BWG - 4

Fertan had never found his work as thrilling as he did now. 

Especially when it came to Eleanor, he was utterly consumed. He acted as though he were a different man entirely, losing himself in their encounters. With each meeting, his teasing and antics became more natural. By now, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say they were deeply entangled—not just physically, but emotionally as well. 

Though their meetings began with a clear purpose, it was no longer solely about that. Among the many schemes he devised to lure her in, he deliberately sought ways to keep her tied to him for longer periods. 

It was like aiming to catch two rabbits at once. 

Thus, his need for Eleanor doubled. He wanted her both within his faction and intertwined with him in bed. 

Whenever he had a spare moment, Fertan plotted how best to provoke her. He imagined all sorts of scenarios—what lewd words to say, what absurd actions to take—to elicit vivid reactions from her wide-eyed expressions. 

Late one night, while returning from running errands in the city, he found himself lost in such thoughts. 

Sitting alone in the carriage, he gazed absently out the window, lazily taking in the route home. 

In his mind, he pieced together situations that would shock Eleanor’s violet eyes into widening. He strategized ways to make her, who lived cloaked in propriety and common sense, transform into a playful sprite and leap into his arms. 

The sky was dark, and the road was deserted except for Fertan’s carriage. 

The rhythmic clatter of hooves and wheels grew monotonous. The quiet journey seemed uneventful—until suddenly, chaos erupted. 

A deafening noise accompanied a violent jolt to the carriage. From around the corner, several horses thundered forward, shaking the ground beneath them. Their riders approached silently before launching a coordinated attack with shouts and aggression. 

An ambush. 

Fertan quickly scanned the scene through the carriage window. Masked men armed with weapons surged forward, exuding murderous intent. 

“Drive! Don’t stop!” 

The coachman panicked, whipping the horses furiously. The carriage bolted forward with terrifying speed, its rumble resembling that of a chariot. The wheels wobbled precariously, threatening to come off at any moment. But the attackers’ horses, carrying only one rider each, were faster than the burdened carriage. Fertan’s group couldn’t shake them. 

One of Fertan’s guards, positioned at the rear of the carriage, engaged the assailants. Alone against multiple foes, however, he stood little chance. Soon, with a cry, he was thrown to the ground. 

The masked men swung iron rods, smashing the carriage mercilessly. They struck the back wall, roof, and doors—any surface within reach. The fact that they wielded blunt instruments rather than swords suggested they lacked formal combat training. Their leader’s crude, foul-mouthed curses further supported this theory. 

“You little shit, come out here!” 

Before the carriage could travel even a single city block, it was overtaken. It happened in the blink of an eye. 

As Fertan peered out the window to assess the situation, an iron rod thrust through the glass toward him. He swiftly dodged, slammed the window shut, and locked the door to prevent simultaneous entry. Simultaneously, he grabbed the sword kept inside the carriage for emergencies. 

The carriage rocked violently, the door straining under repeated blows. A critical moment. 

The coachman, bless his resolve, held on valiantly. Despite being pummeled by the attackers, he urged the horses onward, racing toward the mansion. One attacker drew alongside the driver’s seat, swinging his rod wildly. Bloodied but determined, the coachman pressed on. 

“Keep driving!” 

Fertan’s shout mingled with the attackers’ curses and war cries. 

From within the tightly sealed carriage, the sound of the coachman being beaten was harrowing. Despair loomed; reaching home safely seemed impossible. 

Yet despite the commotion erupting on the city streets, not a soul ventured outside. Night watchmen were useless as always, and ordinary citizens, fearing violence, barricaded themselves indoors. 

Finally, one side of the carriage door was torn off. Like a warrior emerging from seclusion, Fertan prepared to face his enemies. A large masked figure thrust his iron rod into the cabin. Though imposing in size, the man clearly lacked tactical skill. Seizing the opportunity, Fertan caught the weapon mid-swing and drove his sword deep into the attacker’s gut. The man collapsed lifelessly, tumbling out of the moving carriage. 

Another assailant clung to the remaining door. This time, there was a brief exchange of blows. Fighting precariously inside the swaying, roaring carriage, Fertan held his ground. 

Ahead, a crossroads appeared. To head home, they needed to turn right. But the carriage, unable to slow down, veered sharply. 

The vehicle was already battered beyond repair, and the coachman teetered on the brink of death. The creaking wheels groaned ominously amidst the bloody clash of steel. 

Fertan felt the world tilt unnaturally as if the sky and earth had swapped places. 

The carriage tilted dangerously, its weight shifting abruptly. 

With a crash, the roof slammed into the ground, and the carriage tumbled several more times. Inside the confined space, Fertan was tossed violently in every direction. Protecting his head and vitals, he barely managed to shield himself from serious injury. 

When the carriage finally collided with the corner of a building, Fertan was flung out. His shoulder took the brunt of the impact as he landed hard on the brick pavement, skidding several yards. Pain flared across his back like fire. 

“Ugh…” 

Thankfully, he hadn’t lost consciousness. As he struggled to gather himself amidst the wreckage, the remaining attackers closed in. Dismounting their horses, they brandished their iron rods, looking more like street thugs than trained assassins. 

Three of them remained. 

And Fertan, gravely injured, could barely stand. 

“Who sent you?” 

He barked the question, buying time to steady his spinning head. Even a brief respite was crucial. 

True to form, the thugs were predictably dim-witted. Instead of attacking immediately, they sneered and taunted him. 

“What good will knowing do? You’re as good as dead.” 

“Sent by the palace?”

“That’s enough—” 

“Who from the palace sent you? The crown prince? The emperor himself?” 

Fertan had grown accustomed to these sudden ambushes on his life, which occurred often enough for him to recognize the pattern. He already had a good idea of who might be behind it—whether it was an order directly from the emperor, an action taken by Crown Prince Leonard in anticipation of the emperor’s wishes, or something Leonard orchestrated independently. The only task now was to confirm the specifics. 

Regrettably, tonight’s attack had left him more battered than usual. His delayed awareness of the enemy’s approach hadn’t helped matters. 

Even as three thugs stood menacingly before him, weapons raised, Fertan sighed deeply, calculating the gains and losses of this encounter. 

“Shut up and offer your necks.” 

With crude shouts, the assailants charged at him all at once. 

“Alright, I should probably head home myself,” Fertan muttered under his breath. 

Though sitting upright was taxing enough, he swung his sword at their legs. In the darkened street, they failed to see the gleam of his blade. Dodging their wild swings with practiced ease, he systematically brought them down, finishing each off with precise strikes to their vitals. 

Once all the attackers lay dead, Fertan remained seated on the cold pavement, unable to rise. Blood loss made his head spin as he pressed a hand against his forehead. 

He had always considered himself fortunate to have survived this long. To stay alive, he had fought relentlessly, honing his body like a swordsman striving for mastery. Assassinations, poisonings, treachery—he had endured countless lethal attempts and emerged stronger each time. 

There was only one path that guaranteed his survival: reclaiming the throne that should have been his by birthright. That goal was his destiny, intertwined with his very existence. 

Rarely, the emperor’s palace hosted formal meetings to discuss pressing national issues and reforms. These gatherings were known as the Institutional Council. 

Emperor Maximilian summoned influential nobles and high-ranking officials to convene. Though small in scale, with barely a dozen attendees seated around a long table, the emperor occupied the head seat. 

The atmosphere was calm, given that most participants were regular fixtures of the imperial court. The first agenda item concerned the crown prince’s wedding. Discussions revolved around budget adjustments, led primarily by the finance minister. The emperor sought a ceremony befitting his authority, while the minister emphasized practical funding constraints. 

Just before moving to the second agenda, someone entered the chamber with confident strides. 

It was Fertan, one of the council members. 

His tall frame and striking features immediately drew attention, causing the emperor to pause mid-sentence. 

“My apologies for being late, Your Majesty. I intended to arrive on time for such an important meeting, but circumstances beyond my control delayed me.” 

“Hmm…” 

“I returned home late last night due to personal matters. It won’t happen again.” 

His tone carried an implication of indulging in nocturnal pleasures, though outwardly, he maintained a respectful demeanor. 

The emperor glanced sidelong at Fertan, visibly struggling to mask his irritation. Those present, familiar with the emperor’s habits, easily interpreted his expression as thinly veiled displeasure. 

A tense silence lingered even after Fertan took his seat. His slightly slouched posture irked the emperor further, yet it wasn’t egregious enough to warrant correction. 

Unfazed, Fertan leaned back casually, concealing the bandages tightly wrapped beneath his jacket. His face, framed by a luxurious lace shirt, bore a sly grin. 

“It seems my tardiness disrupted the flow of the meeting. What were we discussing?” 

Fortunately, his face bore no visible wounds, allowing him to deceive everyone, including the emperor. However, internally, his body was a wreck from the previous night’s assault. 

Though his physician had advised weeks of intensive care, lying defenseless in bed wasn’t an option. When the urgent summons arrived that morning, Fertan forced himself to attend despite excruciating pain. Missing the meeting would have broadcast his vulnerability to the world. 

Typically, council schedules were announced days in advance, but this summons came unusually on the same day—an emergency session following last night’s ambush. 

The timing reeked of deliberate exposure, as if the orchestrator had no intention of hiding their intent. 

With the nonchalant gaze of a carefree nobleman, Fertan stared blankly at the emperor, the man who had likely ordered his assassination mere hours earlier. 

For his part, the emperor feigned ignorance, maintaining a composed demeanor. 

The chamberlain, carefully gauging the emperor’s mood, cautiously resumed the discussion. 

“Let us move to the second agenda: the uprising in the northern Tordun region. The military minister will address this matter.” 

A sturdy man with graying stubble nodded and began speaking. 

“We’ve received alarming reports of escalating unrest. Most here are hearing this for the first time. What started as localized looting has spiraled out of control. I’ve already briefed His Majesty and explored potential countermeasures.” 

As the minister spoke, Fertan clenched his fist beneath the table. 

‘So that’s it. The emperor urgently convened this meeting because of the Tordun uprising.’ 

Count Ginédien, the military minister, had been close to the late emperor—meaning he aligned with Fertan’s faction. 

There was no way he would report to the emperor without tipping off Fertan first. This so-called preemptive strategy likely deviated from reality, suggesting some unexpected pressure—or outright intimidation—from the emperor behind the scenes.

What could have possibly happened for Count Ginédien to avoid even making eye contact with Fertan and instead recite his lines like a rehearsed script? 

The count turned to the emperor with resolute determination. 

“Your Majesty, the solution to quell this unrest early is as I previously mentioned. Allow me to take command and lead a single battalion. I assure you, the results will satisfy.” 

“For you to personally intervene… it seems somewhat inappropriate from my perspective.” 

“There’s no need for such concern. As a soldier, it’s only natural to engage in warfare. Moreover, if it means reducing the sacrifice of our citizens, how could I refuse?” 

The emperor feigned deep contemplation, but Fertan saw through the charade. The emperor must have instructed the count beforehand, leaving him no choice but to comply for some undisclosed reason. 

To put it pessimistically, Fertan’s faction—the remnants of the late emperor’s supporters—was little more than a gathering of those nostalgic for past glories. Any open opposition to the current emperor would immediately be labeled treason. 

Thus, while their respective families and estates remained untouched by the emperor, they wielded little influence in imperial politics. If the emperor formally ordered the suppression of the uprising, they had no legitimate grounds to refuse. 

The emperor’s intent was glaringly obvious: to publicly demonstrate the insignificance of the late emperor’s faction. 

“Then I wish you good fortune, Count Ginédien. We’ll discuss which battalion you’ll command at a later time.” 

The decision to dispatch the count was made swiftly. No one dared murmur dissent before the emperor, and the meeting moved on to the next agenda item without delay. 

Fertan, still slouched in his seat, appeared disinterested, fidgeting as if lost in thought. But inwardly, he speculated about the crisis the count faced. The most plausible explanation involved the count’s beloved granddaughter. If the emperor had directly attempted to assassinate Fertan, it stood to reason that he might have extended his dirty reach to the count as well. 

Though widely known as a supporter of the late emperor, Count Ginédien couldn’t directly participate in Fertan’s plans due to constant scrutiny by the emperor. 

Still, Fertan couldn’t execute his plans while the count was away leading a military operation. There was a risk the count might face danger within the emperor’s army. 

‘It seems I’ll have to delay the timing of my coup until after Count Ginédien returns.’ 

Originally, Fertan had planned for the end of next month, but now it seemed likely to push back into autumn. 

‘I’ll need to postpone Eleanor’s wedding further, securing ample time. Unexpectedly, this leaves me with an awkward stretch of idle time.’ 

It would have been ideal to strike immediately once preparations were complete, but this summer promised to drag on unproductively. 

Eleanor opened her safe and selected jewelry for the day from her treasure box. She chose a clean, elegant brooch adorned with chalcedony and pinned it to the ribbon on the front of her dress. 

She left the case containing the signet ring untouched, not even glancing at it. Though she was alone in the dressing room, her heart simply wasn’t drawn to it. 

She had touched the ring case only once, prompted by Fertan’s cryptic warning during their last meeting. 

“Don’t touch the ring. Never try it on.” 

Even before hearing this, Eleanor had no intention of handling the late emperor’s signet ring carelessly. She certainly didn’t entertain thoughts of trying it on out of vanity. Still, she was curious about why Fertan had emphasized avoiding it, though he skillfully evaded her questions. 

Feeling uneasy, Eleanor decided to add an extra layer of protection by placing the ring case inside a plain wooden box. Though the small ring now rested in two nested containers, this arrangement brought her some peace of mind. 

Finally, the day arrived when she resolved to meet Fertan. 

She had agonized over this decision for a long time. 

This was akin to choosing between two ships destined to collide—one side guaranteed peril if chosen incorrectly. 

She had to pick a side. Failure meant death. 

If she boarded the emperor’s ship, Eleanor would either live as Leonard’s wife and empress or spend her life rotting in a convent as the deposed crown princess. On the other hand, boarding Fertan’s ship meant she could decide her own future—or face execution by guillotine. 

Though she had never been interested in gambling, this felt like placing a bet. After much deliberation, she ultimately chose the option with the greatest potential risks and rewards. 

However, she left the ring in her safe. If Fertan truly trusted her as an ally, leaving it there shouldn’t matter. For Eleanor, it served as her final safeguard. It felt slightly cunning, but better than appearing too compliant to Fertan. 

The more she reflected on her precarious situation, the more cautious she became during outings. Accompanied by Liam, she meticulously scanned her surroundings for anyone watching her. While passing through the Bluewing Hotel, she stopped briefly at a restaurant for tea—to create an alibi. 

As she sipped her tea, Liam approached hesitantly, as if he had something to report. 

“May I give you an update?” 

Smiling gently, Eleanor gestured for him to sit, pushing a pouch of coins across the table first. 

“I was curious. Have there been any changes recently? Any new maids approaching you, or perhaps my brother?” 

Liam glanced around nervously before quickly sliding the pouch back to her. 

“The money isn’t necessary. Truly.” 

He seemed different somehow. Though his goal was likely to join the imperial guard, he appeared useful to Eleanor nonetheless. 

“The new maid continued to approach me, but I ignored her. However, Lord Edwin summoned me to the study.” 

“To the study? It must have been quite the interrogation.” 

“He asked very detailed questions about escorting you. It felt like he was suspicious and trying to pry information. I told him you’d been at the moon-viewing festival the entire time.” 

Eleanor nodded gratefully.

“So, may I ask if there’s anything else you’d like me to do?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“When Lord Edwin and His Majesty questioned me, comparing them to you made me realize something. Even if the crown prince or the emperor were to come, you’ll need a guard you can truly trust….” 

Liam fidgeted awkwardly with his teacup, clearly embarrassed. 

“A loyal retainer… that’s what you’re saying, right? If you’re offering yourself for that role, I’d be honored to accept your protection.” 

“But Liam, you’re employed by my family. Technically, you work for my brother. Can you remain steadfast despite that?” 

“…I’ll do my best.” 

Though she knew him to be a man of few empty words, his declaration of “doing his best” at this critical moment amused Eleanor slightly. She appreciated that he didn’t give an overly confident guarantee like “of course” or “without a doubt.” 

As they spoke, Liam began to remind her of herself. Just as Fertan was trying to pull her into his fold, she was attempting to bring Liam into hers. The process felt oddly similar. 

Trusting someone and making them one of your own wasn’t an easy decision. No matter how many years Liam had served as her guard or how well she knew his family background, transitioning from a distant professional relationship to one of deep trust was challenging. To be honest, Eleanor had never truly considered anyone a close ally before now. 

There was caution in her approach, but also a desire to seize this opportunity. Watching Liam gulp down his tea in one sip, Eleanor hardened her gaze with resolve. 

“If you’re to accompany me where I’m going, you must be prepared to risk your life. Are you still willing to come with me?” 

Having weighed the possibility of facing the guillotine herself, she wanted to warn Liam beforehand. 

“I had some idea of the risks. I’ll go with you.” 

Liam’s expression revealed that he had already chosen whom to pledge his loyalty to. Though Eleanor couldn’t pinpoint exactly what about her had convinced him, his determination was unmistakable. This resonated deeply with her, especially since she had just resolved to fully side with Fertan. 

The two changed their clothes and carriage, then headed toward Fertan’s mansion. 

Fertan usually stayed home during the day, as his covert operations kept him busy from evening until late at night. Meanwhile, Eleanor, being a noblewoman who rarely ventured out at night, found their schedules conveniently aligned. 

Eleanor expected to find him lazily sprawled somewhere in the house, but instead, he was lying face-down on a curtained bed. 

“Did I wake you?” 

He sat up slowly, his movements unusually sluggish. 

“No, it’s fine.” 

Seeing him fully dressed in a nightshirt felt strange. Had he always slept in proper attire? During their daytime encounters, he was usually naked and carefree, so his current modest appearance seemed oddly out of character. 

With his back to her, he filled a glass with water, drank it slowly, and only then turned to face her. Finally, the familiar mischievous aura around Fertan returned. 

“I’m glad you came.” 

“Fertan, did something happen?” 

“You consider this a good thing, right? I’m not misunderstanding, am I?” 

The distance between them felt unusually wide. As Eleanor approached him cautiously, he retreated just as much. His casually extended hand toward his chest seemed oddly defensive. 

Something felt off. The absence of his usual flirtatious antics and his uncharacteristically calm demeanor raised suspicions. 

Eleanor narrowed her eyes sharply, scrutinizing him. 

“Am I suddenly more appealing now that I’ve become yours?” 

She had explicitly told him before how much she disliked phrases like “my woman,” yet here he was reciting them now—clearly an attempt to distract her. Her suspicion solidified into certainty. Now, she just needed to uncover what he was hiding. 

With hawk-like precision, she examined his appearance. 

“Fertan.” 

“…” 

“Can you take off your shirt?” 

Fertan smirked faintly, amused. 

“Do you think I’m always thinking about sex? Do you see me as some kind of sex-crazed maniac?” 

“Yes.” 

“What?” 

“You’re obsessed with sex—at least with me. You’ve practically attacked me like the world was ending tomorrow.” 

For once, Fertan was at a loss for words. Just as she thought how unusual this was, she spotted the anomaly: when he awkwardly brushed back his bangs, the neckline of his nightshirt lifted slightly, revealing faint scratch marks on the back of his neck, hidden beneath the fabric. She pointed directly at the reddish wounds with her finger. 

“What’s this?” 

“Huh…? Oh, it’s nothing. So, did you bring the ring?” 

“The ring stays with me. If you trust me, you should leave it in my care. Now, tell me—how did you get these wounds? Lie down. Let me take a closer look.”

Unwilling to let the topic shift to the ring, Eleanor swiftly delivered her prepared line. Like a nimble squirrel, she darted forward and seized him tightly. 

When she hugged his side forcefully, Fertan panicked, kicking his long legs backward in an attempt to retreat. Despite the absurd difference in their sizes, she somehow managed to push him down onto the bed with sheer determination. 

A pained groan escaped his lips. 

Fertan lay there, still holding her, momentarily holding his breath. 

Seizing the opening, she yanked his clothes open. Her quick hands exposed his neck and half of his shoulder. 

The next moment, Eleanor’s eyes widened so much that the whites showed all around her irises. 

“What is all this?! You’re a mess!” 

Overwhelmed by shock, she shouted without restraint. She stopped holding back and began pulling at his clothes everywhere. Fertan resisted briefly but soon realized it would be futile to forcibly remove her. He let her proceed. 

“When and where did you get hurt?” 

“…” 

He rubbed his ear as if pretending not to hear her. 

So he was deliberately avoiding the question. How could he remain silent and playful despite having such serious injuries? 

Carefully removing his clothes, Eleanor examined the wounds he had tried to hide. There were only minor scratches on his front, but his back was in terrible condition. His shoulder was caked with dried blood, and long scrapes ran from his back to his waist, with patches of skin peeled away. 

While the palm-sized bruises on his limbs weren’t alarming, the numerous vertical lacerations covering his entire back were impossible to ignore. 

Determined to uncover the truth, she gritted her teeth. 

“What on earth happened? Did you roll down a gravel road or something?” 

After his condition was fully exposed, Fertan seemed to relax, almost enjoying the situation. As she analyzed his wounds, her breath brushed against his back, causing him to chuckle faintly. 

“Why didn’t you bandage these?” 

“I did, then took them off. Why bother with bandages for just a few scratches?” 

“How are these just ‘a few scratches’…?!” 

An exasperated sigh escaped her lips. 

She was boiling with frustration, yet he casually busied himself untying the ribbons of her dress, despite having adamantly denied being obsessed with sex just moments ago. 

“Hug me.” 

With scabs clinging to his back, he rolled over to face her. 

“I don’t know which part of you I can trust with my future anymore. I might change my mind before it’s too late.” 

“You’ve already chosen me, Eleanor. There’s no going back now.” 

“Chosen? Don’t say misleading things like that.” 

“Then how about I come to you instead? If you’ll have me, I can be an easy man.” 

“Enough…! Can’t you act like a rational lord, just once?” 

“A lord, huh…” 

He gazed at her with hazy eyes, giving off an oddly chilling vibe. 

To be honest, even Eleanor felt a strange unease after saying those words. She had chosen him as the person she would serve and was now in a position to help him ascend the throne. 

There had been moments when she considered merely pretending to be close to him while remaining passive. But she knew that in the near future, this country would undergo upheaval, and at that point, feigned neutrality would be impossible. Having made her decision, she resolved to fully support Fertan. 

“Alright. You’re the lord I will serve.” 

His hand lingered on the loosened front of her dress. Fertan pulled her face closer. Her platinum hair slid softly over his slightly thinner cheek. 

“Ironic, isn’t it? In bed, I’m the one serving you.” 

“That’s completely different. Let’s keep public and private matters separate.” 

“Then allow me to make a personal request, my lady. Would you kindly strip and climb on top of me?” 

“Fertan…!” 

“If that doesn’t work, I could always issue an official order. You see, I’ve been hard for you since earlier. A loyal subject wouldn’t let their lord die from unfulfilled desires, would they?” 

Lying on his side, Fertan winked at her. Despite the obvious pain he must have been in, his expression remained eerily calm. He even tugged at her skirt impatiently, signaling for her to get rid of the cumbersome dress. 

Unable to resist his persistence, Eleanor reluctantly began unfastening her cloak. Her disapproving gaze remained fixed on his sandpaper-scraped back. 

“I’ll listen to you if you tell me how you got hurt.” 

“I fell down the stairs.” 

The lie was so blatantly insincere that she immediately moved to retie her cloak, preparing to leave. 

Fertan’s demeanor shifted abruptly, and he quickly revised his story. 

“Now that I think about it, it might not have been the stairs. Perhaps if I hold your warm, soft body, it’ll jog my memory.” 

“Honestly, Fertan…” 

For a fleeting moment, she seriously contemplated leaving the mansion right then and there. 

Eleanor cautiously nestled into his arms, folding her own arms protectively. She was careful not to accidentally touch his injured areas.

Her scalp felt the gentle breeze of his breath as he exhaled calmly. Fertan finally seemed to relax, releasing the tension in his shoulders as he embraced Eleanor. They lay side by side, and he began fidgeting incessantly—running his fingers through her wavy hair, twirling strands around his fingers, and playing with them. She had to repeatedly scold him to stop. 

Fertan slowly began recounting what had happened a few days prior. To explain the ambush, he traced its origins back to his uncle, the emperor, and gave a brief overview of their shared history. 

His voice was low and steady, almost detached, but much of what he said shocked her deeply. 

Ambushes from groups suspected to be gangs were a near-daily occurrence for Fertan. Fighting armed opponents was routine, and those assailants ranged from professional assassins to imperial guards. The attacks came in countless forms: prostitutes sent to seduce him, poison slipped into his food. His uncle, who had effectively stolen the throne that should have been Fertan’s birthright, had kept him alive for appearances’ sake while secretly plotting his demise over the years. 

The relentless persecution had made Fertan intimately familiar with the criminal underworld of the capital since his teenage years. Naturally, he’d sought allies for counterattacks, which eventually led to the formation of an organization centered around the Bluewing Hotel. 

Through Fertan, Eleanor had come to understand the true nature of the late emperor’s faction. Like many nobles in the capital who dismissed the late emperor’s supporters as insignificant, she too had naively remained ignorant. She had assumed the emperor ruled benevolently while the remnants of the late emperor’s lineage idled away in leisure. 

But the reality was a war disguised as peace—a relentless assault by the emperor and Fertan’s desperate struggle to survive. 

“So you should pity me, Eleanor.” 

Just as a flicker of sympathy began to rise within her, his shameless quip extinguished it completely. Her reply dripped with indifference. 

“Yes, yes. Your back must hurt a lot.” 

“Not just my back—my heart feels barren too. I may look polished and prosperous on the outside, but inside, I’m impoverished.” 

“And what exactly are you trying to say?” 

He lowered his eyelids slightly, revealing neatly arched black eyebrows, and crafted an expression of pitiable sorrow. With his severe wounds and striking beauty, it was nearly impossible not to feel some measure of sympathy. 

As he hesitated, nibbling lightly on his plump lips, she found herself involuntarily drawn to his mouth, even though she could already predict what would come next. 

“Could I borrow your pussy for a moment?” 

Of course—he couldn’t resist such nonsense. 

“No!” 

“Let me serve you. Wasn’t that part of the deal when I brought you in? In bed, I’m your courtesan.” 

“I never agreed to that.” 

“I’ll make it feel good, alright? Honestly, I’m not at my best right now, so let’s just do half of what we did last time.” 

Eleanor was the only one exercising caution, ensuring she didn’t touch his injuries. Meanwhile, Fertan’s advances grew more intense. It seemed injuries had no correlation with his stamina—no matter how hard she struggled, the arm coiled around her waist like a noose refused to loosen. 

It was as if he had transformed into an enraged bull, thrusting his head forward and burying his nose between her breasts, panting heavily. Even his breathing sounded irregular. If he continued using his body so recklessly, his wounds might worsen. 

Half of what they’d done last time meant half a day instead of an entire day. Surely, he wasn’t serious—surely. 

That battered body absolutely needed rest; pushing it further would only cause more harm. 

“Not now. You need to stay still and rest, Fertan.” 

She glared at his torn shoulder reproachfully and gently pushed against his chest to create some distance. 

“I’m fine, really. It’s so hard for us to meet like this. How could I pass up the chance to spend an entire day rolling around with you without anyone interrupting?” 

His overly eager words, paired with a body that felt slightly warmer than usual, pressed down on her firmly. Fertan was unmistakably a man in pursuit. His incessant touches and the way he gazed at her from mere inches away brimmed with passion. 

“Eleanor…” 

The whine he added when calling her name wasn’t unpleasant. The heartbeat she felt against her palm made her wonder—was it racing because of her? 

Goodness, she didn’t dislike it. 

The firmness pressing against her was satisfying. 

He was right about one thing—it was difficult for them to meet. Their situation mirrored that of lovers thwarted by family opposition, forced to steal glances from afar and communicate through covert means. Every clandestine visit to this mansion required elaborate subterfuge. 

If she left now, wouldn’t the image of an injured Fertan linger in her mind? She’d worry about whether he was healing properly or if he’d faced another ambush. 

Yet, even as she imagined his recovery and fretted over his well-being, she knew visiting him openly would be nearly impossible. As a bride-to-be with less than a month until her wedding to the crown prince, her movements were far too conspicuous. 

Though Fertan spoke urgently, his body remained warm and still against hers. He gazed at her cheeks and eyes, stealing short kisses as if reluctant to let her face leave his sight. He kissed her again and again, alternating between looking and kissing. 

The solid muscles of his side grazed loosely against her stomach. The long column trapped between their lower abdomens occasionally twitched, asserting its presence. 

She couldn’t bring herself to tell him to stop. Above all, Eleanor herself was enjoying this sticky, intimate behavior. She found satisfaction in his clinginess and pleading. No matter how hard she tried to ignore her own feelings, she couldn’t suppress them. 

Halfheartedly resisting, she was gradually giving in. Eleanor sighed in resignation. 

“Why are you being so aggressive despite your injuries?”

The damp sensation near her navel drew her attention. The slick, glistening tip of his arousal stretched upward like a waking creature, leaving behind a trail of viscous fluid that pooled around her belly button. 

“Why? When your body feels so sweet and intoxicating, do I need any other reason?” 

After sharing his personal musings, Fertan grew even bolder. 

His heated hand slid up from her ribcage to her chest, moving with deliberate sensuality. His fingertips traced the underside of her breasts, circling teasingly before pushing them upward to mold the soft flesh into twin peaks. With greedy eyes, he watched as her modest mounds transformed into towering summits under his touch. 

Should she simply let herself be carried away by the current? Was it right to surrender to his will? As his overtly sexual massage sent waves of heat coursing through her skin, Eleanor struggled to gather the fragments of her fading clarity. 

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask,” she managed between labored breaths. “Fertan, aren’t you asking too much of me? It took so much deliberation just to decide to side with you, yet it seems you have no intention of giving up this… secretive relationship either.” 

Her words trailed off into a sigh laced with desire. She had reached her limit. 

Amidst his ministrations, his fingertips grazed the sensitive peaks of her breasts, sending electric jolts through her body. Despite knowing she shouldn’t feel aroused by an injured man, her instincts betrayed her—her core moistened involuntarily, and her legs entwined with his thick thighs in a tangled embrace. 

Fertan’s jaw slackened slightly, his lips parting as he pulled her deeper into a wet, fervent kiss. His tongue darted out, tracing the contours of her teeth before flicking teasingly side to side. He sucked on her lower lip with such intensity that it reddened instantly when he finally released it. 

His voice, now tinged with hoarseness, dripped with raw lust. 

“Does this bother you? Me asking to hold you?” 

It was oddly awkward how Fertan, usually so brazen, now seemed almost cautious in his inquiry. If she were to say she felt uncomfortable or unwilling, would he stop? For a fleeting moment, she entertained the thought before dismissing it. 

She had already made it abundantly clear how much she desired his body. His sharp, seductive features were undeniably her type. 

“It’s not that… it’s just that your persistence takes such a unique form.” 

Had she not been curious about his true feelings, she might have ended their tussle long ago. 

Their childhood connection and their undeniable physical compatibility were compelling—but not enough to justify risking everything for these clandestine meetings. 

Deep down, she secretly hoped he saw her as more than just a sexual partner. 

It was a selfish, shallow hope—especially since she hadn’t voiced anything of substance herself. 

Yet, while their conversation remained unresolved, their bodies had already surged ahead. Their bare legs intertwined, setting the mood ablaze. Between her thighs, her slick folds occasionally brushed against the rigid length of his shaft, smearing traces of her arousal onto him—a silent, lewd invitation to move beyond mere teasing. 

Her only concern was his injury; otherwise, she found nothing unpleasant about Fertan himself. His pleading to hold her didn’t repulse her in the slightest. 

A low growl rumbled in his throat, akin to a wolf’s howl. The erection pressing against her abdomen was painfully hard. Leaving it unattended much longer risked causing some sort of issue with his engorged member. 

Realizing he couldn’t proceed without addressing her concerns, Fertan conceded with a shrug. Sitting up, he lifted her onto his lap, positioning her carefully to avoid aggravating his wounded back. In the heated atmosphere where neither could bring themselves to stop, at least his injury wouldn’t rub against the sheets—a small mercy. 

“Ever since I sought your help at the palace banquet, I think I’ve gone a little mad.” 

Between her spread legs, his erect shaft wedged itself firmly, its girth comparable to her wrist. It ground against her delicate folds with carnal intent, while his broad hands pressed into her exposed buttocks like cushions. 

The gap between them narrowed. His shaft lodged itself within the soft, wet recesses of her labia, straining upward as if seeking release. Pre-cum oozed from the tip, thick and honey-like, dripping onto her pubic hair and trickling down slowly, warm and languid. 

The swollen head of his erection nudged insistently against her most sensitive spot, each touch igniting sparks that made her entire groin twitch. Her clitoris stood erect, drenched and hypersensitive. 

“Ah…” 

Her furrowed brow briefly met his forehead before he pulled away. 

His half-lidded eyes revealed dark, dilated pupils framed by feathery lashes—a striking gaze marred only by a hint of madness, as if confirming his earlier admission. 

“I narrowly avoided disaster when the guards searched the area. By sheer luck, I stumbled into your room and received a great favor.” 

As she squirmed, anticipating more, Fertan cupped her buttocks with both hands. 

He lifted her slightly, adjusting her position, then lowered her back down toward him. 

“If someone does you a favor, shouldn’t they be grateful and repay it accordingly? But you, Fertan… you keep demanding more and teasing me like this… ah…” 

The thick column of flesh grazed her entrance but slipped past tantalizingly. Her empty channel quivered, releasing another gush of arousal. Though she craved penetration, the teasing torment heightened her excitement in a different, maddening way. 

Was it impossible to exercise restraint given the stakes of their alliance? As they explored each other’s bodies, sweat mingling with desire, Fertan hovered at the precipice of entering her. His lower eyelids flushed crimson as he smirked wickedly. 

“Hah, maybe I’m just shameless.” 

With that, he lifted her buttocks, marked with the imprints of his large hands, and thrust upward in one decisive motion. 

She felt utterly filled. The passage that had yearned for his thick, solid intrusion was suddenly stretched to its limits. Her inner walls throbbed, overwhelmed by the sudden fullness after longing for completion. 

“Ah, hnn…”

Fertan paused momentarily to allow Eleanor a brief respite, gently rocking her before driving the rest of his length deep inside her. 

“I keep seeking the favor you’ve given me, unwilling to let it slip away.” 

His jest carried an undercurrent of sincerity—a declaration that while he valued her trust publicly, he had no intention of relinquishing their dangerous liaisons privately. 

Should she feel joy or concern? 

Unable to discern her own emotions, Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut. Her body, burdened with conflicting thoughts, was firmly in Fertan’s grasp as he manipulated her without hesitation. Like a puppeteer playing with a doll, he lifted and lowered her buttocks, using the weight of her body to drive his shaft deeper into her. The sensation of him surging upward from below felt markedly different from being pressed down upon. 

Though Eleanor had chosen their lord-vassal relationship, it was Fertan who fervently pursued their intimate encounters. With his erection straining against her folds, his entire body radiated arousal as he pleaded for her continued favor. 

Mounted atop him like a wild horse, her body bucked uncontrollably. Eleanor clung cautiously to his neck, focused solely on maintaining balance—yet her hips rose and fell rhythmically under his guidance, impaling herself repeatedly on his rigid length. 

“Hold me tighter.” 

Fertan pulled hard on her arms wrapped around his neck, unable to tolerate the looseness caused by his injuries. 

Simultaneously, his muscular thighs flexed, urging her onward as though spurring a galloping steed. His breaths came in rapid gasps, each word a struggle. 

“Ah, no… I can’t, haa…” 

“Hurry.” 

His long-fingered hand delivered a sharp smack to her pale buttocks—not painful, but enough to sting slightly. 

“Ugh! Hah…” 

The crisp sound of impact echoed, blending with their moans. The slap of flesh against flesh reached the pinnacle of decadence. 

Eleanor wriggled her now-pinkened cheeks, feigning exaggerated discomfort despite the mildness of the blow. A warm tingling lingered where his palm had struck, massaging her tender skin. Each press of his fingertips against her lower buttocks tugged at her core, causing her vaginal opening to flutter involuntarily. 

Carefully cradling Fertan with elbows raised high, she remained acutely aware of his wounds, even as her body trembled with excitement. Still seated, she bounced vigorously, eagerly receiving his thick intrusion. Like a massive tree trunk, his member thrust relentlessly into her, each plunge eliciting cries of pleasure. She never imagined her own weight could deliver such intense sensations. 

Her tear-soaked eyes met his unfocused gaze, his expression dazed as if under the influence of some potent drug. 

“While your pussy devours me whole...” 

Their slackened lips met again, tongues sliding wetly between them. Neither claimed dominance as they explored each other’s mouths, stirring and probing beneath their tongues. 

This act of penetration brought yet another layer of sensation, overwhelming both upper and lower regions simultaneously. Her vaginal entrance clenched reflexively. Trembling lips and quivering thighs conveyed the depth of her ecstasy to Fertan. 

Now utterly lost in bliss, his voice grew hoarse and debauched. 

“It’s troubling when you pretend not to want me while clearly craving me.” 

His large hands spread wide—one splayed across her back, the other gripping her buttocks—enveloping her in a possessive embrace akin to bondage. With all his strength, he pulled her down onto his shaft, the tip striking her cervix with a sharp mix of pain and electric pleasure. 

His thrusts were relentless, as though retaliating for her earlier inquiries. His insatiable erection showed no signs of waning, even as repeated orgasms sent shivers coursing through her body. Despite the goosebumps rising on her skin and the tension tightening at the base of her skull, their destructive coupling only intensified. Her cries of climax spilled forth unrestrained, raw and uninhibited. 

“Ah, mm...” 

Another tear traced its way down her already damp cheek. Her eyelids, heavy with tears, fluttered weakly. 

“Because I’ve tasted you, I think of nothing but fucking all day. My constant erections are driving me insane—it’s interfering with my daily life.” 

He buried his heated shaft deep within her, swirling it around her innermost depths. Watching her cry out in pain or arch her head back in ecstasy, he deliberately stirred her into more chaotic, unruly movements. 

Wave after wave of trembling overtook her, her mind melting entirely. 

Still rock-hard, his member scraped against her now-frayed vaginal walls, wearing them down further. The disparity between his size and hers mirrored the stark contrast between male and female anatomy. Most of the copious fluids soaking her thighs were the result of her repeated climaxes, while Fertan remained steadfastly rigid. 

Her limbs went limp, unable to cling to his neck any longer. Sliding down onto his broad chest slick with sweat, her wrists settled lightly atop his pectorals. The hand on her back pressed harder, crushing her ribs as their bodies melded together. 

Adjusting his rhythm, he slid in and out of her. Hard thrusts jostled her insides, while gentler strokes massaged her G-spot, releasing pent-up breaths in long exhales. 

As Eleanor gradually succumbed to the soothing aftermath of her intense orgasms, their joined bodies remained tightly interlocked, cradling and comforting each other’s sexes. 

Finally spent, Fertan laid her limp form atop him. Drifting between reality and dreams, she remained mindful of his injured back. Tilting slightly, she nestled her face against his shoulder, the firmness of his skin brushing her entire cheek. 

The gentle friction of his shaft still lodged inside her, softly massaging her vaginal walls, provided an incomparably satisfying afterglow. 

“Mmm...” 

An unconscious mewl escaped her throat, reminiscent of a contented cat. 

For a long while, Fertan tenderly held and soothed her, his touch imbued with affection. Leaning close to her ear, his whisper carried none of his usual mischief. 

“Eleanor, there’s something I’d like to propose.”

Eleanor could do little more than curl up limply in Fertan’s arms, her body too spent to respond further. 

“Once our plans come to fruition, I want to make you my empress. The choice is ultimately yours, but I sincerely hope you’ll consider it favorably.” 

A sudden storm churned within the calm, deep waters of her mind. 

There had been a time when she briefly entertained the thought, only to dismiss it soon after. Fertan’s habit of beating around the bush had convinced her he had no intention of forming a family. The fact that the decision rested entirely in her hands had been the final nail in the coffin of her suspicions. 

But her initial hunch had been correct all along. She was struck with a shock bordering on disbelief, her head snapping up abruptly. 

“Empress…?” 

Not only had he no intention of ending their relationship, but he had also been dreaming of a future far beyond what she had imagined. 

“In public, I’ll entrust you with managing the imperial household and put you to work for life. In private, I’ll serve you with utmost devotion.” 

When not facing her, Fertan’s expression had seemed earnest enough—but as soon as their eyes met, it morphed into the mischievous grin of a troublemaker. Eleanor could easily spot the difference now. It wasn’t that he was deliberately hiding his true self or trying to deceive her; in the beginning, there had been moments of subtle probing, but lately, being around her simply amused him to no end. 

His nose wrinkled slightly, creating faint creases, while the corners of his eyes curved seductively like those of a seasoned womanizer. His plump, seemingly innocent lips stole kisses from hers, soft and greedy. 

Rolling onto his side, he pulled her leg over his thigh. Nestling into position, his long, rigid shaft pressed firmly between her thighs. Despite Eleanor shuddering multiple times, his erection remained stubbornly unyielding, almost uncomfortably so. 

“I’ll always rise to attention whenever I’m near this lovely pussy of yours. We’ll try every naughty trick in the book, and I’ll dedicate myself completely to your pleasure.” 

Though he smiled smoothly, there was an edge to his words. The glint in his eyes, even amidst the charm, revealed his genuine intent to explore every possibility. 

“And you call that a proposal?” 

“I can’t exactly confess like a lovesick suitor, can I? If I did, you’d pull your foot out of my camp and run away immediately.” 

His words hit the mark, leaving her speechless. Just today, she had wavered multiple times about whether to reverse her decision, agonizing over how to interpret his advances. 

Eleanor herself was caught in a tug-of-war between instinct and reason, particularly given how much she appreciated his physical attributes. But Fertan had never hesitated. He had insisted on meeting her despite the risks and had already mapped out plans for the future. 

Even so, accepting his proposal outright felt impossible. 

The role of empress was something she could potentially accept. She had long considered the possibility of entering the palace. With the current empress failing in her duties, even becoming crown princess would entail significant responsibilities—responsibilities she had been meticulously trained for. 

But the intimate aspect of their relationship was different. If their heated encounters in bed had influenced his decision, Eleanor couldn’t help but hesitate. Fertan wore many masks, presenting different faces to different people, and she struggled to discern which parts of him were genuine. 

She found herself unable to judge whether she liked or disliked this man. Each encounter left her nerves tingling, sparking endless arguments in her mind. 

We barely exchanged a few words before being drawn together like magnets, our bodies entwining first. 

Our relationship was purely physical—nothing more. 

Upon returning home, Duke Edwin immediately questioned her about her whereabouts throughout the day, later summoning Liam for a thorough interrogation. 

Eleanor explained that she had spent the day shopping and sightseeing in town with her friend Chelsia. Having coordinated her alibi with Chelsia beforehand, there was no risk of exposure, but the growing scrutiny made venturing outside increasingly difficult. 

Her freedom to move about was dwindling. Unlike Fertan, who managed a flawless double life, Eleanor lacked the capacity to maintain such a delicate balance. It was safer to limit her movements. Being caught by Edwin would spell disaster. 

For the time being, she focused solely on wedding preparations, staying indoors. 

With outings becoming nearly impossible, she wrestled with how to proceed regarding the conversation she’d had with Fertan. Delaying the wedding required action—not passive waiting. Perhaps she needed to find an excuse to meet him again. 

While confined at home, her primary activity became purchasing rare and valuable items. She revisited Marcus, the merchant who had secretly sold her the late emperor’s signet ring, under the pretense of browsing new jewelry. They exchanged pleasantries about accessories, maintaining their facade of ignorance. Before parting ways, Eleanor discreetly slipped him a letter indicating her inability to leave the house freely moving forward. Though the envelope bore no recipient’s name, Marcus silently nodded, signaling he would deliver it to Fertan. 

One evening, Edwin stepped out on business, leaving Eleanor to dine alone with Adel, her sister-in-law and the Duchess of Edwin’s household. 

Adel was a quiet, unassuming woman who dutifully managed the household without drawing attention. Her son, already a teenager, was attending boarding school at the academy. 

“Eleanor, how are the wedding preparations coming along?” 

They leisurely enjoyed their meal, engaging in light, mundane conversation. 

“They’re progressing smoothly, thanks to the full support of the family.” 

Eleanor had heard that Edwin had instructed Adel to spare no expense in ensuring the marriage arrangements were flawless. 

“If there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to let me know.” 

“I will, thank you.” 

Their relationship had always been amicable, and Eleanor genuinely regarded Adel as a kind person. 

Eleanor ate sparingly—a single piece of steak and some salad. She was mindful of her figure, practicing restraint without needing reminders. 

Adel noticed the lone morsel of meat on Eleanor’s plate and gently urged her to eat more, though she didn’t hold back on her own food. When dessert arrived—pudding, one of Eleanor’s favorites—Adel polished off her entire serving with deliberate flair. 

Adel, known for her high tolerance, poured herself a third large glass of wine. Despite showing no signs of intoxication, her tone remained conversational. 

“Once you enter the palace, bearing an heir will be your most important duty. I happen to know how to brew medicinal teas that are excellent for fertility. Why don’t you give it a try?”

“Are you referring to medicinal tea? I had no idea you were knowledgeable about herbal remedies, Adel.” 

Eleanor’s question carried a hint of surprise. Over the decade they had lived under the same roof, Adel had never hinted at any expertise in pharmacology. 

Herbal medicine was a notoriously difficult field to master. It required specialized study in medical school, along with extensive research into various herbs. Folk remedies without scientific backing were often dismissed as quackery among the nobility and rarely consumed by them. 

Even casual knowledge was hard to come by—distinguishing just a handful of herbs out of the countless varieties was no small feat. 

“Yes, just a little…” 

Adel hesitated, as if she had misspoken. Perhaps her knowledge wasn’t as profound as Eleanor had implied. Eleanor decided not to dwell on it and shifted the topic casually. 

“Come to think of it, my late parents used to drink a special tea around the time you joined our household. Did you happen to recommend it to them?” 

Adel’s demeanor changed abruptly. Her grip on the stem of the wine glass tightened until her knuckles turned white, as though she might snap the fragile neck of the goblet. 

Ordinarily, such a subtle gesture would have gone unnoticed. But lately, Eleanor had been on edge—uneasy feelings from Edwin and strange undercurrents surrounding her made her hypersensitive to every detail. She caught the slight tension in Adel’s fingers. 

It seemed Adel had prepared her pitch about the medicinal tea in advance but was caught off guard by Eleanor’s unexpected response. 

“I… I don’t know much about that. It must have been a coincidence. From what I recall, that particular tea was simply for general health.” 

Was this answer defensive, or was Eleanor overanalyzing? She had merely mentioned her parents drinking herbal tea in the past, yet Adel’s reply felt like an attempt to justify herself. A growing sense of unease settled over Eleanor. 

“You seem quite knowledgeable about herbal remedies, Adel. You even remember what my parents drank. I’m sorry for not noticing sooner.” 

“Not at all.” 

“If you recommend a blend, I’ll gladly try it.” 

“In that case, I’ll place an order with a trusted herbalist. You’ve grown so thin lately—I’ll make sure to choose mild ingredients for the blend.” 

Adel quickly wrapped up the conversation and drained her wine glass. By the time she set it down and met Eleanor’s gaze again, she had returned to her usual composed self. 

When discussing fertility teas, her intentions seemed genuinely kind. 

The brief moment of suspicion appeared to have passed. 

Truthfully, Eleanor didn’t relish relying on such heightened intuition. Under normal circumstances, she would have concluded that Adel’s intentions were purely benevolent. 

But now that she herself harbored secrets, she had become more attuned to the possibility of others hiding things as well. 

“The study of herbal medicine is notoriously challenging. Where did you learn about it, Adel?” 

Adel’s discomfort was palpable. 

“It wasn’t formal training, exactly… just a little here and there. I know someone who helped me.” 

It wasn’t certain whether Adel was hiding something, but her evasiveness in that moment was unmistakable. 

Still, the herbal tea Adel intended to prepare for Eleanor would undoubtedly be of high quality. Ordered from a reputable apothecary, it would use only premium ingredients, free of impurities. Eleanor would receive detailed instructions on how to consume it safely. After all, as the future crown princess destined to elevate House Roland, Adel would ensure the blend was crafted with utmost care. 

If Edwin and Adel were indeed acting out of the ordinary, it was likely to secure Eleanor’s position as a steadfast member of the imperial family. 

One day, as her wedding gown neared completion, Eleanor’s friend Chelsia paid a visit. During the fitting, Chelsia observed the meticulous adjustments being made to the waist and bust, along with the intricate lace details. This was already the third round of fittings, and Eleanor was visibly exasperated. While a decently elegant dress would have sufficed, she was under immense pressure from both the duke and duchess and the imperial palace to achieve absolute perfection. 

Using the excuse of entertaining Chelsia, Eleanor sent the boutique’s madam away early, inwardly sighing with relief. 

Exhausted, she sat at the tea table. The tea she sipped without any accompanying snacks left her stomach feeling sour. 

Tea had always been a comfort to her. The medicinal blend Adel had prepared was carefully stored away; Eleanor had decided to consult Leonard’s preferences before using it after the wedding. 

Chelsia, noticing Eleanor’s fatigue, fretted over her throughout their meeting. 

“No matter how important the fit of your waist is, one cookie won’t ruin anything. Why don’t you eat something?” 

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” 

Despite her words, Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to touch the plate. As the wedding date approached, her figure had grown alarmingly thin. Denying herself food had been no easy task, but if she hadn’t slimmed down on her own, Edwin and Adel would have likely pressured her indirectly—or even intervened physically. 

Chelsia mimicked Eleanor’s weary sighs, lifting her teacup only to set it down again. 

“Good grief, you’ll starve yourself before the wedding.” 

“It’s not that bad. Just one more month to endure.” 

“Do you think life will get easier after the ceremony? If anything, it’ll only grow more demanding.” 

“Having you on my side makes me feel a little better.” 

Chelsia waved off the compliment, but her presence did alleviate some of Eleanor’s fatigue. 

Glancing toward the drawing room door, Chelsia noticed Liam passing by casually. Unaware that Liam was under Eleanor’s employ, Chelsia tensed slightly, fidgeting with the handbag beside her—a clear sign she had matters to discuss related to Fertan. 

“It’s alright. You can speak freely.”

Eleanor preemptively encouraged Chelsia to share what was on her mind. 

“Actually, this is something my father gave me…” 

Chelsia fumbled awkwardly as she pulled an item from her handbag. 

She hastily handed it over to Eleanor, her face flushing red—a clear sign of someone who couldn’t lie if her life depended on it. 

A steadfast pacifist by nature, Chelsia squirmed uncomfortably but didn’t press for details about the object. Eleanor, too, avoided explanation. She felt guilty for not confiding in her friend but didn’t want to drag her into a dangerous conflict unnecessarily. 

Chelsia’s father, Count Russell, was much like Eleanor—outwardly loyal to the emperor while secretly supporting Fertan. Unless something unusual occurred, messages passed through Chelsia were unlikely to raise suspicion. 

Leaning in conspiratorially, as noblewomen often did when sharing secrets, Chelsia whispered into Eleanor’s ear. 

“You mustn’t show this to anyone.” 

Her gesture of handing over the small object appeared relatively natural, though her flushed face betrayed her nervousness. For a brief moment, Eleanor clasped her friend’s hand and glanced at the items. 

There were two objects, each the size of a finger: a small glass vial and a tightly rolled note. 

This time, the delivery method was particularly discreet, suggesting the contents were both significant and sensitive. Aware of this, Eleanor remained vigilant, quickly tucking the items away despite having stationed Liam outside as a precaution. 

With no pockets or bag handy, she slipped them into the hollow of her cleavage. The loose fit of her dress, courtesy of her recent weight loss, made it an ideal hiding spot for small objects. 

Just then, Edwin’s presence could be felt approaching. After exchanging polite farewells with Chelsia, whom she had known for years, Eleanor briefly conversed with Liam in the hallway. Edwin’s apparent surveillance wasn’t mere paranoia; given the circumstances, his frequent appearances here likely carried intent. 

While Edwin’s shadow lingered nearby, the two women engaged in innocuous chatter typical of young noblewomen—complaints about wedding preparations and lighthearted grievances included. 

Soon enough, Edwin appeared with a kindly demeanor, ostensibly to check on his sister’s guest, before quietly excusing himself. Another precarious moment had passed without incident. 

Returning to the privacy of her own space, Eleanor examined what Fertan had sent. 

The transparent brown bottle contained what appeared to be a drug—just enough for a single swallow. Unrolling the tightly wound note proved tricky, but once carefully flattened, its densely written contents filled a palm-sized sheet. 

“I heard you’d find it hard to meet, but I secretly hoped otherwise. I thought maybe luck would have us cross paths at some gathering. 

But it seems you’ve truly been staying indoors. I miss you, Eleanor.” 

This man—writing love letters in such a serious situation? 

What kind of timing was this for hearts and flowers? 

Eleanor silently grumbled at Fertan’s audacity, though she failed to notice the corners of her lips twitching upward involuntarily. 

“The limited space forces me to keep this brief, which is regrettable. I wish I could explain everything in person, but sending just the medicine leaves me uneasy.” 

The sudden sweetness of the letter felt unfamiliar yet oddly endearing. 

At times, Fertan delighted in teasing her, provoking her anger for his amusement. Now, it seemed he was trying a different approach—wooing her with saccharine charm, like a sugary dessert. 

Had he been present, she would have launched into a heated debate, but alone, she could only mutter under her breath to vent her frustration. 

The scent of a wild, untamed stallion seemed to waft from the letter. His unpredictability made even these abrupt romantic lines feel strangely fitting for Fertan. Somehow, his expressions of longing and his desire to deliver the message personally aligned perfectly with his character. 

“The deadline for your weight control is just a month away, so we can’t delay any longer. We need to act quickly.” 

Weight control deadline? 

Ah, he meant the wedding day. 

Fertan likely used metaphorical language to avoid potential leaks, even though Chelsia was entrusted with delivering the items. 

“I’ve already hinted that I’ll stop your weight control regimen, so I assume you’ve mentally prepared somewhat. But putting this plan into action will require great resolve on your part. 

The accompanying substance induces symptoms similar to tuberculosis—but don’t worry, it’s not actual TB. There’s an antidote, and with proper rest, you’ll recover fully within months without needing detoxification. 

However, the man overseeing your weight control won’t easily accept a bride showing signs of illness. He’ll summon every skilled doctor to confirm the diagnosis. Even if they rule out disease, they’ll likely monitor you until you show improvement. You know how much he treasures his own health.” 

Of course, she knew. Leonard was the type to indulge in every supposedly healthful delicacy while neglecting physical conditioning. 

“I’ve also arranged the infection route. I bribed the maid responsible for your meals to ingest the same substance. The scenario: she falls severely ill with coughing fits over several weeks, eventually losing her position in the Roland household kitchen. If your brother struggles to trace the source of the illness, subtly dropping hints might help. 

With the weight control deadline looming, you don’t have much time to deliberate. Once those around you notice your condition, diagnose it, and discuss canceling the ceremony, time will be critical. It’s best to take the medicine within a day or two.” 

Most astonishing was how Fertan’s earlier boasts about canceling the wedding were now materializing into a concrete, meticulously planned operation with high chances of success. 

Eleanor imagined herself feigning illness. 

Already weak and on the verge of collapse, she felt confident she could convincingly play the part of a sickly patient. 

Her recent extreme dieting had left her frail, which would lend credibility to her act. The immense stress leading up to the wedding could also serve as a plausible factor for falling ill. Lying visibly emaciated in bed, her hollow cheeks exposed, even a mild flu might be mistaken for pneumonia. 

“The medicine is simple to consume. To maintain its effects, you’ll need to take it weekly, though increasing the frequency could harm your body. Including this one, I’ll send a total of four bottles. By then, I imagine there’ll no longer be a need for weight control.”

Eleanor had been constantly mindful of the risks involved and knew she needed to act with flexibility. “Your personal physician is already under my influence, but Edwin might bring in additional doctors. Though this drug isn’t something that will be detected immediately, caution is always wise.” 

Aside from the playful opening, the densely written note was mostly an explanation of the operation. 

She mentally reviewed the allies she could rely on: Chelsia, her personal physician, the manager of the Bluewing Hotel, the jeweler Marcus, and her loyal guard Liam. Quite a few people were already entangled in this affair. 

Even without Fertan’s detailed concerns, Eleanor fully understood the danger and difficulty of the mission. Her hand holding the thin sheet of paper grew clammy with tension. 

“I hope you’ll think carefully before proceeding. I’m not forcing you to do anything. 

Though you’ve chosen to stand by me, now is your chance to reconsider. 

Perhaps you wish to succeed in losing weight and become his wife. If so, I won’t stop you—though, honestly, I don’t want to let you go to him. But given how complicated this operation is, it might be better to let you walk away. No, wait—I’ll handle it well. Trust me and follow through. Hah… What am I even writing? My mind is troubled. 

As we prepare to launch the operation, I’m worried sick about you and feel uneasy. I’m anxious that something might go wrong. 

Let me emphasize again: this is not something you must do! 

Think carefully and make the choice that benefits you most—only you, Eleanor. In the face of uncertainty, the path you choose depends on your judgment. 

I’ll do everything in my power to prepare for unforeseen circumstances and protect you from unexpected variables. 

Yours truly, 

The Night Rogue, Fertan.” 

As soon as she finished reading, Eleanor accidentally let go of the edge of the paper. It rolled back up into its original scroll form, hiding the densely written text inside. 

She clenched the letter tightly in her fist. Her heart raced as if it had just sprinted, yet her mind remained eerily cold. She had already calculated the risks when choosing Fertan’s side, and she had no intention of reversing her decision now. 

She revisited her earlier calculations once more. 

A coup was inevitable in the near future. When it happened, who would emerge victorious? 

If she prepared for the current emperor’s triumph, she could simply become Leonard’s empress. Enduring his cruel nature and unbearable behavior, she could close her eyes, share his bed, and bear his heir. Like many highborn wives, she could find solace in the arms of a lover. 

But if she anticipated the coup’s success, she had to take the medicine and avoid the wedding. This was the first mission Fertan had assigned her. Once the coup succeeded, Eleanor could choose between becoming Fertan’s empress or pursuing another path entirely. 

The balance of power between the two factions remained uncertain. 

She had considered betraying Fertan and reporting him to the emperor, but without knowing the timing or method of the coup, and with the outline of the late emperor’s faction still unclear, such an action would be meaningless. 

Thus, she decided to choose the option with the greater reward. 

“But why is Fertan pushing forward with this operation?” 

She speculated that disrupting the crown prince’s wedding might be part of his plan. If the palace’s preparations for the grand occasion were suddenly derailed, chaos would ensue. Perhaps he intended to exploit that chaos. 

Still, she wasn’t sure. While canceling the wedding would result in significant financial losses, whether it would create enough of an opening for the coup remained uncertain. 

Eleanor’s potential gain was clear, but Fertan’s motives were harder to discern. Surely he wasn’t orchestrating such a massive upheaval solely for her sake? 

Perhaps there was another purpose. Fertan hadn’t explained why this operation was necessary. 

“For me, it’s a win-win situation. Fertan said his uprising would likely occur after the wedding date, so I can avoid becoming Leonard’s wife.” 

She drank the medicine at dawn the next day. Afterward, she crushed the empty vial and burned both it and the letter in the fireplace, ensuring they turned to ash. 

Eleanor waited silently under the covers for the new fate that would soon unfold. 

The elderly personal physician examined Eleanor for an extended period. 

Her outward symptoms suggested a severe cold. A concerning murmur was detected in her heart, and she complained of chest pain from violent coughing fits. Her fever was so high that she struggled to distinguish her surroundings, occasionally mumbling incoherently. 

“This is serious. The wedding is just around the corner.” 

Edwin, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief, muttered with concern. 

“Could it be exhaustion leading to a severe flu?” 

Adel, standing farther away, spoke through a cloth covering half her face, her voice muffled. 

While everyone had encouraged Eleanor during her extreme dieting, now they fretted over her health as if fearing a grave illness. Whether their concern stemmed from her skewed perspective or revealed their true priorities in this crisis was unclear. 

The couple’s reluctance to approach the bed suggested they took the physician’s diagnosis seriously. For now, it wasn’t a simple cold—they needed to monitor her condition further. 

For the first time in a while, a proper meal was brought to her bedside, but Eleanor couldn’t eat a bite. Her coughing fits were relentless, and her fever spiked. 

Her eyelids fluttered weakly as she muttered deliriously. 

“My throat… burning… so cold. Ugh…” 

Though her performance was partly for Edwin’s benefit, the accompanying symptoms were severe enough that no one suspected it was an act. 

“We must inform His Majesty of this situation. I’d prefer to monitor her progress slowly, but we’re running out of time…” 

Edwin sighed deeply, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

Though Edwin covered his face with a handkerchief, his irritated glances toward Eleanor were unmistakable. 

If they tried to conceal her condition and the situation worsened later, Edwin could face severe repercussions—especially since the illness appeared to be contagious. That would indeed become a major issue. 

Amidst her coughing fits, Eleanor stole glances at Edwin. Thankfully, he seemed resolved to report the matter to the palace without delay. 

After everyone had left, she secretly checked her reflection in a handheld mirror. Her appearance was ghastly. 

The flesh on her cheeks had sunken so much that her facial structure looked sharp and gaunt, while dark bluish shadows spread beneath her eyes. She resembled a patient on the verge of collapse. Though it had only been two days since she began taking the medicine and experiencing the coughing fits, her previous weight loss under immense pressure had amplified the effect. 

On the third day of her supposed bedridden state, an eerie calm settled over the household, like the calm before a storm. 

By the fourth day, the physician diagnosed her with pneumonia. He informed Edwin that those with weakened health were susceptible to such infections. As a result, only Evelyn—wearing a makeshift mask—and a few maids were allowed in Eleanor’s room. 

On the fifth day, Eleanor received a concerned letter from Leonard. The delicate handwriting and refined strokes made her click her tongue in disdain. So, the crown prince himself hadn’t penned the letter but instead delegated it to one of his mistresses. Given that there were no female attendants in the crown prince’s palace, this note was undoubtedly written by one of his lovers. 

Six days passed, and Eleanor expressed curiosity about the origin of her illness, urging Edwin to investigate. Thanks to the subtle hints Fertan had provided, the source of the pneumonia was quickly identified. 

A messenger was sent to the home of the kitchen maid who had fallen ill and left her position. It was reported that the maid’s condition was far worse than Eleanor’s—she was struggling even to breathe. 

Doctors visited daily. In addition to her personal physician, another renowned doctor specializing in respiratory ailments joined the consultations. Like the others, this new doctor diagnosed her with pneumonia and recommended ample rest and treatment. 

On the seventh day, only her longtime personal physician came. After dismissing everyone else, leaving just the two of them in the bedroom, he conducted his usual examination and expressed concern over her lack of improvement. 

Then, quietly, he pulled a small vial from his medical bag. 

It was the medicine Fertan had sent. 

Their eyes met briefly, and without a word, the meaning was clear. The moment Eleanor received the bottle, she swiftly tipped its contents into her mouth. 

As if nothing had happened, the empty vial returned to the doctor’s bag, and he awkwardly repeated his advice for her to remain absolutely still and rest. 

Eleanor’s prolonged inability to leave her bed caused chaos in the palace. With the wedding just three weeks away, discussions erupted about what to do. 

Shortly after realizing the severity of her symptoms, the emperor, along with the crown prince and other imperial relatives, convened to deliberate. As time passed and it became increasingly apparent that proceeding as planned would be impossible, the matter was formally placed on the agenda of the Imperial Council—a monumental event requiring the overturning of an already meticulously prepared wedding. 

At the council table, Leonard voiced his stance amidst the tense atmosphere. 

“Lady Eleanor is not inherently frail. I believe she will recover soon.” 

The emperor responded with a deeply troubled expression. 

“But we cannot proceed as scheduled.” 

“I wish to push forward regardless.” 

“And risk infecting the crown prince? What then?” 

“She can continue treatment at the Roland estate until fully recovered. We’ll hold a separate vow ceremony at the venue. First, we’ll bestow upon Lady Eleanor the title of crown princess, and once she recovers, she can enter the palace to assume her official duties.” 

“Hmm, not a bad idea.” 

Debate ensued among the ministers, weighing the pros and cons of following this procedure. After much deliberation, the emperor finally spoke. 

“Leonard, complications may arise if things don’t go as hoped. If Eleanor dies, you’ll merely have an empty marriage record.” 

“Widowhood isn’t necessarily harmful—” 

“A worse scenario is her lingering with tuberculosis for years. Some people survive in such a state for extended periods.” 

“That…” 

The emperor dismissed Leonard’s proposal, imagining the disaster of a barren patient remaining as crown princess indefinitely. 

“This is quite troubling. Even I admit there’s no finer candidate for crown princess than Eleanor, but…” 

“Then perhaps we should observe further. Cancelling the wedding entirely seems too extreme.” 

“Shall we wait a little longer?” 

“Your Majesty initially proposed a grand autumn wedding, did you not? Why not use this opportunity to showcase the dignity of our imperial house both within and beyond the empire?” 

In essence, Eleanor was like a potato placed over a fire—difficult to remove and consume, yet too precious to discard entirely. 

After hours of heated discussion, the emperor ultimately decided to postpone Leonard’s wedding to autumn. 

The door to the punishment chamber—a secret place within the crown prince’s palace—was locked tight. 

The thick walls usually muffled sounds, but today, not even a whisper could be heard. This was because the person bound to the rack had been gagged. Normally, Leonard enjoyed listening to the screams of those being punished, but today he exercised restraint, mindful of the unstable political climate. He didn’t want news of his eccentricities reaching the emperor’s ears. 

Under careful calculation, the act of tormenting someone brought him immense pleasure. The desperate pleas for mercy, the trembling sobs of terror—they electrified him. Each time he devised a method to inflict maximum pain, Leonard’s lips curled into a sinister grin. 

This particular session helped alleviate some of his dissatisfaction from the recent council meeting. 

“How dare they suggest I give up my woman? Such nonsense—what do you think of that?” 

He prodded the stomach of the person seated before him with a metal skewer, jabbing repeatedly. The gagged figure, teetering on the edge of consciousness, could do nothing but writhe silently. 

Leonard wasn’t expecting an answer—he was merely indulging in his own monologue.

“My lovely Eleanor needs to come into my hands soon so she can bring me pleasure.” 

The mere thought of tormenting her, with her proud demeanor, sent shivers of excitement through him. The longer he had desired Eleanor, the grander his ambitions grew. 

Privately, she would become an exquisite toy that he could play with endlessly without ever tiring of her. Publicly, she would serve as a capable minister to handle the empire’s affairs. 

Eleanor was the perfect empress-in-waiting. With her by his side, Leonard only needed to enjoy the highest seat of power. He could leave major decisions—like diplomacy or military matters, which occurred just a few times a year—to her while avoiding the daily grind of governance. 

“The foolish emperor doesn’t give a damn about state affairs, but I’m thinking about this nation’s future! That’s why they should hand Eleanor over to me.” 

When alone, he often referred to his father in such derogatory terms. 

While cursing his father’s habit of ruling without doing any work, Leonard secretly resolved to emulate him once he ascended the throne. 

Leonard wanted Eleanor desperately—for many reasons. In his mind, this desire even bordered on love. 

Convinced that keeping her close and cherishing her for a long time qualified as affection, he concluded, “If this isn’t love, then what is?” 

This mindset also justified his obsessive investigations into every detail of her life. He tracked her movements, attended gatherings she might be at, and made sure to bump into her frequently at parties. They danced together countless times, cementing their connection in public view. 

It all seemed natural enough when he assigned spies to tail her. Whenever there was suspicion of another man showing interest in her, Leonard became hyper-vigilant. But after months of receiving the same routine reports, he eventually called off the surveillance. 

Recently, however, he reinstated the tail, plagued by an unsettling feeling. 

This time, it felt like she really had taken up with someone else. 

“Eleanor… Could it be that you caught something from a cheating lover?” 

He jabbed the bound servant tied to the rack, asking questions aloud—but not expecting answers. The unconscious figure couldn’t respond; Leonard was speaking to himself. 

His gut twisted because of a belated report about Eleanor’s activities before her pneumonia symptoms surfaced. 

Just days earlier, Eleanor had claimed she was meeting her friend Chelsia and left home. Instead, she went alone to a hotel. Leonard’s informants followed her to the entrance and watched her quietly ascend to an upper-floor room. Though raiding the room to uncover whom she met would have been ideal, the informant feared exposure and retreated. Eleanor emerged from the hotel’s main entrance much later that evening. 

Unbeknownst to the spy, Eleanor had changed clothes inside the room and exited through a back door, accompanied by her loyal guard Liam—who remained oblivious to the tail. Meanwhile, the spy lost sight of her within the hotel. 

Upon hearing the report, Leonard flew into a rage, convinced he had uncovered evidence of infidelity. Even though she wasn’t yet his wife, he acted as if she already belonged to him, seething with possessive indignation. 

“So, you were fooling around in a hotel…” 

His voice twisted with venomous hatred. 

He vowed to uncover the identity of the man she met and tear him apart. 

As torturing random servants grew tiresome, Leonard left the punishment chamber. 

He craved new, more stimulating forms of entertainment. After some thought, he devised a plan that would both vent his frustrations and curry favor with the emperor. 

The emperor, who lived a largely idle life, was obsessed with one thing: eliminating Fertan, the eldest son of the late emperor. Fearful of public backlash if Fertan were executed openly, the emperor wished for him to disappear quietly. 

Fertan had miraculously survived numerous assassination attempts orchestrated by the emperor. 

Leonard himself had occasionally participated indirectly in these plots but hadn’t played a central role until now. Sending an assassin after Fertan, however, seemed like a surefire way to please the emperor. 

Leonard penned a secret letter. 

Its recipients were far more expensive—and skilled—than the emperor’s usual ragtag band of thugs or mercenaries. Through painstaking effort, Leonard had managed to establish contact with them. 

They were the elite assassins’ guild, renowned for handling only the most challenging targets. If anyone could end Fertan’s seemingly charmed life, it was them. 

The nickname “Night Rogue” wasn’t bestowed upon Fertan without reason. He had a remarkable knack for prowling the streets under cover of darkness. 

Streetwalkers specializing in luring men would often spot Fertan almost nightly. 

In the early evening, he strutted arrogantly between establishments, and by late night or dawn, he staggered drunkenly. Surrounded by so many women, no one could tell which ones were mistresses and which were fleeting companions for the night. 

True to his villainous reputation, he frequently caused trouble. Just recently, during a drunken brawl between two patrons arguing over spilled drinks, Fertan—completely uninvolved—jumped into the fray and started throwing punches. 

Unconcerned with maintaining noble decorum, he shredded whatever dignity remained of the royal family’s image. His attendants sweated profusely trying to clean up after him. Such incidents happened regularly, spreading tales of Fertan’s eccentric hedonism far and wide. 

Even on the day high-ranking nobles gathered in drawing rooms to gossip about the postponement of the crown prince’s wedding, the dissolute Duke Fertan remained immersed in the shadowy drinking culture. 

After renting out an entire tavern for a debauched party with his cronies, he stumbled out with a languid gait. The tavern door was locked behind him, leaving outsiders clueless about what transpired inside. However, anyone approaching Fertan immediately caught a whiff of alcohol strong enough to knock them over. 

Leaning on his guards for support, he suddenly shoved them away on a whim. Ignoring the waiting carriage, he wandered off along the riverside path instead. Panicked attendants called out urgently as they chased after him. 

“Your Highness, where are you going?” 

Everyone clicked their tongues, assuming he was simply drunk and making a scene.

Fertan muttered incomprehensible words under his breath as he staggered ahead. It was late at night, and the cloudy sky hid even the moon. Once they moved away from the entertainment district, the riverside plunged into darkness, untouched by the glow of shop lights. 

In the shadows, his eyes gleamed sharply. 

Though his movements appeared unsteady, there was an underlying balance to them. 

He had doused his clothes with alcohol to mask his scent—outwardly appearing completely intoxicated—but in reality, he hadn’t consumed a single drop. 

How could he afford the luxury of indulgence when operations surrounding Eleanor were finally bearing fruit? The postponement of the wedding meant Fertan was now busier than ever. 

Inside the shuttered tavern, he and his followers had convened to strategize their next moves. They debated potential unforeseen variables and how to respond if vulnerabilities were exploited—all part of an intense discussion. 

Fertan was always trailed by spies, but in the bustling nightlife of the commoners’ quarters, surveillance tended to slacken. Navigating through secret doors hidden in narrow alleys became easier here. There was no better place for him to meet with his clandestine operatives and issue directives. 

But as soon as he stepped out of the tavern, he detected swift, calculated movements directed at him. 

The presence felt different from ordinary gangs of thugs. 

A man dressed in black lurked around the corner of a building. 

Fertan deliberately turned toward the riverside to lure him out. 

Drunkards lounging atop wooden crates along the street watched his diminishing silhouette through booze-soaked eyes. To them, Fertan was merely a fortunate nobleman born into privilege, undeserving of envy or hatred—just ridicule. 

Fertan climbed onto the bridge, his tall, slender frame halting midway along its arched span. He swayed slightly, gazing down at the river below for a while. 

The bridge was deserted in the pitch-black night, devoid of passersby. No one would have reason to linger on such an unromantic wooden structure unless they were drunk and causing trouble like Fertan seemed to be doing. 

Moments later, another figure appeared on the bridge. 

The group of drunken spectators assumed this newcomer was also heading home after a night of revelry. The man ambled slowly before stopping abruptly near Fertan, who leaned against the middle of the bridge. Tension flared between them momentarily. 

The stranger tapped Fertan’s shoulder, prompting him to tense and lean awkwardly toward the assailant. His body curled defensively, almost folding in on itself. 

From afar, the scene looked flat and indistinct. It was unclear how their bodies interacted or why the newcomer paused in front of Fertan. 

At first glance, it appeared they had collided. An uneasy wobble caught the eye. 

The two elongated figures tilted suddenly toward the water. In an instant, they vaulted over the railing and plummeted downward. 

“Whoa, whoa! The duke is falling into the water!” 

One of the drunken onlookers shouted in alarm. 

Splash, swoosh—the sound of water rippling echoed even from a distance. 

“What? Did that guy just sucker-punch him? I saw him hit him.” 

“Huh? I thought I saw a knife…” 

“It was probably an accidental collision. What knife?” 

“But if that guy held a grudge and stabbed him, we wouldn’t know, would we? With all the women the duke’s been messing around with, it’s bound to catch up eventually.” 

To the intoxicated crowd, the fall of two strangers over the bridge was mere gossip fodder. Whether the duke lived or died mattered little—it was entertainment for them. 

Fertan’s attendant arrived panting on the bridge moments later, too late to intervene. 

Leaning over the railing, the attendant frantically peered down, stomping his feet in panic. While the drunks remained idle observers, the attendants and guards descended into chaos. 

“Hurry, hurry! Find the duke!” 

At the attendant’s urgent cry, the guards hastily shed their uniforms and shoes. 

“Yes! Everyone move quickly!” 

Several splashed into the river, creating a commotion. Amidst the roaring current glinting faintly under the dim light, cries rang out chaotically. 

“Your Highness! Duke Fertan!” 

Realizing shouting from the bridge was futile, the attendant rushed off to fetch help. 

“Wow… What a mess.” 

“The river’s pretty deep here.” 

“Isn’t this where people often drown themselves? Most times, the bodies aren’t even recovered.” 

Both Fertan and the guards who followed him into the water seemed to be in grave danger. 

Though not wide, the river’s current was fierce enough to sweep anyone away, making the crossing perilous. Nearby shallows churned with whirlpools. 

By the time the drunks finished another bottle, a larger group arrived with the attendant, searching frantically for Fertans. Their shouts grew louder, but progress seemed nonexistent. 

As dawn broke, search dogs were deployed, and divers arrived once daylight came. 

The drunken spectators, basking in the cool riverside breeze overnight, were rudely awakened by servants of House Ablein and hauled off to the palace interrogation room. Under grim circumstances, they recounted what they’d witnessed. Though uncertain whether the attack on Fertan was premeditated or accidental, opinions varied wildly. 

Three days passed, and the search concluded without success. Fertan, known as the “Night Rogue,” was presumed dead, his body never recovered. The case was officially closed.

Despite the rigid protocols of the imperial household, it took considerable time for Fertan’s assets to be officially transferred to the crown. 

In the meantime, the Ablein estate stood eerily quiet. Furniture in each room was draped with white sheets, as though the mansion had been abandoned. Only a skeleton crew remained to maintain the property, while most retainers dispersed and employees were dismissed. 

The incident was so sensational that news eventually reached Eleanor, confined to her bed. Evelyn, her maid, relayed the gossip with great agitation. 

“A tremendous event has occurred recently! You know Duke Fertan of House Ablein? He fell into the river and has gone missing!” 

Eleanor’s heart sank like a stone. 

“Missing?” 

“It’s already been three days,” Evelyn continued. “They’ve concluded he’s dead and stopped searching.” 

Though Eleanor was horrified, she couldn’t betray her emotions. She hid her pale face under the covers and stammered for more details. 

“R-really? How did that happen?” 

Unaware of Eleanor’s despair, Evelyn eagerly recounted everything she’d heard. 

The circumstances strongly suggested an assassination. It was clear Fertan had been subjected to a lethal attack. 

Had he really been stabbed and drowned? Eleanor’s mind refused to settle. 

But recalling how she had personally witnessed him survive a previous carriage ambush, she found it hard to accept his death outright, no matter how convincing the evidence seemed. She suspected Fertan wasn’t the type to die so easily. Deep down, she also wanted to believe he was still alive. 

A few days later, her physician delivered another vial of medicine. 

Seeing the familiar bottle instantly eased her fears. If something dire had happened to Fertan, her doctor wouldn’t have continued delivering the medicine so reliably. 

With renewed resolve, Eleanor steadied herself, determined to play her part faithfully despite the uncertainty. 

As a month passed without improvement in her condition, Edwin fretted over what to do with his sister. He considered sending her to a quieter location outside the bustling capital where the environment might aid her recovery. 

Among the Roland family estates, the closest one was a day’s journey by carriage. Since Eleanor didn’t object, arrangements were made for her to convalesce at a place called Rubellon Hills. 

Before leaving the mansion, she received a visit from a servant of Princess Lucena. Along with a letter wishing her a swift recovery, she was given an embroidery frame they had shared during their needlework sessions—though Eleanor hadn’t added a single stitch. The design depicted paired black-and-white birds spreading their wings in flight. 

“Ah… The message is unmistakable.” 

Additionally, a forgotten amethyst hairpin was included—”forgotten,” but clearly intentional. It was the same pin Fertan had once snatched away like a thief. 

“Did they send this to ensure I understood the embroidery?” 

Eleanor suppressed a private smile, feeling a profound sense of relief. 

There was still plenty of time until autumn. Fertan would feign death while plotting his next move, and she would continue pretending to languish, deceiving those around her. As she boarded the carriage departing for her retreat, she even took care not to appear too healthy, lest it raise suspicion. 

At her request, only Evelyn and Liam accompanied her—a sign she wished for a quiet recuperation. 

The carriage rattled peacefully along country roads, passing fields of wheat just beginning to sprout. The gentle clatter of wheels lulled her thoughts. Perhaps, when she returned to the palace in autumn, Fertan might already be crowned emperor. 

“So, he’s dead, is he?” 

Emperor Maximilian couldn’t contain his delight, grinning widely and baring his teeth. Leonard, mirroring his father’s satisfaction, offered a report seeking praise. 

“I employed the finest assassins. He likely died instantly upon being stabbed.” 

“It feels like pulling out a rotten tooth. Our crown prince knows how to weigh matters appropriately—he is truly the pillar of this nation.” 

Father and son exchanged similar smirks, though their thoughts differed. The emperor rejoiced in Fertan’s demise, while Leonard believed his father could now focus solely on maintaining the throne, leaving everything else to him. Beneath Emperor Maximilian’s reign of mere domination, all power would soon fall into the crown prince’s hands. 

“I am deeply honored.” 

Leonard bowed instinctively. 

Maximilian, the late emperor’s younger brother, had long harbored a fundamental flaw: the accusation that he had usurped the throne meant for Fertan. Gossipmongers never ceased whispering about it, and puppet shows mocking the situation thrived among commoners. Many sympathized with Fertan’s dissolute lifestyle, believing it stemmed from his tragic circumstances. 

At the time of the late emperor’s death, Fertan had been young—but by rights, he should have ascended the throne, with Maximilian serving merely as regent. Seizing the throne under the pretext of the young heir’s age defied logic. 

To silence dissent, Maximilian resorted to bribery. He encouraged lavish social gatherings and hosted endless banquets at the palace. Opera performances were held every month or two. While commoners freely gossiped, the nobility—who held decision-making power in the empire—complied with the emperor’s subtle bribes. 

Now that Fertan was presumed dead, Maximilian no longer needed to obsessively placate the aristocracy.