Rosalyn Delmart’s life was like a beautiful fairy tale, perfectly balanced between tragedy and comedy. On closer inspection, however, it was nothing more than a poorly crafted story, carefully edited to remove its sordid underbelly.

Nevertheless, to those who did not know the truth, it appeared flawless.

For example, being born the only daughter of the noble and respected House of Delmart was considered her first stroke of luck – but in reality it was far from that.

Just as her mother’s death was thought to be the only shadow cast over her life, but the truth was far more complex. Admired as a graceful and elegant lady, the Duchess Delmart had wandered lost in the depths of madness before finally falling to her death from a window – a shame her family chose to bury in silence.

Is it not proof enough of the contradiction in Rosalyn Delmart’s life that she, praised as the most perfect woman in society, was in fact nothing more than a madwoman?

Whenever his sister’s illness worsened, Vincent would claim that she had inherited her mother’s madness. And to some extent, Rosalyn believed it.

From the past to the present, a person of unsound mind had always been considered a disgrace. Of course, her father was no exception – he valued the opinions of others more than his own flesh and blood.

He never even attempted to treat his wife’s madness for fear that news of her condition would spread.

He refused to call a healer, even when his wife nearly strangled their young daughter in a fit of hysteria. Instead, he stood by and did nothing – a silent witness to his own family’s tragedy.

When her mother finally chose to take her own life, Rosalyn couldn’t help but wonder what was going through her mind as she watched her father orchestrate a grand funeral for the woman he had spent his entire life neglecting.

Did he even feel the weight of his own hypocrisy? Would there come a time when Rosalyn too would lose her place in his eyes? Would he one day long for her death, as he seemed to have wished for their mother’s? Or worse – would he be relieved when she was gone?

Those haunting thoughts consumed her, gnawing at her every waking moment.

What was undeniable, however, was that despite her mother’s descent into madness, Rosalyn had never strayed from the rigid mould her father had created for her.

As a child, her fear of him was far greater than her grief at losing her mother. The horror of his indifference overshadowed any grief she might have felt.

And yet she found herself desperately longing for even the smallest shred of affection he would occasionally show her, as if it were a mere act of charity. Her childhood became a constant struggle for her father’s approval and love.

By the time she reached adulthood, her life was adorned with the honours and accolades her father had carefully crafted for her, as if she were little more than an extension of his ambitions.

Even before her formal debut in society, Rosalyn was celebrated for her extraordinary beauty. And when she came of age, no one could deny that she was truly absolute perfection – a beauty that surpassed all others.

Under the strict guidance of Duke Delmart, Rosalyn became renowned not only for her breathtaking beauty, but also for her poise, elegance and refined manners.

In those days, when it was often whispered that the Empire had two rulers, there was no one in high society who didn’t admire Rosalyn Delmart – except perhaps her fiancé.

Older gentlemen and ladies were in awe of her graceful presence and impeccable manners. Young men were enchanted by her striking beauty and soothing voice, while girls her age looked up to her for the kindness and warmth she showed to everyone around her.

Rosalyn was a modest and devoted fiancée, always maintaining the proper decorum expected of her. Despite her graceful nature and unwavering devotion, Crown Prince Raffaello had nothing but contempt for her. He loathed even the thought of speaking to her and treated her with open contempt, not hesitating to humiliate her in front of others.

But his cruelty never really affected Rosalyn. She had never been kind to Raffaello out of any affection for him. She understood only too well that if she responded to his cruelty in kind, her father would lock her away in a dark, isolated room and punish her for stepping out of line.

In a world where her every move was dictated by the need to maintain her father’s approval, enduring Raffaello’s contempt was simply another cruel, inescapable part of her reality.

If she mirrored his cruel treatment, her father would lose no time in dragging her into a secluded room and beating her without a second thought.

There were never any exceptions – any deviation from the image her father had meticulously crafted for her was always met with severe punishment.

And so Rosalyn’s life became a never-ending cycle of compliance. She obeyed her father, always. Even when she wasn’t consciously aware of it, her eyes would often drift to the handsome silver-haired knight, but her body would always remain loyal to her arrogant fiancé.

It was a silent, unspoken battle between her desires and the relentless chains of expectation that kept her away from everything her heart longed for.

In everything, Rosalyn never once strayed from the path her father had set for her. She turned away from the true desires of her heart and moved only in the direction her father demanded, regardless of the personal cost.

At least she had learned to separate her own desires from the life she was destined to lead. To become Raffaello’s Empress and to be the perfect daughter her father could be proud of – that was the purpose of her existence, the goal of her life.

The admiration of high society felt like a medal she had earned through relentless sacrifice, the reward for living in constant fear that even the smallest imperfection might shatter the facade of perfection her father insisted upon. Every smile and compliment from others was a bitter reminder that her worth was measured only by her ability to live up to his impossible standards.

But the dirt she had carefully shed did not simply disappear. One day it returned – without warning, without form, but undeniably present.

Whenever she felt intense anxiety, it would suddenly appear, clutching her breath and shaking her violently.

In the midst of her frantic breathing, the lingering image of her mother strangling her would surface, only to be replaced by the fear that someone might be watching her in this state.

By the time she had become the object of adoration and accustomed to endless praise, she had truly reigned as the queen of high society. Yet it had never brought her any sense of exhilaration. She was only afraid – afraid of the vast emptiness beneath her feet, unsure when she might fall into the abyss below.

As her seizure began, her father’s sharp gaze grew colder, filled with deep contempt, without a trace of concern for his daughter. He had always been indifferent to Rosalyn. Still, the series of events that followed were never what she had wished for.

Not long after Raffaello ascended the throne as Emperor, Imperial knights and soldiers suddenly invaded her duchy.

At that moment, she had no idea what was about to happen. Even when her father was dragged into the garden by the soldiers, she could not fully comprehend the situation.

For a long time, the presence of that man had lingered in Rosalyn’s heart, but he had always remained on the edges of her vision.

But when he drew his sword and raised it high – and in a flash, like a bolt of lightning, struck down her father, severing his head from his body in an instant – even at that moment, Rosalyn could not fully comprehend what had happened.

Vincent, standing beside her, let out a scream so raw and piercing that it seemed his voice itself might shatter. Meanwhile, Rosalyn stood frozen, her eyes wide as she stared blankly at the horrific scene before her. Slowly, her gaze fell on the eyes of the man responsible.

The blood, stark against his pale skin, seemed almost more vivid in contrast – perhaps due to his disturbingly fair complexion.

Despite the fact that he had just taken a life, his face showed no emotion, no sign of remorse, as if the act of violence had meant nothing to him.

Yet he did not look away from Rosalyn. Instead, he casually wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, his gaze never wavering.

He seemed more suited to holding a prayer book than a sword. Rosalyn had once secretly admired the elegance of his slender fingers, but that fleeting illusion was now shattered beyond recognition.

His blue eyes, dull and cloudy like the sky on a foggy day, met hers for a moment before moving away, but Rosalyn refused to look away.

In that moment, Rosalyn understood that a chapter of her life had come to an irreversible end, all at the hands of Johannes Moore. And in that brutal realisation, she knew that what had happened was not salvation at all.

She understood, with a clarity that settled deep within her, that it had never been salvation at all.

***

Beyond the window, the sky slowly brightened, casting a pale light across the room. Rosalyn, curled up in the corner of the large bed, watched quietly as the first rays of dawn stretched across the horizon.

Another sleepless night had passed without her noticing.

She had always struggled with insomnia, but it had become much worse since her imprisonment began.

With the servants long gone and only her guards left, she never found a moment’s peace in the cold, desolate silence of the castle. It was a place that felt empty – no warmth, no comfort – just the weight of isolation pressing down on her with each passing hour.

Perhaps it was because her father was no longer around and she did not see Vincent as often as she had before. The frequency of her breathing spells had decreased considerably from before, but she still often woke abruptly from brief moments of sleep, gasping for air.

On nights when opening the window and breathing in the fresh air wasn’t enough to calm her breathing, she would inevitably rush out onto the terrace.

Even as she ran frantically, she couldn’t help but shrink her body as much as possible, trying to steady her breathing for fear that a soldier might spot her.

“If only I could at least see the lake.”

Slowly closing her eyes, Rosalyn imagined the lake stretching out beneath the dark night, its serene landscape unfolding in her mind.

On a quiet night, as she watched the gentle ripples of the water, a sense of peace would gradually settle within her, despite the turmoil in her mind. It was the only time Rozalin could truly breathe with ease.

But in her current situation, under constant guard by the soldiers, such a thing was impossible.

If she were to suffer a sudden attack in this fragile state, the consequences would undoubtedly be severe.

Being branded as the daughter of a traitor was something she could no longer change, but being labelled a madwoman – that was a fate she could never accept, even in death.

If that were to happen, wouldn’t all her years of carefully cultivating the image of a perfect lady be rendered meaningless? Even if it had all been an illusion, the truth was that she hadn’t lived in fear because of the illusion itself.

No, the fear had always been that someone would see through the polished surface and expose the rot that festered beneath her smooth and immaculate exterior. That was what really frightened her.

As she desperately tried to push reality from her mind, focusing endlessly on the image of the lake at night, a sudden, sharp knock on the door broke the silence. With a slow, reluctant movement, she rose and opened it.

There, standing before her, was a soldier holding a silver tray with her meal. He looked down at her, his expression slightly condescending. Behind him stood another soldier, a strange, almost mocking smile on his lips.