What Idren Sigracel desired was just one thing: love.

She was a wife from a distant land. Ophelia Mevasa, daughter of King Dares Mevasa of Reden, was different from him by blood from the start.

Idren was the illegitimate child of a duke, while Ophelia was born with legitimate succession rights as a princess.

If he hadn’t personally killed his father and brothers, thereby becoming the Duke of Aglante, he wouldn’t have even been able to send a marriage proposal to her.

Besides that, there were countless other differences between Ophelia and him. He had black hair, evidence of his illegitimacy, while Ophelia had silver hair, the symbol of royalty.

He cared for Aglante like his own body since it was all he had left, but Ophelia showed no interest in Aglante or anything else of his.

However, the most stark difference between them was clear:

Idren wanted her, and Ophelia did not.

This fact was evident on Ophelia’s face from their very first day of marriage.

On the night of their wedding ceremony, Ophelia sat on the bed. Slowly blinking her blue eyes, slightly shadowed by the candlelight.

He was reflected in those eyes like a starless night sky, but that was all. There was nothing else in them. No goodwill, no curiosity, not even hostility.

Because of this, Idren had to make excuses before kissing her.

Sitting next to Ophelia, he mumbled that although they were married, if she disliked it, he wouldn’t mix bodies with her. Instead, when morning came, they would have to say they consummated the marriage to avoid damaging their reputation.

The response to this rather pitiful excuse on their first wedding night was an indifferent reply.

“There’s no need for that.”

Ophelia told him to do as he wished.

So Idren kissed her very carefully. Ophelia didn’t push him away, and he took that as her permission.

Idren still remembered the countless feelings he had harbored that night.

Maybe Ophelia also wanted this marriage to go well… Maybe she was interested in him to some degree, if not as much as he was…

What a foolish delusion that had been.

The reason Ophelia told him to do as he wished was simple. Whether they mixed bodies or not, their relationship would not change.

It was entirely his mistake to interpret that as meaning she was willing to make an effort even if she didn’t love him.

The price of that delusion was quite steep. As a consequence of presuming Ophelia’s feelings, Idren had to spend three hopeless years. Three years spent solely trying to impress her.

Only after wasting over a thousand days in emptiness did he realize.

Ophelia’s eyes were not the sky, but the deep sea. She would never show him the sky.

Buried at the bottom of the sea, that’s where he was.

Realizing the truth, Idren began to get confused. Is what I’m doing really love? Is love truly this pathetic, bleak, and stubborn?

But before that doubt could become certainty, he lost the chance to prove it.

Because around that time, Ophelia died.

It was a peaceful death.

Ophelia’s face, which had stopped breathing one morning, was as serene as someone who had found long-awaited rest. So much so that the servant who came to help her wake up thought her mistress was still sleeping.

By the time Idren learned of the situation and went to Ophelia’s bedroom, many people were already inside. Doctors and servants were crowding around, while knights guarded the entrance, controlling access.

Amidst all that commotion, Ophelia lay on the bed with a very peaceful expression. A faint vitality remained in her cheeks and lips, and her white, delicate hands were placed neatly on her stomach.

Because of this, at first, Idren thought she might be playing a prank.

Of course, Ophelia and he were not close enough to play pranks on each other. But Ophelia often troubled others with her nasty pranks.

Around that time, she had been doing something like playing pranks with flower prices.

Knowing this, Idren almost reached out to take Ophelia’s hand to check her body temperature, but he sneered at himself. You fool. If you grab her hand here, aren’t you just proving that she can manipulate you at will?

Having rushed here after hearing there was a problem with his wife, Idren didn’t want to show that he cared.

So he withdrew his outstretched hand and called her name.

“Ophelia.”

It was a deliberately cold voice. Though not as much as Ophelia, he too had a knack for treating someone coldly.

But Ophelia did not answer that call.

Anxiety rose at that silence.

Ophelia had always been indifferent to him, but she didn’t harbor ill will either. Even though her actions often felt like malice, Idren knew this fact.

Ophelia had never deliberately ignored or insulted him to upset him. She simply lacked the motivation to do so.

So if she had heard his voice, she would have opened her eyes.

Idren’s lips quivered.

“Ophelia…?”

His voice, drained of its coldness, was filled with bewilderment. Idren hurriedly grasped the hand placed on her stomach.

Cold skin touched his.

What Ophelia had drunk was a deadly poison. The name of this poison, which could cause death with just one sip, was “Romance”. The name came from the rosy cheeks and lips that remained on the deceased for a day after death.

For this reason, the poison was popular among nobles. It was because they could show a beautiful appearance to those who would discover the body.

The doctor said Ophelia probably sought out this poison for the same reason.

Hearing this, Idren let out a hollow laugh. Romance? What romance could there be in taking one’s own life?

If it hadn’t been his wife, he would have laughed at them as much as he wanted.

But Idren couldn’t laugh at Ophelia. He might get angry or shed tears because of her, but derision just wouldn’t come.

So he said nothing, and time passed regardless of his silence.

It happened on the day marking one month since Ophelia’s death.

It was a time when sane days were rarer. During the day, he pretended to be fine, sitting on the throne and governing, but as soon as the sun set, he sought alcohol. Thanks to this, he even discovered his only drinking habit that he hadn’t known before, so it was a life worth knowing.

That drinking habit wasn’t anything special. He just kept turning the ring on his finger, a large ring with a yellow jewel that was passed down only to the Sigracel bloodline.

It was a ring with the grand name of “Hope’s Kiss” attached to the legend of being a fragment of God, but Idren wasn’t interested in old stories. The only reason he kept turning the ring was because it was on his hand.

That night too, Idren was turning the ring while drunk. He was walking through the palace’s back garden with staggering legs.

It wasn’t good weather for a walk. The royal palace was in the northern part of Aglante, and even disregarding geographical characteristics, temperatures dropped everywhere at night.

But his insides felt stuffy and his face was hot, making it impossible to stay cooped up in his room. It was because the alcohol made him more honest with the feelings he always had.

The place he reached while walking through the back garden like this was a small well in the center of the garden.

The gray well covered in red moss was said to have been there since the beginning of the Sigracel royal family.

Leaning against the cold stone where no one drew water anymore, Idren pressed his temples. His head was throbbing.

And there’s only one cause for this headache.

“…Ophelia.”

Looking down into the well, Idren muttered the dead woman’s name. Ophelia, Ophelia.

It didn’t even reach the fourth repetition before turning into an accusation.

“Why did you do it?”

As if the other person was right in front of him, he poured it all out.

“What displeased you so much? What were you so dissatisfied with?”

He spewed it out as if the black hole was a passage reaching her.

The heart that was bruised as black as the hole right in front of him poured out easily. Realizing that hot moisture was dripping from his eyes, Idren hastily inhaled. Pulling his head back slightly, he muttered. No, you just didn’t like me, right?

“No matter what I did, you were displeased…”

Otherwise, she couldn’t have abandoned him like this without any warning.

Idren wiped his blurred vision. Shouting at a well in the middle of the night, clinging to someone already dead. It was truly the worst.

Catching his breath, he spoke in a trembling voice.

“…I dislike you now too.”

But what difference does it make to dislike someone who’s already dead?

Idren, having composed his ragged breathing, leaned against the well again. He looked down at the ring in his hand. The yellow jewel symbolizing royal authority shone in the darkness.

What’s the use of all this? Suddenly, such a thought occurred to him.

Though he sat on the throne, he was still as unhappy as when he was the duke’s illegitimate child.

The one thing he truly desired was not only out of his grasp but didn’t even come close, and the person he believed could navigate the darkness with him had pushed him into an even deeper mire.

Yet what’s even more ridiculous is that even at this moment, what he desires is fixed.

Even knowing how miserably Ophelia had left him, Idren still wanted to know why she died. He wanted to know what he had done wrong to be abandoned.

It was then that the ring he was holding slipped.

The moment the thick-stoned ring fell into the darkness, Idren instinctively reached out his hand. Almost simultaneously, he realized he was falling into the black hole.

Translation complete. 100% of original text translated.