Winter in the north was less a season and more a punishment.

The wind didn’t blow—it bit like a beast, and the earth lay frozen pale like a dead man’s skin. Night descended over the abandoned fortress at the border, over its skeletal spire-like ribs.

The sky transformed from bruised plum to slowly rotting ash, then opened its black maw, ready to devour everything.

Frost on the window frame glinted like a wolf’s sharp teeth in the moonlight. Beyond that cold glass, the guard knight Kyrie stood motionless like a pinned butterfly.

Her cropped jet-black hair covered the nape of her neck, and her body, forged through training and battle, remained silent within worn leather armor.

Her amber eyes fixed not on the snowy field outside the window, but on the reflection in the glass—the man behind her.

Isolet.

The last prince of a fallen kingdom.

A man who lost everything yet remained so noble that those who looked upon him wished to blind themselves instead.

He sat before an old oak desk. A single candle flickered precariously, casting deep shadows across his face.

His frost-white hair flowed down to his waist, covering the frayed backrest of the worn velvet chair. He possessed an unreal beauty, like a sculpture crafted by divine mistake.

Only the scratching of his quill pen on parchment tore through the room’s silence.

That dry friction sound each time the nib scraped the parchment resembled both crackling dry kindling and someone’s bones being crushed.

Kyrie both loved and hated that sound.

She felt relief because it proved he was alive, yet she suffered because it meant he still spent sleepless nights in agony.

Hadn’t some old philosopher of an ancient empire said it?

Royal families racing down brilliant paths are each happy in their own way, but fallen royal families are wretchedly similar in their misery. It meant the punishment of simultaneously bearing the ghost of past glory and the chains of present wretchedness.

“Kyrie.”

Isolet’s low, damp voice broke the silence. Kyrie reflexively turned. Her military boot heel struck the stone floor with a crisp, disciplined sound.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Isolet set down his quill pen. His fingers, pressing firmly at his temples with ink-stained fingertips, were more slender and delicate than Kyrie’s, despite her being a woman.

Yet those hands had signed orders sending thousands of soldiers to their deaths and stamped judgments beheading traitors.

“I hear rats.”

Isolet muttered. His sapphire-blue eyes turned toward the ceiling. Eyes like transparent jewels but utterly devoid of warmth—arrogant and chilling.

“Inside the ceiling beam. Should I catch them?”

“Leave them. In this damned fortress, the only living, breathing creatures are you, me, and those few rats. What’s the point of adding more k*lling?”

Isolet flashed a self-deprecating smile and leaned deep into the chair’s backrest. He gestured toward the wine bottle on the table.

“Pour me a glass.”

“Your Highness, we don’t have much left in reserve.”

“I know. That’s why I’m drinking it. By tomorrow, even this will turn to vinegar. You have no romance, knight.”

Kyrie hesitated briefly, then silently approached and picked up the bottle. When she removed the cork, a heavy, astringent grape scent covered the room’s damp mildew smell.

Red liquid swirled and rose in the crystal glass. Like the blood that had soaked the palace’s marble floors three years ago.

She set the glass before Isolet. Crisscrossed scars stood out clearly on the back of her hand. They formed a stark contrast to Isolet’s pale, smooth hands.

Obsidian and glass craft. These two textures could never mix.

“What about you?”

“I’m on duty.”

“Tediously diligent.”

Isolet took a sip of wine. The sight of his pale throat swallowing looked both sensual and desolate.

“Kyrie, don’t you hate this hellish place?”

It was a sudden question. Kyrie paused briefly.

Did she hate it? This fortress infested with rats where the wind cut through flesh?

No, to Kyrie, this place was her only paradise. In the splendid palace, hundreds of eyes had followed him, but here, only Kyrie could see him.

His sighs, his disheveled hair, his eyes reddened by alcohol. All of it belonged entirely to her. But a guard knight must never voice such blasphemous possessiveness.

“It’s where Your Highness resides.”

Kyrie answered dryly.

“That’s sufficient.”

Isolet chuckled. That laugh resembled the mischief of his boyhood, but underneath lay an indelible regret.

“Liar. When you lie, your left eyebrow trembles slightly. You’ve done that since childhood.”

Kyrie hastily moved to touch her eyebrow, then stopped. Isolet’s gaze sank deep.

“I’m sorry.”

That single apology flew like a dagger and pierced Kyrie’s heart.

“For making you… rot in a place like this. For turning you, who should have become the continent’s greatest swordsman, into a mere watchdog of a fallen kingdom catching rats.”

“Your Highness.”

“Sometimes I want to just let it all go. The crown, revenge, everything. I imagine you chopping firewood while I tend the fire, and we grow old and die like an ordinary hunter couple. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Isolet raised his glass in a toast toward the ceiling.

“But that would be sinful. Failing to fulfill the duty of a survivor is blasphemy against God.”

He downed the remaining wine in one gulp. Red liquid trickled down his lips. Kyrie clenched her fists. The scars on her palms stung.

She knew. She knew what Isolet meant by “the duty of a survivor.” And what he intended to sacrifice for it.

A shadow must not covet the light. The closer a shadow approaches light, the darker it becomes.

Kyrie closed her eyes.

With a single door between them, the two began their long night in their respective hells.

The next morning, the fortress’s silence shattered under the sound of hoofbeats.

Bursting through the dawn path where fog hadn’t yet lifted was a knight order clad in golden armor. On their flags, the Holy Empire’s emblem—a double-headed eagle—spread its wings arrogantly.

Against the ashen landscape, their presence was excessively brilliant and alien. Like a swarm of golden flies descending on rotting meat.

Kyrie looked down at them from atop the ramparts. Her amber eyes narrowed. What had to come had come.

“Open the gate!”

The herald’s voice struck the fortress walls.

“We bring a personal letter from His Majesty the Emperor of the Holy Empire! Inform Prince Isolet!”

The air in the reception room was heavy. Wet logs in the old fireplace belched acrid smoke.

Isolet sat in the seat of honor. Wearing worn but neatly maintained formal attire with his silver hair combed back tidily, he exuded an overwhelmingly imposing dignity—too much for someone who ruled over ruins.

The herald was arrogant. He was an imperial count and had no intention of bowing deeply to some fallen kingdom’s prince. Chin raised, he tossed a scroll onto the table like throwing scraps.

“Be grateful for His Majesty the Emperor’s mercy. He pities your circumstances and has made an exceptional offer.”

Isolet didn’t pick up the scroll. Instead, he lifted his teacup and slowly moistened his lips. The longer that silent time stretched, the more the herald’s face flushed red and purple.

A battle of wills. The only luxury and arrogance someone with nothing could afford.

“Read it.”

Isolet gestured to Kyrie. Kyrie unrolled the scroll. On the parchment, conditions were listed in the ornate cursive script characteristic of the imperial language.

Military funding support.

Loan of 5,000 border garrison troops.

Support for royal restoration.

And the price for all of it.

Marriage to Second Imperial Princess Adelaide von Lohengren.

Kyrie’s gaze stopped at that sentence. Her breath caught. She had anticipated this, but seeing it in writing brought pain like her flesh was being carved away.

“The condition?”

Isolet asked. Kyrie desperately suppressed the tremor in her voice.

“…Marriage to Her Highness the Second Imperial Princess.”

Silence flowed through the reception room. Crack—the sound of popping wood rang out like thunder. The teacup in Isolet’s hand stopped.

“Hah.”

Isolet let out a short snort.

“That old man still hasn’t abandoned his greed. Is this a scheme to mix my bloodline and strengthen the Empire’s legitimacy? Did he think that because I’m dressed like a beggar, I’d sell my pride for pennies too?”

Isolet glared coldly at the herald. His winter-sea-blue eyes gleamed icily.

“Go back. I have no intention of selling my soul to reclaim my crown.”

“Your Highness!”

The herald bristled and shouted, but Isolet waved his hand.

“Kyrie, escort our guest out.”

It was an order of expulsion. The herald left the reception room, his face flushed with humiliation. Bang—as the door closed, only the two of them remained in the room again.

Isolet pressed his forehead wearily.

“Shameless bastards. How dare they…”

“Your Highness.”

Kyrie suddenly interrupted. She still gripped that scroll. Her hand trembled slightly.

“You must accept.”

Isolet raised his head. His expression showed disbelief.

“What?”

“This is an opportunity. The only lifeline for the revenge Your Highness so desires, and for the kingdom’s restoration. With 5,000 troops, we can retake the strategic points along the border.”

“Didn’t you hear the price? My marriage! Being bound for life to a woman I don’t love, whose face I don’t even know!”

Isolet kicked back his chair and stood. The chair toppled backward with a loud crash. He strode forward and grabbed Kyrie’s shoulders.

“Kyrie, you know. You know why I want to become king. You know who I’m enduring this quagmire for! And yet you tell me with your own mouth to go to another woman?”