I once heard a story from my home kingdom—a story about two lovers who knew nothing about love.
In the magical realm of the Ember Empire, a love story so strange and tragic became its greatest legend. The tale spread from mouth to mouth, whispering through every salon. It lingered on everyone's lips.
At its center stood a famed war hero—broad-shouldered, with hair like a golden apple from legend and eyes as blue as the sky of an ancient god. Born into power, he was admired as a perfect gentleman, a loyal soldier, and an ideal lover.
His beloved was equally captivating, golden-haired, with eyes like polished emeralds. Her spirit was gentle as morning light. They are a flawless, envied, adored, fairy-tale couple.
Yet perfection never lasts.
They say both of them made choices they could never undo. His lover, in anger, kissed another man—a punishment meant to wound him. But to the war hero, it was betrayal. Blinded by rage, he turned to one of his loyal soldiers, a woman who adored him, and asked for her hand in marriage.
His beloved, consumed by spite, married another as well.
Both unions were born of vengeance, and both became cages.
Everyone mocked the hero's new wife, a quiet woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and a steadfast heart.
They referred to her as a peasant.
The emperor sneered, and the nobles whispered. Even her in-laws despised her humble birth. Yet she clung to her husband's rare kindness, believing him when he said he loved her.
But it was never true.
That fragile hope shattered the night she found him in another's arms—his lips pressed to the woman he once adored.
Heartbroken, she demanded a divorce. He refused coldly. They fought, and she collapsed mid-argument.
When the doctor arrived, his words silenced the house:
"She is with child."
The news stirred something in the husband's heart—perhaps guilt, or merely pride. He hoped the child would bind her to him.
But she wanted nothing of it.
She despised the life growing inside her and resolved to end it in secret.
When he discovered her plan, he locked her in a barren chamber.
Days blurred into weeks. Despair hollowed her. She tried again and again to end her life, but the guards stopped her each time.
At last, she gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl, mirror images of their father.
She did not love them.
Madness claimed her. She called them monsters, cursed children of her misery. To stop her, her husband bound her wrists and confined her to her chamber once more.
She became little more than a living ghost—a body breathing, but a soul unmoored.
Two years passed.
One winter's night, she escaped under a veil of snow and silence.
No one knows what became of her. Some say her husband found her and killed her.
Others whisper her husband locked her in her room, and she has never left her room ever since.
"So… is she dead?" the young lady asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.
The maid, scrubbing the floor, glanced up and smiled faintly.
"I don't know, my lady."
"What do you mean you don't know, Mary? You're the one telling the story."
"My lady, it was just gossip—something my friends told me," Mary replied softly.
"So there's no end? I hate stories without endings," the young lady huffed.
"I'm sorry, my lady. It's just a tale—or maybe a rumor," Mary said with a shy smile.
"Well, my mother always says every rumor holds a grain of truth. And this story… it's a sad one. The soldier stands out in particular. She's pitiful."
"Is she?" Mary asked, lifting her head.
"Of course. She married the man she loved, only to have everything ruined in a moment," the young lady said.
"But she knew he didn't love her," the maid replied quietly.
"Yes, but that wasn't her fault. He's the one who proposed!" The girl protested. "She married him out of love—and he just used her."
"I think they both used each other," Mary said after a pause.
The young lady shook her head. "Maybe. But it's she who suffered most. Whatever she went through must've been awful—to drive her to such madness, to hate her own child in the end. I think she lived the worst of them all."
"Well… it's just gossip, like I said," Mary murmured, glancing up at the girl with a faint smile.
"Yeah… just gossip," the young lady echoed. But as she looked at Mary, a thought flickered across her mind—then why do you look so sad?
She rose from her bed, stretching a little.
"If I were her," the girl declared, "I wouldn't have run away."
Mary looked up, startled.
"Running away never solves anything," the young lady added with certainty.
Mary smiled, a small, knowing smile. "Like when you ran from the little lord?"
"That's different," the girl huffed. She crossed the room and sat down beside Mary's chair. "Distracting me doesn't work, you know. Even if you tell gossip or sad stories—I still have to see that boy."
"It's only a formality, my lady," Mary said softly.
"I know… but still." The girl sighed, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "We should go. He could arrive any moment."
"Well… my lady, I have cleaning duty today," Mary said quickly.
"Oh? I don't remember assigning that."
"Yes—Meg will accompany you instead," Mary replied.
The young lady smiled mischievously. "So Meg can do your work now?"
"Well, my lady, you know I haven't been feeling well. I could easily make mistakes. I shouldn't come."
"The reason you feel bad," the young lady said quietly, "is because my fiancé is from your country."
Mary's eyes widened. "Ah… how did you—?"
"I heard some gossip," the girl said, a hint of irony in her tone. "And like I said—every gossip holds a little bit of truth."
Mary looked down, her hands trembling slightly.
"Mary," the girl said gently, "believe me. He can't find you. And even if he did—my father is the strongest man in the Empire."
Mary gave a small nod, forcing a smile. "I know, my lady."
But her eyes told another story.
.
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