The biting, parched desert air, a constant, choking presence, and the relentless sandstorms that seemed to beckon death with every swirling grain.
The sun, a malevolent eye in the sky, beat down with an intensity so fierce it withered even the faint whispers of wind, leaving everything exposed and raw.
It was a world stripped bare, where survival was a daily, brutal negotiation.
As the days bled into weeks, and weeks into months, a strange, grim acceptance settled over me.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, I grew accustomed to these harsh realities.
The countless scars that now crisscrossed my once pristine body were a testament to this arduous apprenticeship, each one a memory of a close call, a whispered prayer for deliverance that never came.
And yet, even in situations where everyone, every last soul, declared I would surely perish, I always, inexplicably, returned alive.
“Why don’t you just give up?” their voices would echo, laced with a mixture of pity and exasperation.
“What do you hope to achieve by surviving like this?”
Looking back, there was never a moment when genuine fear for death truly gripped me.
My heart, a withered, broken thing, was already too worn out, too accustomed to the desolate landscape of despair, to feel such a visceral emotion.
Here, in this merciless land, death was more prevalent than grains of sand, a constant companion, a shadow that stretched long and wide.
Perhaps I had even grown accustomed to its pervasive presence, its cold embrace.
But what would become of my mother’s final moments if I weren’t there?
This single, haunting question, a handful of lingering attachment mixed with a profound, gnawing doubt, was what ultimately kept me tethered to this life, preventing me from succumbing to the sweet oblivion of dying.
It was a fragile thread, but it held.
***
It had been over five arduous years since I first set foot in this unforgiving desert.
The landscape, once a barren expanse reflecting my own internal desolation, had begun to subtly shift.
More comrades, drawn by a desperate hope or perhaps just a shared weariness of the old world, had joined our ranks than ever before.
We had, against all odds, begun to establish a semblance of order, weaving fragile laws into the chaotic wilderness.
Supplies, painstakingly acquired and fiercely protected, could now be distributed, offering a lifeline to those dying of hunger, a stark contrast to the lawless desolation we had initially found.
At this rate, I thought, with a flicker of something akin to hope, I might actually be able to fulfill my mother’s dream before long.
Just as I felt a tangible step closer to the goal I had so earnestly desired, a goal that had fueled my every breath and endured every scar, an urgent, chilling message arrived from Hamilton.
My heart, which I had believed to be beyond feeling, plummeted.
[Her Majesty has passed away.]
Only a short while ago, they had spoken of my mother’s condition seemingly improving, a cruel deception that had allowed me to dream.
Because of that fragile hope, I had often allowed myself to imagine the triumphant moment of finishing all my tasks, of returning home and appearing before her with pride, a worthy successor to her legacy.
However, as soon as her sanity had fully, albeit tragically, returned, what my mother chose was to end her own life, leaving me with only a final, heart-wrenching apology, a hollow echo of her love.
The desert, with all its dangers, suddenly felt inconsequential.
Immediately, I abandoned everything – the burgeoning order, the faint hopes, the blood-soaked battles – and returned to Hamilton.
My homeland, the land where my mother slept, now felt like a foreign country.
But while I had been fighting on distant battlefields, shedding blood and sacrificing pieces of my soul, much had changed in Hamilton.
The government, once a beacon of order, was now a festering wound of corruption, and ministers were too busy lining their own pockets to care for the suffering populace.
The national treasury, meant to nurture and protect, flowed instead into useless, extravagant places, leading to frequent, heartbreaking instances of citizens starving to death because they couldn’t get proper food.
Even my trusted uncle, a man I had once admired and relied upon, was so intoxicated by the sweetness of power that he couldn’t come to his senses, his once clear eyes clouded by ambition.
“What have I been doing all this time?” the question clawed at my throat, a bitter taste in my mouth.
“What dream was I trying to achieve?”
It was the devastating price of escaping reality, of chasing an unattainable ideal in the harsh desert while my true purpose crumbled.
The Hamilon my mother loved, the land she had dedicated her life to, now lay miserably in ruins, and innocent people suffered, their cries echoing in my ears.
‘Ah, how foolish. How could I be so idiotic?’
The self-reproach was a heavy shroud, suffocating me. I couldn’t bring myself to lift my head before my mother’s corpse, now so withered that only a handful of bones remained.
I was consumed by endless shame and disgrace, a profound sense of my own unworthiness.
How could someone like me possibly become the empress, to succeed my noble mother, when I had so clearly failed her?
But it wasn’t something I could choose, even if I desperately didn’t want it.
Life, I realized with a heavy heart, was just another name for never-ending punishment.
***
After the grand, somber funeral, I eventually inherited the crown my mother had worn.
It felt uncomfortable and stifling, a heavy weight that squeezed my head, like trying to fit into clothes that didn’t belong to my body, alien and ill-fitting.
The responsibility, a crushing burden, settled upon my shoulders.
‘It seems I can’t be as benevolent and wise an empress as my mother was,’ I thought, the realization a cold, hard knot in my chest.
‘I don’t even have the confidence to strive for the peace and balance of the nobles and the common people, to navigate the treacherous waters of courtly intrigue and popular unrest.’
However, a flickering ember of resentment, sharp and persistent, still remained in the charred landscape of my heart.
I would forever hate those selfish nobles who cared only for themselves, their greed a cancer eating away at the empire.
And I would forever despise that being called “God,” a cruel, indifferent entity who had plunged us into such despair, snatching away my mother and leaving me with this crushing legacy.
Furthermore, I vowed, with a fierce, cold resolve, I would never be deceived by false love, nor would I ever harbor someone in my heart for my entire life.
That path, I knew, led only to pain and betrayal.
Even if this hardened resolve might eventually lead me to my own death, it was a price I was willing to pay.
***
The sheep-person listener’s face, usually so serene, looked as if she were about to cry, her gentle features contorted with a distress I couldn’t comprehend.
I couldn’t understand why she was looking at me with such an expression of profound sadness. It would be infinitely more comfortable if she simply cursed me as a fool and laughed at my cynicism, for that was what I expected, what I had become accustomed to.
“I hate that being called God,” I reiterated, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.
“That’s why I don’t believe in the hypocritical emotion of invisible love either. It’s all a lie, a delusion.”
She merely mouthed words, her lips forming silent syllables, like a child lost and bewildered in front of a confusing signpost.
Then, after what felt like a long, agonizing while, a question, soft but persistent, followed, directed squarely at me.
“Do you truly think that?”
Her golden eyes, usually so bright, were clouded with concern.
“Why not?”
I countered, a challenge in my tone.
“What else is there to believe?”
“Just as not only bad people exist in the world… love is the same.”
Her voice, though straightforward, held a conviction that was deeply displeasing to me.
That word – love.
Just thinking about it was unpleasant, a nauseating sensation that made my stomach churn.
So, my reply came out sharper than expected, laced with a familiar cynicism.
“How do you know that?”
I demanded, daring her to explain the inexplicable.
“I also haven’t experienced proper love myself, so I don’t know well,” she admitted, her gaze dropping for a moment before rising to meet mine again.
“But I have witnessed people who loved each other more than anyone else.”
Her golden eyes became distant then, clouded with a gentle melancholy, as if recalling someone she deeply missed, someone etched into the fabric of her memory.
That sight, her quiet nostalgia, inexplicably annoyed me, stirring a familiar irritation.
“So, what do you want to say?”
I pressed, my impatience growing.
“Get to the point.”
“I just… hope Your Majesty doesn’t view the emotion of love so negatively.”
The sheep-person blinked, her long lashes brushing her cheeks, and stole a quick glance at me, as if gauging my reaction.
Then, cautiously, she opened her mouth again, her voice a soft murmur.
“There are many people who trust and follow Your Majesty. Just like the Imperial Knights, for example.”
“Why are they relevant here?”
I scoffed, seeing no connection between their loyalty and the abstract, despised concept of love.
“Are the Imperial Knights’ feelings for Your Majesty also false?”
A brief, uncomfortable silence stretched between us.
When there was no immediate answer from me, the sheep-person, astonishingly, interjected, emboldened by my silence.
“The ones I saw truly believed in and followed Your Majesty with all their hearts. Just as their feelings aren’t false, not all emotions are made of lies.”
Despite her seemingly intimidated expression, her timid demeanor, it was astonishing how she always managed to voice whatever she needed to say, to push back against my hardened cynicism.
‘She’s so timid,’ I mused internally, a flicker of grudging admiration, ‘yet at times like this, she seems bolder than anyone.’
She clasped her hands together, a small, earnest gesture, and looked at me with an unwavering gaze.
“So, I hope that someday, a good person will appear who can heal Your Majesty’s wounds.”
“There’s no such person,” I retorted, cutting her off sharply.
“And I don’t need one. My wounds are my own.”
“But my parents said that love is like a passing breeze that seeps into you without you realizing it,” she continued, undeterred by my rejection.
“So, by the time you come to your senses, your heart will already be completely colored by one person.”
I couldn’t understand why we were even having this conversation.
I had been clearly trying to explain why I hated the temple so much, why my faith had withered and died.
Honestly, at this point, talking about love or anything similar just sounded like preposterous nonsense, a childish fantasy in a world of stark realities.
The sheep-person clenched her fists, a tiny but resolute gesture, at my emotionless gaze, and then, to my utter surprise, she declared with a newfound determination:
“Even if you really can’t believe it, I’ll show you!”
“…You?”
My voice held a mixture of disbelief and mild amusement.
The audacity!
“Because I grew up right next to loving parents, I can probably tell you what real love is.”
Despite my sarcastic tone, the sheep-person smiled, her face radiating an innocent, unwavering conviction.
“So, how do you plan to show me? Are you saying you’ll love me right now?”
My sarcasm dripped, but it didn’t seem to touch her.
“Actually, I don’t know the method myself.”
Her honesty was disarming.
Her eyes folded into a gentle curve, her jewel-like pupils briefly disappearing before reappearing, now radiating an even more brilliant light than before, reflecting an inner resolve.
“But I’m the most stubborn person there is; if I say I’ll do something, I’ll see it through, no matter what. So… for Your Majesty, I’ll find out what love is!”
“That’s truly absurd,” I muttered, exasperated, the conversation draining what little energy I had.
“It drains all my energy. It doesn’t even sound like you listened to anything I just said.”
It was precisely that unwavering attitude that irritated me.
Despite being so weak and seemingly insignificant, she refused to back down easily in any situation.
That peculiar recklessness and undeniable boldness vexed me, unsettling a carefully constructed cynicism.
But then, at some point, against my will, I couldn’t tear my gaze away from her.
To be so pathetic as to be fixated on someone not even physically present, to dwell on them all day long – it was happening against my will.
And it brought with it an unfamiliar, unsettling sense of discomfort, a tremor in the carefully constructed walls of my indifference.
‘Is this also the influence of the imprinting?’
I wondered, searching for a rational explanation for this inexplicable pull.
What was so special about that sheep-person, this seemingly ordinary creature?
In truth, it couldn’t be explained without the power of imprinting, the mystical bond that tied us.
That’s why, even at this very moment, I couldn’t look away.
Those warm eyes, those flushed pink cheeks, even the corners of her lips that curved into a delicate line – everything about her grated on my nerves, annoying me, yet held me captive.
Then, at some point, a strange, profound hunger churned in my stomach, a visceral, undeniable craving.
Just looking at her made me incredibly hungry, an insatiable desire that went beyond mere appetite, an intense feeling beyond comparison.
I wanted to possess everything, from her innocent gaze upon me to her delicate fingertips and tiny toes.
At the same time, a bizarre, primal urge arose, a dark whisper in my mind: to simply devour her.
The moment I realized the true nature of these unsettling desires, I couldn’t stay there any longer.
I felt like a monster, a creature of uncontrolled impulses, fearing what I might actually do if I remained.
The thin veneer of my control was slipping, and the beast within was stirring.
“…You go to sleep first. I still have things to do.”
And so, with a desperate need to escape the terrifying implications of my own thoughts, I had to flee the bedroom, as if escaping a prison of my own making.
The cool night air did little to quell the turmoil within me.
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