“I do too.” 

“I love you so much. 

“I love you more. 

“No matter how much you love me, I love you more.” 

Swan lifted her head. The sunlight was bright and reflected in her eyes. Atlion showered her with kisses – on her cheeks, forehead, eyelids and lips. As the faint sound of a child’s cry reached her, he leaned close to her ear and murmured.

“So don’t cry any more. I won’t be in pain, so don’t cry, Swan.”

A child with dark brown hair and green eyes, her hair tied in two high braids that resembled small apples – her name was Muriel Dianton, the only daughter of Theodor Dianton.

Swan watched in fascination as the apple-like child bit into a real apple and crunched away. She appeared to be about three years old, but her unusually reserved and quiet manner reminded Swan of a young Mirabella. It was endearing. Unlike Mirabella, who had lived in Cotley and was less expressive, Muriel smiled and cried freely and looked healthy with no signs of frailty.

“What’s our baby’s name?” 

Swan asked Muriel, although she already knew. Muriel’s mother had given her name, age, likes and dislikes in detail. The nearby maids had also given clear answers, so there was no need to ask. But Swan asked anyway, just to make conversation.

“Muriel…” 

Even her lisped pronunciation was endearing. Though she had inherited her mother’s brown hair and green eyes, her features were an unmistakable reflection of Theodor.

Despite having three children of her own, Swan found herself completely in love with this tiny child. It was strange, especially since she had a daughter and could vividly remember Mirabella being just as small and acorn-shaped at that age. Still, she found Theodor’s daughter extraordinarily charming.

“Huh?” 

Mirabella, walking through the grand arched entrance of the high corridor, caught sight of the rounded back of the child’s head and made her presence known. Swan lifted her head to look at her daughter. Lemon-yellow hair, bright as the morning sun, was neatly braided behind her ears and adorned with flower-shaped ornaments of emeralds and gold. Mirabella ran towards them.

Now eleven years old, Mirabella had grown considerably. Swan’s brow furrowed for a moment before she let out a deep sigh, her eyes fixed on her daughter clutching the hem of her dress.

“Is that Myu?” 

Mirabella, who had already shortened Muriel’s name to ‘Myu’, leaned forward curiously, examining the child as if fascinated.

“Do you remember? Uncle Theo?”

“A little.” 

Mirabella lifted her thumb and forefinger slightly to indicate how dimly she remembered, smiling as she did so. Muriel blinked her wide eyes and looked between Swan and Mirabella.

“She looks like Uncle Theo.” 

“Do you really remember Uncle Theo?”

Swan asked. Mirabella, who had been idly playing with Muriel’s chubby cheeks – even though she had chubby cheeks of her own – turned her head. It was impossible for Mirabella to remember Theo. She was only three years old when they parted, and even if they met now, those memories would be dim ten years later. 

“No.”

“Then?” 

“He just feels like Uncle Theo. It’s a feeling.” 

Swan wanted to ask what that meant, but instead let out a small, meaningless chuckle. Maybe it wasn’t the memory itself that Mirabella remembered, but the lingering impression after the memory had faded. Especially since Swan had occasionally spoken of Theo in her presence. 

When Theo, who had settled in a remote part of Dale, sent letters from time to time – very rarely – Swan would stroke Mirabella’s round little head and tell her: “There’s an uncle who loved you very much. 

“In the evening, Muriel’s mum and dad are visiting the palace.” 

“Does that mean there will be a banquet?” 

“No, we’ll just have a simple dinner.” 

“A banquet would have been better.”

Unlike Atlion, who disliked mingling with people, Mirabella enjoyed balls, salons and gatherings with children her own age. They had once thought that she would grow up to be a shy child because she had been so reserved and timid as a toddler, but that hadn’t been the case at all. 

Perhaps it was the influence of the late Empress Dowager two years ago. Mirabella was lively, outgoing and adored by all – and no one in the Imperial Palace could resist loving her in return. 

“Muriel will probably like dancing too. Don’t you, Muriel?” 

Mirabella asked the three-year-old, but Muriel didn’t answer, too busy nibbling at her apple pie. It was while Mirabella was busy patting the child’s head that the moment unfolded. 

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor – the twins’, due for their early morning rhetoric lesson. Swan turned to see her sons. The eight-year-old twins, draped in navy blue cloaks like miniature adults, entered the corridor one by one.

“Murica?” 

“It’s Muriel.” 

Rigen asked, his voice calm and curious. One of his eyes, the green one like her mother’s, twinkled as he bypassed Mirabella and sat across from the child. He rested his elbows on the table and stared intently into Muriel’s face. The young prince’s expression was unreadable. 

“This is the first time I have met a commoner.” 

His tone was flat. Mirabella, who had been holding Muriel protectively like a younger sibling, stared at her brother with a cold expression. Rigen straightened his arms and leaned back in his chair. 

Klaus, who had been discussing rhetoric lessons with Swan, followed his brother’s gaze to where it landed. 

“Is that Murica?” 

“It’s Muriel. Not Murica, and not Muria either.” 

It seemed that Mirabella was the only one who had remembered the child’s name correctly. She glared at her younger brothers, her temper flaring. Unlike Mirabella, the princes had no memories of Theo and no particular affection for him. Though Swan occasionally mentioned Theo, it was nothing like the close bond Mirabella had once shared with him.

Moreover, the brothers, who bore a strong resemblance to their father in appearance and temperament, had inherited his stubborn and unyielding emotions. Their impression of Theo was, at best, indifferent. They didn’t understand why their mother exchanged letters with a commoner, or why his child was allowed to enter the Imperial Palace.

In other words, the twins simply found Muriel fascinating. There was no malice in their feelings, but they couldn’t ignore the subtle influence of their father. The idea that the great and exalted Emperor of Solerium, who ruled over all that blossomed and flourished beneath the heavens, could show even a hint of discomfort towards a mere commoner – it didn’t sit well with them.

To them, their father was a sovereign who stood above all creation, who ruled the world. Yet here he was, stiffening his countenance at a man of no rank. Klaus stared at the small, round-faced child, his gaze unwavering. 

Meanwhile, Mirabella held the little one in her arms.Isn’t she adorable? 

The brothers didn’t answer. Though they refrained from showing their irritation in front of their mother, their displeasure was unmistakable.

To them, the commoners were mere subjects of governance, to be discussed in their lessons on statecraft. Like the fairies or monsters of tales and legends, the commoners were curious and vaguely distant figures. Although they made up more than half of the world, they existed only in writing for the twin princes.

Of course, commoners didn’t have one eye or two noses, but it was still strange to stand face to face with one. It wasn’t that the child in front of them was physically different, but her speech, her accent and everything else felt unlike their own. Even the palace servants had adopted the unique courtly accent of Solam, making this commoner’s child seem all the more distinctive.

“Say she’s cute!” 

Mirabella shouted at them, her voice sharp and demanding, breaking their composed expressions as they stared neutrally at the child.

“Yes, she’s cute.”

Klaus said first. His tone was indifferent, almost mechanical. Rigen, following his brother’s example, threw out his own casual reply.

“Yes, she’s cute.” 

Mirabella frowned even harder. Seeing the escalating tension, Swan stepped in to calm her children.

“Mirabella, that’s enough.”

“But…”

“You shouldn’t behave like that with a little child.”

To the princes, their mother had always been the elegant and beautiful Empress. They had no idea that Swan had spent half her life as a commoner. By the time the twins were born, Swan had been reunited with their biological father, the Marquis of Clepassé. As a result, the brothers couldn’t even imagine what their mother’s youth might have been like. 

Of course, Mirabella didn’t know all the details either, having been very young at the time. But at least she knew that she had lived outside the court during her early years. Swan had advised her not to share this information with her younger brothers, and Mirabella had obediently kept it to herself. 

“If you bother Myu, I won’t let you get away with it!”

Mirabella snapped, glaring at her younger brothers. To an outsider, it might have seemed that the three-year-old in her arms was her real sibling, not the boys in front of her. 

The twins exchanged incredulous glances, finding their older sister’s protectiveness baffling. 

“I mean it!”

Klaus, unimpressed by her childish outburst, turned his head dismissively. But his expression changed when he heard the soft echo of approaching footsteps and the low murmur of voices. Rising from his seat, he announced.

“Father is coming. 

***  

“Swan.”

Atlion murmured, pressing his lips to the pale nape of her neck, exposed beneath her upswept hair. His arms wrapped around her slender waist and Swan, accustomed to his embrace, nestled against his chest, her face resting against him.

Atlion’s eyes drifted to Theo’s child. Theodor Dianton had settled years ago on the border where Dale and Kailak met. It was said that he ran a small trade caravan, one that was moderately profitable and allowed him to live a life without hardship.

“Then, Your Majesty the Emperor, please withdraw your favour.”

Was it pride or dignity? If he had simply accepted all the help offered, perhaps it wouldn’t have felt so difficult. He studied the child, who was almost an exact replica of Theodor Dianton, down to the smallest detail. It was said that Theodor Dianton had seen the child three years ago.

Atlion considered this a fortunate thing. If he’d heard that Theo couldn’t forget Swan and lived his life in lonely misery, it would have disgusted him even more. Whatever Theo’s feelings may have been when he married, the fact that he now had a child led Atlion to believe that there was no room for lingering feelings towards Swan.

Whether it was familial love or romantic love, Atlion believed that he alone was enough to love Swan. And that he alone should be the one to receive her love. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else claiming it. That love could extend to their children, but the line stopped there.

“Father.”

“Klaus.”

The boy, who looked eerily like himself, approached. Atlion loosened his arms around Swan for a moment, then picked up his eight-year-old son. The twins resembled him in every way. The arch of their brows, the strong lines of their noses and lips, the way they suppressed their emotions in all matters and their impassive expressions. Distant and indifferent, they were like carbon copies of his younger self.

It was because of this resemblance that the late Empress Dowager had found it difficult to show affection for the twins.