Talia drifted through the remnants of her memories as though floating among clouds, then slowly returned to reality.
When she lifted her heavy eyelids, the wavering glow of candlelight entered her vision.
As she stared blankly at it, the sensations that had been hazy gradually sharpened.
Wrapped in a strange emptiness, she slowly pushed herself upright.
For a while, she could not understand where she was.
Only after several seconds did she realize that she was lying in an unfamiliar room, upon an unfamiliar bed.
With vacant eyes, Talia slowly surveyed the lavishly decorated bedroom. Then, suddenly sensing something strange, she lowered her gaze.
Her legs were fully exposed beneath a pair of short undergarments.
No.
They were not her legs.
There was no way something so hideous could belong to her body.
With trembling hands, she touched her knees, uneven and lumpy as though hardened candle wax had fused to them.
The shape of her legs seemed wrong.
The directions of her shins and kneecaps were subtly twisted, and across her pale skin spread wide patches of stiff, rough scars like tree bark.
Tracing the long wounds that ran from her calves to her knees and thighs like cracks in shattered porcelain, Talia soon began scratching at them with her fingertips.
If she could simply peel away these uneven blemishes covering her skin, surely the luminous flesh that had once gleamed like pearls would reveal itself beneath.
Ignoring the burning pain, she obsessively tore at the dark reddish marks that had swollen angrily across her skin.
Blood immediately began streaming down.
She stared at it in stunned disbelief when a creaking sound reached her ears from somewhere nearby.
Talia jerked her head up.
There, reclining casually in a chair draped with velvet, sat Senevier.
The Empress, whose blue eyes shone vividly even in the darkness, gazed at her silently before parting lips red as though stained with blood and speaking in a sweet, melodious voice.
“Must you really tear open wounds that were finally healed? It would be such a nuisance to summon the healers again.”
She set the small booklet she had been holding onto the table and furrowed her elegant brows.
Talia stared without blinking.
Then her dry lips parted.
“What... did you do to my body?”
At the distrustful question, the Empress's eyes widened slightly before curving into crescents.
Senevier let out a soft laugh, as though she had just heard an amusing joke, and shook her head.
“That hardly sounds like something you should say to a mother who even summoned the Eternal Kin in an attempt to heal you.”
“......”
“Don't look at me like that. I know you distrust me, but... this time, I truly did everything I could for your sake. The fact that this was the best result possible is disappointing even to me.”
Her serpentine gaze slowly crawled down Talia's body before settling upon the blood-stained scars.
Talia hurriedly pulled the blanket over her legs.
Her fingertips trembled beneath that look, as though Senevier were gazing upon something revolting.
The Empress released a small sigh and continued.
“I considered questioning them myself, but it seems they truly did everything they could. They gave quite the passionate explanation about how miraculous this recovery was, considering not only the bones but portions of the muscles and nerves had been damaged as well.”
Looking at her daughter, who stood on the verge of collapsing from shock, the Empress continued with chilling calmness.
“It seems there was nothing they could do about the scars either. They repeatedly cut open the damaged areas and cast healing magic again, but even those ugly marks regenerated exactly as they were. Most likely, the skin tissue deteriorated because the wounds were left untreated for such a long time.”
A low sigh escaped her lips.
“Even so, it would be difficult to blame the healers of the Imperial Palace. Had they healed the wounds immediately, your skin might have been cleaner than it is now, but you would never have walked again. At least now, they say you can walk. I suppose you'll have to take comfort in that much.”
The words poured forth calmly and steadily, yet each one felt like an iron skewer stabbing into Talia's stomach.
Senevier looked at her frozen, vacant daughter and drove in the final nail.
“I'm truly sorry.”
Talia slowly lowered her head.
Senevier watched her in silence for a moment before rising from her chair and approaching.
Soft fingers scented with flowers touched Talia's cheek.
“Talia. Do you remember when I told you that beauty and weakness make one a target for plunder?”
With eyes blurred by tears, Talia struggled to meet her gaze.
A face that seemed sculpted from pearls, gold, and sapphires wavered behind the curtain of tears.
Senevier continued gently, as though telling a bedtime story.
“Then what becomes of those who are weak and ugly?”
“......”
“The ugly, you see, become objects of ridicule and contempt. They do not even qualify as targets for plunder. They are simply trampled, mocked, and cast aside without meaning. Because people possess a habit of constantly searching for something to hate and despise in order to prove their own superiority. The moment a flaw appears, you become excellent prey for people like that.”
Talia fought desperately not to cry.
Yet a ragged sob forced its way from her throat.
The words spilling from Senevier's lips hurt far more than her bleeding legs.
Looking down at her daughter, whose face had become twisted with grief, Senevier clicked her tongue as though pitying her.
“But there is no need to worry. I have no intention of allowing my daughter to fall into such a position.”
Cold fingers, like the legs of an insect, brushed the tangled hair away from Talia's cheek.
She saw those swamp-like eyes curve into narrow crescents.
It was a smile that seemed to promise an even greater despair.
* * *
Inside the enormous temple located within the Imperial Palace, thirty-four coffins were arranged in neat rows.
As priests circled them, sprinkling holy water and reciting prayers, mourners approached one by one and laid flowers atop the coffins.
Seated among the worshippers, Asros watched the long and tedious ceremony while quietly spying on his half-siblings.
His elder brother was seated in the place of honor, wearing the same arrogant expression as always and carrying himself with insufferable grandeur.
Meanwhile, Aila Roem Gwirta mourned the dead with all the elegance befitting the woman known as the Perfect Imperial Princess.
It was a scene no different from usual.
And yet, something felt off.
After pondering the matter for a while, Asros realized that his half-sister was thoroughly furious about something.
She had arranged her face into a convincing mask of sorrow, but her eyes were {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} as cold as ice, and the corners of her mouth were noticeably rigid.
'What could she possibly be so angry about?'
Unlike his brother, who displayed every emotion openly, Aila was someone who always concealed herself behind a tranquil smile.
The fact that a woman who never revealed openings under any circumstances was displaying emotion before so many people was unexpectedly fascinating.
'Was she really that upset that the wedding was postponed?'
Asros's gaze naturally shifted toward her fiancé.
Varkas Laedgo Siorcan stood beside the altar with his back perfectly straight, quietly observing the funeral rites.
He looked less like a living man and more like a statue placed within a cathedral.
Intrigued by his excessive stillness, Asros slowly examined him from head to toe.
The future Grand Duke of Siorcan wore a sharply tailored doublet that flowed cleanly from shoulder to waist without a single unnecessary flourish. His breeches fit him like armor, and a long navy-blue cape hung from his left shoulder.
It was almost a plain outfit.
Yet to Asros, it looked far more impressive than the elaborate attire worn by the assembled nobles.
For a brief moment, he almost understood why his half-sister might be upset about the delayed wedding.
'...After an incident like this, the pilgrimage probably won't happen again until next year.'
Which meant the wedding between Aila Roem Gwirta and the future Grand Duke of Siorcan would also be postponed until next year.
The moment that thought occurred to him, Asros suddenly frowned.
His chest felt tight.
He simply wanted his half-sister, who always looked at him as though he were something unpleasant, to leave for the Grand Duchy as soon as possible.
'Perhaps they'll break Imperial tradition and proceed with the wedding as planned.'
Filled with earnest hope, he looked toward Lord Siorcan.
Please, take Aila Roem Gwirta to the East.
At that exact moment, as though he had somehow heard the absurd prayer, the man turned his head.
Startled, Asros immediately lowered his gaze.
His heart dropped at those eyes that seemed capable of seeing straight through his thoughts.
