It was the second time Maximilian had met his adopted daughter. He looked at the woman, dressed in an elegant teal gown. Her shiny, coral-red wavy hair was braided at the temples and set with pearls rather than pinned up. She looked more like a teenage girl than a woman with a young daughter. 

His gaze lingered on the freckles that dotted her nose, contrasting with her calm green eyes. A small smile formed on his lips. 

Beneath her long lashes, her eyes reflected soft, fragmented sunlight, reminiscent of a woman he had once known. A memory he had tried to bury, but could never completely erase. The image of a young love faded with time, a symbol of his lost youth. Sometimes he couldn’t believe he was still alive after losing her. 

To live on after such a loss, to go on after failing so miserably to hold on to everything – it felt unreal. Life, he thought, was less about being alive and more about enduring. He remembered Tristan’s endless chatter, always full of bravado, about how survival was the ultimate proof of resilience. 

Yet the only reason he hadn’t followed the woman he loved, or the daughter she bore, into death was to protect the family. If he too were to leave this world, the children his brother had left behind would be truly orphaned. He could not let that happen. 

If he lost even that, he wouldn’t be human anymore. 

Maximilian’s gaze dropped slightly to the Empress’s flat stomach.

“Congratulations on your pregnancy, Your Majesty. May an intelligent heir be born to grace the Imperial Family of Solerium. It would be even better if His Highness proves to be a steadfast prince upon whom both Your Majesty and His Majesty can rely in the future.” 

“Thank you, Marquis.”

The Empress replied, her cheeks flushing slightly as she smiled. 

It wasn’t long after the coronation of the Empress and Princess that the news spread. Suspicious of the Empress’s inability to eat properly, the Emperor had immediately summoned the court physician, who had confirmed her pregnancy. Judging by the number of months, it seemed that she had conceived almost immediately after their union. 

‘Was it because they were a young couple?’

The pregnancy had come about remarkably quickly. Maximilian reflected that the Emperor didn’t seem the type to be driven by carnal desires, let alone an overt desire for children. Unlike his brother, Grand Duke Calyps of Rivael, who exuded indulgence, the Emperor was austere and had an air of stern serenity. Maximilian’s thoughts returned to the woman before him. 

She was undoubtedly a fine beauty. Not the kind with a striking, seductive allure, but with features that caught the eye – a rounded forehead, freckles and dazzling absinthe green eyes. She was striking in her own way. 

But compared to the Dowager Empress, once hailed as the *Rose of Dale* in her youth… Swan’s charm, while undeniable, didn’t seem extraordinary enough to completely captivate the Crown Prince, especially in a court teeming with noble ladies adorned with the finest flowers, powders, pearls, rubies and sapphires. But somehow she had. 

So while she might have been considered a great beauty in a poor country, in Solam – especially at the royal court – she would have been just one of many noble ladies, as beautiful as flowers. But the man who captivated her was none other than the Crown Prince himself. For as long as anyone could remember, the Emperor had never shown any interest in the women who strolled the palace grounds. 

In other words, his life had revolved entirely around war and conquest for the sake of governance or politics. Unlike Grand Duke Calyps of Rivael, who had always expressed his dislike and weariness of such responsibilities since childhood, the Emperor seemed to care for nothing beyond his given duties and tasks. 

Even his late father had wondered if his son would ever marry properly. *Who has he taken after to be so cynical? But the Emperor had defied expectations by taking a wife – and not just any wife, but one he adored so much that he seemed to lose himself in her love.

“The princess, the child and I are deeply grateful to you, Marquis. As we move forward, we…”

Maximilian nodded with a steady smile, acknowledging her words. 

When he first heard that the Emperor had taken a common woman – a peasant, no less – as his wife and had a child with her, Maximilian had been deeply shocked. But unlike the general public, he wasn’t shocked for the obvious reasons. 

He wasn’t scandalised by her status or background. It was something else entirely that startled him.

It was the past – memories of someone he could never forget. Even their origins were the same. The village where the Emperor had disappeared and later settled with the woman… it was the same village. And the name he had once considered for a daughter, should he ever have one, was exactly the same. How could he not remember? No, how could he not have guessed?

But the child had been pronounced dead. The child, they said, had died of a fever shortly after birth. And the woman, the one he couldn’t forget, had died soon after. That’s what they’d told him. Maximilian pressed his lips together, his thoughts raging. 

The Empress noticed his pale complexion and spoke cautiously.

“Are you… in any way unwell?”

Swan’s voice was soft as she addressed him, her gaze filled with concern for the Marquis, whose expression betrayed his discomfort. Maximilian, realising he hadn’t composed himself, forced a smile and worked to hide the pallor in his face. 

“No, I’m fine.”

He replied, though his words did little to assuage her concern. Her gaze lingered on him, more anxious now than before.

It was excruciating. To be honest, every time the Empress furrowed her brow, showed discomfort, or looked at him with the same worried expression she was wearing now, she reminded him of her. 

“An old memory crossed my mind, that’s all.”

His lips moved on their own, betraying him. Maximilian furrowed his brow and cursed his loose tongue. The Empress, now wearing a curious expression, asked softly.

“What memory?”

‘How can even her tone be so similar?’

Maximilian thought, lowering his gaze to the pale yellow tea in front of him before looking back up at her. The similarity in accent could be explained – they came from the same region. 

But the voice itself? That was harder to explain. To be honest, it was as if the woman he had once loved was standing before him. Her long, delicate lashes and the perfectly round emerald eyes beneath them were hauntingly familiar. 

And her tone of voice, of all things, was so similar that it sent shivers down his spine. The truth was, when he first saw her, he could barely contain himself. Her small frame, her milky fair skin… everything about her was the same, except for the colour of her hair. 

When they had first met, Tristan had remarked that the Empress bore a slight resemblance to his grandmother, the late Marchioness of Clepassé, especially in her freckles. Though Tristan hadn’t inherited them, he’d said that his mother also had freckles across her nose, which had given her a playful and slightly unladylike appearance, despite her noble status. 

“Since we are going to be a family, it would be good if we had at least a few things in common.”

But from that day on, Maximilian couldn’t shake the unease that had taken hold of him. The child had been pronounced dead. He had seen the grave with his own eyes. There was no way the child could have survived. Moreover, the one who had shown him the grave had insisted that the child was a boy. A black-haired boy who supposedly resembled his mother… 

“Which memory do you mean?” 

The Empress’s voice brought him back to the present. Perhaps it was because his expression stiffened whenever their eyes met, but she asked him again. Just as he was wrestling with the decision to speak, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted him, followed by the soft creak of the door opening. 

It was the Emperor. 

Maximilian rose from his seat and greeted him with proper courtesy. The Empress returned the courtly greeting with a graceful bow. She tried to maintain her composed smile, but the Emperor walked up to her, kissed her rosy cheek and suddenly lifted her into the air, spinning her around in a half-circle. 

“What were you and your adoptive father talking about so intently?”

“He offered his blessings for the child and the princess,” the Empress replied shyly. “He wishes for a strong heir upon whom you can rely, Your Majesty.” 

At her words, the Emperor lifted his eyes to Marquis Clepassé. To him, the Marquis was more than a political ally; he was a valuable counterweight to the influential Marquis Amien within the Privy Council. 

The Marquis was a man whose younger years had been spent entirely on the battlefield. He was said to have endured a harrowing time as a prisoner of war during the conflict with the neighbouring country of Barsako. When he finally returned, his older brother had succumbed to illness and his sister-in-law had tragically died in childbirth with their third child. 

Swan studied the middle-aged man, who regarded her and her husband with a stiff expression. The Marquis was a good man – though whether he was politically astute or a competent lord, she wasn’t entirely sure. What she did know was that he was someone her husband had chosen, and he showed unwavering affection for her daughter. 

While his behaviour towards Swan was sometimes formal and distant, he was always warm and affectionate towards Mirabella. He smiled at her like a true grandfather, often visiting the palace with an armful of presents and playing with her for hours. As a result, Mirabella adored him, as did his ward Tristan and his niece Liriette. 

Liriette, married to Grand Duke Calyps of Rivael, was one of Mirabella’s favourite people in Solam. Swan couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at the thought of how Mirabella might cherish Liriette’s unborn child as if it were her own sibling.

The Empress blushed deeply, clearly aware of the stares around them, and tried to wriggle out of his grasp. But the Emperor only held her tighter, his arms tightly around her as he lovingly caressed her belly.

“The Marquis has become a steadfast support to the Empress and Princess. Rest assured, your loyalty will not be forgotten.”

“Your Majesty’s words are too kind. My family and I are honoured simply to be associated with Her Majesty the Empress.”

Atlion’s lips curved into a gentle smile. Suddenly, a child’s voice echoed from beyond the door. In the palace, where loud voices and running footsteps were rare, there could only be one culprit: Mirabella.

Despite countless warnings not to shout or run through the corridors, Mirabella always flitted about like a hummingbird, chattering away like a songbird in a bright, high-pitched voice. 

Unlike her earlier years outside the palace, Mirabella now had a governess to ensure she ate well, slept soundly and was always well looked after. Her once petite frame had begun to grow, and she now bristled with the energy typical of children her age, putting many of Swan’s worries to rest.

Still, Swan often found herself remembering a time when her daughter had been pale and shy. People had once compared Mirabella to a doll, not only because of her beauty, but also because of her silence and slow responses compared to other children her age – a harsh judgement that haunted Swan.

Thinking back to the time when she had convinced herself that she was raising her daughter well despite this criticism, she felt an overwhelming sense of shame and regret.

Soon the door burst open and Mirabella came running in, her tiny feet pitter-pattering across the polished floor. Her little white hands, now stained with dirt, suggested a recent fascination with gardening. She must have been playing with the bulbs in the gardener’s care, clearly finding it a delightful pastime.