Die Melusine - Chapter 51

Kieron arrived at the imperial palace with Melusine a full day later than the Grand Duchy’s procession.

“Wow…”

The moment they passed through the entrance, a large rectangular pond and lavish fountains cascading down with splendor took her breath away.

The pond was surrounded by more than a dozen small gardens. The perfectly rounded trees were lined up in immaculate rows, resembling soldiers in formation.

Even after passing several more fountains and riding for quite a while, only then did the white palace building begin to reveal its grandeur.

Surrounded by five auxiliary palaces arranged in the shape of a pentagon, the imperial palace was so vast and magnificent that even Melusine couldn’t help but gasp in awe.

“What?”

Kieron asked as the cloak covering her head and shoulders slipped due to her constant fidgeting and glancing around. He reached out to tighten the knot at her neck again.

“This place is amazing. It’s huge. Even bigger than Triton.”

Pfft. Kieron let out a quiet breath, amused by how she was gawking like a child again.

Just then, a faint melody—like singing—floated on the breeze.

Delicate, trailing notes intertwined with deeper, more resonant tones that echoed through the air, just like the music she had heard at the Grand Duchy’s ball. Was this the sound of instruments? Anne had once explained it to her—perhaps this was it. Melusine tilted her head in curiosity.

She thought it was such a beautiful place. While the Grand Duchy had felt wild and vast, like the sea, this place was ornate and refined—like the gemstones displayed in a master artisan’s workshop.

Compared to the damp soil of Triton, the sound of their horses’ hooves echoed sharper and louder against the imperial ground.

As they approached the main palace, Melusine began to feel that the chest pressed against her back—Kieron’s—was somehow becoming more tense.

“Melusine.”

“Hm?”

When she turned, she saw Kieron staring into the distance—at some part of the building ahead. Even though she had answered, he didn’t reply. His golden eyes, usually burning with restrained fire, were now darkened with intensity.

“Your Grace, welcome.”

As soon as they dismounted, Count Luthern and the other retainers greeted them. Their expressions were noticeably more rigid than they had been back at the Grand Duchy.

“Now?”

Kieron’s tone was sharp.

“Yes, they instructed us to bring you in as soon as you arrived…”

Kieron gave a slight nod and glanced at Ian, gesturing toward Melusine before striding off into the building without another word.

“Ki…eron.”

She instinctively reached out a hand toward him—already too far away to hear such a small voice—and then slowly let it fall.

He was always coming and going without so much as a goodbye, and yet, Melusine found herself staring after his retreating, stone-like figure, watching until he disappeared from sight.

***

The fact that the Emperor had summoned the Grand Duke not to his office but to his bedroom made his intentions all too clear.

Even before Kieron reached the door, a shrill woman’s moans echoed down the corridor.

There was no way the sounds could reach the Empress’s quarters at the far end of the opposite wing, but clearly, there was not even a pretense of consideration for his heavily pregnant wife.

Even after the chamberlain announced the Grand Duke’s arrival, the Emperor gave no response for a long time. The only thing to be heard was the raw, unabashed moaning of a man and woman.

Kieron stood motionless with an indifferent expression, like a gravestone, not shifting so much as a finger. The only one who seemed flustered was the chamberlain.

“M-my apologies for making you wait, Your Grace…”

The chamberlain kept stealing glances at the looming shadow of a man beside him, but Kieron showed no interest in the sounds nearby. Instead, he calmly stared at a painting hanging in the corridor just beside the bedroom.

It had been after the Crown Prince’s investiture ceremony, perhaps.

The portrait featured the late emperor and Edvard side by side. Kieron’s gaze fell on the large velvet cushion placed beside his nephew in the image. He gave a slight tilt of his sharply defined chin toward the painting.

“He sat there.”

His unusually low voice weighed heavily over the corridor.

“Pardon…?”

The chamberlain, thinking he had misheard, asked again, but the man’s lips had already sealed shut once more.

From the moment Edvard started toddling, he imitated everything Kieron did—what he wore, what he ate, how he trained, what he studied.

It wasn’t as though a small child would want to sit still for hours as a portrait model, so the solution his older brother devised was to place Kieron beside him.

And so Edvard, sweating and struggling to keep still, mimicked Kieron, who could sit silently for hours without moving an inch.

What had he been thinking, sitting on that sofa at the time?

Perhaps wondering whether he, caught between a father and son, was destined to be a cushion or merely another decoration in the room.

At one point, he might have even felt quietly proud. That small blond child, toddling behind him, choosing to follow him more than even his own father.

But within this palace, Kieron’s role—his function—had remained shockingly unchanged, from then until now.

“Your Grace.”

The chamberlain’s voice pulled him out of his reverie.

“Let’s go.”

From the hallway leading to the reception room, a heavy, fishy odor was in the air. The chamberlain involuntarily furrowed his brows and glanced toward the Grand Duke, but Kieron’s expression remained utterly impassive.

As soon as Kieron entered the reception room, the curtain by the bedroom parted and the Emperor stepped out.

His robe was barely fastened, revealing much of his bare body beneath. Whether he was still drunk or simply affected by the debauchery, he staggered visibly with every step.

“Well, look who it is. Ah… has our dear Uncle finally arrived?”

“Your Majesty the Emperor, I greet you.”

Edvard approached the man who bowed deeply, theatrically embracing someone so much taller than himself.

“Oh, how terribly worried your poor nephew was that he might not get to see you! I heard there was trouble on Mount Laphiro.”

“Thanks to Your Majesty’s concern, I escaped unharmed.”

“Yes, yes. My father always said it too—you were the one he could always trust, Uncle.”

Edvard muttered as he collapsed into a chair. The large bottle on the table was already empty—who knew how long he’d been drinking.

Trusted, he said. Kieron rolled his tongue across his dry mouth, mulling over his nephew’s words.

“Thank you for always placing your trust in me.”

“Hah, you know what? …You’re like a man with no soul, Uncle.”

Look at you now.

The Emperor sneered at Kieron, who parroted formal words with a face devoid of emotion.

“You don’t laugh, you don’t cry. I’ve never even seen you angry. Or… wait—is that face right now you being mad at me? Huh?”

The man lifted his lowered gaze and stared directly at Edvard, who flinched instinctively under the sharp edge of Kieron’s eyes—but didn’t stop speaking.

“I suppose that’s why you’ve survived for decades. First as Father’s war puppet, and now as my convenient villain.”

Edvard took the last of the bottle and downed it in one go before flopping onto the velvet couch. Something dribbled from his lips—maybe saliva, maybe leftover wine.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the Emperor glanced again at Kieron, who still showed no reaction.

“You know what my father always said? He said you were a lion. A lion. That if anyone ever underestimated you just because you were quiet, one day they’d get torn apart alive. Told me to wise up. When did I hear that first? Oh yeah—my coronation day. You remember that, don’t you, Uncle?”

But Kieron’s face remained still. Not even the faintest ripple of emotion passed through him.

“They say lions don’t hunt unless they’re hungry…”

The Emperor rolled onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling. His bleary eyes seemed to focus on nothing at all.

“Father was wrong. Sure, maybe you are a lion. There’s no one better for war than you, Uncle. But you’re… just a lioness. You do all the backbreaking hunting alone, and in the end, the pride still belongs to me.”

The great lion, Edvard, with a platinum mane!

As if performing a monologue on stage, he swung his clenched fist dramatically through the air, then covered his eyes with the backs of both hands.

Was he laughing? Crying? Muttering curses to himself? His shoulders trembled faintly as he continued, caught in his own performance.

Sigh.
Kieron, watching silently, let out a barely audible breath. The lines changed a bit each time, but this was a routine he’d heard dozens—no, hundreds—of times by now.

“If Your Majesty has no further orders, I will take my leave—”

“Uncle.”

Kieron paused mid-step as he turned to leave.

“Yes?”

“You…”

The Emperor’s voice, now facing Kieron again, sounded crushed under the weight of something unspoken.

“…No. Never mind.”

Quickly, he wiped his eyes, which had turned slightly wet.

“Go to the western border. Now.”

It was a sudden order for someone who had just arrived after days of riding, but Kieron didn’t so much as blink.

“…Is it the Kingdom of Maquellan?”

At Kieron’s calm question, Edvard grimaced and shook his head.

“Yeah. Probably more curious about his pregnant daughter than about my birthday, but whatever. Uncle, give him a warm welcome, will you?”

No reply came from the Grand Duke.

Kieron reached for the scabbard—one of the few items he ever removed in the Emperor’s presence—and turned fully around.

As his large hand reached for his sword, Edvard’s black eyes trembled for a moment… but then he squeezed them shut, his face twisting into a look of weary disgust.