What Became of the Tyrant After the Pregnant Empress Left - Chapter 279

Thud.

“……”

Ysaris, who had just stepped out of Kazhan’s room and closed the door behind her, stood silently by the corridor window, gazing outside. The inky sky—reminiscent of Tennilath—filled her blue eyes.

It had been a long time since she’d been out at this hour. To maintain the illusion that she was with Kazhan, she had confined herself to his chamber every night, unmoving.

She would have done the same tonight, but Duke Blake was scheduled to bring the children to the imperial palace tomorrow, so she needed to return to the Empress’s quarters now. If she was to welcome Mikael and Casillia there, she had to make at least some preparations…

“Hm?”

Before she could take more than a few steps, something caught her eye. Among the handful of rooms near the Emperor’s bedchamber, one door stood out—grubby in a way that seemed deliberate.

“Grubby” might not have been the right word. It was just a faint smear of paint on the handle, but against the immaculate surroundings, it looked filthy.

‘Did they skip cleaning just this one? It hasn’t changed since I noticed it days ago.’

Finding it odd, Ysaris approached the door. The imperial palace—especially the corridor leading to the Emperor’s chambers—was meticulously cleaned by maids every day. The sight of this one neglected door felt glaringly out of place.

Almost as if this room wasn’t even permitted to be wiped down.

“……Would it be alright to go in?”

Soon enough, the Emperor’s palace would be hers. If there was any issue with this space, it was better to check now. Hesitating for only a moment, she gripped the handle.

Creak.

Just as neglected as its exterior, the door opened with a faint, unoiled whine, revealing a darkness within. The corridor’s light didn’t reach far enough to illuminate the spacious interior—typical of imperial chambers—so she stepped inside and clapped twice to activate the lighting magic tools.

Clap. Clap.

Flicker—!

“……!”

Ysaris’s eyes widened at the sight before her. Not because of the numerous easels covered with thin cloth to protect the paintings.

But because of the canvas at the room’s center—the only one left uncovered—depicting a familiar figure.

‘Did Kazhan order this? Did he have someone copy another portrait of me?’

……But Mikael’s here too, and I’ve never sat for a portrait with him.

Confused, Ysaris stepped closer. The painting seemed unfinished, with much of the background left blank, but the two central figures were nearly complete.

The brushstrokes were a little unrefined for an imperial artist’s work, yet they captured her and the crown prince with surprising tenderness. The composition showed her with a serene smile, her hand resting on the shoulder of a beaming Mikael.

“I’m… smiling.”

The murmured words slipped out before she realized. Absently, she touched her own lips. Every official portrait of her in Uzephia had been stiff, if not outright cold—this one felt jarringly fresh.

‘Too busy tending to the children every day, and now buried in imperial duties. I haven’t smiled at a mirror in so long, I’d forgotten what it looked like.’

A strange expression crossed her face.

That someone had painted her so accurately—relying only on memory or imagination—was unsettling. The dimples, the slight puff under her eyes when she smiled… it was all there.

As if painted by someone who’d watched me for a long time.

“No. That’s impossible.”

She dismissed the thought the moment it came. Shaking off the absurd notion that Kazhan might have painted this, she turned away—

Then paused.

If she was going to stop now, she shouldn’t have entered at all. Having already seen one portrait of herself, Ysaris lifted the cloth draped over another nearby easel to peer beneath.

“……!”

Unsurprisingly, this too was her. Alone this time, filling the canvas without Mikael.

The odd part? This version of her looked younger. Early twenties, perhaps—the blissful face of a woman in love, rendered in vivid blues.

“This is ridiculous…”

As her suspicions inched closer to certainty, she stood frozen for a moment before hastily checking another. And another.

With each thin cloth that fluttered to the floor, her bewilderment and dread piled higher.

Every single painting was of her. Without exception. And the further she went, the clearer it became—the early attempts were little more than scribbles, their crude quality betraying the artist’s identity beyond doubt.