Chapter 273
“……”
The barbed words pricked at Ysaris. It wasn’t that she had nothing to say—but news of Kazhan left her lips sealed.
‘He’d offered his heart? To save Casillia, at her request?’
The story refused to sink in, seeping into her mind sluggishly, like distant echoes through water.
Yet, paradoxically, a sickening chill spread through her, as if she’d gulped down ice water. She couldn’t picture Kazhan—that tenacious survivor—as a corpse, but the shock of hearing the man she’d once loved was dead felt eerily familiar.
“During a mission… an accident took him.”
The same nausea she’d felt when first learning of Cain’s death rose in her throat, and she pressed a hand to her mouth.
‘This makes no sense. He died—because of me?’
Her resentment toward Kazhan hadn’t fully vanished, but she’d never wanted him dead.
As Ysaris stood frozen in tangled thoughts, Temisian continued.
“I know. I’ve no right to say this. Especially after turning a blind eye to Your Majesty’s suffering in the past. You could rightly ask why I only consider His Majesty’s position now.”
Ysaris flinched at the words that precisely pierced her thoughts. Whether he noticed or not, Temisian kept his face stony as he reached into the Emperor’s desk drawer again.
“But Your Majesty, look at this. Can you even begin to imagine the life His Majesty led after you left?”
From the same fourth drawer, he pulled out a stack of white papers. An impossible volume, even for a drawer with spatially expanded depths—crafted by imperial magecraft.
“I’ve only checked a few, but every one was a letter to you. Too afraid to send them, terrified you’d hate him if he reached out—yet unable to discard them because they were for you. The traces of a man drowning alone in an endless swamp.”
“……”
Ysaris truly had no words. Or perhaps too many, with none able to breach the surface.
Why?
They were just letters.
Even if you feared my rejection, even if contacting Lena’s village was difficult—
If they piled up like this, you should’ve sent at least one.
I was certain you’d forgotten me.
Her fingertips turned icy. Resentment, regret, and faint guilt churned inside her.
“These are nothing, really. Just fragments of attachment I found while searching for the will on His Majesty’s orders.”
“…Will?”
“Yes. Astoundingly, he’d prepared it in advance. Before this incident. Judging by the dates, he updated it near-daily… Here, read it.”
Temisian opened the fifth drawer, withdrawing a document stamped with the imperial seal. He offered it, but Ysaris hesitated, then asked instead.
“His letters made it seem like he ruled Uzephia without issue. Was he… ill?”
A question about why he’d drafted so many wills. Half-guessing another reason, she asked “Was he sick?” as if hoping she was wrong.
Temisian raised a brow at her clenched fists, sighed, then pulled another paper from the third drawer’s depths.
“Here, the empire’s contingency plans for his death, categorized by scenario. Though he never assumed it’d end exactly like this, there’s even a baseline protocol for if you returned before his passing.”
An answer to her question—and yet not. Instead of sarcasm about Tennilath’s health, he exposed a more fundamental truth.
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