The Tyrant's Terminally-Ill Childhood Friend (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 15

The voices belonged to several people—at least three or four. The one thing they all shared was a sneering hostility that seeped through every word.

“If she has black hair, isn’t it obvious? She must be a bastard.”

“But even bastards of noble blood don’t usually have black hair.”

“Then she must’ve dyed it. If she’s desperate enough to sit beside His Majesty, she’d do anything.”

At one person’s remark, the others burst into laughter like falling coins.

“I just don’t understand. If she were a Martinek, she wouldn’t lack for anything.”

“Why not? I get it perfectly. She’s from Operta, isn’t she? Haven’t you heard the rumors about them?”

Operta was the underworld of the Belf Empire. Naturally, the rumors surrounding it were never flattering. The gossip exchanged beyond the garden walls was no different.

“If you’ve been with man after man, wouldn’t you eventually want to try the Emperor himself, just once?”

“Ugh, how vulgar. And we’re supposed to call such a woman ‘Lady’?”

“At least we’re only calling her ‘Lady.’ Helen even got slapped. For someone whose head could roll the moment His Majesty changes his mind, she’s awfully arrogant.”

When the name Helen was mentioned, Simoren was certain—the gossiping women had once been maids serving Anette at the Shayen Palace.

‘So the maid who got slapped was named Helen.’

Palace maids, especially those assigned to attend members of the imperial family, were typically drawn from noble houses. Mabel had become a palace maid for that very reason. Noble young ladies, raised delicately in their own households, volunteered to serve others for one reason alone: such service built their connections and shaped their careers.

Thus, if news spread that a maid had been slapped, it would only damage that individual’s reputation. Only someone who had been present at the scene—or directly involved—could speak so casually about another being struck.

‘Still, even considering that, this is excessive.’

Though the Martineks were somewhat distanced from the main noble families, they remained undeniably a ducal house. Moreover, the hostility in the maids’ chatter was so pronounced that even Simoren—who harbored no particular fondness for Anette—found himself frowning.

“She really has no shame. To think she’d dare enter here, pretending to be that dead woman—she must have an awfully thick face.”

When those words finally came, Simoren’s patience reached its limit. Those maids would have to pay for their loose tongues.

Simoren immediately reached for his scabbard,

“How dare they say such things right now….”

“What’s wrong?”

—but was stopped.

Anette, who had stood beside him just moments before, had somehow moved right in front of him and now placed her hand over his on the scabbard.

“They’re not saying anything untrue.”

“…Are you serious?”

Could she really endure such insults without flinching? Simoren frowned, suspicion flashing in his eyes—but Anette’s expression remained utterly unmoved.

“So you wish to declare your opinion differs from theirs?”

No—her demeanor was colder still. Even though she hadn’t deliberately sharpened her gaze, her indifference cut through him like ice.

“You think the same, don’t you? That I’m shameless, that I’ve come here with a thick face, pretending to be that dead woman.”

“…I…”

A suppressed voice forced its way past Simoren’s lips, but he couldn’t form a full sentence. He always lost his words before Anette—because she was never wrong, not even by a hair’s breadth.

Anette stared coldly at Simoren, who couldn’t finish his sentence, then slowly withdrew her hand from his.

“If those women must be punished, it’s my duty—not yours, who shares their opinion. So leave it be.”

“But the fact remains that they’re mocking Lady Anette. And it’s precisely my duty to punish those who do.”

As Simoren spoke, he couldn’t even understand why he was saying such things. By Anette’s own admission, he agreed with the giggling maids across the way. He disliked Anette, and that feeling hadn’t changed.

Thus, if this had happened just days ago—or even mere hours ago—he wouldn’t have felt so stifled. Not if he hadn’t locked eyes with Anette as she smiled, showing him a side path. Not if Anette had shown even the slightest hint of anger at those words…

“I’m far too weary to punish each of them individually, Lord Lindel.”

…Not if he hadn’t glimpsed Anette’s true face, which he’d once thought inscrutable.

“You judged me solely by my black hair, without a shred of doubt. What reason do they have not to do the same?”

“…About that… I’m truly sorry.”

“No need to apologize. Everyone in this world thinks the same.”

With those words, Anette turned her head toward the setting sun. Time had passed during their conversation; the sky had turned crimson, and the surroundings were bathed in twilight hues. Even Simoren’s pale gray hair now glowed with scarlet.

Yet Anette remained alone in her blackness.

Her blackness swallowed all color, untouched by the sunset’s glow—as if it had no effect on her at all.

Except for one thing: as she gazed at the setting sun, she looked as if she were yearning for something.

Before Simoren, she was a swaying reed—a riverside plume.

Graceful yet firm, her lines unyielding.

Against the dusk-swallowed backdrop, Anette’s voice fell like a dry leaf.

“I’m truly exhausted. All I want is to go back.”

Her murmur, spoken like a soliloquy, was as heavy as waterlogged paper.

“Seeing you makes me feel it even more. You really are a good older brother. Mabel truly adores you.”

I have an older brother too.

Her voice, barely audible, trailed off as her gaze tilted sideways. Though Simoren couldn’t decipher her exact thoughts, he clearly saw the regret flickering across her face—resembling something akin to envy.

Regret for something she could never possess—or had let slip away.

Anette rarely spoke much, yet her meaning was crystal clear to Simoren.

Because when she spoke of an older brother, there could only be one person she meant.

‘So René Martinek was indeed involved.’

If Anette had entered this place under René’s pressure, her actions finally made some sense.

Until now, what Simoren couldn’t understand was that Anette’s behavior seemed utterly motiveless.

But René was the head of Operta. If he harbored ambitions, wouldn’t he use even his own blood? That was certainly the most plausible theory.

‘Of course, this is only my speculation…’

Still, it was worth verifying once. While they whispered to each other, the giggling voices beyond the wall had long since vanished. In the returning silence, Simoren finally spoke after an internal struggle.

“Lady Anette. I heard what you told Noah.”

“What was that?”

“You said your goal was to quell His Majesty’s madness.”

“Oh, yes. I did.”

“I’d like to know… what that means.”

Though Simoren had struggled to voice the question, Anette nodded easily.

“There’s no need to overcomplicate it. I simply wish for the moment when I become useless.”

“The moment you become useless…?”

“When His Majesty’s madness fully subsides, I’ll have no reason to remain here.”

And when that time came, she too could finally return.

“As you’ve just seen, Lord, there’s nowhere here where I can truly breathe.”

If only there were a place where she could close her eyes, even for a moment. As Anette murmured this, she looked precisely as exhausted as her words suggested.

So much so that Simoren’s prior wariness of her now seemed utterly foolish.

To Simoren’s eyes, Anette was now a puppet—used for her kin’s ambitions, forced to become a replacement for the dead in a place where no one showed her kindness.

He still didn’t find her particularly likable, yet various emotions toward her had already taken root within him: pity, guilt over his own past actions, and even a kind of compassion.

[Lady Anette told me, brother—you won’t believe it, but we’re the same age. Maybe that’s why we get along so well. I always thought she was cold, but she’s actually quite cheerful!]

Simoren was a good older brother and a kind man—at least kind enough not to ignore the voice of his conscience.

Thus, after much deliberation, he finally parted his lips.

“…Three years ago, a place was sealed by imperial decree. It’s never been opened since—so you could spend some time there, if you wish.”

Before Simoren could even finish speaking, he squeezed his eyes shut. Sharing a secret with Anette felt like his first true act of rebellion.

Because of that, he failed to notice the sudden flash of azure in Anette’s dark eyes.

“A sealed place…? Your offer is kind, but am I really allowed to go there?”

“No one ever visits it. Just once should be fine.”

“Really?”

Lowell’s lips slowly curved upward.

“Thank you so much, Lord Lindel.”

Had Simoren opened his eyes at that moment, he might have foreseen what his decision would bring.

But Simoren couldn’t bring himself to look—and thus never realized he was being deceived by the woman before him.

Unaware of everything, Lowell whispered with a smile.

“Now we have two secrets.”

We’ve grown so much closer, haven’t we?