Ahazan pulled Clodine’s hand even closer to himself. With the slightest resolve, it truly seemed she could pierce his heart.

In that breathless moment, a letter from Pellier Sanderson that she had read days ago flashed through her mind.

‘However, there is not a single citizen who would rejoice in the goodwill of an enemy nation that invaded without law, assassinated His Majesty the King, and stole our kingdom.’

Yes. The Van Helsing Empire was no longer her homeland. It was an enemy nation.

Ahazan had killed the king of the Rotermann Kingdom and destroyed them.

Clodine tightened her grip around the hairpin. Before the eyes of countless servants, Ahazan had provoked her. With his hand guiding hers, even if she struck his heart, it would be difficult to determine who had truly done it.

Perhaps this was an opportunity.

‘Yes… it is. And yet…’

Her fingertips began to tremble. The tremor was strong enough for Ahazan, who held her hand, to feel it.

Before that inexplicable hesitation, Clodine felt a loathsome helplessness. She did not want to admit that something other than rage burned within her chest.

And then—

Ahazan suddenly pulled her hand toward himself and drove the hairpin into his own chest, dragging it downward without giving her a chance to stop him. It should have torn flesh open completely, yet he did not so much as flinch. His black shirt darkened further as it soaked through with blood.

Clodine let out a sharp cry and instinctively yanked her hand back. An absurd tableau formed, Ahazan wounding himself, Clodine trying to stop him.

“Look.”

As her shoulders trembled, Ahazan called her softly. A dark smile curved his lips.

“At this rate, who could tell who the enemy is?”

The mocking remark flushed her face red. She lowered her head, unable to meet his gaze, her expression steeped in despair. But the more she retreated, the closer he stepped.

In a voice too low for anyone else to hear, he whispered at her ear.

“If you don’t decide where your heart stands, you’ll lose your way.”

Whether she chose revenge or submission, she must choose only one.

“Of course, even if you lose your way, you’re still in my hands. So do be careful, Your Majesty.”

Clodine clenched the hairpin tighter, both fists trembling.

At that moment, the servant who had gone to fetch new jewelry returned with a large crystal case. The servant’s frightened eyes flickered to the emperor’s chest, where red wounds showed through torn fabric.

Ahazan lightly snatched the case from the servant’s hesitant hands. He personally selected the most splendid pieces within and fastened them around Clodine’s ears and neck. Only then did he step away from her.

“Prepare white garments. I’ll change.”

He gave the order while looking straight at Clodine. Though his clothes were ruined, it was also clear, if she disliked it, he would dress in the same color as her himself.

“See you at the banquet, Clodine.”

His voice was bright as he tucked a loose strand of her hair neatly behind her ear.

Clodine stared blankly as he turned and strode out of the chamber. Then she looked down at the hairpin in her hand. Red blood clung to its golden tip.

Her trembling fingers loosened, and the hairpin fell, clattering mercilessly across the floor.

***

After removing his blood-soaked shirt, Ahazan pressed a cloth against the wound on his chest. Though it was deep enough to alarm everyone present, he ignored their fuss and focused only on stopping the bleeding.

“I will summon a physician at once.”

Cal, who had been watching from the side, finally spoke.

Ahazan shifted his eyes toward him.

“It’s fine. Just bring my clothes. I’ll be late for the banquet.”

“Your Majesty, what does that banquet matter? Treating the wound comes first.”

“No. The banquet comes first, Cal.”

His voice was so firm it bordered on cold. Cal stamped his foot in frustration.

“You’re not even interested in empty praise. Why are you suddenly obsessed with this victory celebration?”

Ahazan slipped his arms into the garments the servants had brought and let out a small laugh.

“Who says I’m not interested?”

“Do not jest.”

“I’m not joking. I nearly died several times in this war. Let me take a little credit.”

Yet nowhere on his face was there any trace of pride.

He layered cloth over his chest so the blood would not show through the white shirt, then adjusted the front of it himself as he stared into the mirror.

Ugly rumors had already begun to spread about Clodine, the captive queen brought to the empire. They claimed that as Queen of Rotermann, she should have died with her king, but instead had shamelessly clung to old affection and begged Ahazan for her life.

‘The imagination of rumor-mongers…’

A cold contempt glimmered in Ahazan’s bright golden eyes.

False rumors could always be corrected by manipulating public opinion. But even if one was silenced, another would surely arise to stain Clodine’s name again.

So Ahazan intended to exploit this rumor instead, to show with his own body just how alive the ‘old affection’ between them remained.

And to make perfectly clear who, exactly, was the one clinging pathetically to it.

“Let’s go to the banquet hall.”

His voice was resolute. Even Cal, who had been muttering under his breath, could not protest that command.

***

The banquet was held magnificently in the heart of the main palace, transforming the entire Garden of Gaia.

When the atmosphere had fully ripened and Ahazan and Clodine parted the curtains to enter, the noisy hall fell instantly silent.

So silent that the whispers of women hiding their mouths behind fans and the subtle shifting of men’s gazes could be heard clearly.

At the center of that silence, Clodine descended the steps under Ahazan’s escort.

‘If you wish to see your maids again, you’d better behave at the banquet, Clodine.’

She wanted to shake off his hand at once. But if she hoped to meet Pellier Sanderson and the other two maids safely, she would have to endure this humiliation.

“His Majesty the Emperor, and the Lady of the Count Ramier House, make their entrance!”

The Lady of the Count Ramier House.

Clodine’s expression darkened further at the herald’s proclamation. It seemed they could not bring themselves to introduce her as the queen of the conquered kingdom—or the wife of the late King O’Neil Penelope.

Ramier…

It had been seven full years since she had last used that name. Who could have imagined she would be called by it again in this lifetime?

Lost in such biting thoughts, Clodine stepped forward unconsciously, when the heel of her shoe slipped against empty air.

She swayed.

Her body tilted as if she would fall, but as though he had anticipated this very moment, Ahazan’s firm arm wrapped around her waist.

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the hall. Clodine came to her senses as well and immediately struggled to free herself from him.

But Ahazan had no intention of letting her go so easily.

“You truly never listen.”

Perhaps because all eyes were upon them, his tone was indulgent, almost as if he were addressing a noble daughter with fondness. Yet the meaning beneath his words suggested he cared nothing for anyone else in that room.

“I told you not to think of anything else while you’re beside me.”

His face leaned close, as though he might kiss her. At his whisper, Clodine bit down hard on her lower lip.

Instead of answering, she shook off his hand and steadied herself. Whether intentionally or not, he released her without resistance. She thought she heard him give a faint laugh.

“It is an honor to greet the noble lady of the illustrious Ramier house.”

Before she had even finished descending the stairs, people approached and bowed deeply.

In that brief instant, it was impossible not to understand what they had sensed between her and Ahazan—or why they were showing such exaggerated courtesy to the queen of a defeated nation.

Clodine felt so disgusted she did not even need to feign coldness. Though she passed them without a single word, none dared whisper lightly behind her back.

Because Ahazan followed leisurely behind her, step for step.

She had no interest in how beautifully the banquet hall had been adorned, nor in how many guests had gathered. Her attention was fixed solely on finding the three maids from Rotermann.

Her dark eyes swept swiftly across the crowd, searching for the familiar faces she longed to see. But no matter how she looked, she could not find them.

At last, she stopped walking.

Ahazan halted behind her.

“Will I truly see them here?”

As though he had not heard her at all, Ahazan frowned slightly and asked instead.

“Clodine, do you remember this music?”

Music? Was he asking her about the melody being played in the banquet hall?

She shook her head, unable to understand his question, until the notes reached her clearly.

Ah… this melody…

“Your debutante day. The very music that accompanied our first dance.”

He was right.

The piece echoing through the hall was ‘Beloved of Salmantra,’ a song tied to their faded memories.

Why now… of all moments…

Clodine lifted her gaze to his shining golden eyes and let out a hollow sigh. No matter how she tried to resist, the past rose before her.

A memory long buried beneath years of dust.

In that memory, Clodine was sixteen, the debutante of the evening.

A debutante should have been busy dancing endlessly, like someone with fire at her feet. But Clodine had remained seated quietly in one corner of the ballroom.

The day before, she had twisted her ankle while stepping down from a carriage.

‘Happy birthday, Clodine.’

‘Did you receive the gift I sent?’

She was not naturally sociable and had never been adept at mingling with crowds. Yet people swarmed around her seat all the same. The title of count’s daughter she had been born with always drew attention.

The interest had never been entirely comfortable, but that day, it felt particularly burdensome. It was supposed to be a joyous debutante ball, and she felt as though she alone was dampening the atmosphere.

So she deliberately excused herself, allowing others to dance and enjoy themselves freely without worrying about her.

Clodine made her way up to the second floor and entered her darkened room. As the night deepened and the guests grew drunk, they would soon forget where the debutante herself had gone. Quietly disappearing would cause no trouble.

Feigning composure on her injured leg had strained her body. With a servant’s help, she had changed early into her nightclothes and limped to her bed.

The physician had said it would take at least a month for her ankle to heal.

She sighed.

‘At least Ahazan won’t see me like this.’

At the time, Ahazan had been away on imperial orders, inspecting the frontier regions. Before her injury, she had felt regretful and disappointed at his absence. Now, it seemed a relief.

Clodine smiled bitterly and shifted beneath the covers.

She longed to sleep, but the music and laughter drifting up from below were too loud. Giving up on rest, she reached for the poetry collection beside her bed.

She had just opened it to the page she had been reading when—

Knock, knock.

‘Who is it?’

Even as she asked, she assumed it was a servant, perhaps checking on her injured ankle.

‘Come in.’

She pushed herself upright.

The door opened.

At the sight of the tall figure stepping inside, Clodine gasped and clutched the blankets.

‘A-Ahazan?’