Saved Him, Now I'm Obsessed (10 Chapters Left to Complete) - Chapter 7

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“Ugh….”

Ian forced himself to sit up and, feeling his throat dry and rough, let out a dry cough: “Hmph!”

I naturally poured water into the glass on the bedside table and handed it to him.

“If I take that medicine, will my red eyes return to normal? And stay that way without turning red again?”

For a mere six-year-old, his speech was remarkably mature. Though there was no one younger than him present, his use of informal address felt natural.

But given his status as Crown Prince, it wasn’t surprising he couldn’t behave like an ordinary child.

Grandfather answered him politely, as if speaking to a superior—after all, in terms of rank, Ian was unquestionably the highest.

“That’s not quite right. The medicine I prepare is meant to suppress your prophetic ability. However, symptoms like physical pain or changes in eye color are side effects of prophecy itself, so taking the medicine will reduce how often they occur.”

“Then am I doomed to live in constant anxiety, never knowing when my red eyes might appear again?”

The Crown Prince seemed more worried about his red eyes than the pain caused by prophecy.

Grandfather looked puzzled by his question. Honestly, I didn’t understand his reaction either. Of course, the Emperor despised prophets from the Stefan Kingdom—but Ian was still his son. Would that really be a problem?

Even if it were seen as a blemish, couldn’t the change in eye color easily be passed off as some other illness? After all, hardly anyone alive today even knew about the Stefan Kingdom’s prophets.

Indeed, none of those summoned to treat Ian’s condition had ever considered the possibility of a divine illness.

“Your late grandmother—Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Dowager—was also a red-eyed prophet. So even if Your Highness’s eyes change color, no one would find it strange.”

“That’s precisely the problem….”

Ian spoke bitterly. It seemed he worried less about public opinion and more about his father discovering the truth. For a moment, a melodramatic plot from a novel flashed through my mind.

I nodded understandingly, but Grandfather still looked utterly confused.

Despite his long years, Grandfather viewed the world with childlike innocence—he couldn’t imagine parents ever harming their own children.

He simply refused to accept that some parents don’t love their children, or might even hate and abuse them—a truth even I, at just ten years old, already understood.

Rubbing his temples as if his headache worsened, Ian said,

“That’s the most critical point. If I want to stay alive, my eyes must never turn red!”

“The change in eye color won’t affect your life.”

Grandfather still seemed baffled. But stepping in myself to convince him felt inappropriate, so I stayed silent.

Speaking with the weary wisdom of an old man, Ian remarked,

“People don’t die only from illness.”

Noticing the gravity in his tone, Grandfather asked cautiously,

“…Is this truly so important to Your Highness? Though it’s not something I, as an apothecary, should normally recommend—it isn’t impossible to alter eye color. However, the ingredients required are nearly poisonous herbs, so only a pharmacist can safely prepare them.”

Only then did the Crown Prince relax and nod in relief.

“Then come here once a week with the medicine from now on. If anyone asks why you’re visiting, say you’re a perfumer bringing me a new fragrance.”

At the prince’s words, the Chief Steward glanced at me with a warning.

“You’d do well to watch your tongue.”

[This is the timeline separator]

Now that Grandfather had passed away, I was the only one who knew the formula for that medicine. For the past seventeen years, I’d continued entering the imperial palace weekly under the pretext of delivering perfume.

Today was another visit to the palace.

As I was about to leave after preparing for the trip, I spotted a letter on the floor by the door and picked it up. The envelope was exquisitely crafted and expensive-looking, addressed to “Perfumer’s Guild of the Carlobanian Empire.”

“Here we go again. These people really have too much money….”

Originally, crafting perfume had been a pharmacist’s duty too, so visiting the imperial palace under the pretense of perfume-making hadn’t raised suspicion.

But seventeen years had changed things.

As profits from selling perfume surpassed those from medicine, the specialized profession of perfumer emerged, accompanied by the establishment of a Perfumer’s Guild, which gradually separated these roles.

Since the Perfumer’s Guild held more money and political influence than the Pharmacists’ Guild, they’d claimed significant rights to produce and sell perfumes.

They argued that anyone outside the guild making perfume threatened the livelihood of legitimate perfumers.

To keep my secret and gain palace access, I’d been delivering both medicine and specially made perfume for Ian—but the Perfumer’s Guild deeply resented this.

They clearly believed the honor of crafting the Crown Prince’s perfume belonged solely to them.

I’d heard they repeatedly sent Ian various perfumes, insisting theirs were superior to mine and urging him to entrust them with his fragrances—but their efforts were futile.

Since Ian refused to replace his perfumer, they’d now turned to demanding I either join their guild or cease making perfumes entirely.

They seemed to think that if I joined as a guild perfumer, their honor would at least be preserved.

Joining the guild, as they suggested, would’ve resolved things easily—but as a pharmacist, I had no desire to join a perfumers’ organization. I was someone who made medicine to heal the sick, not a perfumer.

More importantly, I had no wish to pay their exorbitant membership fees.

Though the guild did offer benefits like noble connections or promotional features in their perfume catalogs to boost sales, none of that mattered to me.

Joining their guild just to create a single bottle of perfume as an alibi would be putting the cart before the horse.

Trending

“And besides, gifting perfume out of personal friendship isn’t something the guild has any right to restrict.”

Apparently, they found it intolerably humiliating that Ian, Crown Prince of the Carlobanian Empire, used a pharmacist—not a perfumer—for his fragrances, and kept contacting me with both persuasion and threats.

“I don’t even need to open it to know what it says. Either stop gifting perfume to Ian or join the guild.”

I tucked the letter into my bag, planning to use it as kindling like all the others before it.

“I should probably just report them to Chief Steward Simmons for repeatedly threatening me.”

The Crown Prince’s Chief Steward remained as sharp and formidable as ever after seventeen years, still regarding others’ lives as expendable for Ian’s sake. If I told him the Perfumer’s Guild was interfering, he’d undoubtedly resolve the issue cleanly.

“Though I’m honestly too scared to say it outright—he might dispose of them ‘cleanly’ for real.”

Ian, who’d clearly been waiting impatiently, scolded me the moment I entered his chamber, despite rarely receiving visitors—and now arriving late on top of it.

Fanning myself shamelessly, I retorted,

“I’m a busy person too. Besides, it rained today, the roads are a mess, and it’s exhausting just getting here. The hired carriages refuse to enter the palace grounds.”

My lateness wasn’t only because I’d left later than usual—it was also because the coachman wouldn’t drive inside the palace gates, forcing me to walk a considerable distance from the outer gate to Ian’s residence.

Though the Carlobanian Empire usually had mild, dry winters, yesterday saw an unusual downpour of winter rain.

Luckily, the palace paths were paved smoothly with cobblestones—if not, my shoes and the hem of my dress would’ve been utterly ruined by muddy tracks.

“That’s why I offered to send a carriage.”

I recoiled at his suggestion.

“I told you, I don’t want one. Since when does an apothecary—no, a perfumer—get a royal carriage?”

“It’s not that extraordinary. Historically, artisans favored by the imperial family received more esteem than many nobles. For example, the tailor who pleased Empress Martianne commuted daily to the palace in an eight-horse imperial carriage.”

“But wasn’t Empress Martianne nearly beheaded by commoners for recklessly draining the imperial treasury?”

“It’s true she nearly lost her head—but in the end, those who tried to execute her ended up on the guillotine themselves. The real significance of that incident was the birth of the guillotine, a humane execution device.”

“I fail to see how a machine designed for efficient beheadings is ‘humane.’ And the actual lesson from that history is to avoid wasteful extravagance that drains national finances. Yet you’re suggesting we follow her example and indulge in luxury?”

“The imperial treasury is overflowing right now, so no need to worry. There’s so much surplus we could even build a palace just for Jane—if Jane would only permit it. I’d even construct a huge herb garden beside the palace for you.”

I made a horrified face. If I kept indulging his jokes, there’d be no end to it—I needed to put a stop to this now. Otherwise, he’d genuinely rush off to break ground on a new palace.“`

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