“You are really pretty. How old are you? I’m twelve.”

When Akan awoke, it was after midnight. He’d had another unpleasant dream, but it had been years since he’d slept that long.

Akan’s eyes swept around the bedroom of the princess’s palace. The m*n, chosen by a special process from among the slaves, were at their posts after changing shifts, and Akan’s Robellia was curled up on the carpet in a corner of the room, asleep.

Akan stretched his body, tired from occupying the royal palace. From the beginning, what he sought through rebellion was never the imperial throne. The throne was just a step on the way. The greatest prize Akan had gained from the rebellion was in that palace.

It was time to play the role of a trivial clown. Akan got up from the bed and started to leave the room, but then he looked back at Robellia.

“Feed her. It’s not time to kill her yet.”

Robellia, pretending to be asleep and holding her breath, felt her eyes sting again. Her nightmare had not ended when she awoke.

Akan walked slowly towards the emperor’s palace. Each time the new Emperor passed by, the servants brought by Marquis Mos politely lowered their eyes and remained silent. Those who were spared because they were still useful or not worth killing followed their example and read the room. The massive imperial palace was engulfed in silence, as if submerged in seawater.

“How are you feeling?”

“Not great.”

As Akan entered the office, Marquis Mos greeted him. No, he was Duke Mos now. Akan sank into the ornate chair he had taken after killing the Emperor.

Scattered across the desk were documents Akan had never bothered to look at, already stamped with the new Emperor’s seal. In truth, everything was going according to Duke Mos’ plans, but Akan couldn’t care less. This had been the arrangement from the beginning.

“A letter has arrived from King Prunus.”

Duke Mos gave Akan a letter. Come to think of it, there was indeed such a land tucked away in the corner of the continent. Something about taking an officially recognised Imperial Witch as their queen. Given the distance, it was impossible for news to travel here in a day, so the original recipient of this letter must have been the former Emperor. Akan opened the letter with an indifferent expression.

The contents of the letter were rather intriguing. It seemed that the king who wanted to make Robellia his queen was an old man whose previous wife had already grown frail and died. Even if the rebellion hadn’t put her in Akan hands, the princess would have ended up as the second wife of a dying old man. Either way, Robellia’s life seemed pitiful. Not that Akan had any sympathy for her, of course.

He held the letter, which spoke of loyalty to the Empire and dowries, over the flame of the candle. With a quick whoosh, the letter from the man who might have been Robellia’s husband turned into a handful of ashes.

” They will both die soon anyway. They can have their wedding in hell.”

Duke Mos smiled at the sharp words of the new Emperor. The tyrant he had chosen was fulfilling his role splendidly.

When the Duke found Akan Roxas wandering as a slave and later elevated him to the imperial throne, Akan’s sole purpose in life was revenge. Therefore, of all the potential candidates, Akan was the most suitable for the role. Apart from Princess Robellia, whom he was determined to torment and destroy, there were countless others inside and outside the palace who had turned a blind eye to the death of Duke Roxas.

Everything was going smoothly. Duke Mos had much to do before Akan’s revenge was complete. Even as night fell, the lights remained on in the office.

With every stroke of the pen, the heads of the guilty fell.

—

For several days, Robellia waited anxiously for any sign of Akan. It wasn’t because her wounds from his abuse had healed, allowing her to forget the pain he had inflicted. The reason was much simpler: she was hungry.

The meal Robellia had eaten after Akan left that day was miserable – a plain piece of white bread and what looked like leftover stew. As she swallowed chunks of fat floating in the stew, she lamented her future, imagining that she would be eating the same meagre fare every day. But even that was an overly optimistic thought. Robellia spent each day clutching her empty stomach, remembering and longing for the stew she had once left behind.

Dressed only in her nightgown, Robellia curled up on the chair by the washbasin and stared into the mirror. She forced the corners of her lips up into something resembling a smile, but all she saw in the reflection was a woman with a haggard face and a grotesque expression.

If she wanted to get some food, she would have to try and flatter Akan when he returned. Complaining to the m*n who came and went in the bedroom had proved utterly useless. The first time she spoke to them, she received a warning; the second time she spoke out of turn, she was punished immediately. Whether alone or surrounded by people, Robellia was forced to endure an endless sense of isolation.

She had often considered the possibility of dying at Akan’s hands, but she had never expected starvation to be the method. Her head hung low, her hair obscuring her face, and her eyes – now dry with tears – were devoid of hope.

Crack.

At the sound of the door opening, Robellia raised her head. Tousled white hair – it was Akan. Men followed, but to Robellia only Akan mattered, the one who could give her food.

Hesitantly, Robellia rose from her perch and walked to the door. It was time for her tail to wag.

“Hello.”

Robellia didn’t answer verbally, just nodded her head. Breaking someone’s spirit always started with draining their energy. For Akan, the sight of Robellia subdued and obedient was a satisfying result.

Without another word, Akan sat down on the edge of Robellia’s bed. Standing before him like a scolded child, Robellia was caught in a cycle of endless contemplation. Begging for food would probably backfire. She couldn’t speak carelessly. But what else could she do?

After a moment’s hesitation, Robellia knelt at Akan’s feet, much like a dog trying to remember what behaviour had previously earned it a treat.

A faint sneer curled Akan’s lips.

“You’ve become a good dog, Robellia. Do you want a reward?”

Humiliating words, but a question nonetheless. Robellia couldn’t afford to miss this rare opportunity to speak. Her dry lips opened with great effort.

“Y-yes…”

Her pitiful voice cracked weakly at the end. Akan’s hand reached out to stroke her dishevelled hair. Being treated like a real dog made Robellia’s face flush with shame.

“Follow me.”

Akan led the wretched creature, who had willingly walked into his trap, out of the room. Robellia couldn’t even remember the last time she had left the room. Barefoot and dressed only in her nightgown, she followed Akan through the corridors of the princess’s palace.

Occasionally, they passed unfamiliar servants in the corridor. Each time, Robellia bowed her head in humiliation, but the others acted as if she were invisible. The former princess had become a living ghost in the Imperial Palace.

Akan’s destination was the Emperor’s Palace – or more specifically, the Emperor’s Dining Hall. It was the place where Robellia had once dined every night with her father and brother. It was also the place where her words had betrayed her. But everything inside had been completely rebuilt, leaving no trace of the past.

There was a single chair at the long dining table, far too ornate for a dining room. Robellia recognised it at once. It was the chair the Emperor used in the small audience chamber. An impractical piece for a dining table, heavy and extravagant. Akan nonchalantly pulled it out and sat down.

“Go stand over there.”

Akan’s finger pointed to a corner of the dining room. Not even near the table – just a spot in the far corner with no chair in sight. Was he not going to feed her after all? Robellia shuffled to the wall and stood facing Akan.