Run, Mail! - ✿ dusk blossoms ✿

The northern tower was foreboding. Though not short, its narrow structure made it feel cramped. Whatever purpose it had served in the past, its functionality seemed limited. A small, firmly locked door, just wide enough for an adult to pass through, stood as its entrance.

Chains and a padlock secured the door. The Emperor stared at it silently before reaching for the lock. The key fit perfectly.

With a click, the padlock was undone. Removing it from the latch, he unsheathed his sword to cut the chains. The metal seemed to slice effortlessly, as if it were soft as butter.

Using the key to open the padlock instead of cutting it was a small act of respect for his predecessor.

With all barriers removed, the door opened easily, requiring little force.

Inside, the space was dark. Once the door closed, not a sliver of light entered. The Emperor’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and he soon found a lamp on the wall. Expecting to light it manually, he was surprised to find it was a magical lamp.

The Emperor, familiar with such tools, ignited the lamp with a gesture.

The light was brighter than expected, illuminating the entire room. As the darkness receded, the hidden contents came into view.

The first thing that caught his eye was a portrait.

A portrait, and then—

“…!”

The Emperor fell to his knees, clutching his head. A piercing headache overwhelmed him, unlike anything he had ever experienced. His vision blurred, and the room seemed to tilt.

The chamber was modest. A bed, a table, and a few woven items were scattered about. The space was not extravagant but cozy—a personal living quarters.

His mind swirled as buried memories surged to the surface, enveloping him.

***

There had been a woman. She was quiet and gentle, her voice never rising even when emotions ran high. She preferred embroidery, particularly decorating clothing rather than handkerchiefs or plain fabric.

There had been a child. From a young age, the child was bright and uniquely talented. An old woman once declared the child’s destiny was to rise to the heavens. She was swiftly banished for speaking out of turn. Few paid the child any attention, but the child was content.

And there was the woman again, the quiet one who loved embroidery. She was the child’s mother. Together, they lived in a grand, resplendent palace.

The palace was vast and magnificent, but it was also eerily silent. At night, its empty halls turned cold and desolate. Yet, neither the mother nor the child felt truly lonely.

To the child, the mother was everything. To the mother, the child was her anchor. Together, they made any space feel serene, not desolate.

Though she was not lonely, the woman was often fearful. Despite no direct threats, she sometimes suffered from nightmares, perhaps because she was innately timid.

On nights when cold sweat drenched her back, she would clutch her child tightly and whisper:

“You’re the only one who can protect me. Van, promise me you’ll always protect your mother.”

The young child, without hesitation, would vow to do so.

The woman’s name was Sophia Alveche, the only daughter of a fallen baronial family and the Empire’s third Empress Consort.

Sophia had entered the palace at eighteen. The Emperor had not loved her passionately but had married her out of pity and a sense of responsibility. Her parents had died in a carriage accident caused by a noble under the Emperor’s authority.

As Consort, Sophia lived as though invisible. Her naturally reserved demeanor made her easy to overlook wherever she went.

The first empress consort, who had entered the palace a year earlier than Sophia, was notorious for her cruel nature. However, she didn’t go out of her way to suppress those who didn’t challenge her. Sophia’s days were uneventful but peaceful.

The turning point came when Sophia became pregnant.

Sophia was expecting a child. Naturally, it was the emperor’s. However, an unbelievable situation unfolded—no one believed her.

This stemmed from a misunderstanding. Years earlier, the emperor had been diagnosed as infertile. Though he wasn’t completely infertile but subfertile, the prolonged absence of children since the diagnosis had convinced the emperor and those around him of the physician’s mistake.

Sophia was unjustly branded as a woman who had committed adultery. Her protests fell on deaf ears, and she was confined to the top of an isolated annex.

The empty corridors were desolate, and her attendants were limited to a cook to prepare meals, a single maid to assist her, and a midwife. Even after giving birth, her circumstances remained unchanged.

After giving birth, Sophia cried for a month. Feeling pity for her, the midwife secretly brought in a priest to baptize the child. The child’s baptismal name was Van.

Years passed. The child grew up healthy and remarkably intelligent. Yet, with no one to acknowledge him apart from the maid and his mother, Van had no desire for recognition from others.

For the child, his entire world was his mother. And for Sophia, her son was her world. Their bond was extraordinary.

More time passed, and when the child turned seven, the truth about Sophia’s supposed adultery came to light. The revelation was sudden.

The catalyst was simple: a maid who had slept with the emperor while he was drunk became pregnant. Initially, the maid’s claims were dismissed, much like Sophia’s had been.

The difference, however, was that unlike Sophia, the maid refused to accept her fate quietly. She attempted s*icide to prove her innocence.

Her attempt was genuine, not a bluff, which caused a great uproar in the palace. For the first time in nearly a decade, the emperor summoned the royal physician for a reevaluation.

The results confirmed subfertility. The emperor was devastated.

Seven years after the child’s birth, the emperor finally summoned him to confirm his lineage. The child’s features resembled his mother’s, but his eyes unmistakably mirrored the emperor’s. Overwhelmed by guilt, the emperor acknowledged the boy as his own.

Though it was late, the emperor resolved to take responsibility. He ordered Sophia and her son to move from the desolate annex to the main palace. However, Sophia refused. She claimed that both she and her son were more comfortable where they were and declined additional attendants. She expressed her desire to continue living as they always had.

Since Sophia refused to move, the emperor took the initiative to visit her. He frequently visited the annex, treating her and the child with great care. Over time, Sophia’s heart softened slightly.

Around this time, the first empress consort became consumed with jealousy.

Her indignation wasn’t due to anything else but the fact that someone else had achieved what she couldn’t. For eight years, despite being loved, she hadn’t borne a child. Yet, a mere maid and a neglected concubine had managed to.

Upon hearing of the child’s exceptional intelligence, her jealousy intensified. The maid, already weakened by her earlier ordeal, suffered a miscarriage.

The first empress consort wanted nothing more than to destroy Sophia’s flawless child. However, the boy, now acknowledged as the emperor’s only heir, was untouchable. No matter how much power she wielded in the palace, she couldn’t harm him.

Her anger and envy turned toward Sophia instead.

It was a bright, sunny day. Taking advantage of the pleasant weather, Sophia and her son ventured onto the terrace. They set up a table in a sunny spot and enjoyed a meal. The boy was delighted that his mother had been smiling more often lately.

Although he disliked being formally addressed as “Your Highness” after being named the heir, his mother always reverted to calling him “Van” with just a bit of coaxing.

“My beloved Van.” He loved the warmth in her voice. He was happy.

Until, in the blink of an eye, Sophia collapsed in front of him.

“…Mother?”

It happened while they were eating lunch. Without warning, Sophia coughed up blood and fell to the ground. Her chair toppled over. The table and floor were smeared with blood. The boy shook his mother, but she didn’t respond. He called out to her repeatedly, but there was no answer.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly. A maid who came to clear the dishes screamed at the sight.

On the table was a bowl of tomato soup Sophia had made for her son.

The culprit was soon identified: the first empress consort. She had secretly poisoned Sophia. To call it “secretly” might be misleading, as she hadn’t bothered to cover her tracks.

The emperor had loved the first empress consort. Aside from his first wife, who had died young, she had been the greatest recipient of his affection. She was well aware of this and acted recklessly, confident that he wouldn’t punish her.

True to her expectations, the emperor couldn’t bring himself to condemn her. No matter how heinous her crime, he couldn’t bear to punish the woman he loved. The palace whispered about the tragedy, but nothing came of it.

The boy fell into a feverish state after witnessing his mother’s death. He was bedridden for a week before he woke up.

“…Did I have a mother?”

He no longer remembered her.

The emperor saw this as a blessing in disguise. It was better this way. He removed every trace of Sophia from the boy’s life, ensuring he wouldn’t recover his memories.

The official story was that Sophia had died in childbirth and that the boy had been raised in the annex for health reasons. Anyone who spoke otherwise was imprisoned.

In a way, the emperor was fortunate. Few knew the full truth about Sophia’s supposed adultery, the eventual vindication, or her murder by the first empress consort. These were dangerous topics, so people stayed silent.

Sophia had spent most of her time isolated, so few even knew her face.

Thus, Sophia’s existence was erased.

What the first empress consort hadn’t anticipated was this: while the emperor hadn’t loved Sophia, he loved her child.

Blood ties are a peculiar thing. The emperor felt an overwhelming affection for the child, spurred by the guilt of all he had failed to provide. To atone, he sought to cover his remorse with love.

For the child, the emperor filled the tower with countless mementos before locking its doors. Someday, perhaps long after his own passing, should the child ever regain their memories, those items would be there to guide them. There was also the possibility that the tower would remain sealed forever, but either way, it didn’t matter. For the emperor, the tower was a mechanism to ease his conscience, a way to unburden his guilt.

When the first empress consort eventually learned of the tower, she demanded its destruction. But the emperor refused. While he deeply loved the empress consort, he loved the child just as fiercely.

Ten years passed. When the child turned seventeen, the emperor fell gravely ill. A disease he had battled in his youth resurfaced, and the royal physicians declared there was nothing more they could do. The emperor lingered on his deathbed for six months.

After his passing, the empire held a grand funeral followed swiftly by the coronation of the new emperor. At seventeen, the child ascended to the throne. There was minor dissent, but the uprising was quickly suppressed. The new emperor wielded power far greater than that of his predecessor.

Shortly thereafter, the first empress consort met her end.

It was an accident. While traveling, her carriage overturned, killing her and three of her maids. Her sudden, unanticipated death shocked everyone who knew her.

That marked the beginning of the emperor’s sleepless nights.

Ignoring his insomnia led only to nightmares. Dreams that left no clear memories behind but relentlessly tormented the emperor. In these dreams, he found himself sinking into an abyss—endlessly dark and impossibly deep, as though there were no escape.

“Van.”

Something gripped his ankle, dragging him further down.

“You’re the only one who can protect me.”

The abyss was bottomless.

“Van, promise me you’ll always protect your mother.”

There was no end to the darkness.

At twenty-seven, the emperor opened the doors of the tower. The seven-year-old child awoke.

***