This chapter contains scenes that may be triggering, so please be careful while reading.

Only Isabelle could hear it, so the others around her reacted with varying expressions.

The Queen’s eyes widened as usual, and even Frederick, who usually showed no particular reaction, tilted his head.

“…If you have something to confess, you’d better leave quickly. There’s no priest here to see you.”

“Are you being sincere or just pretending not to understand?”

Henri didn’t back down easily. His sickly sweet look remained unchanged.

He still seems to be pretending to be in love.

She bit her lip to keep from being drawn in, but that was all she could do.

“That’s enough.”

At that moment, Arnaud grabbed the hand that was about to slip into her stomacher.

Surprisingly, no loud voices followed.

Henri simply looked at the wrist being held, then at his younger brother’s face, and replied with a gentle smile.

“Afraid we might get tangled up again? Afraid that your precious Isabelle will come crawling back to me?”

“What worries me is Your Majesty’s dignity.

Groping a lady’s body on the way to the altar-no one has ever done that.”

The longer he spoke, the more Henri’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. His eyelids, true to their nature, crinkled in contempt.

‘Yeah, I’ve had enough of this.’

Normally, he would have flown into a rage the moment his wrist was grabbed.

Lacking the strength to win by force, his method had always been to overpower others with his voice.

Isabelle knew Henri well. So did Louise, and so did Murier, who had been under the couple’s control.

Watching the king hold his chin high, unable to overpower even a single grip, a few choice words came to mind.

“Your lover, that damned brat-he’s all height and nothing else. Not a single useful thing about him. Even his desire to resemble the late king is the same. He was an insolent bastard from the beginning.”

“What did you ever see in him? That face without a single strong feature? Just that pretty little look of his? Well, I suppose love between children who aren’t even twenty years old is all the same…”

“If it had been me, I would have gone to kill him myself. That so-called love should’ve ended the moment he defied the natural order. He killed his own father just to get the throne!”

Those were the vile insults he had spewed, driving Isabelle to the wall.

If Versica was obsessed with Henri’s mercy, the “merciful” Henri was obsessed with the younger brother he’d locked away in Antmaren.

Every time Arnaud’s name was mentioned, Henri’s face contorted horribly, proof enough that it was an obsession.

The very flaws he was trying to hide were revealed with every word he spat.

When he said that Arnaud was “all height and nothing else”, it only highlighted the fact that even with heels on every shoe he owned, he still couldn’t surpass his younger brother’s stature.

To speak of the late King was ridiculous, considering that his own appearance could only ever be described as “decent at best”.

Calling Arnaud merely “handsome” exposed his deep-seated inferiority complex towards a brother who had inherited the best of both parents and lived his life basking in admiration.

And accusing him of killing their father — there was the cowardice of a man desperate to deny that he was the true shameful son.

I’ve lost our sister already, and I don’t wish to lose you as well, Arnaud.

“Your Majesty, it’s been a long time since Nina was all you had.”

“Don’t leave that poor child with just me.”

Nina was the nickname of Princess Eléonore, the only daughter of her late sister Thérèse and the younger sister of the two brothers.

Even in such a small gathering, the fact that Arnaud formally referred to his brother as Your Majesty, while using an affectionate nickname only for their sister, signaled a clear severing of ties.

It was Henri who couldn’t let Arnaud go. Through clenched teeth, he forced out his words.

Was it not you who took her father away from her?

“I cannot understand those words, nor do I intend to try. No matter how many times you paint over it, the truth cannot be hidden.”

To think that these two were known as the madman of Antmaren and the wise king of Chamfera.

One would have to change the subject for the scene to make sense – because everyone could see that the madman was Henri.

He couldn’t even resist the younger brother’s grip on his wrist, yet his eyes glared as if he could kill him at any moment.

“No, no. This isn’t the time to play with you like this.”

But even that glare vanished the moment Arnaud shook off his arm.

What followed was a mischievous, twisted smile.

As if there had never been any glare, Henri’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Then he shifted his gaze to Isabelle, who had been watching him silently.

She stepped back – not out of fear of him, but out of fear of what might follow that look in his eyes.

“If you ever want to see me again, come to the confessional with your husband. I’ll show you that much mercy. After all, I spared your neck – what’s stopping me?”

Isabelle made neither a polite gesture nor an answer, and Henri, as if he hadn’t expected one, left the chapel with the queen on his arm.

She hadn’t bent her knees – not out of pride, but because she knew only too well what came of the king’s so-called “mercy.

Her husband seemed to be thinking the same thing.

When she turned to look at him, the fear and anger twisted on his lips were painfully clear.

“Marie.”

“Yes, Madame.”

Instead of comforting or reassuring Arnaud, Isabelle called to her maid, who stood at a distance with her head bowed.

Marie quickly stepped between them.

“Escort Monsieur upstairs.”

“But Madame Murier is still…”

“Murier will take care of me today. For now, take care of my husband. That is your only task.”

True to her nature – always obedient when given a command, if not a request – Marie bowed her head as if to say that one question was enough.

“What are you going to do, stay here alone?”

“How am I alone when Murier will be here soon? And isn’t the Duke of Eurbonne here, too?”

The unexpected resistance didn’t come from Marie, but from Arnaud.

She could understand him raising his voice – after all, he knew Henri as well as she did.

But now wasn’t the time for understanding or consideration.

“I can’t go back alone. Don’t go near the confessional, no matter what…”

“Shh.”

So Isabelle simply raised a finger to her lips in lieu of an answer.

For a moment she saw his blue eyes waver violently, but after that he really said nothing more.

Still, after seeing those eyes, like a crashing wave, she couldn’t just send Arnaud away.

“Don’t go to confession. Don’t even think I might be there. I’m telling you this because I feel the same way. As you do, Arnaud.”

She didn’t forget to move her hand from her lips to his arm.

As Arnaud looked at her plaster-white skin, stark against her neat black dress, he reached out with his free hand and clasped hers.

When she looked at him in surprise, she saw an expression that didn’t fit the moment at all – those drooping eyes, the slight curve of his lips, and the lashes that seemed ready to fall like rain…

“Come up soon.”

Arnaud was worried about her.

It was hard to believe, but those last words hit like a nail, leaving little room for doubt.

This time it was Isabelle who stayed, staring at him blankly.

She didn’t move until the door by the stairs near the altar closed, until Arnaud was out of sight.

He really was strange today.

One could say he was standing between her and Henri out of animosity – but that look in his eyes earlier, there was just no way to make sense of it.

‘Have I really reached the point where I can no longer make sense of it…?’

The three years she’d brushed aside as “just” something were now unraveling at the most unexpected moment.

Her chest had grown so heavy it was hard to bear, and just as she was clutching it, Frederick had quietly approached.

“Madame, are you all right?”

“I must have tightened my corset too much. Nothing to worry about.”

She quickly composed herself, but Frederick’s hand, suspended in the air, showed no sign of coming down.

After all, clutching one’s chest wasn’t a common gesture.

So Isabelle added a touch of humor to her voice as she spoke.

“If you’re really worried, may I trouble you to accompany me to my chambers?”

“If that’s what Madame wants – anytime.”

Frederick gave a small nod and stepped aside to let Isabelle lead the way. She walked out into the open area lined with wooden chairs.

Just as her husband had quickly disappeared from sight, it wasn’t long before Isabelle reached the stairwell.

Frederick, who had caught up with her in wide strides, opened the door for her.

By this time they were walking side by side down the corridor.

Being comforted, being held, keeping up with her pace – all the things she thought she would only ever do with Arnaud had now become the place of another man.

As she smiled bitterly, that “other man” spoke.

“Your Majesty doesn’t seem very happy to see His Majesty.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you look like you’re doing your best, Madame.”

It would have been something that required immediate exorcism had it come from Versica’s mouth, but since the speaker was Frédéric, she neither denied nor confirmed it.

“Unexpected guests are always a bit inconvenient.”

“About the unexpected part, madam.”

Even in this vague answer, Frédéric managed to grasp something. He felt he now understood why Eleonore had so readily accepted a marriage proposal from him.

Isabelle asked no more questions and just waited for him.

“You knew that someone from the convent of Mobien had been sent here.”

“And?”

“What’s puzzling is that matters of the Moebien are handled at their discretion… Even as the lord, I am unaware of such trivial affairs.”