It really was Arnaud.

The golden curls and pale blue eyes told her it was him.

“You…”

Isabelle’s eyes widened at the sight of him.

And then she froze – she didn’t know what expression to make next.

“What is it?”

She couldn’t find the right answer, but for some reason she didn’t have the courage to face him directly.

She lowered her eyes to her knees and forced herself to speak as calmly as she could.

There was no answer.

Arnaud just stood there in the doorway, motionless.

Then he quietly walked over to the largest window and opened it slightly.

Arnaud leaned against the wall next to the window at an angle, then reached into his coat.

He pulled out what looked like a cigar and lit it with the nearest candle.

A faint trail of smoke began to curl around him.

It was a familiar sight – but if there was one thing different, it was the smell.

It wasn’t as harsh or repulsive as the one Henri smoked.

Isabelle found herself staring at him.

His profile, flickering in the candlelight, was no different than it had been three years ago.

No, he was even more handsome now.

Twice as handsome as the Arnaud of seventeen.

She thought of the prince from the ancient myths her mother, the Duchess Cassandra, had told her about.

He was the golden-haired boy of the myths – a prince by birth, raised as a shepherd.

‘I wonder if he looked like this…..’

Just as the thought crossed her mind, Arnaud ground out the last of his cigar on the window sill and turned to face her.

He glanced between her and the spot beside him and motioned wordlessly for her to come over.

Instead of answering, Isabelle reached for the robe hanging by the bed and pulled it over her.

The closer she got, the more she expected the smoky scent to cling to her – but strangely, it had already dissipated.

She let the tension ease from her shoulders and leaned against the wall next to him.

Then her name was spoken quietly.

“Isabelle.”

It made her heart ache.

What had she hoped for?

Maybe… that he would call her Elisabeth.

Biting her lip, Isabelle replied softly.

“Arnaud.”

This time it was he who flinched.

Just a little – but enough.

Then, as if nothing had happened, Arnaud calmly placed the remains of the cigar on a silver tray and turned to face his wife.

“I’m sorry about Alathea.”

He seemed to understand that what she needed most at the moment was comfort.

Isabelle pressed a firm finger under her eye, where the heat of tears was rising, then replied.

“When we get to Antmaren… I’d like to give her a grave. Even if it’s a simple one.”

“As you wish.”

It was a short answer.

It might have seemed indifferent, but it was less that he had nothing to say – and more that he didn’t know how to say it.

Isabelle’s pupils trembled.

She didn’t understand why he was suddenly acting this way.

It confused her.

She parted her lips as if to ask something – but when she realised she wasn’t going to get a clear answer, she closed them again, biting back the words.

Calvador was surrounded by forest, so the view was little more than a few dozen rubber trees and the warblers nesting in them.

The two of them stood in silence, looking out of the window.

“It must have been boring for you.”

Isabel said, breaking the long silence. 

It wasn’t because she was uncomfortable or just wanted to start a conversation. 

She had just remembered Arnaud, who had been imprisoned in Calvador at the age of fourteen.

He didn’t react immediately and Isabel assumed that it was entirely his choice – that he didn’t want to continue. 

that he didn’t want to continue the conversation.

But when she accidentally turned her head, Isabel realised she had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“Do you remember?” 

His parted lips, opened in disbelief, looked almost foolish. Arnaud approached her with the same expression. 

Isabel was equally taken aback.

“Do you remember that I was imprisoned in Calvador?”

“You told me. While we were walking along the coast of Phoebe – you said you lived here from fourteen to seventeen…”

Doesn’t he remember telling me that?

From the look on his face, he really didn’t seem to remember.

Isabelle trailed off mid-sentence, tilting her head slightly in confusion, while Arnaud looked down at her for a long moment.

Just as the silence thickened, Arnaud took a deep breath, as if to steel himself, and finally spoke.

“I want to ask you something, Isabelle.”

It was something she’d wanted to say as well – but since he’d brought it up first, she had little choice.

Slowly, Isabelle nodded.

“Go ahead.”

“What did Versica tell you?”

Isabelle swallowed hard.

Though she couldn’t answer for a long time, Arnaud waited patiently, saying nothing.

‘Should I tell him the truth? Or keep silent?’

She never wanted to feel his coldness again.

More than anything, she wanted to fall into his arms.

Versica’s warning flashed through her mind, but standing here in front of this man, all she wanted to do was confess everything.

“He…”

Just as she was about to spill it all out, like a confession torn from her throat, something flashed between the dense trees outside the window.

Her eyes instinctively went to the source of the light.

Unlike Arnaud, whose back was turned, Isabelle could see it clearly.

“…”

A silver rifle barrel was pointed directly at her.

She quickly shifted her eyes to Arnaud’s face, pretending not to have seen it – but the wave of fear that washed over her could not be stopped.

It was probably at that moment that Alathea’s fading eyes met Arnaud’s pale blue ones.

The barrel aimed at Théa must have looked just like that.

The snipers hadn’t left after all.

In the end, Isabelle would live under Henri’s thumb until the day she died.

“…I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”

Her reply lacked strength, and Arnaud seemed hesitant to believe her.
He asked her again.

“Were you threatened or something? Isabel, you know the answer I want to hear.” 

“And what could someone who refused to consummate want?” 

“That time was…!”

The sudden change in his attitude was almost laughable.

How could he act like this after rejecting her so coldly?

Isabelle replied in a tone of mild disbelief.

And Arnaud, perhaps having nothing more to say, didn’t finish his sentence.

“I’ll ask you again – are you being threatened?” 

He acted as if he had suddenly realised something. His attitude changed so abruptly it was almost unnatural. 

At the same time, Isabelle began to feel uneasy.

What would Versica say to Henri if she found out that he had noticed something – that he had been watching his wife’s behaviour closely? 

It was Henri who had told her to become a pr*stitute and even threatened Arnaud’s life. 

If Versica were to discover that this was all part of Henri’s plan, the consequences would be obvious.

In truth, Versica was the kind of man whose sudden death would surprise no oneNot only had he brutally murdered the former king, but he had also gone mad – insisting that he should have been the rightful successor before being overthrown by Antmarne.

It was hard to believe at first, but after Alathea looked into it, it turned out to be true. 

Even now, there are more than a few high nobles who would like to see him hanged. 

If Arnaud was suspicious of what she had confessed…

“I may not have spent the night with His Majesty, but it’s true that I visited him.”

What choice did she have? In the end, Isabelle chose to be misunderstood and suffer the consequences.

“It was definitely then, at the palace…”

“I said we didn’t spend the night together. That may be true… but the answer you want, Arnaud, is…”

She had to say it. She had to – but the tightness in her chest made it almost impossible to breathe. 

Isabelle inhaled, then finally forced the words out, as if releasing everything she’d been holding back. 

“…I can’t give it to you.” 

Arnaud’s pupils quivered as if struck by lightning. 

His glassy irises wavered, fragile – on the verge of shattering. 

It was incredibly hard to turn away from him at that moment. 

“You’re lying.” 

He spoke in a trembling voice. 

Raw words, stripped of all honourifics – harsh and unfiltered. 

It was the kind of thing she might have heard from the seventeen-year-old Arnaud she once knew in Imanoria. 

At the words, Isabelle pressed her lips together and bowed her head. 

She couldn’t bear to look at his face. 

The pain was inevitable. 

“Lies… you’re lying.” 

“You can misunderstand me all you want, but don’t ask me any more. I… have nothing more to say.” 

And with that, Isabelle turned and walked away.

She felt that if she faced him for a moment longer, she might end up telling him everything. 

Arnaud held out his hand as if to stop her, but perhaps realising that it was useless, he said nothing and left the room. 

Even his footsteps were full of anger. 

Isabelle’s eyes didn’t move, not even then. 

Next to the flickering candlesticks on the bedside table was a mahogany box, tightly closed. 

She muttered to herself. 

‘I can’t let Arnaud end up dead too.’

Everything was in Isabelle’s hands. 

She suddenly remembered her father’s desperate voice, screaming that everyone’s life depended on her, begging her to hold on. 

Yes, she had to hold on.

The couple didn’t have the power to overthrow Henri. Isabel knew that only too well. 

She would have to endure the coldness that Arnaud would show her in the days to come. 

She took a deep breath and walked over to the candlestick where Arnaud had once lit his cigar. 

For a moment she stared at her own reflection in its polished surface. 

Then, one by one, Isabelle began to blow out the flames. 

In an instant, the room was plunged into darkness.

This way she won’t see anything. 

Not the cigar Arnaud was smoking, not the open window, not the box where Alathea was hidden. 

“Haah…” 

And yet, why did the tears fall? 

Isabel forced the sobs back into her throat.