OFR 08

8. I Am Not Afraid

Madam Molly had never once seen Ian smile.
That made sense—after all, she was the one who had always led the charge in tormenting him.

The Emperor and Empress had never been on good terms.
It wasn’t as if their marriage had ever been one of love.
If not for his imperial title, the Emperor would have been just another handsome philanderer—completely unworthy of the noble lady whom Madam Molly once served. Even as Crown Prince, he had a different woman in his chambers every night. No one expected marriage to change him.

But the Emperor had changed—for Ian’s mother.
He sent her flowers every day, prepared her favorite treats, and the first thing he asked for every morning was his bodyguard.
The Empress’s fury was inevitable. No matter how cold and distant their relationship, they were still husband and wife.

On the night the Emperor left for a hunting trip, the Empress had the woman brought before her. She was dazzlingly beautiful. Even the Empress’s ladies-in-waiting and knights could not help but glance more at the woman kneeling in her nightdress than at their finely adorned mistress.

“Do you know your sin?”

Had the woman simply whispered, ‘I was wrong. Please spare my life,’ perhaps the Empress would have stopped short of cruelty.
But she glared back, teeth clenched, and endured the lashes without a sound.

As dawn broke and the Emperor’s return drew near, Madam Molly and the others tried to stop the Empress. Through the torn dress showed the woman’s shredded flesh. The scent of blood was so thick that even hardened knights grimaced while the softer maids turned away in horror.

“Your Majesty, His Majesty the Emperor will be back soon…”

Molly spoke anxiously, but the Empress was calm.

“Hmph. Whatever this wretch calls ‘love,’ His Majesty won’t dare say a word against me. He hasn’t lost that much sense yet. There’s far more binding us together than mere affection.”

With a scoff, she handed the bloodied whip to Molly and retired to her chamber, claiming she was tired.
And as she predicted, the Emperor pretended not to know. Though he had once doted on the woman desperately, he did not even look her way when she lay suffering in ruin.

At that time, the woman was already carrying Ian.
It was sheer fortune that the child survived.
But her luck ended there—soon after giving birth, the wounds from that night festered and she died.

Ian’s golden eyes and beautiful face—so like hers—became his curse.
Whenever the Empress’s mood soured, she would seek him out and vent her malice before leaving again.

Rumors spread through the palace.
That the Empress had killed Ian’s mother.
That every woman who entered the Emperor’s bedchamber was doomed to die.
And as people whispered that Ian’s silver hair and golden eyes resembled the First Emperor, comparisons to Prince Rubens became commonplace.

Each night, nameless women’s bodies were carried out the palace’s back gate. The atmosphere grew darker; even breathing became a cautious act.

The rumors—nearly true—gave the Emperor headaches. The problem was no longer women.
One night, he went to the Empress’s chambers.

She was unsurprised by his sudden visit.

“Leave us.”

At his command, the maids withdrew, leaving the Empress reclining lazily on her bed.

“Let’s make a deal.”

No greeting, no warmth.
Though they lived under the same roof, it had been long since they’d looked each other in the eye. The anger she once felt at Ian’s existence had dulled into something like emptiness. Seeing him now, she almost laughed at herself—for ever having been tormented by such a small, pitiful man.

“What kind of deal?”

“I’ll send Ian out of the palace.”

A crooked smile played on her lips.

“And what difference would that make? He’s still Your Majesty’s son, still holds a claim to succession. He may look harmless now, but who knows what he’ll become? If I must go down in history as a villainess, then at least I’ll have done my duty in protecting Rubens.”

“I won’t touch him again,” said the Emperor. “I’ll give him a ducal title and cast him out. Beyond that—only enough money to survive. No tutors, just one nursemaid and a single servant. If you doubt me, you may oversee his household’s expenses yourself.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What’s the point? As long as he breathes, he’s a threat to Rubens. You’ve heard people talk—how he’s inherited his cursed mother’s beauty. And I, unfortunately—”

She laughed softly. It was an open sneer.
The Emperor’s face stayed unreadable.

“I may not have Your Majesty’s love, but I still have power.”

“What do you want?”

“Make Rubens the Crown Prince.
And that’s not a condition—it’s his right. He’s Your Majesty’s legitimate son, the heir by birth. No one will object if you make it official a little early.”

The Emperor said nothing, so the Empress continued with a smile.

“Give Ian his title then. Fine. I accept Your Majesty’s offer. Send him away as you please. But don’t delude yourself into thinking I’ll give up. I’ll handle all his expenses personally. Whether he’s in the palace or out, it won’t make a difference. I can promise you that.”

Still… surely not.

The Emperor chose to believe the best.
Even knowing the Empress had killed before, he didn’t think she’d go so far as to murder Ian. The thought made him uneasy, and he preferred not to dwell on it. In his mind, this arrangement solved everything—Ian would be safe, Rubens would be Crown Prince, and peace would return.

He convinced himself the world would right itself.
No more dead lovers, no more scandals.
The Empress would quiet down.

She had warned him, yes—but what of it?
He was the Emperor, not a god.
He couldn’t stop every murder in his empire. Somewhere, someone was dying even now. So what? He had done his part.

“Keep your promise,” he said. “No more killing.”

The Empress burst out laughing.
So that’s what he’d come for.
She laughed until her sides ached, then managed to stop when he frowned and turned to leave.

“Your Majesty—keep your promise too.”

Madam Molly stood outside the Empress’s door, having heard everything.
When she heard the Emperor’s footsteps retreating, she stepped aside. He stopped before her.

“If tonight’s conversation ever leaks,” he said coldly, “you will be the first name I remember.”

Molly bowed deeply without a word. Only after he disappeared down the corridor did she lift her head.

“Come in.”

The Empress was smiling.

“He probably thinks it’s all over. Fool. This is just the beginning. I promised not to kill him—but I never said I’d do nothing.”

She looked positively pleased. Molly bowed her head and waited.

“At dawn, find a large, useless-looking mansion. I’ll send Ian there. This was his idea, mind you—the Emperor’s. As long as the boy lives, he won’t interfere. How generous of him.”

And she meant it—she thought herself merciful.

“Rubens will be Crown Prince soon. Hmph! Just you wait! If only he’d grow up faster!”

Molly poured her tea and presented it to the Empress.

“It’s a sleeping draught, Your Majesty.”

“Aren’t you pleased?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Molly replied with a radiant smile.

The Empress kept her word.
She didn’t kill Ian. Occasionally, she even sent sweets.
The mansion she gave him was one of the largest near the capital—a decrepit noble estate rumored to be haunted by ghosts.

Molly glanced around. The place hadn’t changed much since the day, twenty years ago, when they first bought it to imprison Ian. Aside from the few years he’d spent at the Academy, he had always lived here—a prison forged by the Empress and Molly together. Ian had never truly been free.

But something was different now.
Molly watched him closely.
There was something strange in that cool, steady smile—and in the chilling light of his eyes.

“What are you doing? Can’t you hear the lady speaking?”

Ian gestured with his chin toward Molly’s hands. Henry stepped forward, reaching out. Molly glared at Ian and clutched the box tighter, refusing to let go. Henry had to pry it from her grasp and set it on the table. Edna approached and picked it up herself.

“Olytte.”

The elegant lettering on the box read Olytte—one of Saluga’s most famous patisseries.

Known for its exquisite ingredients and long history, Olytte was both a lovers’ haven and every child’s dream. To “one day buy every sweet in Olytte” was a fantasy in itself—its confections were that beautiful, that expensive.

Even among nobles, one had to think twice before buying a single cookie. The Empress herself, back when she was still a marquis’s daughter, had famously refused to eat anything but Olytte’s sweets.

Edna carefully undid the wrapping.
The box had clearly been opened once before. Olytte’s unique packaging made resealing difficult, and this one had been clumsily retied with a ribbon. Pretending not to notice, Edna lifted the lid.

“Oh dear.”

Clicking her tongue, she looked into the box—then turned her sharp gaze on Madam Molly.