011
By sending me the Leisha flower, the emblem of the crown princess, the emperor had laid bare his intentions to the nobility. It was a gesture as deliberate as it was potent—no noble family, no matter how alluring their marriage prospects, would dare approach me with a proposal unless they were prepared to court the emperor’s wrath.
The world, it seemed, had misjudged me entirely. They saw a prize where I saw only shadows. The countess was with child, her belly swelling with the promise of an heir. Should it be a boy, he would inherit the count’s title without question, his birthright as certain as the dawn. Even a daughter would eclipse me in precedence. If the count were to perish, a sliver of his wealth might fall into my hands—some gold, perhaps, or a parcel of land—but the true spoils, the title and the thriving trading companies that pulsed like the lifeblood of his legacy, would never be mine.
Of course, that’s assuming I don’t wield the weight of my name, I thought, the notion flickering like a half-formed ember in my mind.
Yet even without a child, the outcome would scarcely differ. The count had already anointed an heir, a figure poised in the wings long before the final curtain fell. When death claimed him, the estate was carved up with surgical precision. To the countess and me, he bequeathed modest tokens—jewels that glittered coldly, gold coins that clinked with hollow promise, a scattering of fields sufficient for a life of idle comfort. Generous, perhaps, by common standards, but a pittance compared to the vast fortune he’d amassed. The heart of his dominion—the sprawling trading companies, the fertile territories, the title itself—passed seamlessly to this chosen successor.
The count’s distant kin howled in protest, their outrage echoing through the halls like a storm against stone. They refused to acknowledge this stranger, this heir whose existence had blindsided them. But their clamor amounted to nothing. In his hands, the heir clutched documents inked with the count’s own scrawl, legal and unassailable. And then there was the countess—her support a quiet, devastating blow to their cause. She, who stood to lose the most, raised no objection, silencing their accusations of fraud. Desperate, they scrabbled for leverage during the transfer of the trading companies, but that too slipped through their grasp. The heir had already tightened his grip on them, his authority cemented long before the count drew his last breath. There was no chink in his armor, no foothold for their ambitions.
He was a phantom, this heir. A name whispered in shadows, never glimpsed at the glittering royal galas where power preened and strutted. I’d never seen his face, nor cared to. My nanny had raged against him, spitting venom about this “upstart mongrel,” but her words washed over me, unheeded. Back then, my mind was a captive thing, enthralled by a singular obsession: the crown prince. The count’s wealth, his legacy, the machinations of inheritance—they were dust beneath my feet. My heart beat for one purpose, one person alone.
I was a child of neglect, abandoned by a father too aloof to notice me and a mother unmoored by her own madness. Love was a hunger that gnawed at me, relentless and unfulfilled, and I sought to sate it through the crown prince. I longed for his gaze to linger on me alone, for his voice to seek me out in a crowd. I dreamed he might exist solely for my sake. Small wonder, then, that he came to despise me.
His contempt was a living thing, sharp and festering. The more I pleaded for his affection, the deeper his revulsion grew, until it was a chasm between us. When he took a lover, my obsession twisted into something darker, a stubborn, reckless thing that drove me to an act I should never have dared.
When he learned of it, he didn’t rage. No, his fury was too vast for something as petty as shouting. He fixed me with a stare cold enough to freeze the marrow in my bones and ordered my confinement. I fought the knights who seized me, my voice a wild, keening thing— I’ve done nothing wrong, it’s her fault, all her fault! —curses spilling from my lips like poison.
“The day I first met you was the worst day of my life.”
His words struck me like a blade, clean and final. He turned and left, and I crumpled, my legs giving way beneath me. The knights hauled me off, their hands rough and unyielding, but I had no fight left to give. For him, that first meeting had been a curse. For me, it was a golden dawn, the most radiant moment of my existence. Tears streamed down my face, hot and unrelenting. I’d borne his scorn, his indifference, but this rejection of the memory that had sustained me—it was unbearable.
The recollection set my body trembling, a shiver I couldn’t still. My mind, strangely, remained a calm sea, but my flesh rebelled, quaking as I wrapped my arms around myself for solace. Yet when I met him again, not long ago, the encounter defied my dread. It was quiet, almost serene. He offered me the same measured courtesy as always, and I managed to hold my own, neither crumbling nor clawing for more. I had loved him with a ferocity that bordered on madness, convinced he was my entire world. That first meeting could never leave me untouched. My heart—Bionne’s heart—thundered in my chest, a frantic, familiar rhythm. But my mind, the part of me that was Ijia, stayed cool, aloof, a sentinel keeping watch over the chaos below. Love and denial clashed within me, a duel of fire and ice. I was myself, yet not myself—a paradox I couldn’t unravel.
For now, I let the question of my feelings drift away, unexamined. It was enough that I hadn’t slipped back into that old, frenzied devotion. I wasn’t mad with love anymore. That was sufficient.
***
Act ||||: Taming
The marquess’s garden sprawled in wild disarray, a tangle of green that shamed the polished elegance expected of a noble estate. In the rarefied air of the aristocracy, a garden was more than mere flora—it was the lady of the house’s mirror, reflecting her taste, her pride, her very soul. Most noblewomen tended theirs with a fervor bordering on reverence. The marchioness, though, had no gift for it—or, more truthfully, no care.
Did she ever cherish anything beyond the marquess himself? I wondered, the thought a quiet murmur in the recesses of my mind.
I wandered through the overgrown paths at a languid pace, the grass whispering beneath my steps. A soft breeze danced through the air, warm with the kiss of sunlight. For a moment, I let myself simply be , drinking in the stillness, the peace that settled over me like a balm.
Bionne and Ijia shared a single thread: lives consumed by ceaseless motion. Bionne burned with the fever of love, a wildfire of passion; Ijia toiled in the gritty churn of survival, clawing through each day. This stillness, this rare breath of calm, felt like a guest I hadn’t welcomed in years.
A rustle.
I was savoring the sun’s warmth, eyes shut against the world, when the faint shiver of branches brushed my ears. This was no ordinary garden—it was a hidden sanctum, tucked deep within the manor, reserved for the lady of the house alone. No soul could cross its threshold unbidden, not even the marquess himself, without her nod of approval.
With the marchioness gone, that title fell to me. I’d banished everyone—nanny, maids, all of them—craving the solitude I so rarely claimed.
My gaze swept the greenery, hunting the source of the disturbance.
Ten paces off, a bush trembled, its leaves dancing without wind. I drifted closer, steps soft on the earth.
It stood as tall as I did, a tangle of vines mimicking rose briars, their thorns gleaming like tiny, wicked blades. I reached for a bare patch and nudged it. The vines held fast, unyielding. Then they quaked again, harder, and I stepped back, eyes narrowing as I studied the shadows within. My pulse quickened—some feral thing might spring out, claws bared.
A small, dark shape shifted inside, rocking the vines with its struggle. It seemed desperate to break free.
Should I help? The thorns looked cruel enough to draw blood.
Pain’s the last thing I need, I told myself.
But the question didn’t linger. Curiosity tugged harder than caution. I snapped off a few thorns, clearing a grip, my fingers itching to unveil the mystery.
This garden sat within a fortress of a manor, watched by knights who’d sooner skewer a threat than let it slip through. No beast could wander here. Emboldened, I seized the vine and hauled it back.
The gap yawned, and out rolled the shadow—not a hare or a raccoon, as I’d guessed, but something larger, heavier. No animal at all.
A child, small and crumpled, no older than four or five, spilled from the briars. Scratches crisscrossed their skin, badges of a thorny ordeal.
They uncurled just enough to lift their head. Dark brown eyes met mine, wide and lost, glinting like those of a stray pup left to the cold.
Just like Ttorong, I thought.
The memory flared bright—Ijia’s life, and Ttorong, my golden-furred companion with those same soulful eyes, trotting at my heels, tail a blur of devotion.
“…….”
“…….”
The child stared up, wary as a cornered thing. I bent low and pressed a finger to their chubby cheek.
“……!”
They flinched, tumbling back in a heap. I sank into a crouch, peering down at them.
Confusion swam in their gaze, their face a canvas of bewilderment so vivid I could almost see the question marks swirling around them. A laugh slipped out before I could catch it.
I pinched their cheek between thumb and finger—soft, cool, yielding like fresh dough.
Too firm a squeeze, perhaps; their eyes shimmered with unshed tears. No sobs, just that silent, quivering stare, so like Ttorong’s patient wait for my word, a treat dangling just out of reach.
I might be awakening some twisted pastime, I mused, half-amused, half-uneasy.
I wasn’t the sort to relish a child’s distress, yet this one’s every twitch sparked something—delight, maybe. Their quick, unguarded reactions tugged at threads of nostalgia, echoes of Ttorong and Ijia’s simpler days. And their hair—tangled with dirt and leaves—mirrored the marquess’s deep navy blue.
“Found him?”
“No, can’t see him.”
“Where’d that little scrap hide?”
Voices cut through the air, and my hand hovered, tempted to pinch again. Irritation flickered—more intruders.
This was my retreat, a place where my word was law, where no one dared step without my say. Their presence grated, a violation of the quiet I’d carved out.
“What’s this about?” I called, voice edged with frost.
“Gasp!”
“Milady!”
I straightened. The maids—caught off guard, unprepared for me—stumbled into frantic bows.
“I asked what’s happening,” I pressed, colder now.
“W-we… um, it’s…” they faltered, eyes darting between each other, answers stuck in their throats.
My stare hardened. “You barge into my garden without leave and have no words? Am I to assume you think me beneath notice?”
“No, milady!” one gasped.
“We’re sorry! It was a mistake!”
“Please, forgive us!” they begged, collapsing to their knees.
I flicked a glance downward. The child sprawled at my feet, rigid, those anxious eyes locked on mine.
The bushes must’ve veiled him from their sight—or perhaps my shadow loomed too large for them to notice. They groveled, foreheads kissing the dirt, trembling like leaves in a gale.
“Have mercy, milady.”
“We beg your pardon.”
I didn’t need their stammering to know why they’d come. The child was their quarry. With a subtle shift, I flared my skirt, a curtain to keep him hidden.
“Quiet,” I snapped. “Go.”
“S-sorry… what?” one ventured, head jerking up.
I waved them off. “I said go. I’ll speak to the nanny about this—brace yourselves for what’s coming.”
“T-thank you, milady!” they chorused, gratitude trembling through their relief.
“Move,” I barked.
They hesitated, bowed once more, then fled, as if I might snatch back my leniency.
When their footsteps faded, I turned to the child. He hadn’t stirred, his tiny fist now knotted in my skirt. I crouched again, meeting those unsteady eyes.
Hmm.
The maids had braved this forbidden garden for him—he mattered, clearly. They’d never dreamed I’d be here; I seldom was. This place, the marchioness’s domain, had long lain neglected in their minds, a relic they couldn’t imagine me claiming.
“Now,” I murmured, tapping his cheek with a finger, “what’s to be done with you?” His dark brown eyes flickered, adrift in uncertainty.
