If Akan, having usurped the throne, were to present Robellia – a former royal – to others, her current state would undoubtedly cause problems. Whatever his reasons for keeping her alive, Akan’s position was inherently unstable, having just ascended to the throne. 

But did he really think that treating her well for a day or two would make her speak well of him? It was the kind of naive assumption even a ten-year-old wouldn’t make. Could it really be what the Akan of today believed? 

“It won’t be difficult. Just stand on the platform in the hall and answer a few questions.” 

The main hall of the palace. The mention of it darkened Robellia’s expression as memories of ten years ago surfaced. She thought of all the people who had died because she hadn’t fully understood her mistake then, or because she had been too afraid to put things right. 

Was this what Akan had meant when he’d spoken of her ‘usefulness’? With a sombre expression on her face, Robellia put down her utensils. Suddenly, the sumptuous meal before her seemed less like a feast and more like the last supper before an execution. 

Thud.

Akan placed a hand on Robellia’s shoulder, his touch unnervingly gentle as he cradled her in a feigned show of comfort. What was his purpose? Did he think such gestures would win her over? After all that had happened between them, such superficial actions could hardly smooth things over. Robellia’s body began to tremble visibly, betraying her discomfort. 

“Are you looking forward to it?” 

“Yes, no… yes…” 

Robellia, used to answering questions with predetermined outcomes, couldn’t find her own thoughts. How could she know whether to look forward or dread what lay ahead when she had no idea what was to come? 

“Have a restful night.”

Akan’s unexpected wish for a quiet night had not been empty words. When Robellia returned to her room, not a single man was there. Instead, maids came in to help her change out of her dress and braid her hair loosely to one side for comfort. 

Throughout the night, no one dared disturb her bed. The next morning she was even served a simple breakfast in bed. A vase of fresh flowers was placed in the room and lunch was offered with no strings attached. At this point, Robellia couldn’t help but wonder if Akan was mocking her. Everything felt eerily similar to life before the rebellion, almost indistinguishable. 

Robellia hadn’t noticed that no one in the princess’s palace had spoken to her, and she hadn’t said a word in return. 

As she was led back to the dining room, Robellia thought that this time Akan would finally explain what he wanted from her. She clung to the faint hope that understanding his purpose might allow her to improve her situation, if only a little. 

Yet Akan did nothing but ensure that Robellia’s meal was taken care of, maintaining a faint smile throughout. For the first time in a long time, Robellia found herself staring openly at Akan’s face, a face she had been too afraid to look at before. Without his usual intimidating scowl, traces of the face she once remembered seemed to emerge from beneath his faded hair.

“What? Don’t like the food?” 

“No, it’s not that…” 

Perhaps it was the tightly cinched waist of her dress, but her stomach wasn’t settling well. 

Noticing that she was picking at her food, Akan placed a dessert plate in front of her – a small cake topped with strawberries. Robellia’s eyes widened at the sight of the sugary treat, something she hadn’t seen since she became the “pig” tasked with consuming Akan’s leftovers. Not so long ago, such desserts had routinely accompanied her tea. 

Despite her uneasy stomach, Robellia lifted the tiny fork. For some inexplicable reason, tasting this cake felt like it could somehow solve everything, a strange and sudden compulsion. The fork sliced delicately through the fluffy sponge and creamy topping. As the fork approached her lips, her mouth opened slightly in anticipation.

“Robellia.” 

At Akan’s call, Robellia lifted her eyes from the cake she had been staring at. The gentle smile on Akan’s face was familiar. It reminded her of an old memory, of a younger Akan – or rather, he bore a striking resemblance to the Duke of Roxas.

Clink.

The fork fell from Robellia’s hand, the cream on it staining her pink dress.

“Tomorrow the nobles will gather in the hall. Marquis Pison will lead the questioning. Just answer honestly.”

Robellia instinctively opened her mouth to say “Yes”, but caught herself and pressed her lips together tightly before nodding instead. Verbal answers weren’t appropriate unless it was a question.

“Honestly.”

No hints about the questions, no instructions about what answers she was expected to give. Akan’s words revealed nothing, but Robellia didn’t ask for clarification. She simply followed the unspoken rules, careful not to overstep the invisible boundaries – boundaries she wasn’t even fully aware of anymore.

With a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, Akan handed her a new fork and gently placed it in her hand.

“Eat. The cake.”

The memories that had briefly surfaced sank back into the depths. Robellia continued to eat in silence, bringing the fork to her lips once more. The cake was sweet.

—

Robellia stood nervously in front of the closed doors of the hall. Behind the thick doors, the sound of animated voices reached her ears. 

Were the assembled nobles here to plead for Robellia’s life? Hardly likely. None of them had ever harboured kind feelings for Princess Robellia. The only reason they hadn’t harmed her directly in the past was her status as the Emperor’s daughter. But now, with Akan – who despised her more than anyone else – on the throne, what could possibly happen inside? 

The doors opened. The nobles, who had been exchanging pleasantries and laughter as if at a grand banquet, turned their eyes in unison. Robellia swallowed hard as she stepped into the brightly lit hall, more magnificent than ever with its opulent decorations.

“Robel.” 

A nickname she had never heard before. Akan, seated on the throne at the top of the platform, rose to his feet. Duke Mos, in the role of gentleman escort, stepped forward to lead the princess. Without knowing a single detail of the ‘performance’, Robellia found herself thrust into the role of its protagonist as she ascended the platform. 

Akan approached her briskly, took her hand and led her to the plush throne. As she was gently but firmly seated, Robellia flinched in surprise and tried to rise, only for Akan to push her shoulder back down with calm authority. 

“Stay seated. You’re still unwell.” 

Akan stood at Robellia’s side as if he were her knight, much as he had done in the dining room over the past two days. Robellia, who had hesitantly parted her lips, fell silent again. 

Marquis Pison, who had been watching the couple’s seemingly affectionate display with obvious displeasure, stepped forward. 

“How have you been, Your Highness?” 

The use of the title “Your Highness” startled Robellia, causing her shoulders to clench. After all, with Akan’s justification for overthrowing the previous emperor, she had never expected to be addressed as a princess again. Besides, the Marquis Pison had been a loyal supporter of her father, the late Emperor. How he had managed to retain his position despite the complete upheaval of the Imperial household was beyond Robellia’s comprehension. 

She raised her head carefully to look at Akan. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out, just a hesitant murmur. Noticing her discomfort, Akan tightened his grip on her shoulder.