An Uncanny Resemblance
Wasn't a single child enough? Wouldn't that have been plenty? What meaning was there in preserving power and continuing a bloodline if it gnawed away at a person's very life?
For generations, the Castrein family had married into the waning, ruined bloodlines of other ancient heroes. It was all to gather power—even the faintest ember of it. Once the blood was mingled, any descendant blessed with sufficient talent held the potential to awaken a god's divine might. In cold calculation, it was a bargain worth making.
And the Duchess had been the last surviving descendant of a hidden hero whom House Castrein had never before managed to claim.
From the very start, their marriage had been arranged to produce heirs. In truth, it was the Duchess herself who had desired children more fervently than anyone.
‘Do you truly have no intention of staying by my side a little longer?’
Even when faced with her husband's rare display of weakness, the woman had simply answered in her characteristically tranquil voice.
‘One or two is far too few. The world will only grow more perilous in the days ahead, and we will need more children to prepare for what comes. There must be at least three so they can meaningfully support one another. That way, none of them will have to struggle alone the way you did.’
‘…….’
‘I love you. But you have a duty to fulfill, and so do I. We know more than ordinary people, and we hold a little more power in our hands. If this world is nothing more than a cracked skiff drifting across an open sea, shouldn't we at least attempt to patch the hull before it sinks…?’
Duke Ortho had been blessed—and cursed—with a damnably perfect Duchess.
‘I am sorry. For leaving you behind and departing first.’
To a husband who, for a fleeting moment before love, had worried more for his wife's life than for his family's safety or solemn duty, she had offered gentle words: she had no desire for such pity, and this sacrifice was her duty. And with that, she had chosen death.
There could never have been a more flawless Duchess.
In the end, she had achieved everything she set out to do. Raymon, peerless in both the literary arts and martial prowess, flawless in every respect. Lisianthus, gifted with the sword and awakened to the power of flame. And Lasper, who, though physically frail, was wiser than anyone and found his joy in amassing knowledge. In terms of capability, the three brothers were nothing short of magnificent.
“You said Lisianthus and Raymon are in the South?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Lady Bibi also… said she would take the item she mentioned earlier and follow after them.”
“I remember. My children seem to have grown remarkably soft on the Princess.”
Ortho thought back to how foolishly his eldest son had been behaving as of late.
Even by the most generous standards, Ortho had never been an affectionate or tender father to Raymon. The boy had been born precisely as Ortho and his late wife had prayed for: a consummate being. Above all else, he was strong. He was the perfect heir, someone to whom Duke Ortho could entrust the entirety of the northern realm without a shred of unease. Ortho knew full well that his son was being crushed under the suffocating weight of responsibility, yet he could not lift that burden from his shoulders. Their position was one where a single mistake meant lives lost.
The engagement to the imperial princess had been arranged purely because the imperial court kept harping on the late Duchess's lineage. It was meant to be a superficial compromise, playing along just enough to keep the peace until the ties could be cleanly severed at an opportune moment.
Yet the Princess's transformation had defied every expectation. It was astonishing to the point of disbelief that no shadowy backer pulled her strings from behind the curtain. She boldly proposed trades, boldly rescued people, and threw herself into mortal danger with brazen disregard for her own safety…
At first, Duke Ortho had viewed these changes with deep suspicion. Now, however… though he had yet to see her face-to-face, the constant stream of reports regarding her deeds painted a haunting picture.
“…She resembles my wife far too much.”
“Pardon?”
Duke Ortho ground his burnt-down cigar into the ashtray, swallowing a mouthful of unusually bitter saliva.
Yes. That total, terrifying lack of hesitation was identical.
Raymon lingering constantly in Princess Titania's orbit, the sharp shift in Lisianthus's attitude, Bibi trailing behind her while chiming ‘Sister, Sister’ with utter devotion—Ortho had simply watched it all unfold from a distance. But a sinister foreboding had begun to take root within him recently.
Princess Titania had far too little hesitation.
She moved just like his late wife, who had believed that neither her own life nor love mattered in the least when standing before her ultimate goal.
“…I only hope that boy Raymon doesn't end up miserable like me.”
A cloud of smoke, heavy with bitter regret, dissolved into the empty air.
“To turn me away at the threshold when I have personally come to see my younger sister—where in the world has anyone heard of such insolence?”
Imperial Consort Cleo was smiling brightly.
Yet anyone who laid eyes upon that smile would never mistake it for genuine warmth.
The venom pooling in her feline eyes was thick and viscous, and the chill hanging from the corners of her upturned lips was razor-sharp. Having abandoned the modest attire she had worn while reading the Emperor's mood within her own quarters, she was now clad in a dazzling gown tailored from exotic silk imported from a distant continent. Perched atop her coiffure was the Ocean of Stars, an imperial tiara she had refrained from wearing for quite some time, while her ears and throat dripped with priceless jewels bestowed by the Emperor himself. Her glittering extravagance was a calculated display meant to crush the spirits of anyone who dared look upon her.
In truth, the current standing of Consort Cleo and Prince Brian was precarious at best.
Until now, the Emperor had found Cleo's haughty rampages charming. If anything, he had thoroughly enjoyed watching her strut through the court, trampling beneath her heels those he deemed beneath his notice. Yet following the demonic beast assault on the imperial palace, both Brian and Cleo had fallen out of his favor.
Given the Emperor's insatiable appetite for sweet flattery, his anger was bound to dissipate eventually. There was no one in the entire palace who could stroke his ego quite as skillfully as Cleo. As lecherous as he was, he had likely contemplated bringing fresh blood into the inner court, but there were already two consorts residing within the walls—both mothers of royal blood, one with a prince and the other with a princess.
Cleo had suffered a devastating, humiliating blow at Titania's hands. A girl she had dismissed as nothing more than an ignorant, clawless kitten had struck her squarely across the face. Whenever she recalled that mocking smile, or the cold threats delivered afterward by Young Duke Raymon, a fury roared in her chest that threatened to consume her alive.
Because she was currently out of the Emperor's good graces, she could not afford to orchestrate anything grand. That was precisely why she had set her sights on the Licorice Palace.
“…Her Imperial Highness Consort Elaine is currently unwell.”
The head maid, the sole soul remaining to tend the Licorice Palace, trailed off hesitantly. Cleo clicked her tongue at the pathetic sight.
Elaine had been a despised, cast-off child even within her maternal household. Ever since giving birth to the princess, she had sequestered herself away, perpetually bedridden and frail. She openly shunned the Emperor, pining after her deceased former lover, and as a natural consequence, not a single proper lady-in-waiting had ever been assigned to her. Even the head maid now receiving Cleo was of no noble lineage whatsoever; she was merely a common servant who had followed Elaine from the count's estate.
No matter how cold the Emperor's gaze was toward Cleo at present, she remained a dominant power within the inner palace. She was the mother of the Emperor's firstborn son. Even if she threw a tantrum and forced her way inside, not a soul here possessed the authority to bar her path.
“Then if she is unwell, all the more reason for me to pay a sick call. Come to think of it, I have been terribly neglectful. Are we not like sisters bound together in service to His Imperial Majesty?”
Cleo smiled sweetly, though the gaze beneath her lashes was icy.
“My dear sister's illness has run deep indeed… Our noble Empress could hardly be expected to concern herself with such trivial matters, so I should have been the one to look after her. How dreadfully thoughtless I have been! I truly have been far too careless.”
“T-That is not…”
The head maid stammered, trembling. From her tone to her posture, nothing about her resembled the chief attendant of an imperial consort. It was painfully obvious that she had no idea how to navigate such an ambush.
“With so many imperial physicians at hand, and with countless high priests we could summon, for her to languish in illness for so many years? What if her condition is contagious to others without our knowing? The sacred person of His Imperial Majesty resides within these palace grounds. If her very existence should bring harm to His Majesty's dragon body, how could such a grave sin ever be atoned for?”
The head maid's complexion drained of all color.
It was a blatant, unapologetic threat: grant entry to the Licorice Palace at once, or Elaine's sickness would be weaponized to ruin her.
Everyone knew full well that Elaine's affliction was not infectious. Yet… what was there that Consort Cleo could not fabricate within these walls?
It had taken an extraordinary, reckless defiance from Titania to fight back when Cleo had attempted to frame her for witchcraft and curses. Aside from the princess, there was no one in the palace capable of standing against her. Even if Cleo had temporarily earned the Emperor's ire, the sovereign despised the Empress anyway; he was hardly the type of man to champion the Empress's faction merely because a consort had ruffled his feathers. In other words, even if the maid turned Cleo away today, the woman's threats would inevitably become reality tomorrow.
In the end, the head maid could only bite her lip and step aside, clearing a path for Cleo to enter.
Even under the midday sun, the Licorice Palace was damp and uncomfortably chilled. It was a wonder a sick person could ever hope to recover in an environment so thoroughly neglected.
Consort Cleo surveyed the dilapidated palace, devoid of even the simplest ornamentation, as she followed behind the maid. Before long, they arrived before the doors of Consort Elaine's bedchamber. Flustered and trembling, the maid announced to her master within that Consort Cleo had come calling. A flicker of cruel curiosity sparked in Cleo's chest.
Even the Emperor himself had likely not laid eyes on Elaine's face in years. Life in the imperial palace was never gentle for a consort who had earned the monarch's disfavor. Given that her maternal family would never have extended a helping hand, it would hardly be surprising if the invalid had been living in squalor, barely able to secure decent meals.
Had Elaine not been a dying invalid—living in conditions so miserable that one wondered if she might simply starve to death left to her own devices—Cleo would have long since considered slipping her poison to ruin that legendary, empire-renowned beauty out of pure spite.
“Come in.”
The voice that drifted through the wood sounded like brittle, parched twigs snapping beneath a heavy boot. Consort Cleo's brows arched high.