life of dishonour. Either suicide or abdication would be a burden he would not wish to place on those who followed him. He could not bear that. So it seemed right to die here.

The m*n who had attacked Swan’s carriage. In front of him, a man raised his sword. The man who was about to help him commit suicide was one of the rebels who had taken part in the uprising at Lamallac. Some of the prisoners who had escaped had scattered into the mountains and fields and become wild m*n, or so the stories went.

If they had attacked simply because of the Imperial insignia and intended to harm Swan, then these were m*n with a grudge against the royal family, not just her. If the Emperor were to die fighting the remnants of the Lamallac rebellion, it could be spun into a death that was both heroic and fitting.

There was also no need to worry about a successor. Calyps was a capable regent, and could rule as emperor with ease. He had recently seen a healthy boy, a potential heir, so there was no need to worry. Atlion looked at his stomach, which was bleeding profusely.

He had wanted to be deeply wounded, to sacrifice himself, but it wasn’t fatal. The cut was sloppy, and as he clenched his fists against the torn skin, he waited for the man to make the clean cut across his neck.

Then a scream pierced the air.

“AAAHHH!”

The sword came down, grazing his neck. Blood spurted from the severed artery. His vision blurred as he twisted wildly. A terrible, piercing scream echoed repeatedly. Atlion closed his eyes tightly.

Someone grabbed his body and pulled him into an embrace.

“Darling!”

It was Swan’s voice. Her white hand cupped Atlion’s cheek gently. He lifted his eyelids. The man who had nearly broken his neck was gasping for breath, his throat pierced by an arrow. Raoul’s officer, who had fired the arrow, rushed over and severed the man’s head with his sword.

As the man collapsed lifeless, Atlion looked at Swan.

“Swan.”

“Don’t die. You can’t die.”

The woman was shaking uncontrollably. Her face was one of utter panic. One of the hands that had held him tightly was now gripping his neck. Atlion stared at her. The woman he had sent away was now standing before him. It felt like a dream. Perhaps it was only a dream. Maybe it was a sweet illusion drawn from the blood he had lost.

But even so, it was good. It was good because he saw the swan. The swan that had abandoned him, that had chosen another man instead of him, was now here before him. Atlion smiled weakly at her.

“Why are you here?”

“Don’t speak.”

“Swan.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know either. Please don’t die. Please don’t die.”

The swan cried. In the darkness of the night and the threat of death, only the swan’s shape remained clear. It was a strange sight. He reached for her cheek with a gloved hand, trying to sense her presence.

“Huu, huuu… you can’t die. Please, please… let me hate you instead.”

“Swan.

“Say you’re going to marry another woman. Be happy, be happy, get married, have children… Please, do that. It’s better than you dying. It’s better. So…”

Swan cried. Her tears gathered in his hand as he cupped her cheek. She held him close and whispered over and over that he couldn’t die. She told him to marry another woman and live happily ever after. At the sound of her sad whispers, Atlion spoke.

“I love you.”

Swan’s green eyes fluttered like a racing heart. Blood spurted from the severed neck. As she watched him struggle for breath, Swan’s eyelids trembled. She swallowed the rising scream and embraced Atlion.

“I love you, Swan.”

Atlion whispered again, pulling her closer.

“Ugh…!”

A long, thin sob escaped Swan’s twisted lips. Atlion gently stroked the pale cheek of the woman before him, offering her a faint smile.

“From the moment you saved me…”

His throat moved quickly. Swan shook her head slowly and pressed her lips to his cheek. Hot tears streamed down her face. There were so many things she wanted to say to him. That if he died like this, she wouldn’t be able to live. That she had told Mirabella that he was her father. That even when she had run away from him, she had longed for him.

That the child she was carrying that night was his. That the child’s death had made her hate him even more. The truth was, it was just an outburst… loving him had been so overwhelming. She feared she would only love him again.

“I love you, Atlion.”

Swan, now sobbing, whispered weakly. Atlion looked at her, his eyes far away, shining like stars in the dark night. His love. His madness. His soul. His absinthe… Love, like a brand. Desire, almost a curse. Desire…

He thought of everything that had crumbled with that single tremor. Perhaps it was the fear of everything falling apart that had driven him in the end. He dismissed the act of whispering love as nothing more than a meaningless joke. His breath came in ragged gasps as his vision blurred. He lifted his hand to trace her wet lashes.

Beneath her long, graceful lashes, her eyes were like fragments of green, so beautiful. He repeated the whisper that had lodged itself deep in his ear.

“I love you, Swan. My soul…”

***

It was a rainy noon. The old gardener of the imperial palace held out to Mirabella a well-ripened flower bud in its pot. The buds, nourished by the summer sun, were red and subdued, like a mother’s lips. She lifted her eyes to the quiet corridor. At the end of the corridor she was holding hands with a strange, beautiful woman.

It was a woman Mirabella had never seen before this morning. Yet, strangely, she didn’t find her unpleasant. When she awoke, she found that neither her father – no, Uncle Theo – nor her mother were there. What’s more, the carriage in which she had fallen asleep was nowhere to be seen.

Then Mirabella realised that she had returned to the room with the mint wallpaper she had always disliked and the big four-poster bed. She wanted to scream at the realisation, but decided against it. Somehow it felt right.

After breakfast in the morning sun, she was washed and dressed quickly by the maids, who worked quickly with their hands. Then they introduced the woman holding Mirabella’s hand.

“Hello. I’m Liriette. I’m your aunt.”

The woman, smiling brightly, took Mirabella’s hand and led her out of the room. It was the first time Mirabella had ever heard the word “aunt”, but she didn’t want to take her hand away. She walked through the garden with Aunt Liriette for a while before entering the corridor.