Chapter 4
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: No Place for the Fake
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"...This isn't the time for this. I need to go to Father."
Philomel wiped away her tears and hurried her steps. The one who held her life in his hands was Justis, not those people.
'So I won't get hurt.'
Philomel glanced around cautiously as she walked slowly. Since she was still young, she hadn't been granted her own palace yet and lived within the imperial palace—a blessing in times like these.
Moreover, for some reason, the number of people in the palace had dwindled lately.
She avoided the few court physicians and arrived at the emperor's office.
Thanks to Justis's habit of not stationing guards inside the palace, there was no one near the office.
Philomel carefully cracked the door open just a sliver.
"...Persistent as ever, Polan."
Through the narrow gap, she caught sight of the scene inside.
Despite the opulent decorations, the room felt stark and empty. Justis and Count Polan were there.
Count Polan was offering his counsel to the emperor seated at the desk.
"But, Your Majesty. The princess is unwell. Wouldn't it be best to pay her a visit?"
They were discussing Philomel, right on cue.
This was perfect. She wouldn't even need to probe Justis's intentions directly; she could learn exactly what he thought of her.
Philomel listened quietly.
The emperor scowled as he spoke.
"Why are you so concerned about that thing? Feeling pity because she's sick? It's probably just another fake illness anyway."
"The court physician said it's a severe cold this time."
"And?"
"If Your Majesty visited, it would give the princess great comfort..."
"It's just a cold. What's the big deal?"
Count Polan fell silent for a moment.
He had served Justis since the days when he was merely a prince—a loyal retainer who could ask personal questions with relative candor.
"Why are you so cold to your daughter, Your Majesty? She's your only blood kin."
Philomel's chest tightened.
It was something she had always wondered herself.
Why wouldn't he show her any affection?
And the emperor's response was shocking.
"I've never once felt that thing was my child."
It felt like something heavy had crashed onto her head.
"Do you perhaps blame the princess for Empress Isabella's death? Is that why...?"
"Shut your mouth."
"...My apologies."
Count Polan bowed his head immediately at Justis's sharp glare. Mentioning his late wife in his presence was a taboo.
The emperor spoke in a grim tone.
"There was a time I thought that way. I resented her deeply—enough to want to end her life with my own hands."
"..."
"But that's in the past. Now, I feel nothing at all."
"Why...?"
"Because I have no expectations. I never hoped she'd fill Isabella's place. I would've been satisfied if she'd just fulfilled the bare minimum as my heir."
Justis, pressing his furrowed brow with a weary face, continued.
"But what has she done? She's negligent in her studies, achieves nothing noteworthy. Yesterday, she even embarrassed herself in front of everyone."
"...Lady Philomel is trying her best. Everyone slips up sometimes."
"If causing trouble counts as effort, then you're right."
Justis sneered, curling one corner of his mouth.
"You're too harsh, Your Majesty. The princess is only nine years old. Some immaturity is natural."
"At that age, I was scheming against my blood brothers."
"The circumstances were different then, and Your Majesty was exceptional from a young age..."
"She's nothing like Isabella—or me."
"Even so, she's still your daughter."
"Enough. Leave me."
He rose from his seat and approached a display cabinet lined with liquor bottles in one corner of the room. Pouring an amber liquid into a glass, his back conveyed no desire to continue the conversation.
Pressing further would only irritate the emperor. Justis was slightly more lenient with Polan than others, but only slightly.
As Count Polan turned to withdraw, he glanced back at the emperor one last time.
"...Do you truly feel no affection for the princess at all?"
Philomel had to leave before Count Polan came out.
But her feet wouldn't move. She had to hear Justis's answer. Her fate hung on it.
Justis slowly opened his mouth.
"Yes. Now, there's only one thing I want from that thing."
Philomel drew in a deep breath.
"To live so quietly it's like she's dead. So unobtrusively that I don't even notice she's there."
It was such a cold, unyielding declaration. As if it would never change.
When she came to her senses, she was already back in her room.
Right after Justis's final words, Count Polan had lingered to respond, giving Philomel the chance to slip away unnoticed.
She collapsed onto the bed.
"What do I do now?"
Her father—no, the emperor—didn't see her as a daughter at all. Not even a shred of affection.
If Ellensia appeared in the future and her status as a fake was revealed, he surely wouldn't forgive her.
What if she lived kindly without causing trouble like the 'Philomel' in the book?
'Maybe I could at least save my life?'
It didn't seem impossible.
In the novel, even after being exposed as a fake, she hadn't died immediately. Ellensia had pitied Philomel and begged Justis for mercy.
Though the 'vicious' Philomel had repaid that kindness with jealousy, leading to her execution.
If she knew her place and acted accordingly, maybe she could avoid death unlike in the book...
"But..."
That wasn't enough.
She didn't want to stake her life on such a slim hope.
It was a precarious existence where the slightest annoyance could mean her death.
The maids and guards she'd seen today flashed in her mind. They harbored clear malice toward her.
It was just gossip now, but if it came out that she wasn't the real princess?
"...They won't let me be."
What terrified her was that they might not be the only ones who hated her.
If they spread rumors or framed her...
'Could I guarantee my life then?'
No, this wouldn't do. Philomel wanted a more certain path to survival. She absolutely refused to die.
Suddenly, an idea struck her.
Run away. It might be impossible right now, but she had to leave before Ellensia appeared.
It was the moment the young fake princess's life plan was decided.
Until just before bedtime, Philomel spent the day fleshing out her escape plan.
She went to bed early, but tangled thoughts kept her awake until late.
So she didn't notice someone entering her room in the dead of night.
"P-Princess. His Majesty..."
Justis waved off the nanny trying to wake the sleeping child.
'What am I doing?'
Gazing down at Philomel's pale, round face, the emperor mocked himself inwardly.
Count Polan hadn't backed down easily, repeatedly bringing up the princess and giving him meaningful looks.
He could've ignored it, but the constant mentions made him feel like he should check on his daughter at least once.
Perhaps it was the yellow eyes staring straight at him in the rain yesterday—they'd seemed so resolute and desperate.
Of course, it was probably an illusion. Desperation from his spoiled only daughter? Hardly.
But she looked visibly gaunt, and Polan's claim that the child was quite ill seemed true.
"...Ji."
Suddenly, a tiny sound escaped the child's lips.
"...Father."
He thought she might be awake, but Philomel just tossed and turned with her eyes closed. It was mere sleep-talking.
"I'll... be a good girl... so please... don't kill... me."
A faint, fragile whisper, like a candle about to flicker out.
A few more murmurs followed, but they were too mumbled for Justis to make out much else.
Then, as if overwhelmed by sorrow even in sleep, tears began to flow.
For some reason, Justis couldn't tear his eyes from Philomel's face.
A vague memory flickered by. Pondering what it was, Justis soon recalled a distant time.
A frightened child, trembling each night with the fear of death, barely managing to sleep. It was his own younger self.
She resembled him now in a startling way.
It was the first time he felt his daughter shared something with him.
In his rush to survive and claim the top, he'd forgotten such days even existed, buried under blood and sin.
On impulse, the emperor reached out and wiped the tears from the child's cheek. Faintly, emotions and wishes from back then resurfaced.
Back then, he'd longed for someone to extend a hand to him like this.
Squeeze.
"..."
A small, chubby hand grasped his fingertip. It was just the child's unconscious action in sleep, but he was a little startled.
The sensation of touching skin other than his late wife's was utterly unfamiliar, yet not unpleasant.
The child's hand was much smaller and warmer than expected. He lingered, feeling that warmth for a while before leaving.