010
I bowed slowly before the Emperor, my waist bending with measured grace. Had I been a commoner or a servant, I would have knelt, pressing my forehead to the floor in obeisance. But as the daughter of a marquess, a deep bow at ninety degrees sufficed to fulfill my duty of respect.
“Well, well, no one could mistake you for anything but the Chancellor’s daughter—so alike!” the Emperor remarked, his tone laced with amusement.
“Indeed, Your Majesty, the resemblance is striking,” came a swift reply from one of his attendants.
“Ha! Exactly alike, exactly!”
The Emperor’s hearty laughter filled the hall, brimming with genuine mirth.
He had laughed at me back then, too, when I first stood before him, trembling with nerves at the sight of the imperial presence. The formal greetings my nursemaid had drilled into me vanished from my mind, and I stumbled through my courtesies, barely managing to complete them. He had found my awkwardness endearing, chuckling softly.
*Not the boisterous laughter of today, though.*
“Marquess, why have you kept such a daughter hidden from me until now?”
“Your Majesty’s words humble me,” the Marquess replied, his tone devoid of any trace of humility.
The Emperor seemed unfazed by the Marquess’s curt response, waving a hand toward me instead.
“Come closer, child.”
Instinctively, my eyes darted to the Marquess. He gave a slight nod, barely perceptible. With measured steps, I approached the Emperor.
“And how old are you this year?”
“I will soon be eleven, Your Majesty.”
The Emperor studied me, his gaze sweeping over me as if appraising a fine work of art. My birthday was mere days away, and at my answer, his face lit with satisfaction.
“Perfect. Absolutely perfect,” he said, chuckling warmly.
His laughter rang out again, louder and more delighted than it had been years ago. Back then, he had been pleased with me, but not like this—not with this unrestrained joy.
I knew he coveted my qualities, my lineage. That was why he had chosen me to be the Crown Prince’s betrothed. Yet now, his satisfaction seemed to have deepened, though I had done nothing but offer my courtesies. What was it about me that pleased him so?
“Your Majesty, the Crown Prince has arrived,” an attendant announced.
“Oh! Bring him in at once!”
My heart began to pound, a wild rhythm echoing in my chest. The great doors of the audience chamber creaked open, slow and deliberate. My pulse raced, untamed. Back then, I had loved him so fiercely it nearly broke me.
*Do I still love him now? Or have I let that love go?*
“I present myself to you, Father,” came his voice.
And there he was.
He was the same as I remembered, yet different. The boy before me now was younger than the last image I held of him, his features softened by youth. His silver hair caught the sunlight, shimmering like a cascade of light. His face, still touched with boyish softness, was as flawless as fine porcelain. The elegant curve of his nose and lips, red as rose petals, could have been mistaken for a girl’s, so delicate was their beauty.
At fourteen, three years my senior, he stood at the cusp of boyhood and manhood. The faint down on his cheeks marked him as a boy, while the lean, tempered frame honed by swordsmanship hinted at the man he was becoming.
With graceful precision, he approached and bowed to the Emperor. The Emperor greeted him with a broad, beaming smile.
“Come, my Prince.”
“I greet the Little Sun of the Empire,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor within.
“Beonne Lossa Eliont, eldest daughter of House Eliont, greets the Little Sun of the Empire,” the Marquess echoed beside me.
The Crown Prince returned our courtesies with a polite bow, his movements refined and measured.
“Come closer, Prince,” the Emperor beckoned.
At his command, the Crown Prince stepped toward me. With each step he took, a faint sheen of sweat gathered on my palms.
“See? What a splendid pair they make!” the Emperor exclaimed, his eyes gleaming with approval. “Don’t you agree, Chancellor?”
The Marquess offered no reply—a silence that bordered on insolence. But the Emperor, undeterred, turned to his chief attendant with the same question.
“What say you, Chamberlain?”
“They are as perfectly matched as a pair of lovebirds, Your Majesty,” the attendant replied smoothly.
“Lovebirds? Ha! A fitting comparison indeed!”
The Emperor’s laughter roared through the hall, unrestrained and jubilant. The term *lovebirds*—a poetic allusion to mythical creatures, each with a single wing and eye, unable to fly without their mate—was often used to describe devoted lovers or harmonious couples. The Emperor’s intent was unmistakable, his ambitions laid bare.
“Your Majesty, if I may, the council meeting is about to begin,” the chamberlain interjected.
“What? Already?” The Emperor’s face fell, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He turned to me, his expression tinged with regret.
“Time slips away when I’m in such fine company as yours, my lady.”
“Your Majesty’s words honor me,” I replied, bowing once more, though all I had done was offer pleasantries.
The Emperor paused, his brow furrowing as if weighing a decision.
“It feels a shame to send you off so soon.”
“The gardens of Visard Palace are in full bloom with Leisha flowers,” the chamberlain suggested promptly. “Perhaps Your Majesty might permit the young lady to tour them?”
The suggestion was so neatly timed it could have been rehearsed. The Emperor clapped his hands, delighted.
“An excellent idea! Far better for you to linger and enjoy the gardens than to wander off alone while the Chancellor attends to his duties.”
In truth, I would have preferred to leave. The last thing I wanted was to stroll through gardens. But the Emperor’s words, though cloaked in the guise of a suggestion, carried the weight of a command. I had no choice but to comply.
He turned to the Crown Prince.
“You shall escort her, Prince. See to it that the young lady is well attended until the Chancellor’s business is concluded.”
“Yes, Father,” the Prince replied, bowing with quiet deference.
The Emperor gazed at him with evident pride. My trembling fingers curled tightly into my palms.
“It was a most delightful time. Let us meet again soon, my dear.”
“Your Majesty’s words honor me,” I replied, for what else could I say to the Emperor?
The Crown Prince extended his hand toward me, a gesture of chivalrous escort, as a knight might offer a lady. My trembling fingers fought to steady themselves as I placed them atop his. Despite my efforts to conceal it, my hand quivered faintly in his grasp.
In this moment, I was as I had been back then. The only difference was this: *that trembling once stemmed from the thrill of his presence; now it was born of fear—fear of the self I might become.*
Visard Palace, nestled deep within the inner sanctum of the imperial complex, was renowned for its sprawling gardens and breathtaking vistas. Legend held that the third Emperor of the realm, devoted to his flower-loving Empress, had gathered blooms from every corner of the world to ensure blossoms year-round. Thus, Visard Palace was often called the Palace of the Crown Princess, a residence passed down through generations of imperial brides.
Yet Visard Palace had stood empty for years. The Emperor had never been a Crown Prince himself, and the current Crown Prince had yet to take a consort. Until I married him and assumed the title of Crown Princess, the palace would remain without a mistress.
The Crown Prince led me toward the gardens, and I followed in his wake.
As the chamberlain had promised, the gardens of Visard Palace were ablaze with Leisha flowers, their sweet fragrance saturating the air. A gentle breeze stirred, sending white petals dancing through the space, swirling like delicate snowflakes in a mesmerizing spectacle. He turned to face me, his silver hair catching the light, blending seamlessly with the fluttering petals—a vision so striking it could have been a painting. Back then, I had gazed at him, utterly entranced by the sight.
*And then…*
He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. A slender hand reached toward my face, his fingers brushing lightly against my cheek. A soft smile curved his lips, and in the golden depths of his eyes, I saw my reflection, clear and unbroken.
He withdrew his hand, a single petal that had clung to my cheek now caught between his fingers. With a tender gesture, he pressed his lips to the petal before releasing it to the wind.
That was the moment I had fallen into that consuming, perilous love.
—
Sirius Aisan Low Priston.
Crown Prince of the Priston Empire, destined to one day ascend as Emperor. The man I had loved with a fervor that bordered on madness.
Looking back, I realize he hadn’t despised me from the start. He was never overtly warm, not like the Marquess’s cold indifference, but there was a measured courtesy in his demeanor. Raised from birth to be the Crown Prince, he had been schooled in the art of propriety, mastering the delicate balance of how to treat others with grace.
His courtesy toward me was polished, almost professional—a habit honed by years of navigating the demands of countless courtiers. I mistook that courtesy for affection.
Back then, I had never known true affection. I couldn’t discern the difference between polite regard and genuine care. My mistake was, perhaps, inevitable.
It wasn’t until he found someone he truly loved that I understood. His behavior toward her was unmistakably different. The golden eyes that gazed upon her shimmered with a honeyed warmth, and the practiced smile that had always seemed fixed softened into something radiant, like a field of flowers in full bloom.
Had I let him go then, when I saw what real affection looked like, everything might have been different. But I refused to accept it. I poured all my resentment onto her—the woman he loved.
*When did his courtesy toward me turn to contempt?*
I once believed it was her fault, that she had changed him. But now I know better. His disdain for me had taken root long before she entered his life. I cannot pinpoint when it began, only that I was too consumed by my own emotions to notice the shift.
I claimed to love him, yet I never truly sought to understand him. I judged everything through my own lens, heedless of his circumstances or feelings. My love was selfish, one-sided, blind.
“My lady, more flowers have arrived from the palace!”
My nursemaid burst into the room, her arms laden with Leisha blossoms, their sweet scent flooding the space. Beaming with pride, she glanced around, searching for a place to display them. My chambers were already overflowing, as flowers arrived from the palace every other day.
“His Highness must be quite taken with you, my lady!”
She found a rare empty spot among the crowded vases and arranged the Leisha blooms with care, her face alight with satisfaction.
“It’s not like that,” I said, rubbing my throbbing temples. The headaches had begun the moment I returned from the palace.
My nursemaid, like me back then, believed the flowers were a gift from a smitten Crown Prince. But this was no simple gesture, not the romantic whim of two naive women.
The Leisha flower was the emblem of Visard Palace, a symbol of the Crown Princess. The palace sending me these blooms was no mere courtesy—it was a calculated message from the Emperor, a warning to the nobility.
*The Crown Prince likely doesn’t even know these flowers are being sent in his name.*
Our betrothal was not yet formalized, leaving room for other noble houses to propose matches to House Eliont. I had heard whispers of discreet overtures from several families. Regardless of who I was as a person, the title of “Eldest Daughter of House Eliont” made me an enticing prospect.
By imperial law, a woman could not inherit a noble house, but her husband could. As the Marquess’s only child, my future husband stood a strong chance of inheriting House Eliont—unless the Marquess remarried and produced an heir. Even then, I had the Pison earldom through my mother’s line. My grandfather, the Earl of Pison, had only one daughter, and I was her sole heir. The Earl was advanced in years, with no children from his current wife. Even a fraction of his astronomical wealth would sustain a lifetime of luxury.
Like ants drawn to sugar, suitors swarmed. The Emperor was among them—the mightiest ant of all.
