The imperial palace was even more splendid than the city. Red carpets covered the floors, and chandeliers decorated with jewels hung from the ceilings.

When Isolet stepped out of the carriage, the nobles’ gazes converged on him. They covered their mouths with fans and giggled. Isolet’s worn ceremonial clothes and disheveled hair made excellent fodder for their amusement.

But when Isolet raised his head, their laughter stopped dead.

He was beautiful.

An overwhelming beauty that even shabby clothes couldn’t hide. When his eyes—cold and sharp like honed icicles—swept across the crowd, the nobles held their breath. It was like the descent of a fallen angel. Wretched yet commanding absolute worship through sheer beauty.

Kyrie stepped down behind him. She limped with bandages wrapped around her abdomen and stood behind Isolet.

Then a man in a splendid uniform approached. The imperial chamberlain. He bowed his head with an oily smile.

“You must be exhausted from your long journey, Prince Isolet.”

His tone lacked any respect.

“His Majesty the Emperor awaits you. However…”

The chamberlain’s eyes settled on Kyrie. He pinched his nose and frowned.

“What is this filthy thing? We cannot allow beasts or lowly mercenaries into the palace. Send it to the stables over there.”

Kyrie’s body stiffened. She knew she reeked of blood and sweat from days without bathing. But being treated like a beast to her face was an entirely different level of insult.

Just as she bowed her head to step back—

“Apologize.”

An icy voice rang out.

It was Isolet. He looked down at the chamberlain. His expression was blank, but the air around him froze cold.

“What? Wh-what do you mean?”

“I told you to apologize to my knight. With that filthy mouth of yours.”

The chamberlain’s face reddened.

“Your Highness! I am His Majesty the Emperor’s chamberlain! How dare a prince of a fallen—”

Smack!

A sharp crack echoed through the lobby.

Isolet had struck the chamberlain’s cheek. The nobles gasped and screamed. Nevertheless, Isolet calmly removed his glove and threw it on the floor.

Like he’d just touched something filthy.

“She is my sword and shield. To insult her is to insult me.”

Without even glancing at the fallen chamberlain, he wrapped his arm around Kyrie’s shoulders.

“Raise your head, Kyrie.”

His voice was quiet but firm.

“You are nobler than them. The smell of your blood is more fragrant than their perfume. So never bow your head before anyone.”

Kyrie slowly raised her head. Isolet was looking at her. His eyes held a solid determination to shield her from all the world’s criticism.

“Let’s go.”

Isolet walked forward. Their two shadows stretched long across the red carpet. Hundreds of gazes pierced their backs, but no one dared mock them.

That was their first battle.

* * *

The bathwater prepared by the palace maids smelled of roses and lavender.

It was a sickeningly artificial fragrance. Kyrie gripped the edge of the tub. Warm water enveloped her entire body, but she felt out of place, like she’d entered a thornbush.

Perhaps it was because the red petals floating on the water looked like blood droplets scattered across a battlefield.

She scrubbed her body with a rough sponge. Until her skin turned bright red, she tried to wash away the northern dust and the assassins’ blood stench. But some things wouldn’t wash away no matter how hard she tried.

The sword scar across her shoulder.

The arrow scar on her thigh.

Her finger joints, twisted and hardened from gripping a sword.

These were the history of her life and the medals of protecting Isolet.

In the cold winds of the fortress, they’d been a source of pride. But in this fragrant, smooth palace bathroom, her n*ked body reflected in the mirror looked like nothing more than a grotesquely mutilated chunk of meat.

‘Filthy thing.’

The chamberlain’s voice circled her ears like a hallucination.

Kyrie sank deep into the water. She held her breath. Only when the pain of her lungs bursting arrived could she finally feel that she was alive.

This place was safer than a battlefield, but her soul wavered more precariously than ever.

After finishing her bath, she found a new uniform laid out on the bed. The formal dress of the imperial palace guard. Instead of her worn leather armor, Kyrie squeezed herself into the stiff outfit—deep navy embroidered with gold thread.

She felt like she’d put on someone else’s ill-fitting skin.

“Ready?”

The door opened and Isolet entered.

The moment she saw him, Kyrie stopped breathing. He wore ceremonial clothes sent by the Empire. A snow-white silk shirt beneath a black velvet coat, with an amethyst brooch at his neck.

The shabby prince of the North was nowhere to be seen.

He looked like a perfect aristocrat—no, a ruler who placed them all beneath his feet. His pale silver hair glowed holy under the light. He was like an absolute god of beauty, so beautiful that she didn’t dare approach.

That’s why the distance between them felt much farther than in the fortress’s cramped room.

“Let’s go. The Princess awaits.”

Isolet’s expression was rigidly set.

No beast dragged to sl*ughter could look more resolute, but Kyrie silently followed behind him.

* * *

The Princess’s palace was originally called the ‘Garden of the Sun.’

The name wasn’t an exaggeration. Under a glass ceiling, southern flowers said to bloom year-round were in full blossom, and golden streams of water shot up from the central fountain.

Everything shone, brimmed with vitality, and radiated warmth.

To Kyrie, who’d lived in shadows, it was a dazzling brightness that threatened to blind her. A tea table sat in the middle of that garden. And there she sat.

Adelaide von Lohengren.

The Second Imperial Princess of the Holy Empire.

She was a far more radiant being than Kyrie had imagined.

Honey-flowing blonde hair, blue eyes deep and clear like a lake. When she turned her head to look this way, even the surrounding air seemed to soften.

She appeared as pure and perfect goodness without a speck of malice.

“Welcome, Prince Isolet.”

Adelaide rose and greeted them gracefully. Even her voice was clear like rolling jade beads.

“I heard you suffered greatly on your long journey.”

“I greet Your Highness the Princess.”

Isolet bowed mechanically. His eyes were cold. No matter how beautiful and kind the woman before him might be, to him she was merely shackles binding him and the object of a transaction gnawing at his homeland’s pride.

“Please, sit.”

Adelaide didn’t lose her smile despite Isolet’s cold attitude. Her gaze reached Kyrie standing behind Isolet.

“And this is…?”

“My guard knight, Kyrie.”

Isolet answered briefly. Kyrie saluted. Click. It was a precise movement, but incomparably crude compared to Adelaide’s graceful gestures.

“Ah. The one who saved you at the border, I hear.”

Adelaide looked at Kyrie with curious, clear eyes.

“Come closer and have some tea. I can’t let a hero stand.”

“Guards don’t sit.”

Kyrie refused stiffly. But Adelaide didn’t back down and personally poured tea into a cup.

“This is a private space. The host’s goodwill takes precedence over imperial protocol. Please accept it. This is more a request than an order.”

Adelaide possessed a gentleness that couldn’t be refused. Kyrie glanced at Isolet. He gave a slight nod. Kyrie had no choice but to stand awkwardly at the edge of the table.

Adelaide paused while handing over the teacup.

Her gaze lingered on Kyrie’s hands. Because Kyrie had grabbed an assassin’s blade barehanded on the way to the palace days ago, scars were starkly visible even through the bandages.

Adelaide’s white, delicate hands and Kyrie’s scarred hands crossed in midair.

Like a lily and a clod of dirt, or silk and worn leather, Kyrie thought.

Kyrie felt an intense impulse to hide her hands behind her back. It was shame. She who’d never regretted gripping a sword her entire life felt ashamed of her hands for the first time in her life.

“…It must have hurt terribly.”

Genuine compassion welled in Adelaide’s eyes. Without hesitation, she pulled out her handkerchief and covered the back of Kyrie’s hand.

“A woman’s hands… how much you must have suffered.”

Those words were meant as comfort, but to Kyrie they were like a finishing blow.

‘Woman.’

Was she a woman? Could she dare call herself the same ‘woman’ before this beautiful, noble Princess?

Adelaide sat beside Isolet, forming a picture-perfect pair. They were people from the same world. Meanwhile, she was merely a tool that got covered in blood to protect them.

“I’m fine, Your Highness.”

Kyrie pushed away the handkerchief and stepped back.

“For one who wields a sword, scars are medals. They’re nothing to pity.”

Her voice had an edge. Adelaide blinked in confusion, and Isolet set down his teacup and looked at Kyrie. His eyes held the wordless signal: ‘Endure it.’

Kyrie bowed her head. Dark inferiority bloomed like poisonous mushrooms in her chest.

I resent you.

Because you’re so perfect. Because you fit so well beside my lord. And because you’ve so cruelly confirmed that I can’t even follow in your footsteps.

A shadow standing beneath the sun only grows darker and more wretched.