Isabelle looked at him without the slightest sign of courtesy – no, she glared at him.

Then Arnaud walked slowly towards her, his taller frame making him rather imposing.

“Don’t cry.”

Perhaps he had seen the tears falling before she even noticed, for he reached out and gently wiped them from her face, as if everything that had happened earlier had been completely forgotten.

At his touch, Isabelle hesitantly opened her mouth.

“I wanted to tell you everything… if only I could see you…”

“……”

“I swear I never spent the night with him, I really didn’t…”

Even in her whisper he said nothing.

And yet the way he caressed her face made it all the more heartbreaking.

It was a long time before Arnaud finally opened his mouth.

“Do you think I would believe that?”

It was the moment when even the slightest flicker of hope was shattered.

At some point – she hadn’t noticed when – a silver dagger gleamed in Arnaud’s hand. Isabelle knew instinctively.

‘Today she would die at the hands of this man.’

“You really…”

No matter how hard she fought, there would be no happy ending. She would be remembered as nothing more than a footnote in the history of the mad prince.

As this realisation hit her, her past rushed back to her in a blur, each memory flashing like a lantern slide.

She had always been the one to sacrifice herself.

Even when she read his threatening letter telling her to go to Châteaubienne if they needed troops, and when she saw her father bow his head and say he couldn’t refuse, and when she was offered to become his mistress in exchange for sparing Arnaud’s life, and when she became the public target of the citizens’ scorn. – she’d endured it all..

“You really…”

And now, the price of all she had withstood was death.

Isabelle’s vision blurred.

She couldn’t see exactly where Arnaud was aiming, but she knew where the blade would hit.

She was too weak to defend herself now.

It was better this way than to end up like Henri, hanging from a rope.

What hurt most was to know that she would die without ever understanding why.

As Arnaud pushed her, Isabelle fell backwards and he followed, pinning her down.

Even as she bit her lip, sobs broke out.

So she just covered her mouth and let the tears fall quietly.

After all she had been through, she prayed that the pain would at least be brief.

But even after what seemed like an eternity, the blade never came.

The only pain she felt was the sharp sting in her thigh where the broken pannier had dug into her skin.

‘Is he hesitating?’
She desperately hoped – more than anything – that he was crying, too.

Holding on to that fragile hope, Isabelle slowly opened her eyes.

“The blade doesn’t cut very well.”

But that hope shattered into something else entirely.

His face remained as emotionless as ever, his eyes and the corners of his mouth seemingly fixed.

“What are you doing?!”

Blood soaked his hand where he held the blade, but he showed no sign of pain.

That careless remark about the blade not cutting well felt like an afterthought.

Isabelle jumped in shock.

Part of her wanted to shake him, demand to know what on earth he was doing, but the sight of the blood – so vivid, so real – held her back.

Desperately, she tore at the hem of her chemise and reached for Arnaud’s hand to wrap it.

“Move!”

Or rather, she tried to wrap it.

Isabelle’s hand was pushed aside before it could reach him.

The cloth she had torn was smeared with blood from his injured hand as he swatted it away.

And the blood didn’t just stain her chemise; the fallen knife had soaked the white sheets in red,

and Arnaud went so far as to rub his bleeding hand against them.

Isabelle stared in shock, her mouth hanging open, at the blood-soaked sheets and at Arnaud.

She finally managed to stammer out.

“What is this… what are you doing?”

“You must have been rolled with Henri hundreds of times to know this, Madame de Châteaur.”

That name again. 

At the same time, her breath caught in her throat. 

No, it wasn’t true. 

She had never been with the King. 

Queen Louise was an extremely hysterical woman. 

In Châteaubienne, it was common for the king to have a mistress. 

Even if it hadn’t been Isabelle, someone else would have taken her place. 

But the queen couldn’t accept it. 

‘You are the one who will be the scapegoat for that madwoman. You’re the one who will appear in the political cartoons of the citizens. You should at least be useful for that much.’

Her husband, Henri, loved Louise-but it seemed he had no intention of accepting her madness either. 

And so he let the whole mess fall on Isabelle. 

That was the extent of Isabelle’s usefulness.

The King only slept with Louise.

This meant that Isabelle, although she had never shared a bed with him, had to endure all the Queen’s suspicions and hysteria.

They were grueling, humiliating days.

And yet, the only reason she endured it all was because of the man who now stood before her.

“Henri came to you every night, didn’t he? You should have enough memories of rolling around with a man by now. I have no intention of adding my name to your filthy record.”

But the man knew nothing. Truly, he had no idea.

It was only because he was so ignorant that he could say such things.

And so Isabelle had no choice but to live with Henri’s threats.

“He must never know. He must believe that you’re just my wh*re. You will cooperate, won’t you, Isabelle? Become a public disgrace.”

“…”

“Make sure he never finds out you were innocent.”

Those were the words he had whispered to her on their wedding night – as Isabelle, in tears, buttoned her half-open dress with a trembling sense of relief.

to have left their first night untouched.

“I… I never slept with Henri.”

Isabelle spoke, kneeling before her lover.

Even as she said the words, she couldn’t bring herself to look at Arnaud’s face.

“It’s the truth. I wanted to tell you – if only I could see you. I never spent the night with the King.”

But her hope remained alive.

Because she really believed he would believe her.

‘Arnaud had to.’

For Isabelle, it was only natural – something she had expected without question.

She had no idea what Arnaud had heard during the three years he had been imprisoned at Entremarin, while she herself had endured torment – and yet she had the nerve to act as if that time had meant nothing.

“Do you expect me to believe that, Madame de Châteaur?”

It was a grave misjudgment.

At the repeated use of that cold title, Isabelle looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock.

His gaze was as emotionless as ever.

Those blue eyes, once full of emotion, now held only a brewing storm.

It wasn’t indifference. It was the calm before the storm.

Arnaud looked like he was doing everything in his power to contain his anger.

“What are you saying? It’s true! It was nothing more than a deal with the king, this position! I never betrayed you. I swear, I really…”

“Hah.”

Arnaud laughed mockingly at her desperate confession.

That laugh alone robbed Isabelle of the will to speak any further.

He chuckled a few more times, then casually wiped the blood from his wounded hand – the one Isabelle had tried to touch – on his trousers and held it up to her.

“It’s because you’re not a virgin that my hand is so dirty.”

“……”

“Foolish Madame de Châteaur. I’ve suffered enough in the last three years. I’m no longer the naive boy from Imaronia.”

‘Foolish.’

It was the kind of word someone like the vivacious, laughing Louise might use carelessly, playfully. 

But coming from Arnaud, it felt like a slap. 

And Isabelle… her blank expression made her look like someone who really *deserved* to be called that. 

She stood there, stunned – lost. 

Completely dazed, as if the world had fallen out from under her feet. 

He should have believed her. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

When she looked at him like that – so vulnerable, so foolishly hopeful – he should have held her face in his hands and asked her what was wrong. 

But instead… 

Arnaud just twisted the blade deeper, again and again.

“He is a man consumed by greed. I’ve hated Henri all my life – and I know him better than anyone.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“I also know that the only thing that could ever satisfy that kind of greed… is something like virginity.”

A cold draft crept in through the window, carelessly left open, and mercilessly extinguished the delicate flame on the gilded candlestick. 

Though it was spring, the chill clung to the air like a ghost that refused to leave. 

Before they knew it, the only light in the room came from four flickering candles on the bedside table. 

Faint, fragile flames struggling against the darkness.

The dying flame cast a dark shadow over his face and to Isabelle he looked like a stranger. 

Not the Arnaud she knew. Not the man she had waited for. 

“You should have resisted. If the promise we made meant anything to you, you wouldn’t have done this.”

“Arnaud!” she cried, her voice trembling.

“But Imanoria surrendered, and you went to Moerne Palace of your own free will.”

“……”

“And those love letters…” 

His look was sharp, accusing. 

“All those words you wrote to me, again and again… Don’t try to tell me that wasn’t what you intended all along.”

The memories came flooding back, all those moments that could so easily be misunderstood, Henri’s manipulations and Louise’s angry outbursts because of them. 

Where had Arnaud’s perception gone wrong? 

Perhaps it was her devotion – perhaps that was what had distorted everything in his eyes. 

His blue eyes had darkened now, clouded with something heavy and final. 

If there was any hope left in him, he wouldn’t be looking at her like this. 

This man before her – he no longer held on to love or faith. 

He was completely disillusioned with her.

“Arnaud, I… I swear… none of this was my intention. Never!”

“People keep calling me a fool, I suppose Madame de Châteaur thinks the same.”

It was clear now – he had no intention of listening. 

Not to explanations. Not to the truth.

And for Isabelle, the realisation was crushing. 

Even here, in her bridal chamber, he didn’t call her his wife. 

To him she was still only the king’s mistress. 

His eyes were downcast, his lashes lowered, but somehow they cast a heavier shadow than any words could. 

No – perhaps it wasn’t his gaze that weighed on her. 

Perhaps it was everything she had done in the past that came crashing down at once.

For what Henri held to her throat wasn’t just the fate of Imanoria – it was everything she had ever tried to protect.

“If you insist on clinging to your innocence, I’ll have no choice but to send your lover – my damned blood relative – lock away in Héréthique.”

Henri had even used Arnaud’s life as a bargaining chip, forcing her hand and leaving her with no choice. 

And in the end, pitifully, Isabelle had given in. 

What else could she do?

And that’s how Élisabette became Isabelle.

But the man in front of her… 

He knew nothing of this.

She had to tell him – he deserved to know. 

“I… I am…” 

But the words wouldn’t come. 

They stuck in her throat like thorns. 

Even if she said it – would he believe her?

Too much time had passed. 

Years of silence, of distance. 

Maybe it had always been foolish… 

to hope that he would last only two short months in the castle of Zaphcada – 

when he was only there as part of a diplomatic envoy.

“Arnaud, I swear… I would never do anything to disappoint you… You know me – you do know me…”

“After all I’ve seen and heard, how could I? Don’t ask me for sympathy, Isabelle.”

“It’s not Isabelle…I wanted you more than anyone to call me by that name. I’m Élisa…”

“Élisabeth is dead!” 

His voice thundered through the room, raw and loud, as if something inside him had finally broken. 

The flickering candlelight by the bedside table caught the distorted pain on his face, bringing it into sharp, heartbreaking relief. 

Since their reunion, Arnaud had shown her only two emotions – cold indifference and burning rage.

Indifference wasn’t even an emotion. 

What Arnaud had shown her from the start was nothing but anger. 

Anger at the first love who had once promised to come back for him. 

A single tear slipped down and landed with a soft plop on the blanket. 

“No… it’s not true…”

There were so many things she had shielded with her own body – 

Her parents. Her people. 

The precious culture and history of Imanoria. 

All kept safe, just as she had sworn. 

And yet, the one thing she had failed to protect – the one thing that had slipped through her fingers – was Arnaud’s heart.

Breathing heavily, Arnaud took one last look at Isabelle, his expression unreadable. 

Then, without a word, he clenched his fist and stormed out of the bridal chamber. 

Behind him, a trail of drops of blood marked the floor – stark and vivid, like a cruel path leading nowhere. 

As the door closed with cold finality, Isabelle buried her face in the sheets.

And the sobs came – deep, broken, unstoppable. 

“Hhng… kuh… ugh… ah-!”

Was this night really any different from all the days she had endured in silence before?

And that night, for the first time… 

Isabelle found herself thinking about death.