“If you don’t want to end up a fool like me, just spread your legs for a knight. It would be better if the Emperor were involved, but if you want to make him work for it, Robein would be a better choice. You’re a beautiful woman – I’m sure they’ll go mad for you.”

His voice was cold as ice, as if he were ordering her to become nothing more than a concubine. 

Seemingly satisfied with the release of his anger, Vincent carelessly let go of whatever it was he was holding. The sudden release caused Rosalyn to stumble, lose her balance and fall to the floor. 

Vincent looked down at her crumpled form, his lips curling into a sneer before he turned on his heel and stormed out the door without a second glance.

After Vincent left, Rosalyn stayed where she was, struggling to catch her breath. But the attack had already begun, and instead of easing, it only got worse. 

Her chest tightened, her throat constricted as she clawed at her throat, gasping for air. 

She had to get to the terrace. 

The fresh air had always brought her relief. This single thought consumed her, drowning out everything else. 

Her vision swam, her steps unsteady, but she forced her trembling legs to move. One step, then another. She stumbled out of her room, driven by sheer desperation. 

The sound of her ragged breathing echoed through the empty corridor, harsh and hollow, as if the walls themselves were swallowing her up.

No matter how many times Rosalyn had endured it, the fear of suffocation never became familiar – it never dulled or lessened with experience. 

As she gasped for air, involuntary tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision. She hadn’t made it halfway down the corridor before the world began to spin around her. 

Desperately, she reached for the wall, but her trembling hands slid uselessly along the cold surface, unable to find support. Her legs gave out beneath her and she collapsed to her knees, her body curled up like a fish thrown onto dry land, gasping, struggling – fighting for breath that refused to come. 

Then, suddenly, a long shadow stretched across her blurred vision. 

Had Vincent returned? 

A surge of fear gripped her chest, but when she forced herself to raise her head, she realised it wasn’t him. 

And at that moment, her expression cracked – something between relief and despair flickering across her face.

As she exhaled sharply, a moan escaped her parted, reddened lips. 

‘Moore.’ 

The moment her gaze met those cold, unfeeling blue eyes, she was struck with a chilling certainty – this was the end. 

Even as her consciousness faltered, the weight of despair bore down on her with crushing clarity. Her face went blank, drained of all expression. 

Soon the Emperor would stand before the high society and speak of her disgrace with that ever-cheerful smile. She could see it now – the way her name would be passed from mouth to mouth, laced with madness and shame, repeated endlessly like some absurd joke. 

And yet, despite everything, despite the looming finality of it all, what frightened Rosalyn most was not death itself. 

It was the thought of her lifelong illusions shattering into nothingness – fragile and meaningless, yet the only thing she had ever clung to.

Once the flood of dark thoughts began, they spiralled out of control, dragging her deeper into disorientation. Her mind blurred, her senses dulled. 

Lost in the chaos of her own thoughts, she wasn’t even aware that Johannes was so close.

Johannes Moore crouched down and dropped to one knee in front of Rosalyn. She was trembling, her wide, frightened eyes fixed on him as he reached out. 

Without hesitation, he grabbed the back of her head, his other hand pressing tightly over her mouth. His hands were large – much larger than her delicate face – and in an instant they covered not only her lips but also her nose, cutting off her breath completely. 

Panic surged through Rosalyn as she instinctively gasped for air, her hands flying up to claw at his grip, desperate for air. 

“Don’t inhale – just exhale.” 

His voice was calm, firm. A calm command against the rising chaos in her mind.

Johannes didn’t pull his hand away from hers. Instead, he spoke softly, his voice steady and even. There was no urgency, no insistence – just calm neutrality. 

There was also none of the cold contempt she had become so accustomed to from her own family. 

Rosalyn’s bewildered eyes remained fixed on him as she tried to follow his instructions, her breathing still ragged and uneven. Her trembling fingers gripped the hand that covered her face, struggling to exhale as he instructed. 

Johannes remained still, his grip firm yet controlled, waiting patiently for her breathing to stabilise. 

Time passed in silence. 

Slowly, the suffocating panic began to subside and Rosalyn felt her breathing begin to steady. Though her body was still weak, her chest no longer felt like it was going to collapse. 

Cold sweat clung to her skin, and when she lifted her gaze, her violet eyes – glassy and exhausted – locked with his. 

There was no strength left in her. Only the silent, helpless rhythm of her breath as she looked up at him.

At such a short distance, their eyes met.

It was then that Rosalyn realized—this was the first time she had ever seen him this close.

Her reflection was strikingly clear in his cold blue eyes, yet his face remained utterly devoid of emotion.

She had grown used to this sight, to the impassive expression that revealed nothing. And perhaps because of that, a faint, wry smile touched her lips—one tinged with quiet self-mockery.

But the sound that escaped her mouth was barely more than a shallow breath, fragile and fleeting.

Come to think of it, he had always been like that. 

Whether in the past or now, he could have just ignored her. It would have been easier – even expected. And if he had turned away, no one would have blamed him.

But he never did. 

Rosalyn took a slow, deep breath, breaking the gaze that had lingered between them like a thread stretched too thin. 

His kindness was never overwhelming, never forceful. Instead, it seeped in quietly, digging deep at a leisurely pace, like an unstoppable tide, pulling her in before she even realised she was drifting.

***

In noble society, it was traditional for the children of high-ranking families to undergo a formal debutante process before they could officially enter the palace and meet the Emperor and Empress. Exceptions were made for those engaged to members of the Imperial Family, but Rosalyn had been an exception long before her engagement to Raphael. 

Even as a child, she had visited the palace and stood in the presence of the Emperor and Empress before she had the right to do so. Not because she wanted to, but because she never knew how to refuse. An obedient daughter would never defy her father. 

In those days, the power of the Delmart ducal family was absolute – so absolute that even when the Duke openly flouted palace protocol, no one dared reprimand him. The rules were for others, not for him. And certainly not for the daughter who had been moulded by his will.

The Duke of Delmart worked tirelessly to ensure his only daughter’s place at the side of the future ruler. Rosalyn was already considered the ideal bride – a flawless candidate sought after by the most powerful nobles – so the task was not difficult. 

It was during one of those carefully arranged meetings that Rosalyn first laid eyes on Johannes Moore. 

By then, the entire continent was abuzz with news of the youngest emperor in history. His sudden rise was the subject of endless discussion, but equally noteworthy was the man at his side – the newly appointed Lombard, the Emperor’s right hand. 

Traditionally, the Lombard was chosen on the basis of skill, but in practice the position had always been filled by nobles of distinguished lineage. Johannes Moore, however, was a complete anomaly. A man with no great family name, no inherited influence – an exception in every sense of the word.

There was no doubt of Johannes Moore’s exceptional skills as a knight, but his origins remained shrouded in mystery. Whispers circulated in noble circles, speculating that since no noble house bore the surname Moore, he might be an illegitimate child of some noble lineage – an unacknowledged son cast into obscurity. 

But amidst all the speculation, another piece of news captivated the young women of high society. 

Anyone who laid eyes on the new knight agreed – his beauty was almost otherworldly. His presence alone was enough to take the breath away from a room. 

His striking silver hair, a rarity on the continent, only added to the mystery surrounding him. Some questioned whether he was of pagan descent, but such rumours mattered little to the women who worshipped him. If anything, they added to his allure and made him all the more unforgettable.

It was the same with Rosalyn’s friends. They listened to the knights’ tales with little interest, their expressions bored and indifferent. But the moment Johannes Moore’s name was mentioned, their eyes would light up, and with unmistakable excitement they’d join in”Ah, the handsome knight”. 

The rumours about him? They gave them little thought, dismissing them as nothing more than the jealous mutterings of men who resented his presence. 

And when Rosalyn saw him for the first time, she understood why. 

Johannes Moore wasn’t just handsome – he was remarkable. The kind of man whose beauty could not be overlooked, no matter how hard one tried.

His silver hair held an almost otherworldly mystery, shimmering in a way that made him seem untouchable. His eyes – greyish-blue and utterly devoid of emotion – were both languid and captivating, commanding attention despite their cold indifference. 

And then there were his lips, as red as a ripe pomegranate, a striking contrast to his pale complexion. It was easy to see why so many admired his appearance, why his presence made an impression that lingered long after he was gone. 

Yet for all his beauty, there was no trace of warmth in his gaze. Those cold, unreadable eyes made it clear – Johannes Moore was a man who kept his distance from the world. 

It was the first impression he made on Rosalyn.

Whenever Rosalyn visited the palace, Johannes was always there – standing beside Raphael like an unwavering shadow. Yet despite seeing him so often, they never really spoke. 

Even when their eyes met, it was nothing more than a fleeting exchange, a glance that held no meaning before slipping away. 

This remained true even after she officially became Raphael’s fiancée. 

It wasn’t until after her debut that they had their first real conversation.

Raised with the belief that it was her duty to become Empress, Rosalyn had never been the most romantic of girls. The weight of expectation had left little room for daydreaming. 

But when it came to her debut – a once-in-a-lifetime event – she couldn’t help but feel a quiet thrill of excitement, just like any other young woman. 

Draped in a lavender gown that reflected the colour of her eyes, with a delicate pearl necklace around her slender neck, she was breathtaking. A picture of grace and nobility. 

Even though the late Emperor’s health was failing, he took the time to give her a warm smile, his voice soft as he whispered, “Today you are the most beautiful lady in the palace”.

It wasn’t just that. 

The praise that usually surrounded her felt different that day – sweeter, more genuine. For the first time in a long time, she felt as if she were floating, weightless, carried by something far lighter than duty. 

With a heart full of excitement, she took to the dance floor for her first waltz, her father leading her with practiced grace. And then it was Raphael’s turn. 

Perhaps it was her father’s presence that made him more reserved than usual, his demeanour formal as he escorted her to the centre of the great hall. 

The music swelled around them, a soft and enchanting melody, and as she moved across the polished marble floor, the sensation was almost intoxicating. 

For a fleeting moment, it felt like magic.