Mail burst out of the reception room, brushing off the desperate pleas of Iseline, who begged for her promise. She nodded perfunctorily and left, walking down the corridor in a daze.

She needed to see the emperor.

What she had learned was overwhelming. Each revelation Iseline shared was far from trivial. Though she herself seemed unaware of the gravity of her words, Mail could barely stay seated as the conversation unfolded.

She moved so hastily that she stumbled, nearly falling before catching herself on a windowsill. She paused, using the moment to calm her racing heart. She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and found her breathing steadier, though her thoughts remained in turmoil.

A whirlwind of emotions roiled within her, impossible to untangle. She clenched her eyes shut, then reopened them with determination.

“Marquis Bolthen.”

She now knew the culprit. The marquis was the one behind it all.

Iseline had recounted how, while staying with a distant relative’s family in the countryside, the marquis had approached her one day. Twirling his suspiciously curled mustache, he had made an equally suspicious proposal: I will make you the emperor’s woman. All you have to do is follow my instructions.

Having nothing to lose, Iseline had agreed. What do I need to do? she asked. The marquis gave her a list of tasks.

The tasks, however, seemed to have little to do with becoming the emperor’s woman. First, she was told to lose weight—to an almost pitiable degree. Though Iseline had been slender to begin with, she spent nearly three months starving herself.

Once she was gaunt and frail, the next step was embroidery. Not on simple fabric or handkerchiefs, but intricate designs stitched into fully woven textiles. When she had mastered this, she was taught how to conduct herself: to express excessive gratitude when receiving help, to apologize profusely for even minor mistakes. No explanations were given for these peculiar lessons.

By the time Iseline began doubting the marquis’s motives, he brought her to an event attended by the emperor. It was there, for the first time, that she began to trust him. The emperor, upon noticing Iseline, could not tear his gaze away.

From that moment, things progressed rapidly. By their third meeting, Iseline had moved from her relatives’ estate to a residence in the imperial palace. She didn’t understand the full details, but she was overjoyed, simply reveling in the luxuries she now enjoyed. The marquis left her with a few final instructions:

• Never raise your voice, no matter the situation.
• Maintain the demeanor you’ve been taught.
• Occasionally let the emperor see you embroidering.
• Keep your fragile appearance.

As long as she adhered to these rules, she would remain close to the emperor. The marquis’s assurance proved true, and Iseline spent three years under the emperor’s care and protection.

But now, as Iseline recounted her story, she realized something: the emperor’s care was limited to protection alone. Though he safeguarded her and treated her kindly, there was nothing more to it. This realization came to her only after she had unburdened herself to Mail.

Mail, however, experienced a revelation far greater than Iseline’s. She now understood why the marquis had orchestrated those actions, why the emperor had been unable to look away upon seeing Iseline for the first time.

And she remembered the contents of her nightmares: the emperor’s rage over the death of his beloved, the inferno that engulfed the empire as he sought vengeance against the culprit.

In the past, Mail had thought that the Emperor’s actions were driven by excessive love for his lover. She believed he had lost his reason because of his overwhelming affection, which turned to madness upon her death. However, now she saw a different truth.

It wasn’t simply about a lover.

What the Emperor had lost was, once again, his mother.

“How could you do such a thing…”

The Emperor had projected the image of his deceased birth mother onto Iseline. The Marquis had orchestrated it to ensure that outcome. What reason could he have had? Perhaps the nightmare’s future hinted at the clear purpose behind his actions.

The Marquis had chosen the cruelest method to cut open the Emperor’s trauma, intending to drive him mad and destroy him.

Mail started walking again. She passed through the corridor, exited the building, and began walking along the path outside. She was heading toward the main palace.

Why had the Marquis planned such a thing? What could he gain by turning the Emperor into a madman? Was it the groundwork for a rebellion? Did he believe that a deranged Emperor could be easily dethroned?

Mail quickened her pace. The inner motives of the monster, she thought, would eventually come to light once he was captured and interrogated. Right now, there was something more urgent. Her heart raced, and her breathing grew uneven again.

She didn’t have to leave.

She didn’t have to leave the Emperor—didn’t have to leave Van.

It wasn’t a matter of falling out of love with one person and turning to another. From the beginning, Iseline had unconsciously represented a stand-in for the Emperor’s mother.

Wanting him wasn’t an act of stealing someone else’s lover. It wasn’t selfish or a sinful desire that should provoke guilt.

It was okay to love him.

It was finally okay to feel that way.

Mail wanted to hold the Emperor tightly. She wanted to cast away all her earlier resolutions about leaving him, to embrace him with all her strength, and share her honest feelings.

Her urgency made her steps quicken instinctively. Mail soon arrived at the main palace.

But she couldn’t meet the Emperor.

“His Majesty is currently…”

Banther, who was faithfully guarding the office, hesitated, visibly torn. After a moment of deliberation, he finally gave in and told Mail where the Emperor had gone and, along with that, the reason why.

The northern tower.

This time, Mail didn’t walk.

The headache subsided. The Emperor stood there silently.

Directly in front of him was a portrait. In the painting, a pale, emaciated woman with radiant silver hair and striking sky-blue eyes smiled, capturing the viewer’s gaze.

“Van…”

A faint voice echoed in his mind. The Emperor lowered his gaze. Beneath the portrait was a small table. Beside it stood a bed. To the right of the bed was a round table. Looking further to the right revealed a couple of meaningless sculptures and a plain wardrobe.

“…Ha.”

The Emperor laughed, the sound fragile as though it might shatter at any moment.

“So, this was it.”

His voice trembled.

“This was it.”

The words came out choked. It was only then that he realized he was crying.

Suddenly, everything felt unbearable. Standing, speaking, even breathing—all of it felt excruciating. She couldn’t do anything. His mother, long dead, couldn’t do anything no matter what he did.

Tears streaked down his cheeks, dripping from his chin. The Emperor reached out his hand. As though touching an illusion, he ran his fingers over the bed. It felt familiar. Had they moved everything from the private palace here? In a way, this was her legacy. Not just the bed but everything in the tower was hers.

These were once Sophia’s belongings, remnants of her life. On the table lay a few documents. Through blurry vision, the Emperor scanned them. Sophia’s cause of death. The poison used at the time. Circumstances. Evidence. Every page pointed to the identity of the culprit. The documents also contained proof that could be used to apprehend them.

Through this, the Emperor understood why the late Emperor had left this tower and why he had locked its door.

The late Emperor had loved the First Empress Consort. That was why he couldn’t bring himself to execute her personally or even witness her execution. But at the same time, he loved his child as well. If, someday after his death, the child sought revenge, he wanted to provide the means to do so.

The late Emperor had refused to give up anything. He was selfish—too selfish, to the point of cruelty.

The Emperor collapsed to his knees, falling as though he had crumbled. A laugh escaped his lips, mingled with sobs.

“Father…”

The title, addressed to someone who wasn’t there, dissipated into the air.

“What am I supposed to do?”

His voice was empty, hollow.

“There’s no one left to capture. The one who should atone is already gone. What am I supposed to do?”

It was unbearable. It hurt, unbearably so. Even breathing felt like an act he shouldn’t be allowed to perform.

Yet there was nothing he could do to alleviate it. There was no one left to resent, so all the emotions enveloping him hovered aimlessly before crashing back onto him.

Longing. Rage. Sorrow. Guilt. Emptiness.

They mingled, stabbing at his chest, indistinguishable from one another.

“My beloved Van…”

The familiar voice was painful. It felt as if blood was flowing from reopened wounds. The memory etched into the mind of a seven-year-old child was so vivid, so undiminished by time, that it overtook his consciousness in its entirety.

The crimson blood staining the table and floor. The unmoving body lying there. The child, who had sworn countless times to protect his mother as her body grew cold, had been powerless to do anything.

The Emperor lowered his head. A breath escaped him, more like a sigh. He wiped his cheeks. The tears soaking his hand felt unreal. It was a strange sensation—though he was physically here, it was as if he had been transported back to that moment when his entire world had crumbled.

“Ugh…”

A groan slipped out. His chest tightened. Heat rose to his eyes. Like an apparition, a young boy appeared in his mind, his hollow eyes brimming with tears, crying out.

Why couldn’t you protect her?

It was just you. There was no one else but you.

She asked you to protect her.

She begged you to protect her…

“Stop…”

“Van.”

He flinched. For a moment, the Emperor thought he was hearing things. He raised his head, startled.

Before him was a face, filling his vision. Her green eyes were vivid and alive. The Emperor froze for a fleeting moment, his thoughts and movements halting as he stared at her. Then he realized—this wasn’t an illusion. She was real.

How was she here? He hadn’t even noticed the door opening. Was this truly not a hallucination?

His body moved before his mind could catch up. The Emperor reached out, pulling Mail into an embrace. His arms wrapped around her waist, and his forehead pressed against her. She was warm. She was real. Like a lie, the pain that had gripped him began to lose its power. It truly felt like a miracle.

“Mail.”

“…Yes, Van.”

“…Mail.”

Suddenly, he remembered why he had opened the tower. It was because of her. Because he didn’t want to lose this warmth. No matter how much pain resided in this place, he felt he could endure it as long as he could hold onto her.

“Mail.”

She didn’t respond with words. Instead, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around him, pulling him closer. In that moment, an inexplicable sense of relief surged through him. The Emperor exhaled. It no longer felt unbearable. Simply existing was no longer an agonizing burden.

“Mail.”

He repeated her name over and over, as though savoring it. The repetition never grew tiresome. The child who had once lost his entire world, who had drowned in guilt and despair, found a new world. A different world—one that was now everything to him.

He could hear the sound of his heartbeat. The Emperor closed his eyes. The reason to keep living was holding him close.