His striding footsteps steadily neared the bed, each sound echoing the rapid beat of Mayhen’s anxious heart.
With each step, her heart felt like it was doing a wild somersault, a frantic dance of uncertainty within her chest.
The vastness of the emperor’s chambers, usually a sign of grandeur, now felt oppressive, amplifying the tension of his approach.
‘What should I do?’ she agonized internally, her mind racing.
‘Should I get up from the bed and greet him right now, acknowledging his presence, despite my previous discomfort? But what would I even say to him after our last, strained conversation?’
The silence stretched, heavy and profound.
Suddenly jumping up from pretending to be asleep, a pretense she hadn’t fully committed to anyway, would also be undeniably strange, perhaps even embarrassing.
While Mayhen was caught between what to do and what not to do, paralyzed by her indecision, the emperor simply lay down on the incredibly wide bed.
When Mayhen had lived with Perry, they often slept together in a small, cozy bed that was just right for two people, a space of shared warmth and familiarity.
But the bed in the emperor’s chambers was so impossibly wide, a sprawling expanse of silk and plush mattresses, that five people could easily lie on it without touching.
So, in theory, it shouldn’t matter much whether he was there or not; his presence on the far side of the bed should have been entirely negligible, a distant point in her periphery.
Yet, strangely, the very fact of another person, particularly this person, occupying the opposite side of the bed bothered Mayhen immensely.
His silent presence was a weight, a constant reminder of their unresolved conflict and her precarious position.
She tossed and turned restlessly all night, the luxurious bedding doing little to soothe her agitated spirit.
Sleep remained elusive, chased away by the whirl of unanswered questions and lingering hurt.
She finally drifted off only as morning approached, her exhausted mind finally succumbing to a shallow, unrefreshing slumber, just as the first hints of dawn painted the sky outside the grand window.
“You should wake up now, miss. It’s time for the morning banquet!”
A gentle voice, unfamiliar yet polite, pulled Mayhen from the fringes of sleep.
It was accompanied by a soft rustling sound.
“…What? Is it morning already…?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, still disoriented.
Rubbing her eyes, which felt gritty and heavy from lack of rest, at the unfamiliar voice calling her, Mayhen slowly blinked them open.
The soft morning light diffused through the heavy drapes, illuminating the figures of the servants from yesterday standing patiently before her.
They were perfectly composed, their expressions serene and attentive. Mayhen instinctively checked beside the bed, a faint hope perhaps, but the emperor was already gone, the sheets on his side undisturbed, as if he had never been there.
He must have risen silently, long before dawn, to attend to his imperial duties.
They roused Mayhen gently from her half-sleep, their movements efficient and practiced, and quickly finished her dressing.
They presented her with a gown of soft, flowing fabric, elegant yet understated, choosing jewelry with a quiet competence.
Every button was fastened, every fold smoothed.
Then, with those who came to escort her—a small, precise retinue—they moved through the palatial corridors towards the morning banquet hall, the silent march feeling oddly formal.
The emperor, already seated at the head of the long, polished table, looked as impeccably handsome as ever, his severe features sharply defined in the morning light.
He exuded an aura of unapproachable perfection, his dark attire and regal posture commanding the vast space.
So much so that someone like Mayhen, feeling disheveled and emotionally raw, felt acutely like an uninvited guest at such a perfect, almost intimidating setting.
Her own simple appearance felt out of place amidst the grandeur and the Emperor’s effortless majesty.
They said nothing to each other, the unspoken tension from the previous night still hanging heavy in the air between them.
Mayhen also had no desire to converse with him, especially not in such a bad mood, when his cutting words still echoed painfully in her mind.
On the silent dining table, laden with an array of exquisite dishes, only the faint, delicate sounds of a knife slicing meat with precise movements, or a fork daintily picking at various foods, could be heard.
The clinking of porcelain and silver seemed amplified in the quiet, a stark contrast to the polite chatter that usually filled such imperial gatherings.
‘What is the emperor thinking right now?’
Mayhen wondered, covertly observing him from across the table.
His silence was impenetrable, a wall she couldn’t breach.
Even trying to read his expression, a practice she had become somewhat adept at, she couldn’t discern his true feelings.
His face was a stoic mask, revealing nothing of his inner turmoil.
He kept his gaze fixed on his plate, his fork repeatedly slicing a piece of steak into smaller and smaller pieces, a relentless, almost aggressive motion, even though he wasn’t even putting the meat into his mouth.
It was a clear sign of his agitation, a restless energy he couldn’t quite contain.
Then, their eyes met across the table, a brief, accidental connection in the air.
It must have been because Mayhen was staring too overtly, her gaze perhaps too curious, too desperate to understand.
Just as she was about to hastily turn away her flustered gaze, caught in the act of observation, he spoke first, his voice breaking the strained silence.
“I’ll strengthen the escort for a while.”
His tone was firm, a decree rather than a suggestion.
“Why?”
Mayhen immediately asked, surprised by the sudden increase in security.
“Because it seems this won’t do. Your safety requires it.”
He answered, his explanation curt, though with an underlying layer of conviction.
“…Alright. By any chance, am I not allowed to move around the imperial palace anymore?”
Mayhen pressed, a sudden wave of panic rising within her.
The thought of being confined, of losing her limited freedom within these walls, was deeply unsettling.
She hastily added an explanation, almost pleading, worried he might tell her to stay only in her room, turning her opulent chamber into a gilded cage.
“I want to go to the flower garden and pick flowers for Perry, who’s lying in the infirmary. Is even that difficult? She needs something beautiful to wake up to.”
“…Do as you please.”
His reply was concise, almost grudging, but it was permission nonetheless.
A small victory, Mayhen thought, amidst the overwhelming weight of his displeasure.
After that, no more words were exchanged between them.
The conversation, such as it was, had run its course. Mayhen wanted to escape this heavy atmosphere as quickly as possible, to rise from the table and find solace in the promised garden, but she couldn’t bring herself to.
She felt rooted to her seat, observing him.
Because the emperor was still there, sitting opposite her, continuing to torment the innocent steak with a troubled, almost savage look on his face.
He simply kept cutting, the meat reduced to a pile of unrecognizable fibers.
‘If he’s not going to eat it, why is he doing that?’
Mayhen wondered, a strange mixture of frustration and a faint, fleeting sympathy for the ruined meal.
It was an odd, almost childish display of his inner turmoil.
The time of suffering and patience, which felt like it would last forever under his silent, agitated presence, finally ended when the emperor had completely massacred the meat to the level of crumbs, leaving nothing but shredded remnants on the plate.
Only then did he push his chair back, a decisive sound, and rise from his seat.
Seeing him move, Mayhen too felt a surge of relief; she could finally go to the flower garden, which she had so eagerly wished for.
‘But this is a bit overwhelming,’ she thought as she stepped out of the banquet hall.
After finishing the meal, the number of escort knights, which was already more than usual, had disturbingly doubled.
At a glance, there seemed to be over a dozen people, a small, imposing army surrounding her.
Their polished armor gleamed, their faces impassive.
Every time Mayhen took a step, she heard the hurried, synchronized footsteps of more than ten people behind her, creating an incessant, almost suffocating presence.
It was a constant reminder of her lack of true freedom, and of the Emperor’s intense, if perplexing, concern for her safety.
When she accidentally got lost, taking a wrong turn in the labyrinthine corridors, and had to turn back the way she came, their intense, watchful gazes made Mayhen feel profoundly awkward, as if she were a child needing constant supervision.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m still not used to the imperial palace!” she exclaimed, offering a sheepish apology, even though it was her own mistake.
After many twists and turns, navigating the palace’s intricate pathways with her overly vigilant escort, Mayhen finally arrived at the flower garden, a vibrant oasis of color and life.
Colorful flowers were in full, glorious bloom, creating a tapestry of red, gold, blue, and violet.
The fragrant scent of flowers, a rich, sweet perfume, wafting to her nose, finally calmed her tired, agitated heart, a soothing balm after the morning’s tension.
‘What kind of flowers would Perry like?’
Mayhen mused, her mood softening as she focused on her task.
With a very serious expression, she examined each delicate bloom in the garden.
They had to be pretty, of course, a visual delight, and their scent had to be wonderful too, something that would bring a gentle comfort.
‘If there’s a floral scent filling her dreams, she might have happy dreams while she’s asleep,’ Mayhen thought, a hopeful wish stirring within her.
She hoped that the dreams Perry had wouldn’t be nightmares, that her subconscious wouldn’t revisit the terror that had led to her current state.
It would be infinitely much better if she was strolling through a beautiful, sun-drenched flower field with her beloved family, their laughter echoing around her, rather than wandering alone and afraid in a scary, blood-soaked battlefield.
Just then, as Mayhen’s gaze drifted across a patch of vibrant green, her eyes caught sight of some exquisite, round-shaped lily of the valley.
She loved the delicate blue color that seemed to hold the clear, boundless sky within its tiny petals.
“This smells good enough, too,” she murmured, leaning closer to inhale its sweet, subtle fragrance.
It was just as Mayhen was about to pluck a lily of the valley, her fingers poised to snap the stem.
A sudden, unexpected gust of wind, stronger than anything before, blew from somewhere unseen, rustling the leaves and petals around her.
And then, as if carried on that very breeze, a black bird, sleek and swift, flew directly towards her.
It circled once, then twice, above her head with a curious, almost intelligent movement, and then, with surprising gentleness, it landed lightly on her outstretched wrist.
‘A bird?’
Mayhen thought, her eyes widening in surprise.
It was an unexpected, almost magical occurrence.
Mayhen wasn’t the only one surprised by the sudden, audacious appearance of the bird.
The quiet, watchful demeanor of her escort shattered.
One of the escort knights guarding her, the closest one, approached with a stern, almost menacing expression, his hand instinctively going to his side as he drew a short, gleaming weapon from its sheath, its metal glinting dangerously in the sunlight.
“Stay still, miss. I’ll take care of it immediately,” he stated, his voice clipped and efficient, clearly seeing the bird as a potential threat.
“No. Don’t do that! It’s just a bird,” Mayhen cried out, pulling her arm back slightly, shielding the small creature.
Her voice was urgent, a sharp contrast to the knight’s cold resolve.
He glared at the bird for a long time, his wary eyes scrutinizing the seemingly harmless creature.
But when Mayhen wrapped her other arm around it, cradling it as if to protect it from his weapon, he reluctantly stepped back, though his stance remained tense, ready to act at a moment’s notice.
“If there’s even the slightest danger, miss, I will act independently, even if you try to stop me then.”
His voice was low, a stark warning, emphasizing the limits of her influence on his duty.
Mayhen nodded slightly at his words, acknowledging his unwavering commitment to her safety.
Then, she turned her full attention to the small, dark bird in her arms.
As if it had realized Mayhen was trying to protect it, it gently rubbed its head against her body, a soft, comforting gesture that filled her with a strange sense of warmth.
“How cute. Where did you come from, little one?” she cooed softly, stroking its smooth feathers.
Then, as if to answer her question, or perhaps to show her something, it extended its left leg into the air, presenting it to her.
A small, tightly rolled note was wrapped securely around it, fastened with a thin thread.
***
Here’s the English translation of the text, keeping in mind that Mayhen is female: ‘Is this… a letter?’
Mayhen’s brow furrowed in curiosity as she carefully unraveled the tiny scroll.
The paper was rough to the touch, and she saw crooked handwriting, pressed down firmly as if someone had written it with great effort, perhaps in haste or under difficult conditions.
[The guy suspected to be the client had a large scar on his left arm. I ran into him by chance, so it might not be certain, but that’s all I know. If you find the real culprit and it’s time for him to die, send Nero to me. I’ll come to kill you again then. P.S. By the way, that guy understands human speech well, so don’t badmouth him in front of him. He holds a grudge pretty badly.]
Given the mention of “client,” a term that Cat often used in his cryptic messages, it immediately seemed like Cat had sent it.
This appeared to be the clue he spoke of concerning the real culprit, a piece of information he had promised to deliver.
A large scar on the left arm.
While somewhat vague, lacking a name or precise location, it was still a significant piece of information, a distinct mark that could lead to identification.
The thought of finally having a lead, however small, ignited a flicker of hope within her.
The bird named Nero, seeing Mayhen’s focused eyes reading the note, rubbed its head against her again, a soft, reassuring motion.
It was as if it had realized it would be staying with her for a while, a new companion.
“Oh, you pretty thing,” Mayhen whispered, marveling at the bird’s apparent intelligence.
“Do you really understand human speech?”
The bird then tilted its head, a comical gesture that seemed to confirm her suspicions.
Mayhen chuckled, a rare, light sound, and gently stroked Nero’s chin at its adorable antics.
She then looked around, her gaze sweeping across the garden, searching for any sign of his elusive sender.
As expected, Cat was nowhere to be seen.
He maintained his mysterious distance, as always.
‘He’s probably hiding somewhere, watching from afar,’ Mayhen thought, a slight smile playing on her lips.
Cat’s discretion was admirable, if a little frustrating.
Mayhen didn’t want Cat to be in danger again, knowing his propensity for daring acts.
So, she focused on plucking the rest of the lily of the valley, carefully gathering a small, fragrant bouquet.
Afterward, she left Nero with the servants, instructing them to care for him, for a moment and then headed to the infirmary where Perry was still lying, her heart heavy with concern.
“Perry, I’m here,” Mayhen murmured softly as she entered the quiet infirmary room, the faint scent of antiseptics hanging in the air.
She put the lily of the valley in a simple vase on a small table beside the bed, arranging them carefully so their delicate blue petals faced Perry.
Then she sat on the makeshift chair in front of the bed, a sturdy but uncomfortable wooden stool.
Perry still lay motionless, seemingly lost in a deep, unnatural slumber, her eyes tightly closed, her breathing shallow and even.
“I don’t know if you’ll like them, but I picked some lily of the valley for you,” Mayhen began, her voice a gentle murmur in the quiet room.
“They’re pretty, and their scent is wonderful. I hope they bring you some comfort.”
Her complexion seemed noticeably better than before; the shocking paleness that had once haunted Perry’s face now looked much healthier, a faint blush returning to her cheeks.
She looked so peaceful, almost vibrant, as if she might suddenly jump up, complaining that lying down for so long was stifling, that she longed for action and movement.
Mayhen gazed at Perry for a moment longer, a wave of tenderness washing over her, then slowly, carefully, she took Perry’s hand.
It was smaller than Mayhen’s own, yet surprisingly rough, filled with the undeniable evidence of a life lived vigorously—scars and calluses that spoke of countless battles and hard-won victories.
‘How could such a small body have harbored such immense courage?’
Mayhen wondered, remembering the desperate bravery Perry had displayed during the hunting festival, her unwavering loyalty in the face of impossible odds.
Thinking of that day still broke Mayhen’s heart, a sharp ache of sorrow and admiration.
She spoke to Perry, her soft voice filling the silent room, a quiet monologue for an unresponsive listener.
“Our lamb-beasts in Mederland, the gentle, loyal creatures we cherish, receive the blessing of Briya, the god in the form of a lamb. She is a unique deity, for she presides over both death and life simultaneously, a constant, delicate balance. So, while someone might gain life, be blessed with healing or vitality, at the very same time, someone else’s life is inevitably taken away, a sacrifice to maintain the universal equilibrium. It is a harsh but necessary truth of our world, a reminder that all existence is intertwined with its opposite.”
But even Briya, the god of both life and death, had a sacred rule, an opponent she couldn’t bring herself to be harsh with, a line she would not cross.
It was the children who hadn’t yet truly bloomed in the world, those innocent souls whose lives had barely begun.
For them, Briya held a special, protective affection, a rare tenderness in the face of cosmic balance.
“And sometimes,” Mayhen continued, her voice growing softer, imbued with a sense of reverence, “Lady Briya appears in the dreams of sick children. She comes to them not as a fearsome deity, but as a gentle, comforting presence. Surprisingly, those who meet her, who are touched by her divine grace in their sleep, often find their illnesses cured as if by magic, their bodies restored to perfect health, their spirits revitalized.”
Mayhen paused, a distant memory surfacing, shimmering like a mirage.
When she was very young, a mere child herself, she also suffered from an unknown illness, a mysterious malady that doctors couldn’t diagnose or cure.
She couldn’t regain consciousness, trapped in a waking nightmare, her body consumed by an unseen fire.
She wandered between life and death, a terrifying limbo where there was no distinction between day and night, only an endless, formless expanse of pain and oblivion.
No one knew what illness was slowly killing her.
The renowned doctors of Mederland, their faces etched with grave concern, and even the famous herbalists, with their vast knowledge of ancient remedies, just kept repeating, with agonizing helplessness, that her family should prepare for the worst, that there was nothing more they could do.
The prognosis was a death sentence.
At that time, the suffering was unimaginable.
It felt as if Mayhen’s entire body was thrown into a blazing inferno, every nerve screaming in agony, her skin searing.
Simultaneously, an opposing, agonizing sensation consumed her; it was excruciating even to breathe, as if she was endlessly sinking into suffocating water, her lungs burning, desperate for air.
Even the gentle blowing wind, usually a soothing caress, brought unbearable pain, as if her delicate skin was shattering into pieces with every subtle breeze.
Her mind was completely intact, a sharp, terrified presence trapped within a failing shell, yet she couldn’t move her body or even speak, unable to cry out for help.
Only pain, absolute and unyielding, entirely dominated her existence.
“This moment of being alive is so hard,” she had thought, her silent plea echoing in the void of her consciousness.
“I’m sorry, Mom, Dad. I’d rather just die.”
Death, then, seemed like a release, a welcome cessation of the relentless torment.
She heard the muffled sobs and desperate cries of her family, their voices pleading with her to hold on somehow, to fight, but at that point, engulfed by such overwhelming suffering, it felt like nothing else mattered.
The pain was that intense and agonizing, blotting out all other sensation, all other hope.
Then, one night, amidst the endless torment, something shifted.
The mansion, usually bustling with servants going back and forth by her sickbed, their hushed whispers and worried sighs a constant backdrop, was for some inexplicable reason as silent as if everyone in the entire house was fast asleep, a profound, unnatural quiet.
And soon after, someone entered the room, though Mayhen couldn’t discern who.
Instead of the sound of footsteps, a warm, gentle spring breeze wafted into the room, carrying with it a scent of fresh blossoms and damp earth.
As the passing wind brushed lightly against Mayhen’s fevered body, as if to gently tickle her, surprisingly, miraculously, the excruciating pain that felt like it would last forever gradually began to subside, slowly receding like a tide, leaving behind a profound, blessed calm.
Then, an unfamiliar voice was heard, soft and resonant, yet utterly distinct in the profound silence.
“It’s been a long time, my child.”
The voice was warmer than the midday sun, a soothing embrace that seemed to melt away the lingering chill of her suffering.
It was as cozy as a mother’s lullaby, a sound that promised comfort, safety, and a gentle return from the precipice of oblivion.
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