Dear Eddert - Chapter 1

Imperial Year 175, Winter
Cernoti Estate

“She’s completely gone.”

Pope Benedict murmured quietly as he stood before the woman’s lifeless body. Her corpse lay still, shrouded in pristine linen, peaceful enough to give the illusion of restful sleep.

“Bring her back to life.”

A hand clenched the gold-embroidered collar of Benedict’s robe. The man gripping it spoke with a voice choked by suppressed anguish, his dark eyes swirling with a storm of desperation.

“……”

Benedict silently studied the man, trying to recall the last time someone had dared to lay hands on him. The memory eluded him.

For anyone outside the imperial family to touch the pope was punishable by death. In most cases, offenders wouldn’t even survive long enough to face judgment. The number of people who could stand face-to-face with Benedict was a mere handful.

“It’s your duty to heal the imperial bloodline, isn’t it?”

The large fist clutching Benedict’s robe trembled, veins bulging. The man’s gaze brimmed with despair—the raw, unrestrained anguish of someone who had lost everything.

Perhaps he should have done better before he lost it all.

Benedict felt an insidious urge to snuff out the faint glimmer of hope lingering in the man’s eyes.

“You came here for this, didn’t you?” the man rasped. “To save her. Eden is of the imperial family. So… so save her!”

The scene was pitiful, like watching a madman clutching a completely extinguished ember to his chest.

Benedict finally broke his silence, his lips parting slowly.

“My healing powers have limits. I can heal those on the brink of death, but reviving someone who has already passed? That would make me a god.”

Shhhnk.

The sound of a blade being drawn sliced through the air, and in the next instant, a sharp sword was at Benedict’s throat.

At the same time, a small lock of his silver hair, which fell below his shoulders, was severed cleanly and drifted silently to the floor.

Fast.

Even Benedict, with senses far beyond those of ordinary people, had not detected the movement in time.

“If you’re no god, then you can die at the hands of a mere man,” Walter hissed, watching strands of silver hair flutter to the ground like threads of spun silk.

“Bring her back. No matter what it takes. Or you’ll leave this place dead.”

Benedict chuckled softly.

“Do you truly believe you can kill me?”

Before he was pope, Benedict had been a grand mage, and his most formidable skill was his mastery of healing magic. Even if Walter struck him with a fatal blow, Benedict could channel his divine energy to heal himself. For Benedict, death was not a concern.

The Benedict family, once a small clan of mages in a remote village, had been placed under imperial supervision for generations. The empire’s rulers sought to monopolize their magical abilities, keeping the family in a gilded cage.

“Whether it’s possible or not, you’ll find out for yourself,” Walter growled, pressing the blade against Benedict’s throat, his breaths heavy with frustration.

“That’s not such a bad idea,” Benedict replied with a faint smile, stepping forward so that the edge of the sword cut into his neck.

A thin stream of crimson trickled down the blade. Walter’s expression twisted as he watched, but before the blood could even drip to the floor, the wound disappeared completely, leaving no scar.

Walter’s faint glimmer of hope reignited.

He sheathed his sword in one swift motion and faced Benedict squarely.

“Bring her back. Do whatever it takes. I’ll do anything—just save her,” Walter pleaded, his voice trembling with desperation.

Benedict’s response was chillingly emotionless.

“I told you already. It’s impossible to heal someone who has already died.”

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t impossible—more like nearly impossible—but Benedict refrained from explaining further. He wanted to test something first.

Walter’s face, now filled with disbelief, contorted as he bit his lip.

“Then why the hell are you even here?” he demanded.

“I wanted to confirm the princess’s death with my own eyes,” Benedict replied coolly. “It’s also the duty of the papacy under the empire.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Benedict saw the flicker of black despair that spread across Walter’s face. His legs buckled, and he stumbled to the bed where the lifeless body of Eden lay.

“…Eden.”

He barely managed to whisper her name, his voice trembling. His large hands gripped the bed frame tightly, veins bulging as though they might burst. He couldn’t bring himself to touch her—not her cold skin, not the still form wrapped in linen.

Walter’s almond-shaped eyes, their dark brown depths brimming with moisture, finally overflowed. Tears began to fall, drop after drop, like a steady rain. They landed on his gaunt cheeks, dampening them silently as he stood motionless.

Benedict observed him impassively, recalling the last time he himself had cried. The memory surfaced easily, though it darkened his mood further.

“There’s something we must address before I leave,” Benedict said after a pause. His pale lips moved slowly, each word deliberate.

“With the death of the previous head of the Cernoti family, Lord Valtry, it is now your duty as his sole heir to assume the title. Walter Cernoti.”

Walter turned toward Benedict, his tear-streaked face devoid of life. His eyes, once filled with fiery resolve, were now hollow, reflecting the emptiness within him.

When Benedict had arrived, Walter had felt like a man grasping the hand of an angel amidst hellfire. He had truly believed Benedict could bring Eden back. But now, everything was over.

“Walter Cernoti, heir of the legendary house of shadows, protectors of the light,” Benedict continued, his tone sharper, colder. “As the pope of the empire, I ask: do you still deserve to be called the shadow of light?”

Underneath the linen, Eden’s body remained wrapped in bandages, but Benedict could see every one of her fatal wounds.

Two punctures in her left chest. A deep horizontal slash from her shoulder to her abdomen. And the precise, cruel stab to her neck that had sealed her fate.

Each wound told the story of her violent, agonizing end.

“The master you swore to protect with your blood lies in this state, yet the so-called shadow remains alive?”

Benedict’s pale blue eyes shimmered with an icy light, expanding as he unleashed the slightest trace of his magic. His gaze alone carried a chilling pressure that froze the air around him.

The pope was no mere healer; his mastery over magic extended far beyond that. The aura he emitted now was enough to immobilize anyone without extraordinary resistance.

“…You’re right,” Walter murmured, his voice raw with guilt. “I should have died with her.”

Walter drew his sword once more, his voice low and steady. The woman lay there, serene, her eyes closed as if merely sleeping. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though she might open her eyes, call his name, and laugh as she used to—mocking him for being scared, for being a fool.

“I waited for you as my last hope. But if there truly is no chance…” His voice faltered, “then, as you say, my existence means nothing anymore.”

Without light, shadows cannot exist.

Walter raised his blade high, the motion steady and deliberate. Benedict, watching the scene unfold, spoke again, his voice sharp and unyielding.

“I do not heal those who are not of royal blood. If you think to attempt suicide in hopes of appealing to my mercy, you are gravely mistaken.”

“…Ha.”

Walter let out a faint, hollow laugh, his eyes dull and unfocused.

When he had carried Eden’s bleeding body up the treacherous mountain path to the old mage, he had already been on the brink of madness. The aged magician had paled at the sight of the imperial jewel—the butchered remains of Eden.

“We must summon the grand mage… No, Pope Benedict may already know,” the old man had stammered.

He had been right. Benedict had already left the papal resEdence in secret. But the wait had been unbearable for Walter, his heart burning to cinders with every passing moment.

“I never wanted to be part of the imperial family,” Walter muttered, his voice trembling as he gazed at Eden’s lifeless body. “But for the first time, I’m grateful for it.”

With those final words, Walter spun his sword in a tight arc, the blade glinting in the dim light.

I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Eden.

The blade moved swiftly, a gleam of phantom blue trailing behind it.

I can’t bring myself to stab your heart—it belongs to you alone. When we meet again in death, you can strike mine yourself.

Benedict stood motionless, watching as Walter’s blade cleaved his own neck with flawless precision.

It was a fitting end for the head of the Cernoti family.

Walter showed neither hesitation nor fear. His expression was calm, his eyes wide open, as if he had anticipated this moment all along. He left no chance for survival, no path to escape.

Thunk.

Blood spurted from the cleanly severed neck like a crimson fountain. Walter’s head, perfectly balanced on his shoulders even after the cut, eventually tumbled to the ground. His face, even in death, bore a faint smile—a look of contentment and peace that he had never shown in life.

“…To possess such an unyielding shadow, how could you let it come to this?” Benedict murmured, breaking the heavy silence at last.

He strode calmly across the bloodstained floor, his footsteps echoing faintly. Reaching the bed, he unceremoniously pushed Walter’s body and severed head to the ground.

As Benedict turned his gaze to the woman lying motionless on the bed, his usually composed brow furrowed slightly.

“…Are you stirring?” he muttered, almost to himself.

Though her life had ended long ago, a faint glimmer of her soul seemed to flicker within her body.

It had taken Benedict three days to reach the Cernoti estate after confirming the imperial guards’ reports. Avoiding the watchful eyes of the imperial palace, he had shrouded the papal resEdence in layers of magic to mask his departure.

For an ordinary human, the soul would have long since vanished. But as Benedict gazed at her form, he noted the faint pulse of life remaining—a testament to her royal blood.

Lowering his gaze, Benedict touched the small jewel hanging around his neck. The fractured gemstone pulsed weakly, its light flickering like a dying ember.

His decision made, Benedict exhaled slowly. This was why he had come here.

Lifting his hand, a radiant blue light erupted from his fingertips.

Walter’s severed head moved as if guided by an invisible force, reattaching to his body with precision. The knight’s heart, moments away from stopping completely, resumed a sluggish, irregular rhythm. Though Walter’s body had extraordinary resilience, it would take several hours before he regained full consciousness.

Now, it was time to revive her.

Benedict’s pale lips twitched in an uncharacteristic moment of tension.

If you knew what I was about to do, you would rage. But there’s no other choice.

The fabric of his robes moved of its own accord, falling silently to the ground. His unblemished skin, glowing white with a faint blue hue, shimmered in the dim light as he approached her lifeless form.

A brilliant flash of light filled the room.

Walter awoke far sooner than Benedict had anticipated.

The shock of finding himself alive paled in comparison to what his unfocused eyes now beheld.

The bloodied bed was surrounded by discarded linen and bandages. Amid the darkened room, Benedict’s radiant figure shone like a beacon.

The pope stood naked, holding Eden’s body in his arms. His silver hair, cascading down like a veil of light, glimmered as if countless fireflies had landed upon it.

Walter’s dry lips parted in disbelief.

Benedict, sensing Walter’s gaze, narrowed his pale blue eyes, his expression unreadable.

Walter wanted to scream. What are you doing? What the hell are you doing to Eden?

But the only sound that escaped his lips was a stifled groan.

“…Hngh…!”

He struggled to rise, limbs trembling with exertion, but it was futile. His body, barely holding itself together after being healed, refused to obey.

Benedict, his breath slow and deliberate, caressed Eden’s cold body. Wherever his hands touched, a faint blue light shimmered. Yet Eden, lying naked beneath him, remained utterly still, her body unresponsive.

“Her soul is reacting violently,” Benedict murmured, a faint, almost mocking smile curving his lips. “She’s mistaking me for you. How pitiful.”

“Ugh… ah… nghhh!”

Walter’s body writhed in agony as he attempted to crawl closer, his hands trembling against the bloodstained floor. Benedict’s lips twitched upward in amusement; his earlier comment had been a lie.

In truth, Eden’s soul was rejecting the healing—resisting with a ferocity that slowed his progress. Her very essence recoiled at his touch, a deeply ingrained instinct he now understood.

So this was why she had to die, despite being protected by such a loyal “shadow.”

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

Benedict’s voice was soft as he leaned down to whisper into Eden’s ear. His lips brushed the wound on her neck, lingering there before trailing slowly downward. His hand, pale as marble, caressed the jagged scars on her chest as he laughed lowly.

“How foolish, to be born into the imperial family and dare to desire something as frivolous as love.”

“Ahhh…!”

Walter’s fingers clawed at the floor as he dragged himself forward. His hands trembled violently, but he kept moving, inch by inch. His resilience was astonishing—anyone else in his condition would have been unconscious for hours, unable to so much as twitch a finger.

But Walter was different. The same force that had kept his soul tethered to his body after death now gave him strength beyond reason.

“Does it hurt?” Benedict asked, his tone laced with mockery. “What is it that pains you so?”

His lips brushed the scars littering Eden’s body, his touch both clinical and intimate. Her wounds, though faded, bore the story of a life full of suffering.

“I’m doing exactly what you so desperately wanted—healing her. And yet you can’t bear to watch. Is your love so shallow?”

Benedict lifted his head, his silver hair falling like a curtain around his face. His pale blue eyes glinted coldly as he locked gazes with Walter, who had stopped just short of reaching him. Walter’s face was twisted in rage and anguish, his teeth clenched so tightly that it seemed they might shatter.

“Remember,” Benedict said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Remember what happened the moment she tried to defy her fate.”

Walter didn’t need the reminder. He would never forget holding Eden as she took her final breath, her blood staining his hands. The memory was a brand, seared permanently into his soul.

“She was meant to become Empress of this empire,” Benedict continued. “Not die a pitiful death in a place like this.”

Walter’s breathing grew ragged as tears welled in his eyes. He had sworn he would do anything to bring her back, even if it meant enduring this unbearable torment.

Benedict’s lips moved lower, his cold hands skimming over Eden’s lifeless form as he worked. He no longer spoke aloud, fully immersed in the healing process. Gradually, the frigid stiffness of her body began to give way to warmth.

‘I can heal her body, but restoring her soul is beyond my abilities.’

Though Benedict did not speak the words, they resonated clearly in Walter’s mind. The pope’s lips moved over her wounds, leaving faint traces of light in their wake as her scars began to fade.

Walter watched helplessly, his heart breaking with every moment. This was what he had wished for, and yet the sight of Eden in another man’s arms tore at him as though he were being shredded from the inside out.

‘Her injuries require frequent physical contact for healing. Unfortunately, I cannot remain here long.’

Benedict’s methods were thorough and unrelenting. He was determined to restore her as much as possible before he had to leave, even if it meant pushing his own limits.

For a moment, he paused, his gaze falling on Eden’s face. Her eyes remained closed, her expression serene.

Thankfully, she didn’t remind him of someone from his past. If she had, he might have hesitated.

Walter’s vision blurred as he fought to reconcile the scene before him: Eden’s body glowing faintly as Benedict’s pale form moved with an unnatural grace. The pope’s ethereal presence, illuminated by a soft blue light, made him seem almost otherworldly.

For Walter, the agony was unbearable. He could only watch as the woman he loved was drawn further and further out of his reach.

Benedict’s hand grasped her leg, slowly spreading it apart. As he gradually lifted his radiant upper body, the silver-white hair that had draped over Eden’s body receded, revealing her now unblemished, healed naked form where the wounds had disappeared.

Taking a slow, steady breath, Benedict, still seated, gently pushed his body into hers. In the moment of union, Benedict tilted his head back, letting out a soundless groan. It was the healer’s fate to feel every pain the wounded had endured.

As Benedict began to move his hips, Eden’s previously motionless hand twitched faintly. Watching this, a blue light surged as if overflowing from Walter’s heart.

“Well, now. It’s troublesome to waste divine energy like that.”

Benedict grasped her chest with his hand, his movements slow and deliberate as he thrust within her, letting out tightly restrained groans. His face, visible through his silver hair, was flushed with a reddish hue. Walter desperately tried to avoid looking at Eden, who was joined with him, summoning all his willpower.

“I have imbued your body with my divine energy. Until she awakens, you must continue to transfer your divine power to her bit by bit. The method… well, you’re witnessing it with your own eyes, so I’m sure you understand perfectly.”

Benedict swirled his tongue over her nipple, his lips curving upward. Walter felt as though something hot was about to explode in his chest, but he barely managed to suppress it. Benedict, his face glistening with sweat, looked down at Walter, who stood frozen in torment, and smiled.

“Her soul seems just as aroused as you are,” he remarked.

Her formless, flickering soul swelled as if in a wild frenzy, expanding like flames surging into a great blaze. Through this burgeoning spirit, Benedict could clearly sense the depth of her torment in the moment. She would rather choose death than endure the agony of revival.

“Interesting.”
Benedict felt a flicker of intrigue toward her. When healing the wounded, meeting their body inevitably meant glimpsing all their memories.

“I have no interest in the emperor’s throne, Walter.”
Her voice, devoid of even the smallest hint of deceit, carried unhidden excitement. Her gleaming violet eyes narrowed slightly in mirth.

“I want to stay just like this, here with you, with the people I hold dear. Here, in Cernoti, because this is my home.”

Her heart, vibrant with warmth, beat healthily as she called this modest place her home. That was a reality Benedict could not accept.

The union of their bodies grew heavier, more intense. Sweat beaded on Benedict’s pale forehead, so delicate it seemed like porcelain that might flake away at a touch. He was utterly immersed, and from their joined bodies, traces of raw passion flowed, scalding as they spilled.

“I love you, Walter. I love you,” she said.

Benedict could feel her soul surging, as if it was finally beginning to slip free of her body. At this rate, it might flee beyond his reach entirely. Even knowing the dangers of tampering with a soul resisting healing—the risk of permanently severing the connection between body and spirit—Benedict could not bring himself to stop.

“Ah… why… you…?”
In her final moments, no blame or resentment filled her thoughts, only a lingering question.

Benedict’s movements became more forceful. He poured divine power into her, overwhelming her body with an excess of energy she could barely absorb. Her body twitched and jolted in response, but Benedict did not cease prying into her memories.

The royals he had known were all selfish creatures, those who saw sacrificing others for their own gain as natural. The blood of Clawe, steeped in such arrogance, surely ran through her veins as well.

But why?

Why was she different? If she had ascended to the throne, she could have rewritten Clawe’s bloodstained history. The futility of her death enraged Benedict more with each passing moment.

As he recalled the sacrifices made to bring her into this world, his heart pounded wildly, a faint flame beginning to flicker within his chest. Yet he couldn’t fully grasp what that feeling was.

“Hah… hah…” Only when Walter rose and gripped his shoulder did Benedict finally stop.

“Is it… not enough yet?”

Blood dripped from Walter’s lips, mangled by his own teeth, and his trembling hands transmitted his pain directly to Benedict. Walter was a man who had been willing to slit his own throat for her sake. That made Benedict even more curious about the woman who had ensnared such a powerful soul.

What kind of life had she led after leaving the palace? Perhaps it would have been better if she had no memories. Even if she returned to life, retaining those memories offered no guarantee that history wouldn’t repeat itself.

“It’s done.”

Benedict placed a long kiss on Eden’s forehead before finally separating from her. The body that had been riddled with scars from countless blades was now smooth, free from even the slightest scratch. Cold flesh warmed, and the heart beneath her left breast resumed its steady, peaceful rhythm.

“All that remains is for her to open her eyes.”

Walter staggered toward Eden, bowing his head. As her faint breath brushed against his tear-streaked cheek, he broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Eden… ah, Eden…”

For three days and nights, Walter remained by Eden’s side, waiting for her to awaken. But contrary to his hopes, Eden did not open her eyes easily.

In the year 175 of the Imperial Calendar, Crown Prince Christian of the Clawe Empire held a grand coronation, ascending as the ninth emperor of the realm.

 

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