Chapter 17
“The Emperor’s Jealousy”
Ariella had once read something like this in a history book.
That a man who already possessed the entire world could still envy someone else.
At the time, she had thought it was the height of contradiction.
And then, like a whisper from memory, a line she had read long ago in the tower resurfaced.
“Behind every tyrant stands a father even more ruthless.”
Dmitri had declared to all the world that the age of a tyrant began with the murder of his own father.
At that moment, a damp wind swept through the chamber.
The light that had wavered uneasily across the Emperor’s face suddenly sank, only to flare again with greater force.
Frederick glared at Dmitri, but in the end, left without a word.
Only after he was gone did Ariella let out a long, shaky breath and lean back.
Dmitri straightened his posture so that she could rest against him more comfortably.
Several days passed after the Hunt Festival.
Since that day, she had not seen Dmitri again.
For a man who had so boldly declared her his own, his absence felt strangely indifferent.
From the terrace of the palace where she stayed, the entire garden stretched out before her.
Spring had deepened; its fragrance thickened with the bloom of flowers.
It was beautiful.
But as always, her thoughts drifted, unbidden, toward Dmitri.
Had his fever risen during the night?
Had the sutures split, the wound worsened?
His injuries were far more severe than she had first imagined.
That night, after she treated him, Dmitri had swallowed his medicine and fallen into a heavy sleep.
Ariella had wanted to remain by his side, but she had been forced to leave when the prince himself had ordered that she be sent away from the Crown Prince’s quarters.
Her reverie broke when the sound of her hair being brushed filled the silence.
“Especially your hair… It’s beautiful.
So don’t think otherwise.”
Dmitri’s voice surfaced in her mind without warning, making her shoulders jolt.
“What is it, my lady?”
“Mm?
Nothing.”
Reina resumed her brushing, her movements unbothered.
In the end, Ariella had not sent the letter to Forenze.
She had originally intended to do so that, should she be imprisoned in the tower again, she might already have Forenze’s formal declaration of annulment in hand.
‘Yes, I like her.
Which is why, for now, she is mine.’
That voice again sudden, uninvited.
Ariella held her breath.
So his victory at the Hunt… had meant that.
Dmitri had no power of his own at present.
Yet for the sake of his promise to her, he had risked everything and won.
That single fact caught in her throat like a thorn she could not swallow.
Later, she would learn that granting the victor a wish was an ancient tradition in Trifina.
Unless it challenged imperial authority itself, the Emperor was bound to grant it.
And because Dmitri had made his declaration before all, she would not be confined to the tower for the time being.
Which meant… sending a letter to Forenze now, asking for annulment, would be hasty.
Her eyes drifted toward the distant spire that pierced the sky.
The West Tower.
The place she had once believed she could never escape from, save through death.
And yet the very man she had thought responsible for her imprisonment had risked his life to drag her out of that hell.
“Ahh…”
“Our princess seems to be hiding troubles she won’t speak aloud…”
Troubles?
Could this even be called something so simple?
But Reina wasn’t wrong Ariella’s thoughts circled endlessly, never at rest.
“Still, perhaps you can worry a little less now?”
“What do you mean?”
Reina leaned closer, drawing out her words.
“Because His Highness the Crown Prince declared before everyone ‘Forenze’s Ariella belongs to me.’”
She even mimicked Dmitri’s voice, though she had never heard it.
Ariella could almost picture the palace maids squealing and blushing as the gossip spread.
“The words weren’t exactly like that.”
“More or less.”
Reina had always been quick to befriend others, even back in Forenze.
Already, she knew the names and faces of nearly all the palace maids.
It was astonishing.
Ariella was her opposite meeting people drained her, while Reina thrived in their company.
Ariella glanced at her, noting the faint blush warming her cheeks, before turning back to the garden.
The spring garden shifted subtly each day.
One cluster of flowers would wither, only for new buds to burst open.
Her gaze wandered to the soft slopes of the distant hills.
Had the daisies bloomed?
Were the white-striped butterflies resting upon them?
It was still spring.
Even brighter than yesterday.
But if she did not pause sometimes to look around her, the unease would rise again gnawing, whispering that all this was only a dream.
“Reina.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think it’s easier for someone who’s been hurt to become a villain, or for someone simply wicked by nature?”
“…Where are they hurt?”
“Not ill, exactly.
More like… deeply wounded.”
“Then the hurt one.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“My lady!”
Reina flinched, dropping the comb at Ariella’s raised voice.
She bent to pick it up, continuing calmly, “Don’t you remember?
Lady Holland.”
Ariella frowned.
The name tugged at memory, but faintly it had been nearly a decade since she had left Forenze’s social world behind.
And she had been crowned Trifina’s crown princess before even her formal debut.
“There were always spiteful girls,” Reina continued.
“The type who looked down on anyone of lower birth or lesser wealth.
But their malice was petty, clumsy.”
Ariella searched her hazy recollections.
“But Lady Holland was different.
She was kind. Truly.”
Then Ariella remembered the tall girl with ashen eyes, quiet, almost invisible.
And yet, she had once shaken Forenze’s capital with scandal.
Lady Holland had been engaged for years.
But her fiancé betrayed her for an obscure opera singer.
The wound she bore from it was devastating.
“And what did she do then?”
She destroyed his family, root and branch.
Worse, she pushed the singer down the stairs, leaving her crippled for life.
She survived, but her career was over.
For anyone who had known Lady Holland, the cruelty had been unimaginable.
“They say when a woman bears a grudge, even midsummer can frost over.”
Yes.
And hell itself could not rival the fury of a wounded woman.
“So you see, it’s easier for the hurt ones to turn wicked.”
…Was it true, then?
Was it already too late for him?
Ariella’s chest tightened.
Her mind betrayed her summoning the memory of Dmitri, drenched in blood, slicing the wolf’s neck clean through.
She had never shaken that vision.
Ever since, even in broad daylight, nightmares plagued her.
Sometimes she was locked in the tower again.
Sometimes she stood before the executioner’s blade.
And always, Dmitri’s face loomed before her.
The same cold, detached eyes he had worn at eighteen when he felled the wolf.
To pity a man so wounded… her own heart was in too precarious a place.
Just then, Ariella’s gaze caught movement in the Crown Prince’s garden.
Near the fountain where Dmitri had once collapsed stood a man.
Her breath stilled.
Was someone here to torment Dmitri again?
She leaned forward, straining to see who it was.
Few dared step into this place uninvited.
And yet the man stood alone, without attendant or guard.
That could only mean he was of royal blood.
He lingered a while, staring toward Dmitri’s residence more precisely, toward his office.
Then, suddenly, he began to walk.
Closer.
Closer still, until his figure grew large before her eyes.
Not hesitating in the least, he came straight toward the palace where Ariella lived.
Though there was a formal entrance for her quarters, the Crown Prince’s palace was loosely guarded; a man could simply cross the low garden hedges.
Ariella quickly pulled back, retreating into the shade of the terrace.
The man stopped directly below.
Red hair glowed like sunset fire, and his sharp blue eyes caught the light.
“Your Highness.”
He pressed a hand to his chest in a dramatic bow.
Ariella rose to her feet, gazing down in silence.
To wear the dignity of a princess at her still-youthful age required an expression of cold arrogance.
She straightened her back as she had seen Dmitri do astr
ide his horse.
“I hope this manner of greeting is not deemed disrespectful.”
“That depends on who you are.”
If her guess was right, he was a prince.
Austin the son of the third Empress, who had volunteered for the northern marches at just fourteen.
And second in line to the throne.
