What Became of the Tyrant After the Pregnant Empress Left - Chapter 257

Scritch, scritch. Tap. Rustle.

Kazhan’s daily routine remained largely unchanged. Barring occasional visits to the empress’s chambers, he spent entire days sequestered in his office, buried in work.

With the Emperor laboring until dawn, his subordinates naturally followed suit, fostering an atmosphere of relentless productivity. Uzephia didn’t just stabilize—it advanced, propelled by this unyielding momentum.

The only difference now was Kazhan pausing mid-task, lost in thought. He’d freeze for long intervals—motionless over documents, staring blankly into space—before snapping back and resuming with deliberate movements.

Scritch, scritch. Tap. Rustle.

The rhythm of flipping pages, signing, stamping, and setting them aside repeated like clockwork.

“……”

He finally stopped when the documents ran out. Stacks on either side marked the passage of time.

Perhaps that’s enough for today.

Kazhan glanced at the faintly brightening window. A skeletal tree, stripped of most branches, caught his eye. Memories of whittling countless twigs to craft hairpins superimposed over it.

Winter had returned—the season Ysaris had left.

Though the new year hadn’t yet arrived, Kazhan had remained stagnant for nearly a year. A casualty of her absence.

At times, he felt nothing. At others, agony. Then emptiness, thrashing against it until even that sensation vanished. A cycle.

It was as if Ysaris had ripped his emotions wholesale from his chest, only to occasionally—capriciously—shove fragments back in.

Grief. Longing. Resentment. Love.

She’d cram them into his heart, then yank them out before any single feeling could fully consume him. A cruel game.

‘You really think that’s my fault?’

“……”

He ignored the familiar auditory hallucination. Ysaris’s voice, dripping with mockery:

‘It’s your survival instinct. You’d die if you fully acknowledged I’m gone, so you pretend not to care.’

“I should make another hairpin.”

Muttering aloud, Kazhan left the office. Among the few belongings Ysaris had taken was a hairpin. If she’d cherished it enough to pack it, perhaps a New Year’s gift—a new one—would be welcome.

‘You won’t send it. Just like the birthday gifts, the letters, everything you’ve hoarded like a fool.’

Thud. Thud.

He walked on, leaving the taunting voice behind. Though he didn’t reply, his lips tightened at the undeniable truth.

He’d prepared countless things for her. Letters—short inquiries to avoid burdening her, lengthy ones when restraint failed—piled up by the hundreds.

Yet one thought barred him from sending any.

Ysaris’s words. A blade that had shattered his heart and lingered in the fragments.

His fear stemmed from that.

‘What if my contact, my gifts, become another regret? Even if the Sage allowed it, what if Ysaris refused them? What if she fled somewhere I could never reach?’

‘If I stretch out my hand and she’s no longer there—how is that different from her being dead?’

Thud.

He halted. Frozen mid-step, Kazhan dragged a hand over his sweating nape.

Ysaris’s specter whispered sweetly, seizing the moment:

‘Coward.’

“……”