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Chapter 107

Sylvain's fingertips trembled.

"Hm? Administrator Serpierre?"

Even at the Emperor's questioning gaze, he could neither answer nor react.

What illusion had he been under all this time? What certainty had he clung to?

He'd believed Rosalia's life was stifling and tedious—a life as Empress decided by her family and country.

Unlike himself, who had become Administrator just to be near her, she lived a life heavy with duty, with little joy or happiness.

And yet, he'd believed she could bear that weight—because she was noble, untouchable, unattainable.

But—

Why was she smiling like that?

Like an ordinary woman he might have had?

"...Are you alright, Sylv?"

The old nickname snapped him back.

"I-I'm sorry. I must have been lost in thought..."

"Oh dear. You must be terribly busy."

"You still haven't broken that habit of overworking. You need to rest, Sylv. Understand?"

Sylvain bowed his head silently.

Her voice still lingered in the past.

Rosalia, holding another man's hand with a woman's face—yet before him, she wore only the expression of a mother or a guardian.

And that fact was suddenly unbearable, leaving him speechless.

After that day, Sylvain rarely returned home.

He stayed at the palace week after week, shouldering work alone.

Even in pain, he wanted to be near Rosalia—to see her face, hear her voice every day.

He wanted to watch Rosalia—as Empress, as mother, as sister, as a woman—and confirm her happiness.

If she was truly happy, not just dutiful, then even these hollow hours would have meaning.

If only Rosalie could be happy.

A son was born to the Emperor and Empress. By the time he surpassed his mother's height, Sylvain had become the Chancellor of the Albero Empire.

The palace was peaceful.

Until the Crown Prince died.

Rosalia, who had never lost her smile despite her breathless duties, grew solemn.

Her melancholic gaze would drift into space—yet before him, she never forgot her guardian's face.

It was always beside the Emperor that she broke down.

One day, passing by the Emperor's bedchamber, he heard her weeping.

Even hearing her sobs, he could do nothing. He couldn't see her crying face, couldn't wipe her tears—none of it was his place.

He realized:

Rosalia needed the Emperor—she needed Cieldor.

He resolved to protect the Emperor.

If his existence kept Rosalia alive, then that alone gave him value.

She doesn't have to smile. She doesn't have to be happy.

As long as Rosalie can live.

Years passed.

A newborn's cry echoed through the palace corridor.

A new life was born.

But at the same time, it meant the death of another.

"I-I cannot save Her Majesty. Your Majesty, please—kill me...!"

The imperial healer lay prostrate, sobbing.

The Emperor didn't look at him. He too knew—no one could save the Empress. Unless Eostre herself descended in this very moment.

"Ah... my..."

The Empress reached out with trembling hands. The midwife gently placed her firstborn in her arms.

At her warmth, the baby's cries softened. Through wet lashes, its eyes appeared—teal, just like hers.

With arms like bones, Rosalia smiled faintly.

Born with boundless magical power as a nine-tailed fox, blessed with near-eternal beauty, she now looked gaunt and haggard, her hair streaked white.

As if the child she'd carried for ten months had drained her life.

Even so, facing death, Rosalia wore a mother's face.

"Hnn..."

Gazing at her thin face, the Emperor suddenly broke.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry. It's all my fault. I—I was wrong... so please..."

Please don't die.

Clutching her arm, he buried his face in the bed, weeping. Watching him, Sylvain stood stunned, hollow-eyed.

Then Rosalia placed her hand on the sobbing Emperor's head. Meeting his eyes, she shook her head.

"This is what I... wanted. This child—I chose to have her."

Her trembling fingers brushed the baby's soft hair.

"My precious child, born from all of me..."

With a satisfied smile, she looked back at the Emperor.

"Promise me you'll protect her, Cieldor. And you, Sylvain."

She met Sylvain's gaze from the corner of the room.

But he didn't see it.

Blinded by her wretched state, he couldn't see her true feelings or her wish.

"Take care of this child... and this nation."

---

With those words, the Empress passed.

Her final words were entrusted to them.

Sylvain couldn't remember them. Or rather—

You didn't want to remember Her Majesty's final words.

At Ber's words, the scene before the Chancellor dissolved into shimmering light.

He reached toward the fading Rosalie—but only intangible light touched his fingertips. Of course it wouldn't reach. She was already dead.

Groaning in despair, the Chancellor pressed his hands to the floor.

Standing before him, Ber asked:

Why did you try to forget Rosalia's last words?

"I didn't want to believe it. Rosalie couldn't have made that choice... she couldn't have left us...!"

He pounded the floor until blood seeped from his fists.

"It was all the Emperor—that man's doing! If Cieldor hadn't wanted a son, Rosalie wouldn't have died! So I will take my revenge. Kill the Emperor who killed Rosalie. Kill the Crown Prince born of her life. Destroy this wretched Empire. I—my revenge—"

Is it just?

The Chancellor looked up. Ber looked down and declared:

No. That's not revenge. You've simply never accepted Rosalia's death. You're just raging against an unbearable reality.

"I know that! But I don't know what else to do—how to escape this despair..."

Placing her hand on his shoulder, Ber shook her head.

You already know. What Rosalia's last words to you were.

"Take care of this child... and this nation."

"......"

He could not answer. Only stare blankly into space, tears flowing silently.

To welcome a new season, you must face the one that has passed.

Kneeling, Ber met his eyes.

It's been such a long winter.

She reached out to the weeping man.

Let's go to meet spring.

The man took the girl's small hand.

It was as warm as spring.

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