Carlo decided he’d pressed far enough. Now, all he had to do was wait for the duke to speak first.

The reason Duke Crussian opposed Roselina’s marriage to Theodore was obvious.

He must already know.
That Empress Scarlet plans to strip the Crown Prince of his title and give it to her own son.

No parent would want to marry their daughter to a man whose future was so uncertain.
And for a nobleman who maintained a close alliance with the empress, becoming family with her rival was nothing short of betrayal.

So, naturally, the duke had to tread carefully.

When Carlo offered no comment and simply waited, the duke finally broke the silence. His voice was measured, cautious.

“You seem to have guessed as much, so I’ll speak plainly. Yes—I do not wish for Roselina to become involved with His Highness, Crown Prince Theodore. That must never happen.”

“But I fail to understand why,” Carlo replied, feigning thoughtful confusion. “Becoming Crown Princess should be an honor. Surely it’s a position anyone would desire… unless, of course, the Crown Prince himself were to be replaced.”

“…!”

The duke’s once-calm expression hardened, and the air in the room turned cold.
Carlo had struck a nerve—and he knew it. He had made it clear that he understood far more than he should.

Now, it was the duke’s turn to decide—whether to trust him or discard him.

Carlo bowed his head slightly, voice smooth and deferential.

“Whatever your reasons, I’ll do as you ask, Your Grace. In truth, I don’t think Lady Roselina is suited to stand beside His Highness anyway.”

It’ll be better to drive the point home, he thought, masking the quiet satisfaction curling beneath his polite smile.

“I’m not the kind of gentleman who could stand by and watch the woman I love be taken by another man.”

“The woman you love…”

Duke Crussian studied him, eyes narrowing slightly—as though weighing just how useful this declaration of love might be. He looked less like a father and more like a strategist calculating how to make the best use of a devoted pawn.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Carlo said earnestly. “I would do anything for the lady. And I believe my resolve has already been proven—through my knight’s decision to join the war.”

That knight—who had refused every offer and command to fight—had gone to battle the very next day, simply because Roselina had asked it of him.

To the duke, it painted a perfect picture: a man hopelessly in love, willing to sacrifice everything for his beloved.

Carlo’s expression was grave, his tone sincere.
And seeing that, Duke Crussian’s smile deepened.

***

“His Highness, the Crown Prince, wishes to see you.”

When Carlo returned to his estate, a knight bearing Theodore’s insignia was waiting for him.

“The Crown Prince?” he repeated slowly.

“Yes, my lord. His Highness requests an immediate audience.”

“…I see.”

Carlo’s crimson eyes cooled, their warmth fading into sharp frost.
He already knew why Theodore wanted to meet.
And though he said nothing, only one name flickered across his mind—

Laira.

“Tell His Highness I’ll come to him myself—tonight.”
“Yes, my lord.”

Once the Crown Prince’s knight departed, Carlo rested his forehead against the cold windowpane and murmured under his breath,

“They must never meet.”

Never. Under no circumstance.

Even if Laira had lost her memories, there was still a chance—however small—that they might recognize each other.
And Carlo couldn’t allow that to happen.

He already regretted letting his temper slip not long ago, revealing far too much about his revenge.

I can’t give her even the slightest reason to remember.

He shut his eyes, his chest tightening with guilt until it was hard to breathe.
The more he thought about it, the more disgusted he felt with himself.

If Laira were ever to discover the truth—or worse, if her memories were to return—she might leave him forever.

“Haa…”

He exhaled shakily, weighed down by the same guilt and dread he had buried for years.
It was the one thing he feared most—and the greatest sin he bore toward her.

He was hiding the truth.

The truth that Laira was none other than Lealea, the lost princess of the Adelina Empire.

As Carlo’s brow furrowed, fragments of the past he wished he could forget came flooding back.

Before Theodore entered the academy, Carlo had first met Laira—back when she still lived in the imperial palace.

—“Wow… an angel. She’s an angel.”

Those were the first words little Laira, only three years old at the time, had said to him.

Recalling her wide, innocent eyes, Carlo couldn’t help but let out a bitter smile.

His first love, and the princess he cherished most dearly—
that was how he remembered her, even if she herself no longer knew.

Who could have imagined that the once-happy life of the imperial princess would twist into such tragedy?

They had been inseparable—closer than siblings, closer than mere friends.
There was no word that could truly describe the bond they’d shared.

But everything began to crumble when Theodore entered the academy.
With the arrival of Scarlet, the emperor’s new consort, both Carlo and Laira’s fates took a cruel turn.

Carlo was soon forbidden from entering the palace.

He worried constantly about the young princess left behind,
but at that age, he could barely shoulder the grief of his own mother, Sophia, who was suffering under Scarlet’s growing influence.

Gradually, inevitably, he drifted away from Laira—until the day his mother died, wronged and broken.

And in the midst of his aimless grief, he heard the words that shattered his world.

—“Princess Lealea? Oh, you mean the half-blood one? Don’t even get me started. My friend works at the palace—she says the princess is treated worse than a servant.”

The moment Carlo heard those words from one of the duke’s servants, he ran straight to the imperial palace.

It was outrageous enough that Princess Laira was living in a shabby detached palace, but what enraged him even more was the fact that there wasn’t a single knight stationed to guard her.

No one noticed his arrival. No one even cared that he was there.

That neglect was the only reason he managed to slip in unnoticed.

But even as he moved quietly through the grounds, his anger only deepened with every step.

And then—he saw her.

Laira, the imperial princess, huddled alone in a corner of her cold, crumbling chamber—her small body covered in bruises and cuts.

The sight of her stole the breath from his lungs.
She was a heartbreaking image of innocence, abandoned and broken.

—“Y-Your Highness…”

—“Ah! I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—please, don’t hurt me!”

The sight seared itself into Carlo’s heart like a burning brand.

Laira’s body was all skin and bone, her once-silken hair dull and brittle. Dressed in rags that even a servant would refuse to wear, she trembled and begged, eyes wide with terror—her mind teetering on the edge of collapse.

—“Please, Your Highness, calm down. It’s me—Carlo Siren.”
—“N-no! Let go of me! Please—don’t, I’m scared… I’m so scared!”

At the mere touch of his hand, she convulsed and fell unconscious, her small body shaking violently before going limp.

Carlo caught her before she hit the ground and carried her out of the neglected annex in his arms.

She needed medical attention—desperately—but he knew no one inside the palace would lift a finger to help her.

That night, the annex went up in flames.

And as the fire consumed what little trace of her remained there, Carlo made his choice.

He would hide her. Whatever it took, he would keep her alive.

He refused to lose someone he loved ever again.

—“If I tell His Highness the Crown Prince that Laira is alive…”

He had thought about it—more than once. About telling Theodore the truth.

But he couldn’t bring himself to trust him.

Seven years ago, Theodore had failed to protect his own sister.

The Crown Prince couldn’t save her then—and he won’t save her now.

Even after entering the academy, if he’d sent someone to check on Laira, she might never have had to endure those lonely, brutal days. How could he have been so blind?

And yet he called himself someone who truly loved his sister—while failing to take even the simplest precautions that would have kept her safe. He’d driven Laira into Scarlet’s hands, into death. He was the one whose shock had wiped her memory clean.

Carlo could not forgive Theodore. He could not forget the sin of leaving someone precious to suffer.

“Hah.”

Anger toward Theodore and disgust at himself pressed in until Carlo could scarcely breathe.

‘Pretending to care for Laira…’

He knew the truth: he was the very person causing her pain and tears now. He had seen Laira’s singular, innate talent and her gentle heart, and then used both without mercy. He had even sent her to war—cold, heartless, unforgivable. Who was he to point a finger at anyone?

‘I must expose Empress Scarlet’s crime—quickly. Use Duke Crussian to hasten it.’

It had been Empress Scarlet who assaulted Laira’s life: murdering a servant simply for becoming pregnant by her husband and consigning Laira to suffering.

“Laira… I will take your revenge for you.”

That, he decided, would be his way of asking forgiveness and atoning for what he’d done.

It was ironic that the misfortune and sorrow of Carlo and Laila, as well as Theodore and Renoir, all began with Scarlet.

***

“Ah, Carlo!”

Returning from the bustling street, Laila was caught by Carlo’s waiting hand and fell straight into his arms.

“Haa… Laila.”

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Clutching her tightly, Carlo pressed his forehead against her shoulder, looking utterly worn. Laila reached out, embracing his broad back, trying to read his expression.

“Just… stay still. Like this.”

…

Carlo pushed Laila down onto the bed, climbing over her, nuzzling at her neck and shoulder as though he were a child seeking his mother’s embrace.

“Ugh…”

Each time his hot lips brushed against her collarbone, a shiver of sensation bloomed, and Laila let out a breathless sigh.

Carlo’s leg pressed against her thigh, his lips trailing lower and lower.

“Carlo…!”

“Haa… ha…”

Carlo pressed his mouth against the swell of Laila’s chest through her clothes, driving her harder and faster—until she could think of nothing at all, until she could remember neither the past nor the pain.

Yet the desperate way he stripped away her garments and consumed her body might not have been for her sake at all. It was his own frantic struggle—to forget the guilt of having deceived her.

Late into the night, after pushing Laila to the point of collapse, Carlo slipped quietly out of the mansion.

Outside, Theodore was waiting for him.

“Your Highness,” Carlo greeted, his voice low.
“…Carlo.”

It was their first true meeting in seven years.

Theodore looked him over, noting how much he’d changed—how the youth he’d once known now carried a darker, heavier air. He swallowed the bitter taste of nostalgia.

“It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, I heard Your Highness had come to Cerclezia,” Carlo replied evenly.
“And yet you didn’t come to see me. I suppose that says enough about where we stand.”

“…”

Though they exchanged polite words, there was no warmth left between them. The bond that had once been friendship now hung as little more than a shadow of what it used to be.

“It seems you’re not pleased to see me,” Theodore said coolly. “So let’s get straight to the point.”
“Very well.”

“I know exactly what you’ve been doing here.”

“…!”

Carlo’s expression froze for the briefest moment before he regained composure. Theodore’s tone was calm, but his eyes—sharp and unyielding—made it clear this was no casual meeting between old friends.

The air between them tensed, heavy with years of unspoken resentment and unfinished business.