Didn’t they say the head of the Violrod Trading Sect married five times?”
Erik asked.
“Then… what about Emelline’s birth mother?”
“I heard Lady Emelline’s biological mother passed away shortly after childbirth, taken by fever during her postpartum recovery.”
Erik’s brow furrowed.
That meant Emelline didn’t even have a memory of her mother’s face. Not a rare fate, but not one easily dismissed either.
If Violrod had truly wed five times, it meant Emelline had grown up with neither a birth mother nor a lasting stepmother. No roots—no warmth.
“What about the other women? Why did none of them remain married to Violrod?”
“It seems… most of them wed him for the wealth he wielded.”
“That’s a subjective claim. Do you have evidence?”
“Most were caught laying hands on the sect leader’s treasure. Some were handed to the city guards for theft; others were simply cast out. Divorce among commoners requires no special rites, after all.”
“Then what about Helena?”
‘It would be wise not to lay hands on those I call family.’
Erik turned to Lily.
His crimson eyes, as ever, held a tension like a stalking beast, but his hand remained firmly clasped around Emelline’s. That mismatch—his guarded eyes and protective grip—made Lily uncomfortable enough to look away as she answered.
“Lady Helena… likely wasn’t much different. But… she’s… how shall I say this…”
Lily recalled Helena in the fitting room—her eyes sparkling as she asked about the worth of the diamonds sewn into her gown.
“She’s very fond of wealth. And… quite skilled at putting on an act.”
That was true.
Erik remembered her at society gatherings, burning with ambition as she networked feverishly among the wealthiest nobles. She had openly tried to pair off her children with those from powerful bloodlines. She could lie without blinking if things turned against her—and if the stakes were high enough, she’d even pretend to faint.
“Forging false ledgers? That’s something southern loan sharks often do.”
It was entirely possible that the late sect leader had dealings with moneylenders, given the scale of capital he handled. But would he have taught those black-market tricks to his daughter?
After the sect leader’s death, the city guards claimed most of the assets had vanished due to theft. Whatever was left to Emelline likely became Helena’s property when she took the girl and disappeared.
But what if Helena had squandered it all—driven herself into debt? And what if Emelline came to understand the workings of the black market through that very debt?
Erik glanced at Emelline’s brow, faintly creased in her sleep.
She wore that expression constantly—like someone caught in a nightmare.
Since collapsing, she had murmured intermittently: curses… “Mother”… “Philip”… “Help me”… fragmented cries from a tormented past.
Why? Why did she cling to her family so fiercely, even when they may have betrayed her? Why speak of them as
“ours”
, as though they were still a whole?
Erik massaged his temples, the dull ache growing stronger. He slowly released Emelline’s hand.
The moment he did, her fingers began to tremble again.
Just like in that sealed room earlier.
“Hold me…”
He remembered that ragged whisper—how it pierced his chest.
If a child grew up without ever knowing warmth—if Helena, skilled in deception, had extended a hand in that loneliness… would any child have the strength to refuse?
Would even
he
, at fourteen, have turned away?
“Mother…”
When Eric had once lost his family overnight—grieving, tormented by the lingering warmth and echoes of those now gone, wandering the manor like a ghost—he hadn't had the luxury of questioning whether the hand reaching out to him belonged to a wicked soul, a deceitful trickster, or a treacherous schemer.
“Even grown cultivators… sometimes need someone to hold their hand. Just sometimes…”
Eric looked at Emelline’s trembling hand, the way it quivered as if severed from any anchor. Then, with a reluctant sigh as if yielding to something inevitable, he took her hand once more.
“Are there no other remnants of Violrod’s household in the Southern Territories? I still have questions.”
“I’ve heard that a cousin of Violrod is alive. He apparently inherited the trading house Violrod used to run.”
“Investigate it.”
Lily gave a small nod.
“What’s the Duke of Valdek doing?”
Eric recalled the eyes of his father back at the temple—how casually he had drawn his sword within sacred grounds.
Those red eyes had held no fury. No, not rage, but something colder—contempt. As if scolding a disobedient hound.
“Are you sure what you’re doing isn’t starting a war with your father?”
Eric remembered the words Emelline had said just before collapsing.
“He’s returned to the ducal estate for now. It seems he used his authority as clan head to hastily summon a convocation of the Elders. Officially, it’s to ‘prepare to receive a new family member into the clan’…”
“But in truth, it’s just a forum to stir up more hostility toward Emelline.”
By now, the Elder Council—composed of the Orléans branch clans and vassals—must’ve been thrown into a frenzy.
Especially after the photo on the front page of the morning gazette…
‘Isn’t this how husband and wife exchange a kiss?’
A kiss. Captured and immortalized for all to see.
Eric recalled the strange heat that had sparked between them in that moment. His mind clouded instantly, like a haze settling in.
He hadn’t thought of that kiss since the wedding—not because he hadn’t wanted to, but because his mind always seemed to short-circuit whenever he did. There had simply been too much chaos since then.
Even now, Eric could feel the fog creeping in again, and he forced himself to snap out of it.
What truly mattered was this: the Elder Council would not quietly accept this union. The Duke—his father—might either quell the fire… or stoke it into a blaze.
And Eric knew which path the Duke would take.
The Duke of Valdek had no mercy for those who stood in the way of his plans.
To him, Emelline wasn’t just an obstacle—she was a disgrace to the clan. He would not let her be.
And the Duke’s true goal had never been Helena. It had always been the “Mermaid’s Grave”—that stretch of coastal land currently registered under Helena’s name. His plan had been to marry her and claim the land as a dowry. But now that marriage was off the table.
What was the easiest way for him to seize it now?
If Helena and Philip were to die, the land would pass to Emelline.
And if Emelline were to die… it would go to Eric.
And then the Duke—whether by tempting Eric, or by declaring him unfit and insane, as he once did to Emelline—would claim it all for himself.
Eric had already anticipated this.
Immediately after the wedding, he’d assigned his own “knights” to guard Helena and Philip. Though they were referred to as knights, they held no formal rank, nor did they belong to the royal guard or ducal order.
Eric hadn’t placed them just because he suspected Helena of harming Emelline—but because he feared what the Duke might do to them.
“If we return to the ducal estate, we should use Emelline’s condition as a pretext to move her to the countryside manor in the south.”
“Condition…?”
Eric cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable.
“P-Pregnancy, that is.”
“Ah… that.”
Lily glanced back and forth between Erik and Emelline, her expression hardening. It was the look she wore when she was about to ask something bold.
“Could it be that…”
Erik gritted his teeth. As expected, Lily didn’t disappoint.
“…Is she truly with child?”
“…”
“I didn’t think so.”
Lily quickly tried to smooth things over, feeling the sharp edge of Erik’s killing intent in his eyes.
“There is still doubt in your gaze, Dame Lily.”
“…No, my lord.”
“Then you may leave.”
Erik’s tone was cold and laced with displeasure. Lily, relieved more than anything, wasted no time in retreating through the door.
It might’ve been the sound of the door opening and closing that stirred her. Emelline shifted slightly in bed.
“Mmm…”
The hand that wasn’t clasped in Erik’s moved under the covers, slipping beneath the layers of her dress without hesitation.
“…?”
Erik froze in place, watching as her fingers slipped deeper beneath the fabric. Then—when she suddenly bunched the dress up and exposed her legs—he bolted to his feet, backing away in alarm.
He turned his face in horror, his cheeks burning red. Just moments ago, he had been recalling his mother while gazing at this very girl—and now this?
Take it off, take it all off…
Her sleepy murmur reached his ears.
What the hell was she trying to strip now!?
Erik was still stunned when something dropped from beneath the covers with a dull
thud
.
Startled, he turned his head.
Something had fallen to the floor—something old and worn. It had likely slipped from inside the blanket.
A journal.
Along with it, a crumpled note had fluttered out. On the edge of that note, bold words were scrawled:
…Just take the money and get out.
Erik picked it up.
Before he could read further, a voice called from beyond the door—it was one of the royal court’s attendants.
“We’ve brought the healer and royal physician, my lord. Please open the door. The princess says if you don’t get treated, she’ll lock both of you up again…”
Expression blank, Erik replied while staring down at the note in his hand.
“…I’ll come out.”
Just before he stepped outside, he gave Emelline one last glance.
✵
✵
✵
“So he finally agreed to treatment…”
The attendant relayed the news to Princess Ella, who rubbed her forehead as though exhausted.
“Honestly. Things would’ve been easier if he just agreed from the start. Always so dramatic.”
Though this entire ordeal had been orchestrated by Ella herself, the attendant kept any opinions to himself.
Satisfied with the report, Ella returned to the novel in her lap—a volume from the
Saga of Dangerous Nights
, penned by the infamous writer
Scarlett
.
It was the very series that included the now-iconic
glass slipper romance
.
Scarlett’s trademark? Every story in the series was… without exception… scandalously erotic.
From absurd settings to wildly imaginative ways for lovers to “confirm” their affections, the series never failed to surprise. But it wasn’t just the steamy scenes—what made it addictive was how the characters bared their desires with brutal honesty.
In short, it was pulp fiction with an indulgent streak of carnal fantasy.
The attendant eyed his mistress with a complex expression as she read the salacious series in her official office.
Noticing he hadn’t left even after the report was finished, Ella finally looked up, scowling.
“What? Why are you still standing there?”
“It’s… about the boy locked in the western tower’s dungeon…”
"Who?"
Ella tilted her head, confused.
She herself had captured that silver-haired boy just hours ago, but it felt as though the memory had long since been blown from her mind.
Such was her nature—her only true concern was seizing the imperial throne. Everything else was fleeting.
A retainer spoke up.
"The boy you brought in this morning. The one dressed in rabbit fur."
"Ah, that one—with the round eyes and jumpy legs like a startled spirit beast?"
She had tossed so many captives into the western tower that they all blurred together now.
Muttering to herself, Ella closed her book, her fingers absently brushing across the gilded name
Scarlet
etched into its velvet cover.
"What about him?"
"He hasn't eaten anything since this morning. He just collapsed. Shall I summon a physician?"
Ella scoffed.
"Bringing a healer for a prisoner? That’s excessive. And seriously—he passed out just from a few hours without food?"
Her face twisted in disbelief. When she'd suffered that carriage accident in the northern territories, she’d survived three days on nothing but snow.
‘In times like this, shouldn’t someone say: “Princess, I’ll gladly offer my own thigh to be eaten”?’
Back then, it had been Eric who stayed by her side.
‘I’m not sure if my thigh meat would be to your taste, but—’
‘I’ll judge once I try it. Just hand it over.’
‘Are you being serious?’
‘…No.’
She remembered flinching. His eyes had made it seem like he really would carve the flesh from his own leg. That stubborn oaf.
In any case…
If even someone as pampered as her could endure days without nourishment, how could this supposed northern-born brat faint after a few hours?
With an incredulous shake of her head, Ella stood up.
"Fine. I’ll go myself."
"But Your Grace—there’s no interpreter yet…"
True, there wasn’t.
But Ella recalled the way that boy’s black eyes had trembled—like a frightened rabbit caught in a spiritual formation.
She had a feeling she could understand him just by looking into those eyes. Maybe even uncover what this damn spy was doing sneaking into the palace.
"…If I can’t figure it out, I’ll just kill him," she muttered as she strode out of her study.
✵
✵
✵
I pressed a hand to my pounding forehead and sat up slowly.
A lavish bedchamber met my bleary gaze. Judging by the dim lighting, it was likely just before dawn.
This time, before anything else, I moved straight to the door.
‘It’s open…’
Ah, that damn princess. Because of her, I’d passed out—
twice.
‘Hold me…’
What kind of nonsense was that?
“Ughhhhhh!”
I clutched my head and let out a strangled scream. This was worse than the wedding.
Before I fainted, I had desperately wished not to remember any of it. But I remembered
everything
.
With a miserable face, I collapsed back to the floor.
“How… how could this happen…”
How was I supposed to face Young Master Eric now? And he was my
husband
. I’d be seeing that face every day, without escape…
‘Maybe it’s not too late. I could still jump…’
Just as I flung open the window in a moment of desperation—
A hand—thin and long—shot up and gripped the windowsill.
“…!”
Startled, I stumbled backward. And then brown eyes, peeking up at me from below, shouted with urgency, “Hey! What are you doing? Your mom’s arm’s about to fall off!”
Helena.
The person dangling from the princess palace’s windowsill… was none other than my
mother
.
Chapter 43