Chapter 10.8

“You.”

The Emperor twisted his body and stared intently at Syria. Seeing his ominous expression, which had seemed to calm down for a moment, made her instinctively shrink her shoulders.

As Syria waited for the Emperor’s next words, thankfully, a saving voice interrupted.

“Your Majesty, do you have any orders for my daughter?”

A quiet yet powerful voice—it was Duke Dronia. The Emperor frowned as he looked at Miland, who had rushed through the crowd. Even when attending banquets, the Duke rarely came close.

“…Duke Miland, it’s been a while.”

With such important people gathering in a corner near the wall, the back of the hall buzzed with whispers. Before the banquet even properly started, people craned their necks to see what was happening, or looked on in fear.

‘Let’s just give it back.’

Syria sensed that the Emperor was angry because he felt ignored. She’d planned to refuse from the start, so she subtly handed the box to Alpen.

But Alpen pretended not to see the box she was offering, so Syria respectfully placed it atop her folded hands. Now was not the time to be greedy for a dazzlingly expensive jewel.

“Do you have something to say to my daughter?”

“You’re speaking properly in front of me today.”

Karl twisted his lips as he spoke. Still, Miland replied in his usual manner.

“It’s been so long since I last saw you, Your Majesty, I suppose I feel glad.”

“Hahaha… What nonsense. You have no loyalty to me, do you?”

The Emperor’s golden eyes, which should have seemed warm, narrowed coldly as he rebuked him.

The people around them bowed their heads in the chilly atmosphere. Syria, too, scratched the back of her hand, hesitating where she stood.

“If you have something to say, say it to me. The head of the Dronia family is still me.”

“…That position. Do you not know that I allowed you to keep it, Duke?”

A tense standoff with neither side backing down unfolded between them. It felt as if sharp blades were whirling through the air.

Caught between the most powerful figure in this world and the person who should be the most tense—her father—Syria could only blink.

‘…Maybe I shouldn’t have come…’

She sighed, wishing she’d just followed Melanie out on her date instead. At that moment, Gallion, who had quietly followed behind, stepped forward to mediate.

“Your Majesty, envoys from the Kingdom are present.”

‘Envoys?’

Now that she looked, she noticed people wearing oddly designed clothes, too extravagant to be just for show. Even so, the Emperor’s expression did not soften.

But it seemed to have some effect; the Emperor twisted his body, his black velvet cloak billowing as he left the spot. His back looked thoroughly displeased.

Bang!

The sound of the door being kicked as if it might be ripped off and the battered door closing replaced the music in the banquet hall.

Normally, people would just sit back down, but Gallion gazed at Syria with desperate eyes.

‘Why… What… What does he expect me to do…’

With the Emperor storming out before the banquet had even begun, Gallion was left with another pounding headache, almost in tears. The stares and demands for explanations were still the hardest part of his job.

With nowhere else to turn, he conveyed his true feelings to Lady Syria who at least had the Emperor’s attention. He tried his best… with his eyes… lowering the ends of his brows as much as possible to show how tired he was from his hard work.

Syria let out a quiet sigh at his pleading gaze.

“…I’ll just step out to the lounge for a moment.”

She felt awkward standing around with everyone else. Ignoring Alpen’s attempt to say something, she left at Duke Dronia’s nod.

As soon as she stepped into the corridor, she saw the Emperor walking away not far ahead. The sound of her heels echoed as she hurried after him, and the Tyrant soon turned around. He must have stopped at the sound of women’s heels.

“I just wanted some fresh air.”

She figured he’d left because he couldn’t control his temper, so it was natural to think he’d go get some air.

‘If I’m with him, he won’t send me away.’

Her chest felt tight from the corset, and the tense atmosphere earlier had left her heart pounding. Rather than staying indoors, she thought it would be better to get some air in the garden.

Had he been heading to a room full of grotesque stuffed monsters? She wondered, but thankfully the Emperor agreed.

“…Alright.”

The Emperor, who had been heading straight for his room, stopped at her words and turned in the opposite direction. Since he agreed so easily, Syria followed him.

Normally, when a member of the Imperial Family moved, Imperial servants would follow, but no one came along.

‘Did he send them away?’

She expected at least an attendant or aide, but behind her was only silence. Wondering if the Emperor wanted a serious conversation, Syria tried to keep up with his long strides, but the difference in leg length kept her falling behind.

Just as she thought he would head out the door on the right, the Emperor turned and climbed the left staircase. He paused on the steps, looking back at her as if waiting.

“Your Majesty, the garden is this way.”

She spoke to him as he headed off in the wrong direction, but the Tyrant’s expression remained blank. With a cold snort, the Emperor ignored her and continued up the stairs. Syria had no choice but to follow.

‘Where is he going?’

Did he change his mind after saying he understood? Syria resigned herself to following, lifting her skirt as she slowly climbed the stairs.

With every step the Emperor took, his powerful lower body muscles stood out. The fine fabric of his formal wear showed off his glutes and thigh muscles.

‘Oh!’

Her eyes sparkled. As the Emperor’s broad hips moved in perfect balance, Syria followed without complaint, reaching out to touch them.

But his long strides kept him ahead, just out of reach. The hips that seemed so close kept teasing her by moving away.

‘I’ll get them. I will… I’ll catch you.’

Driven by a pointless sense of competition, Syria hurried her steps.

But keeping up with the Emperor’s stride was impossible. Her obsession with his hips couldn’t overcome the physical gap. She tried her best to climb the stairs, but her uncomfortable shoes slowed her down.

‘Well, maybe it’s for the best. Since the Emperor walks so fast, I can’t reach him.’

Syria tried to rationalize and let go of her attachment. Normally, she’d lose her head and grab the Tyrant’s hips, but with him two or three steps ahead, her hand couldn’t reach. In a way, it was a relief.

After climbing for a while, always to the right, how long had it been? Her breath was caught in her chest.

“Huff… Huff… How long are we going to climb?”

Her chest already felt tight, and now, like altitude sickness, she could barely breathe. The Emperor strode up the stairs but paused occasionally to look back at her, as if checking she wasn’t running away. Whether it was consideration or surveillance, Syria felt dizzy.

‘Ugh, I’m going to die. Why aren’t there elevators here?’

Even an escalator would have been better—her thighs felt like they were being torn apart. Her new shoes were already half-off and crumpled.

What felt like an eternity finally ended when her head bumped into something as she climbed, staring at the ground and gripping the handrail.

Looking up, she realized she’d run into the Emperor’s strong back as he’d stopped.

“Ow…! Ah…”

She let out a groan at the pain in her nose, but it was her own fault for not watching. Syria wanted to apologize, but she was too out of breath to say anything, barely managing to stay standing.

“We’re here.”

She wanted to lean her head against the Tyrant’s back, but the Emperor walked forward again. This time, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her along.

“Huff… Huff… So exhausting…”

She meant to think about it, but it slipped out. Luckily, the Tyrant seemed too busy pulling her to notice.

He opened a door she hadn’t known existed in the darkness. The creaking sound suggested it was rarely used.

As the door opened, a cool breeze lifted the hem of her dress. The sudden change in temperature made Syria turn her head, and only then did she see where they were.

“Outside?”

The cool breeze that cooled her sweaty forehead felt pleasant as it ruffled her hair. Even in the darkness, she could tell they were outdoors—the sky overhead was pitch black, dotted with countless stars.

In front of her, she saw the palace roof she’d glimpsed from the carriage on the way to the Imperial Palace. Among several towers, this one was the highest, with other roofs below and guards stationed on each.

“Is this the rooftop?”

Looking around, she saw several cone-shaped roofs. Beyond the red brick railing, she spotted a brightly lit area in the distance—Syria recognized it as Illumine Street, celebrating the Founding Festival.

“This is a place I often come to. Since you wanted fresh air, let’s talk here.”

The cool wind whipped around, making the Tyrant’s long hair stream to one side, as beautiful as black dyed cloth fluttering.