From the moment Arnaud arrived in Antmaren, he hadn’t let anyone into his quarters. He just slumped on a threadbare sofa, endlessly downing the brandy Camille had left behind.

“Damn.”

How could a hérétique turn out like this? The cruel truth was that if he walked just a little further, he’d run into Isabelle.

He cursed under his breath and almost spilled the brandy in his glass. This wretched feeling – this was the only way to escape it.

“This makes no sense… no sense at all…”

It was his third bottle.

Thanks to Camille, there was no danger of running out of brandy, but one bottle had been spilt halfway through when his hand, dulled by alcohol, missed its mark.

All because of that woman.

And Arnaud Alexandre de Jalbert was in love with Isabelle de Jalbert.

No, he wasn’t.

Arnaud tore that sentence out of his head and erased it. Now he could write a new one.

Arnaud had loved Elisabeth.

“…Haa.”

That, at least, was a truth he couldn’t deny. 

Was that why he felt this way every time he saw Isabelle?

The hand he had cut on their wedding night still ached slightly. 

Yet Arnaud raised that very hand and brushed it across his face. 

He was reminded of Elisabeth-of how she used her press a finger to his lips and scold him to watch his words and actions if he want to become a ruler one day, whenever he attached all sorts of vulgar adjectives to Henri. 

And above this memory, Isabelle’s face would inevitably appear. Of course it did. 

Because Elisabeth was Isabelle. 

It was a truth he didn’t want to accept – but there was no way around it.

He remembered it even after their wedding night – when he had coldly rejected her – and saw her again, moving her hand awkwardly several times, unaccustomed to making the sign of the cross.

This awkward act of faith seemed to prove, more than anything else, that she really was from Imanoria. And so…

“We’ll probably even do the sign of the cross differently. Arnaud, teach me.”

“Teach you what?” 

“The way you’ve always done it.”

He also remembered the time they made a private vow in Eunia Cathedral – where she said she prayed every morning at dawn – and borrowed the hands of an old priest. 

The iconostasis filled with saints still felt as if it were right in front of his eyes.

It may not have been recognised in Châteaubienne, but if he had to name the truer of the two weddings, it would undoubtedly be this one. 

When Isabelle was still Princess of Imanoria and Henri was not yet King.

Leaning back against the sofa, Arnaud stared at the bottle of brandy at his feet – then suddenly kicked it.

Crash!

The glass bottle hit the leg of the table and shattered. 

The sound was loud, but not a single servant came to check the room; Arnaud’s quarters were practically hollow, so the sound had reverberated loudly. 

There was no way they hadn’t heard it.

Murmuring another curse, Arnaud buried his face in the gilded armrest. 

The cold sensation spread over his skin, but it wasn’t enough to sober him.

It wasn’t the first time. 

Whenever he thought of Isabelle, he always ended up looking for something to escape into.

“Murier.”

He needed something to replace the glass he’d broken. 

Instead of calling for his mistress – who was probably with his wife – Arnaud called the steward.

He was also one of Henri’s men – so Arnaud wouldn’t have sought him out in his right mind. 

But at the moment, Arnaud didn’t care.

“Murier!”

When there was no reply, Arnaud forced his drunken, tangled tongue to shout at full volume. 

Still Murier didn’t come.

It always ended this way, of course. 

Murier, the servants, his mother, his sisters, the high lords and ministers… all of them…

“Damn… bastards…”

In the end, even Isabelle!

The thought of being sacked brought a flood of faces. One humiliation after another came to mind.

Finally, Arnaud picked up a book from the table and threw it. 

The thick volume flew straight at the recently repaired bookshelf, and with a loud crack, the painstakingly reattached side panel collapsed.

Arnaud stared at the scene, breathing heavily. 

Perhaps he had used too much force – blood was seeping through the bandages around his hand again.

“Arnaud, let go. Let go of your attachment to this place.” 

“Did you want to be heir so badly? Were you so jealous of your brother that it drove you mad? Is that why you killed your own father?” 

“Your Highness, I can no longer bear the burden of serving you. Please go quietly to Antmaren.”

“Do you not understand how much mercy my brother shows you? You have committed crimes worthy of the gallows!”

The voices came one by one – his late sister Thérèse, his mother, Queen Dowager Marguerite, his former nanny the Countess de Lemoiselle, and his younger sister Éléonore.

Even when he cried and shouted that it wasn’t true, not one of them believed in Arnaud to the end.

“No… that’s not true…”

Arnaud muttered, clutching his head. He didn’t care where the blood was smeared. 

It really wasn’t true. 

All he did was hold his father’s body – coughing up blood in front of him – and cry. 

The trigger had been pulled long ago. That was all Arnaud had really done.

So it was all Henri’s doing. 

Stealing the position of heir, framing Arnaud as a parricide… all of it.

Elisabeth knew of Arnaud’s hatred. 

There had been a time, hidden in a quiet corner of Zaphcada Castle, when he’d told her in secret that he hated Henri.

Gently pulling down the hand he was absentmindedly biting, Elisabeth had said:

“You don’t have to say any more. No matter what’s happened, I believe in you, Arnaud. I don’t care about your brother.”

“But no one else thinks so. No one listens to me. Only Dad seems to believe me now.”

“I’m listening, Arnaud.”

Arnaud recall that conversation whenever he had the chance. 

And when he didn’t, he made one. 

He thought of Elisabeth when the Queen Dowager, driven mad by the belief that he had killed his father, slapped him across the face. 

When Henri – not him – took the throne. 

When he was finally carted off to Antmaren like so much baggage. 

So Arnaud could never forgive Isabelle. 

After saying those things to him, she still willingly submitted to Henri – even kissed him, whispered words of love. 

Of course she did. 

Isabelle loved Henri.

Arnaud remembered the same cursed sentence again – like a chronic illness, it never left him. 

Anger welled up inside him. Pain had become something unavoidable for him now. 

He hadn’t kept his promise to get her. Maybe he should have stayed in Imanoria, no matter what. 

No-that wouldn’t have changed anything. She would still have betrayed him. 

He remembered the conversation they’d had under the tree – or rather the words he’d heard alone, without a chance to respond.

“It’s just the way you misunderstood it, so don’t ask me any more. I… have nothing more to say.”

“How could you do this to me? Leaving me for Henri, the one you called my mortal enemy…”

“Ah…ugh!”

“How could you!”

Arnaud clutched his head tighter, suffering from a splitting headache. The pain soon spread to his heart, suffocating him.

It hurts. It feels like his whole body is on fire.

Arnaud thrashed violently, oblivious to the desk flying over and the glass shattering nearby.

The pain quickly turned to fear. He felt as if he could die at any moment. If Camille came, he would be fine soon, but Arnaud didn’t even have the strength to call for her.

All he could do was throw a candlestick at the door.

Everything in the room shattered. Arnaud, unable to see clearly, groped around blindly, throwing anything that came within reach.

The sound of shattering was deafening, but it wasn’t just the sound of broken objects. Arnaud himself was breaking.

He collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, when someone finally called his name.

“Arnaud, it’s me.”

The voice was different from Isabelle’s, a little agitated.

It was his lover, Camille.

He struggled to lift his head, raising his eyebrows as high as he could to see her, but his head kept sinking helplessly.

The more he fumbled blindly, the deeper the glass shards dug into his hands. His hands remained bloodied as Camille knelt beside him, gently resting Arnaud’s head on her lap.

“Good boy.”

Camille whispered softly, stroking his shaking back, calming him like a child throwing a tantrum. 

Though her behavior felt strange, Arnaud was too busy struggling to breathe to pay much attention.

“Have you been thinking about that woman again?” 

“…….” 

As they say, sometimes silence is the best answer. 

After a short pause, Camille sighed, understanding his response.

“That woman is a traitor. She allied herself with your enemy.” 

“No, Isabelle would never-” 

“Didn’t she say so herself?”

She even cut off his words, spoken in a deeply wounded voice.

His mind was clouded by the pounding headache. Unable to question Camille’s firm assertion, Arnaud could only gasp weakly.

‘Yes, Isabelle belongs to Henri. Even she…’

Even as he closed his eyes in exhaustion, her face kept appearing under the twin trees. Her expression, as if haunted by something, was impossible to erase from his mind.

‘No, no. Maybe I misunderstood…’

But did he?

His thoughts tangled and collided. Arnaud was helplessly tossed about in the chaos. As his thoughts deepened, the headache intensified, forcing him to clutch his head again, groaning in pain.

“Bring it to me now! The Anmadre leaves… right now!”

The pain surged violently, as if piercing the heavens, and Arnaud cried out desperately for the Anmadre leaves.

It was a sedative that Camille usually prepared for him, either by burning or extracting the juice.

He’d heard it could cause hallucinations, but he didn’t care. As long as he could forget Isabelle, as long as he could be free of her, even for a moment…

“Bring it! Bring it now!”

It was like a forbidden addiction.

Unable to resist the overwhelming desire that rose alongside his pain, Arnaud soon pushed away even Camille, who had been holding him, and collapsed on the floor.

Author’s note:

Iconostasis: Primarily found in Eastern Orthodox churches, this is a wall decorated with icons that separates the sanctuary from the altar.