Chapter 8
Anel von Morata — or rather, soon to be Anel von Deneger.
She had always known that someday she would bear a noble name through marriage.
But she had never imagined it would be another man’s name, not Samu’s.
Now, Samu bore a new name — Giers — and only Anel remained behind, becoming a person of Deneger.
Yet she could not become Johannes’ person.
That much, Anel was certain of. She could belong to the house of Deneger, but never to Johannes himself.
Never to that dreadful man.
“We’ve arrived, Your Majesty.”
“There’s no reason to call me that yet.”
A horrible title.
Just hearing it made her feel as though insects were crawling under her skin, gnawing at her flesh.
The pitiful reality refused to grow familiar, no matter how she tried.
From now on, she would have to address another man that way — and countless others would call her by it.
Anel stared at the slowly opening carriage door.
Beyond it, fragments of the imperial palace came into view —
a splendid, blinding world of white marble.
But she knew the truth: it was blacker than a crow’s feathers, a place where every kind of desire festered.
And there, someone awaited her arrival.
“Was your journey comfortable, my lady?”
It was a familiar face —
Gardenn, the old chief chamberlain of the imperial palace.
He had somehow survived, even after Johannes had slaughtered nearly every member of the royal household.
Anel’s lips twisted into a bitter smile.
“It was fine.”
“If anything caused you discomfort—”
“I said it was fine.”
Cutting him off, Anel stepped down from the carriage on her own.
For a noblewoman of her rank, to disembark without an escort was almost unthinkable.
Gardenn quickly masked his stiffness and followed behind her in silence.
“Devita Palace is this way, Lady Morata.”
At those words, Anel froze.
Devita Palace.
It was a name all too familiar to her — once meant to be her home.
Now, it would become her prison, dressed up as a palace.
She forced a small, bitter smile and followed Gardenn’s lead without protest.
“While Your Majesty resides here, I shall do all I can to ensure your comfort.”
“…Thank you.”
Gardenn had known her since she was a child, yet his presence only made her uneasy.
A man who should have sworn loyalty to Samu had chosen to serve another.
“So you stayed behind, Lord Gardenn.”
“…Many of us did, Your Majesty.”
His calm reply tasted like ashes.
Self-loathing rose like bile within her.
She despised him — because he reminded her too much of her own weakness.
“Welcome to Devita Palace, Your Majesty.”
As soon as she arrived, a host of attendants — a chief lady-in-waiting, dozens of maids, and hundreds of servants — bowed deeply before her.
Anel stood before them with a heavy heart.
“Your Majesty, allow me to present myself. I am Astrid Sandman, Chief Lady-in-Waiting. It will be my honor to serve you.”
Astrid Sandman.
Anel recognized the name — daughter of Count Sandman, and once a close friend of the late Duchess of Magnum.
Which meant—
“With utmost loyalty to the Crown, I shall devote myself to Your Majesty’s service.”
—she was one of Johannes’ people.
Astrid knelt gracefully and kissed Anel’s hand — a gesture reserved only for the Empress.
It was far too soon for such a title.
Anel wanted to tell her that.
But she swallowed her words. This, too, was undoubtedly Johannes’ will.
“Very well. I’ll be in your care.”
“Please do not hesitate to command me in all things, Your Majesty.”
Astrid appeared impeccably loyal — and perhaps she was.
Still, Anel could not bring herself to trust her.
At least she seemed cooperative, outwardly. That was something.
“I’d like a tour of the palace.”
“It will be my honor, Your Majesty.”
Astrid guided her expertly through the halls of Devita Palace, explaining every detail with precision.
Most of it, Anel already knew.
As the Crown Prince’s fiancée and the future Empress, she had long studied every corner of this place.
Few alive knew it better than she did.
But the request had not been for her own sake — she wanted to gauge Astrid’s capabilities.
A subordinate’s competence reflected the quality of their master.
“This will be Your Majesty’s chambers. They were arranged according to the late Empress’ designs, but if you share your preferences, they will be adjusted immediately.”
Astrid was the picture of a perfect servant — and that, somehow, made Anel’s heart sink further.
“I have no particular desires.”
She looked around the vast, opulent room.
Decorated in shades of violet, it was beautiful and refined — but suffocatingly lavish.
“…Though it could stand to be a little less ornate.”
“As you command.”
Even the vaguest order met no protest.
“There is also a message from His Majesty, to be delivered once you arrived. Shall I relay it now?”
His message.
Anel took a deep breath. She had been expecting it.
“Go on.”
Astrid spoke clearly:
“It is unseemly to leave the position of Empress vacant for too long.
Though the wedding may be delayed, the coronation shall proceed without further postponement.
One week from today, the Empress’s inauguration will take place.
Lady Morata is to prepare herself with utmost sincerity.
The authority over the ceremony and the management of Devita Palace are hereby granted to her.”
Astrid’s recitation did not waver even once. When she finished, she bowed deeply.
“Your orders, Your Majesty.”
A cruel man.
No time to rest — no time even to grieve — and yet he commanded her to prepare her own coronation.
After exiling her father, no less.
But Anel did not flinch. She had expected nothing less.
“Report to me what has been prepared so far, and what remains to be done.”
Now that Devita Palace was officially under her control, her tone shifted — cool, authoritative.
Astrid lowered her head even more deeply and began to report.
There was little progress to speak of.
Almost nothing had been readied.
The tasks before Anel, however, were staggering.
“To complete all that… in one week?”
Anel trembled with rage.
Johannes’ audacity knew no limits.
He had to know it was impossible.
That was precisely why he demanded it — to humiliate her.
A hollow laugh escaped her lips.
“My deepest apologies, Your Majesty,” Astrid murmured quickly, catching the edge of that laugh. “His Majesty’s decision was made under pressing circumstances.”
Even she seemed uncomfortable — the absurdity of it all was obvious.
“What will Your Majesty prepare first?”
Astrid expected the typical answer — the gown, the crown, the appearance.
Noblewomen always began with their attire; how they looked was everything.
“I’ll write the invitations.”
“…Pardon?”
“The guests must be informed at once. They’ll need time to prepare.”
For nobles, an Empress’s coronation was not just ceremony — it was opportunity.
“And,” Anel continued, her voice sharpening, “I must also begin choosing my new ladies-in-waiting… and the candidates for the imperial consorts.”
The consorts.
Now she understood why Johannes was in such a hurry.
Tradition dictated that the consort candidates were announced during the Empress’s coronation.
It was the Empress’s duty to select the women who would assist her — and serve the Emperor.
‘He’ll want to emphasize legitimacy and tradition… the new Emperor must prove himself pure-blooded.’
By custom, there would be two imperial consorts, and at least five candidates to choose from.
Yet in truth, Anel would not be the one deciding.
Even if the right was hers in name — it was only that, a formality.
‘Everyone knows the consorts are chosen by the Emperor’s will.’
The Empress might be exalted, but even she could not overrule him.
The consorts, however, were another matter — chosen freely, at his pleasure.
Every Emperor before him had done the same.
Still…
‘What sort of woman will he choose?’
It felt as though Johannes’ hand reached into her chest, crushing her heart —
until it was devoured whole.
