RYH 07

CHAPTER 07…………………………………..

As usual, Rosnelli was sitting in her office, looking satisfied as she admired the safe filled to the brim with cash and gold, when Natasha came running in urgently.

“Boss! Boss!”

“What is it? Why are you in such a rush?”

“Well, I thought you absolutely had to know this.”

“What is it?”

“His Highness Leonhardt has gone to the battlefield!”

“…The battlefield?”

Just as Silentium de Rose was steadily building its reputation, an emergency arose in the imperial palace. A neighboring country that had a treaty with the Rovea Empire had requested military support.

“What? Leonhardt is already handling all state affairs alone—why would they send the empire’s only crown prince to war?”

“Well… according to the nobles, it’s probably because of your divorce, Boss.”

“What? How is that my fault?”

“Well, obviously! It must be because he can’t forget you—Lady Rosnelli, the former Crown Princess—and he’s trying to forget by throwing himself into war! And I heard His Majesty severely reprimanded him after your divorce too. He fell out of favor, and maybe he’s struggling himself, so he chose to go.”

“What nonsense. Does that even make sense?”

“It actually does. Given the timing, there’s no way he hasn’t heard all the rumors about you.”

Natasha wasn’t entirely wrong.

If anyone in the empire were asked what the hottest topic was right now, everyone would say Silentium de Rose—and its owner, the former Crown Princess Rosnelli. There was no way Leonhardt hadn’t heard about her. In the original story, he was the type of regretful male lead who only realized everything after losing it all.

“But still… there was no mention of him going to war…”

Could this be the “twist” in the original story?

And the one who caused that twist… was Rosnelli herself.

If he really went to war because of the divorce, she felt a bit concerned. That frail, overly handsome man—what strength did he have to survive a battlefield?

“They say His Majesty sent him to set an example as the future ruler—he told him to personally lead the army.”

“He says it nicely. In reality, he just didn’t want to go himself, so he sent Leonhardt like always—and still takes all the credit.”

“…You’ll get arrested if you say things like that, Boss…”

“What does it matter? No one’s listening. It’s the truth. Leonhardt’s illness is all from stress. If he just rested here for a few days and soaked in these hot springs, his rashes and itching would calm down… honestly.”

The emperor of the Rovea Empire wasn’t exactly a good ruler. According to Natasha, after the empress he loved dearly died, he fell into deep apathy.

As a result, the crown prince handled most of the state affairs.

The emperor only showed up for major events, while Leonhardt and his aides took care of diplomacy, finances, and governance.

Rosnelli already knew from the original story how irresponsible and unfit the emperor was. Leonhardt’s illness—his skin condition and severe migraines—were all caused by the stress of carrying the empire’s burden from a young age in place of his father.

And now that same father had sent him to war, pretending it was noble.

Even though they were divorced, Rosnelli didn’t harbor ill feelings toward Leonhardt. If anything, she felt sorry for him.

“When is he supposed to come back?”

“There’s no set time. Apparently, His Majesty even declared that if he doesn’t win, he shouldn’t come back at all.”

“…That’s really unsettling.”

Rosnelli muttered quietly.

Still, she couldn’t just drop everything and go searching for him across the battlefield. But she also wasn’t heartless enough to ignore it completely.

She tapped her pen lightly against the desk, lost in thought.

Two years passed.

After countless battles, the soldiers of the First Knight Order of Rovea, having secured victory, gathered for a final celebration on the battlefield before boarding ships back home.

Late into the night, a large bonfire burned brightly. Soldiers sat around it—some drinking heavily from massive barrels of ale taken from nearby villages, others dancing to music played by their comrades, and some already passed out drunk on the ground.

While the soldiers reveled in victory, inside the private tent of the Crown Prince—Leonhardt Rovea II, commander of the First Knight Order—low groans of pain and suppressed anger could be heard.

Outside, Dalton—his longtime friend and aide—paced anxiously back and forth.

Soon, the physician stumbled out of the tent, pale and exhausted.

“How is he?”

Dalton grabbed his arms, worry written all over his face. The doctor shook his head with a deep sigh.

“I… cannot determine the cause of his illness.”

“What do you mean? You’re his physician! How can you not know?”

The doctor wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“It appears to be a skin condition, but… I truly don’t know the cause.”

“What about the attacks? His migraines?”

“Those too… the symptoms aren’t consistent enough to diagnose clearly…”

At that moment, something shattered loudly inside the tent. Labored breathing and curses followed, and the doctor turned even paler.

“His Highness is extremely sensitive, and even the slightest touch causes him pain. It’s difficult to examine him properly…”

Before he could finish, the doctor began trembling.

“Dalton! Bring more alcohol!”

A strained shout came from inside.

The doctor quickly fled, and Dalton rushed into the tent.

“Your Highness!”

Broken bottles and spilled food littered the ground.

Leonhardt, seated on a red velvet bed, looked utterly wretched.

His body was wrapped in bandages from the neck down, like a mummy. He ground his teeth so hard that veins bulged across his face.

With labored breathing, he spoke in a low voice—like a wounded lion growling to defend itself.

“…Dalton. Bring me more alcohol.”

“Your Highness, you’ve already had too much.”

Their eyes met—Leonhardt’s gaze was terrifying.

Dalton had no choice but to obey. He quickly returned with a bottle of rum.

Leonhardt snatched it and drank straight from the bottle.

It was strong enough to overwhelm even a seasoned man, but he didn’t seem to care.

Anything less wouldn’t dull the axe-like pain splitting his head. His entire body, wrapped in bandages, burned with itching and pain.

Better to be drunk enough to forget the pain than endure it.

After draining the bottle, Leonhardt collapsed onto the bed.

He weakly waved his hand, signaling Dalton to leave. Dalton hesitated, worried, but eventually bowed and stepped out.

Lying there, Leonhardt stared at the blank white ceiling of the tent.

For a brief moment, the pain subsided.

Oddly, instead of dulling his senses, the alcohol made his mind feel clearer.

The mysterious migraines, the itching, the red rashes covering his body—these had tormented him for years.

When had it started?

After his mother, Empress Leila, died.

“You are a cursed child.”

Was his father right?

After giving birth to him, the empress had grown weaker and eventually died of an unknown illness when Leonhardt was seven.

From that moment, his relationship with his father shattered.

And as if being punished for her death, Leonhardt began suffering from unexplained migraines and skin disease.

The small red spots that once appeared here and there had now spread across his entire body.