Chapter 1: The Empire’s Price

It was a dark room.

Velvet curtains that stretched from the high ceiling all the way down to the floor shut out not only the cold air from outside, but even the faint winter sunlight.

Each time a fierce wind rattled the window, the frame creaked as though screaming.

Along with it, the frail body of the old man trembled, coughing weakly.

Watching the pitiful body wracked by illness shake like a quivering aspen, the royal physician shook his head with a grim expression.

At the place where a body once as mighty as a mountain had withered away, surrounding the emperor, who lay unable to rise like water pooled in a hollow, were only an aged chamberlain, a group of court physicians, and Owen, the sole legitimate heir of the imperial bloodline.

As his illness dragged on, the old man grew increasingly suspicious and fearful; he would neither eat nor drink, speak nor listen, unless it was through his grandson’s hands, ears, and mouth.

After coldly driving away the concubines who had flocked in tears, and exiling even the vassals who brought him rare medicines, no one dared approach the emperor recklessly.

Rumors spread far and wide that the emperor’s life would soon come to an end.

The nobles, bored to death from enduring the long winter nights without banquets, competed to summon renowned tailors to their estates, preparing ceremonial attire for the new emperor’s coronation.

Chests filled with gold and silver thread were loaded onto mules, constantly passing in and out of workshops.

Merchants who had ordered vast amounts of canvas to replicate the portrait of the incoming emperor also kept their ears turned toward the palace.

In the market ovens, sugar confections to be scattered into the air at the proclamation of a new era were baking, glistening brightly.

“…”

The old man’s lips moved faintly.

Moistening his cracked lips with a cloth dipped in water, Owen lowered his head to catch what might become his grandfather’s final words.

The name leaking from the aged emperor’s lips belonged to Owen’s father, who had passed away several years prior.

Perhaps because the old man’s reign had been so long, Owen’s father had lived his entire life, from birth to death, as crown prince, never once ascending the throne.

His first fall in life had been his own suicide.

From the moment his body was discovered at the bottom of a cliff, Owen became the empire’s sole heir.

Since when had they been such a devoted father and son?

Owen knew well that the emperor, with his despotic nature, had never shared even a crumb of the power he held, leaving his own son to drift aimlessly.

The old man’s gaze was fixed on a single spot.

A wall where no one stood; the only things filling the space were drifting dust and the occasional sparks from the fireplace that leapt up before settling back down.

His aged, wrinkled fingers rose into the air, tracing the outline of someone long dead.

Had he come to welcome him?

Had the dead returned as a ghost to guide him to the entrance of the distant afterlife?

Impossible.

He was never a man capable of even a shred of affection or familial love.

Since he had taken his own life to follow his beloved concubine, he would surely remain by her side even now, never leaving.

What reflected in the old emperor’s clouded eyes was nothing more than an illusion, merely a self-serving vision.

Candlelight flickered in the tear-filled eyes of the old man.

As Owen turned to wipe away the tears streaming down like pus, the old man suddenly seized his wrist.

A harsh, rasping breath and incomprehensible syllables burst out toward Owen like a seizure.

“Your Majesty!”

The royal physician rushed forward and thrust a sharp tube into the old man’s thin wrist.

Dark red blood flowed down the tube, quickly pooling at the bottom of a brass bowl.

“The toxins in his body will be removed along with the bad blood.”

The physician, who had once shown confidence at the onset of the illness, had grown gaunt as though afflicted himself as the emperor’s condition worsened.

After spilling a full bowl of blood, the old man twisted violently, convulsing.

The whites of his bloodshot eyes rolled upward toward the ceiling.

Hunting dogs, sensing their master’s impending death, howled and scratched at the door.

From beyond it came the anxious footsteps of relatives pacing the corridor, denied entry.

The old man’s head slowly sank, like a ship going under.

As the convulsions subsided, his strength faded, and his hand, withered like a parasitic plant, remained wrapped around Owen’s wrist.

Confirming that the faint breath still continued, the physician let out a sigh of relief.

With an indifferent expression, Owen pried the old man’s grip off his wrist.

The grasp had been so tight that a bluish bruise had already formed in that brief time.

It was the same hand said to have once struck down a beloved horse in its youth with a single blow for faltering in fear on rough terrain.

Thick veins, like exposed tree roots, coiled around the bony joints.

From the old man’s fingers, now fallen limply onto the bed, gleamed the blue gemstone symbolizing imperial authority.

The ring, loose from his emaciated fingers, often slipped down; yet he would carefully push it back onto his thumb as though it were his lifeline.

‘…’

The incomprehensible voice of his grandfather lingered in Owen’s ears.

The previous night, when the old man had briefly regained clarity, he dismissed everyone except Owen and pointed with a trembling finger to a secret vault known only to him.

Hidden within a narrow space barely large enough for a grown man’s clenched fist was a small glass vial sealed with wax over a cork stopper.

When Owen brought the vial to the bedside, the old man spoke to him in an unusually weak and gentle voice.

With a pleading, coaxing expression, struggling to focus his dim gaze, the old man revealed his story, and a faint smile settled upon Owen’s face.

‘He’s lost his mind.’

Even the absolute monarch who once ruled the world seemed to lose his judgment in the face of death.

He was a man who would not so much as blink even as his children and grandchildren were put forward.

Owen remembered the night he had gone to him in tears as a child, and the stern voice that rebuked him, telling him to be ashamed for being deceived by absurd legends.

And yet now, that same man was begging Owen for his life.

The voice that promised eternal wealth and honor reeked of sickly sweet false hope.

Owen stared coldly at the glass vial placed in his hand.

****

Though the illness had lingered long, death came in an instant.

After confirming that the old man’s pupils no longer responded, the royal physician collapsed to his knees beside the bed, wailing.

The court physician, who would inherit his position, hurriedly retreated to announce the emperor’s passing.

The chamberlain’s cry proclaiming the birth of a new emperor echoed throughout the room.

Servants rushed in noisily, pulling back the heavy curtains and throwing open the windows.

Dust carried by the cold wind danced in the light before settling over the emperor’s corpse.

The sound of excited nobles rushing up the palace steps could be heard.

Judging by the commotion, it seemed that the paperwork delayed due to his grandfather’s worsening condition would not resume for some time.

Owen frowned at the thought.

He has passed peacefully.

Those words struck Olga like a bolt from the blue.

Last autumn, she had been thrown into the emperor’s bedchamber by her father to invigorate the ailing ruler.

Without even a formal title, let alone any guarantee for her future, the emperor’s condition had suddenly deteriorated.

Too shocked to even cry, she stood frozen as the doors of the audience chamber swung open before her eyes.

Nobles who had been waiting below flooded in, pushing past her in their haste.

Amidst the cries of “Long live His Majesty!” filling the air, she alone was left behind in the corridor.

Every night, as she went to warm the frozen body of the old man, she would encounter Owen on his way out after paying his respects.

How many times had she wished she were at least assigned as a maid to the crown prince’s chambers rather than being the concubine of a half-paralyzed old emperor?

Fireworks burst from all directions, cheers echoed endlessly, and the blaring of trumpets was deafening.

Left where she had been shoved, she sat on the red carpet.

Where should she go?

How should she live?

Unlike the concubines hurriedly gathering valuables to return to their homelands, she was nothing more than a forgotten young mistress.

She would return home empty-handed, becoming an unwelcome burden.

Then, she would likely be sold for a pittance, either as the wife of a widower with many children, or as the concubine of another old man, not much different from her current life, ending her days that way.

How much time had passed?

A familiar set of footsteps reached her ears.

A sound that always faded away.

Though he never once turned back, she would always turn to watch until Owen’s figure disappeared.

O noble one, O beautiful one.

The young man, now emperor, passed by her without a single glance.

There was no place for her in the glory of the new era.

There never would be.

****

News of the emperor’s death was swiftly delivered to each duchy.

Because it was located farthest from the empire, in the southern region, Grand Duke Joachim of Alphennia only received the imperial decree announcing the new emperor’s ascension a full month after the former emperor’s funeral had ended.

The document, written in elegant imperial script, listed in detail the tributes required, from gold, silver, fabrics, and spices to even human offerings such as painters and musicians.

One particular item cast a deep shadow over the grand duke’s face.

According to the treaty between the empire and the duchies, each ruling house was required to select an unmarried blood relative and offer them as a concubine to the emperor.

Among the concubines sent from the duchies over the years, the one most favored by the emperor would rise to the position of empress, bringing wealth and power to her homeland.

They became both hostages and spies, engaging in unseen battles within the palace.

A noble lady from Alphennia, sent during the previous emperor’s reign, had failed to endure the empire’s harsh climate and died sorrowfully of homesickness.

At present, there was only one unmarried noble daughter in Joachim’s line, his daughter Mattia, who had just turned six.

Fierce debates broke out between the pro-empire faction, who insisted she be sent as a concubine, and the younger officials who argued for the duchy’s independence.

After three days and nights of unceasing deliberation, a suitable candidate to be sent as the emperor’s concubine was decided.

It was Fria, Joachim’s youngest brother, a male noble who had yet to marry even at the age of twenty-four, much to the grand duke’s dismay.

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