What Became of the Tyrant After the Pregnant Empress Left - Chapter 207

“……”

As the Emperor maintained his silence, only the sound of the baby’s breathing filled the room. No one rushed him—they simply waited while Kazhan agonized over and over again.

If the dark mage’s words were true, then unless the curse was lifted, he couldn’t take Ysaris away from here. He couldn’t force that bastard’s hand either. If he acted recklessly, Ysaris would be the one to suffer.

But giving up on her was unthinkable. So Kazhan racked his brain. If only someone skilled in dark magic and curses had accompanied this expedition—but since that wasn’t the case, he had to choose the most reasonable option from an extremely limited selection.

First, yes, first—

“Let’s verify this safely. Whether you’re telling the truth or not.”

Determining the truth had to come before anything else. So Kazhan unfastened the small dagger sheathed at his belt and tossed it—scabbard and all—at the dark mage’s feet.

Clang.

“Hand over the Empress. If your words are true, I won’t be able to take her away anyway, so leaving her with me for a moment shouldn’t matter. Then, use this to cut your own hand. Lightly—just enough to be visible.”

“Are you seriously asking me to surrender my hostage and self-harm right now?”

“If the curse on her is real, then even in my arms, she’ll still serve as your hostage. This is just the verification process. Or—are you admitting you lied?”

Kazhan watched the dark mage with icy, unreadable eyes, scrutinizing his reaction. But the deep hood obscured everything above his nose, making it difficult.

The only visible part of him—his mouth—stretched into a grin, teeth bared.

“Well, fine. No reason to refuse.”

“……”

The dark mage’s easy compliance only deepened Kazhan’s unease.

‘What if Ysaris really is cursed like he says? Would I have to hire someone from the Eastern Continent who specializes in curse-breaking?’

‘But before that—what if Ysaris gets hurt? What if the dark mage takes her and runs again? What if it’s an irreversible curse—?’

Kazhan’s spiraling thoughts cut off abruptly when Trienne set Ysaris down on the floor and stepped back. Kazhan quickly handed Mikael to Temisian and rushed to Ysaris’s side, examining her.

“Ysaris.”

He called her name in a voice tender with affection, reaching out to brush his fingers along her cheek, checking her temperature, then pressing lightly beneath her nose to confirm her breathing. Even then, unsatisfied, his trembling fingers sought the pulse at her wrist—thin and quiet.

She was unharmed.

And yet, she wasn’t.

Had it only been a few days since he last saw her? Already, he could see she’d lost weight. One cheek was swollen red—she must have suffered violence. And then there was the curse supposedly placed on her.

Kazhan’s face twisted, guilt gnawing at him. It wasn’t entirely misplaced. He was the one who brought Ysaris to Uzephia. He was the one who failed to prepare properly against dark magic. He was the one who hesitated to dispose of the imperial concubine immediately because he didn’t want to earn Ysaris’s disdain.

“Ysaris……”

‘Open your eyes. Why are you asleep? Even in this commotion, you haven’t stirred—were you that exhausted?’

Kazhan clenched his teeth, the rationalizations crumbling. Asleep? No—Ysaris looked unconscious, and the thought sent fury tearing through him.

The urge to draw his sword and cut the dark mage down right now burned in his chest, but concern for Ysaris easily overpowered it.

Ignoring the searing pain of his burns, Kazhan pulled Ysaris into his arms, grounding himself in the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her pulse.

Then—a voice, utterly oblivious to the mood, cut in.

“You wanted me to cut my hand, right? Should I do it now?”

“……”

Kazhan answered the man’s cheerful—almost playful—question with nothing but a frigid glare.

Trienne grinned, as if interpreting that as permission, and dramatically unsheathed the dagger.

Sshhk!

“Here, look. My right hand, see? Better check properly.”

Left-handed, Trienne gripped the dagger with practiced ease and pressed it to his right palm. Slowly, deliberately—as if savoring the way Kazhan and the Empress tensed—he drew the blade across.