Chapter 109
“Why did you invite Ribandt’s daughter to the palace?”
“…Because she is my fiancée.”
“I didn’t summon you to hear such a textbook answer.”
The Emperor wanted Arcanda.
He hoped that Arcanda would become the future Empress, laying the foundation to inherit the Empire. And indeed, with all the scandalous rumors clinging to Iora, Arcanda would have been far more palatable to the Emperor’s tastes.
But for the first time, Ovid questioned it. Must his partner truly be the Saintess?
It was a question that shook his very foundations. From the moment he first saw her, Arcanda had simply been a given. There had been no passion in his closeness with her, even while being engaged to another, but it had always felt as natural and inevitable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.
That was why Iora’s accusation had jolted him awake.
“Foolish boy.”
Ovid looked up at his father. The Emperor stared down at him, displeasure etched into every line of his face. His gaze was cold enough to make Ovid’s heart drop, but he understood it.
He understood the Emperor’s desires, because they were his own as well.
To strengthen imperial power. To forge an unshakable empire.
To bind the Saint to the royal bloodline, because those who believed in her wielded immense power. How many sacrifices must have been made until that belief hardened into a universal truth? He could only guess, but the answer felt obvious.
“But Father… Your Imperial Majesty… Iora might be the Saint.”
Even as he said it, Ovid felt the cowardice in his words. Whether she was the Saintess or not, he wanted to be closer to her.
It was only as he spoke that he realized the truth of his own desire. And yet, he swallowed it down.
The Emperor stroked his beard, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Had he considered it a possibility?
“You must marry a Saint. If she is not, she must be discarded without hesitation.”
Ovid clenched his fist. And as he watched his son’s expression, the Emperor’s voice dropped to a low murmur.
“I suppose I must see the girl for myself.”
* * *
Sitting at the café with her eyes closed, Iora naturally began to recall memories from her past life. Not from before her return to the capital, but from her time living in Korea.
There had been a friend who always made sure she got the tastiest bite first. She could almost hear Sol’s bubbly laughter echoing in her ears.
Then something soft brushed her eyelid. A hand. Still blindfolded, Iora muttered quietly:
“This is so old-fashioned. So tacky.”
“So you could feel how smooth my fingers are. What else did you think it was?”
His voice was curt, yet languid. It struck her again how strange this all was. How had he ended up here, not by Arcanda’s side, but offering to be hers instead?
When had The Saint’s Flower started to go off script? Or had the story between Vigros and Arcanda never even begun?
Her thoughts tangled and overlapped. The hand covering her eyes slipped away, and a rush of cool air brushed against her skin.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Vigros winking just slightly. It was a handsome smile, but not a particularly gentle one.
“Take it.”
“Ice cream.”
“Don’t forget the spoon.”
In the cup was a neatly scooped swirl of ice cream in several colors, perfectly round and artfully arranged.
Iora realized they were drawing attention. His unnaturally good looks and her striking silver hair made them hard to miss. Especially the women watching Vigros. Their gazes kept colliding with hers, trying to gauge if she was his girlfriend, or just a companion?
The moment she took the spoon from him, their fingers brushed.
‘If Vigros were to truly meet Arcanda, would he change? Just like in the original story?’
She wondered if he’d begin to see Arcanda as the center of the world, fall hopelessly in love with her, and eventually turn against Iora. The thought stung more than she expected.
Just then, Vigros narrowed his eyes and studied her face closely. He set the ice cream down on the table and lazily rested his chin in one hand.
“…?”
She blinked at him in confusion. He gave a slow smile — beautiful, almost disarmingly so, yet it had a touch of cruelty.
“Looks like you’ve got a question. Go on, ask it. Don’t just keep it locked in your head.”
“Do you, by chance, know how to read fortunes?”
“If a fiancé who reads fortunes is what you need, I suppose I could learn.”
The way he spoke, as if he could see right through her, made Iora laugh under her breath.
Well, if he insisted she ask, she would. She didn’t hold back.
“If you were fated to fall in love with someone… if that fate was already set… and that person turned out to be my enemy…”
“What kind of question is that? I’d tear that fate to pieces.”
“…”
Before she could even finish speaking, he answered firmly and without hesitation. It was such a resolute reply that she stared at him blankly, lips slightly parted.
There was something about his voice that carried an undercurrent of menace. As though the one he meant to tear apart was none other than Arcanda herself. It was a wicked voice, sharp with the scent of blood.
He jerked his chin toward her.
“If that question was about me, then I’d really like to tell you it’s pointless to worry about such a thing.”
Then, with pale fingers, he tapped his own chest.
“The contract’s effects are maddeningly lethal. It hurts like my heart’s going to burst.
Only a complete lunatic would defy it. I’m not one of them. And…”
He scooped a big spoonful of chocolate ice cream. As she blinked, something cold suddenly touched her lips.
Startled, she looked at him; he nudged the spoon insistently, coaxing her to eat. She opened her mouth on reflex and sucked in the ice cream. It was incredibly sweet. Dense. Chewy.
His eyes curved slightly in amusement. Ah, reflected in those blue irises, she could see a girl licking her lips in slight regret. It was her.
“You got some on you.”
Before she realized it, Vigros had leaned in. They were so close they could pass for any couple sharing ice cream in a café. The suggestive air between them drew glances from passersby. And those familiar with noble gossip had started whispering. Some had clearly recognized Iora.
He didn’t even blink as he stared at her, and when she held his gaze, he let out a soft chuckle. Something smooth brushed the edge of her lips — it was his finger.
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