Idren Sigrasil desired one thing: love.
She was a wife who came from far away. Ophelia Mebasa, the daughter of Dareth Mebasa, King of Leden, was different from him in her lineage.
Idren was the king's illegitimate child, and Ophelia was a princess with the right to succession.
If he hadn't personally killed his father and brothers and thus become King of Aglante, he wouldn't have been able to write a letter of marriage to her.
Apart from that, there were countless other differences between Ophelia and him. He was unmistakably evidence of illegitimacy with his black hair, while Ophelia was the epitome of the royal family with her silver hair.
He cared for the land like his own body because he had nothing left but Aglante, but Ophelia had no interest in everything he had, including Aglante.
But among them, the most prominent difference was predetermined.
Idren wanted her, and Ophelia did not.
It was evident from her face since the first day of their marriage.
On the night of the wedding ceremony, Ophelia sat on the bed, her slightly shadowed blue eyes blinking slowly in the candlelight.
Like a night sky without a single star, those eyes reflected him, but that was all. There was nothing contained within them. No kindness, no curiosity, not even hostility.
So, Idren had to make excuses before kissing her.
Sitting beside Ophelia, he muttered that it was true they were married, but if she disliked him, he wouldn't force himself upon her, and instead, he would wait until morning to consummate the marriage to avoid damaging her dignity.
Returning to such a feeble excuse on the wedding night, her response was indifferent.
"You don't need to do that."
Ophelia told him to do as he pleased.
So, Idren kissed her very cautiously. Ophelia didn't push him away, and he took it as her consent.
Idren still remembered the feelings he had embraced countless times that night.
Maybe Ophelia also has a desire to make this marriage work... Not as much as him, but she might be of some interest...
What a foolish illusion that was.
The reason Ophelia told him to do as he pleased was simple. Whether they consummated the marriage or not, their relationship wouldn't change.
To interpret it as her willingness to make an effort even if she didn't love him was entirely his mistake.
The price of that misconception was quite high. As payment for presuming Ophelia's feelings, Idren had to endure three hopeless years. It was three years of merely trying to appear good to her.
It wasn't until after spending over a thousand days in emptiness that he realized.
Ophelia's eyes were not the sky but the deep sea. She would never show him the heavens.
He might as well have been thrown to the ocean floor.
Realizing the truth, Idren started to become confused. Was what I'm doing really love? Is love truly this tiresome, frustrating, and stubborn?
But before those suspicions could turn into certainty, he lost the opportunity to prove it.
It was around that time that Ophelia died.
It was a peaceful death.
On the morning her breath ceased, Ophelia's face was as serene as that of a person who had enjoyed a long rest. So much so that the maid assisting her awakening thought her mistress had fallen asleep.
When Idren was informed of the situation and went to Ophelia's chambers, many people were inside. Doctors and servants bustled around, knights guarded the entrance, controlling access.
Amidst such commotion, Ophelia lay on the bed with a very peaceful expression. Faint color lingered on her cheeks and lips, her delicate hands lay quietly on her stomach.
So at first, Idren thought she might be playing a prank.
Of course, Ophelia and he were not close enough to joke around. However, Ophelia often caused trouble for others with her bad pranks.
She might have been playing a prank similar to those she played with flower costs.
Even knowing that fact, Idren almost instinctively reached out to hold Ophelia's hand to check her body temperature, and he scolded himself. Fool. If you hold her hand here, it just proves that she can sway you as she pleases, doesn't it?
Rushing to the scene after hearing there was an issue with the other party, Idren didn't want to show any signs of being concerned.
So, he withdrew his outstretched hand and called her name.
"Ophelia."
It was a chilly tone he used. It wasn't as icy as Ophelia's, but he had his own experience in speaking to someone coldly.
But Ophelia didn't respond to his words.
Anxiety rose in that silence.
Ophelia had always been indifferent to him, but that didn't mean she harbored malice. Even though her actions often seemed malicious, Idren knew the truth.
Ophelia had never intentionally ignored or insulted him. She simply lacked the motivation to do so.
So, if she had heard him, she would have opened her eyes.
Idren licked his lips.
"Ophelia...?"
There was a hint of panic in his voice, now devoid of its chill. Idren hurriedly clasped the hand lying on her abdomen.
He felt the cold flesh.
---
What Ophelia drank was extremely poisonous. The name of the toxin, which could lead to death with just one sip, was derived from the blush that remained on the cheeks and lips of the deceased for a day.
That's why the poison was popular among the nobility. It was because it allowed those who discovered the body to present a graceful appearance.
The doctor said Ophelia likely sought out the poison for the same reason.
Upon hearing this, Idren burst into bitter laughter. Romantic, indeed. Where's the romance in taking your own life?
If the target had not been his wife, he would have laughed at them as much as he could.
But Idren couldn't mock Ophelia like that. Despite being angry and shedding tears because of her, he couldn't bring himself to scorn her.
So, he said nothing, and time passed regardless of his silence.
It was one month since the incident occurred, the day Ophelia had died.
Days of sobriety were rare. While he pretended to sit soundly on the throne during the day, he sought out alcohol as soon as the sun set. Thanks to that, he even discovered a drinking habit he hadn't known before; it was a notable lifestyle indeed.
Even that drinking habit wasn't anything grand. Just rotating the ring on his finger, a large, yellow jewel-encrusted ring passed down only among the Sigral bloodline.
It was a ring with a grand name attached to it, "The Kiss of Hope," a legendary piece said to be a fragment of a god. But Idren had no interest in ancient stories. He turned the ring simply because it was on his finger.
That night, Idren was turning the ring while drunk, stumbling as he walked the halls.
It wasn't a good day for a walk. The royal palace was in the northern part of Aglante, and even without considering the geographical features, temperatures dropped at night anywhere.
But feeling stifled inside and with a fever on his face, he couldn't stay holed up in his room any longer. His drunkenness made his emotions even more honest than usual.
As he walked through the courtyard, he reached a small well in the center.
The gray well, covered in red moss, was said to have been there since the beginning of the Sigral dynasty.
Now leaning against the cold stone where no one fetched water anymore, Idren pressed on his temples. His head throbbed.
And the cause of this headache was one thing.
"Ophelia."
Murmuring the name of the deceased woman, Idren looked down into the well. Ophelia, Ophelia.
He couldn't even reach the fourth repetition before it turned into retching.
"Why did you do it?"
Pouring out as if the person were right in front of him.
"What didn't you like? What was so unsatisfactory?"
He vomited as if the black hole were a passage reaching her.
The heart, darkened almost as much as the hole right in front of him, poured out easily. Realizing the hot tears dripping from his eyes, Idren hastily took a deep breath. Tilting his head back slightly, he muttered, "No, it must've just been that I wasn't to your liking."
"I was never satisfactory no matter what I did, right...?"
Otherwise, she wouldn't have abandoned him without any warning like this.
Idren stole a glance at the blurred vision before him. Yelling into the well on this night to someone already dead. It was truly the worst.
Taking a deep breath, Idren spoke with a trembling voice.
"...I, too, now dislike you."
But what difference did it make to dislike someone who was already dead?
Idren, calming his ragged breaths, leaned back against the well again. He looked down at the ring in his hand. The yellow gem symbolizing the throne glowed in the darkness.
What use was all of this? Suddenly, he thought so.
Sitting on the throne, he was still as unhappy as when he was just the illegitimate child of the king.
The one thing he truly desired slipped through his fingers, never to be grasped, and the person he believed could navigate the darkness with him ended up piercing him with a deeper arrow.
Nevertheless, the more ironic thing was that even at this moment, what he desired was predetermined.
Despite knowing how miserably Ophelia had treated him, Idren still wanted to know why she died. He wanted to know what he did wrong to be abandoned.
It was when the thick ring slipped from his grasp.
As the heavy ring fell into the darkness, Idren reached out unconsciously. Almost simultaneously, he realized that he was plummeting into the black hole himself.
.jpeg)