Chapter 273: Dear Rosalie 1

"Just because she forged the blade centuries ago doesn’t mean she’s swinging it today," Eren said, his tone remarkably calm. "She created The Substance in an era of total war, realized the horror of what she unleashed, and burned every formula she had. She’s spent the last two hundred years quietly atoning for that sin in the human realm."

"And I chose to trust her. And that trust paid off. Because of her, we broke that smuggling dealer’s silence so we could track Baron Kiliyan in the first place. More than that... when I was almost dead in Rujgard, she was the one who saved my life."

"Volsver, that doesn’t excuse—"

"I believe him."

A firm tone interrupted with unyielding authority.

Seraphina blinked in astonishment, her gaze snapping toward Emma. The pink-haired woman had her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes locked onto the princess without a hint of hesitation.

"Don’t misunderstand me, Your Highness. I don’t trust demons. I don’t give a damn about them or whatever tragic past they carry. But I trust Eren’s judgment. And if that woman truly stepped between him and death when no one else could... then she saved the man I care about. For that alone, she has my gratitude. That’s enough for me."

Eren’s lips curved into a soft, genuine smile, his eyes softening as he looked at the sexy tanned tomboy beside him. "Thanks for siding with your guy finally, Captain."

Emma’s cheeks instantly flared a bright, lovely red.

"S-Shut up, you idiot!" she barked, her voice cracking slightly in mortification.

She violently whipped her pink ponytail away, staring out her side of the window with her jaw clenched tight, her ears burning red.

Aria chuckled softly, her manicured fingers gently stroking the sleepy cub in her lap.

"Emma has the right of it, princess. If the former Demon Queen is not actively a threat to us, she is entirely irrelevant to our immediate objective. Our mission is to unmask the faction currently weaponizing The Substance to assassinate your mother, not conduct a historical trial on who concocted it centuries ago."

Seraphina looked between Aria’s logic, Emma’s fierce loyalty, and the quiet, resolute hope shining in Norelia’s crimson eyes.

The weight of the empire pressed heavily against her ribs. She was a royal, conditioned to suspect every shadow, yet sitting in this tight carriage, surrounded by the only people who had bled for her without demanding anything in return, the iron walls around her heart began to fracture.

With a long, defeated exhale, Seraphina slumped slightly back against the leather seat.

"A temporary truce," Seraphina muttered, her tone grudging and exhausted. "Only a temporary truce. The moment she shows a single sign of hostility, the pact is void."

She snapped her crimson gaze back to Eren, her eyes narrowing into a fierce, commanding glare. "And if anything goes wrong, Eren Volsver... if a single drop of imperial blood spills because of your naive sentimentality, I will hold you personally, entirely responsible."

Eren offered her a gentle, devastatingly tender smile, dipping his head in a mock-courtly bow. "You have my word, my future Empress. My neck is entirely at your disposal."

Seraphina’s glare flared with renewed, flustered fury.

"Idiot..." she hissed, her heart doing erratic, treasonous backflips against her ribs as she fought desperately to keep her composure.

"Now, onto your imperial ambitions," Eren said smoothly, shifting gears with his trademark grin. "This southern vacation is the perfect stage to lay the groundwork. We start things to change the power balance between the Emperor and the Empress. But if we start this and she refuses to take the power, everything will be ashes in water."

Seraphina’s gaze softened. She turned her head toward the rolling green hills passing outside the glass, her fingers curling tightly into the silk of her skirt.

"I know the plan is sound," Seraphina whispered, a fragile, deeply human melancholy bleeding through her regal poise. "I agree with every step. But... it has already been an entire week since I left the palace walls. I just... I find myself wondering how Mother is managing back in that viper’s nest without me."

***

A relentless rain washed over the capital as Empress Rosalie stood on the vast granite courtyard.

The hems of her midnight-silk skirts were already darkened by puddles, her hair damp. Her red eyes stared up at the colossal sovereign palace.

Her eyes were unnervingly calm, glassy and still, stripped bare of all anger, sorrow, or fragile hope.

Emily stood beside her, Seraphina’s most steadfast personal knight. She held the wide umbrella aloft, shielding the Empress while rain soaked her.

"His Majesty has left you standing in the freezing downpour for over an hour," Emily muttered, her voice tight with suppressed, burning fury. "He issued an urgent summons, yet refuses to grant you entry even to the outer antechamber. This is deliberate humiliation, Your Majesty. Let me go demand an audience with the seneschal."

"Stand down, Emily," Rosalie said softly. Her voice carried no venom, only the hollow, smooth cadence of someone who had long since learned to survive in a den of wolves. "If you raise your voice at those gilded doors, the palace guards will have you dragged to the dungeons for treasonous insolence by nightfall. And my daughter needs you."

Emily’s jaw locked, her fist trembling at her sides, but she forced herself to swallow the rage, keeping the umbrella perfectly steady.

Minutes dripped away like melted tallow.

Finally, the towering arched doors groaned. The Emperor’s chief court maid stepped onto the slick marble portico, flanked by two armed palace sentries. She descended the stairs with agonizing, calculated slowness, stopping two paces away from the Empress.

The woman offered a brief, shallow nod—a half-hearted parody of a bow that reeked of blatant contempt.

"His Imperial Grace graciously permits your presence, Empress Rosalie," the maid announced, her flat tone bordering on open mockery. "You may enter."

Rosalie offered no reaction to the slight. She turned gently to the young knight. "Wait here, Emily. Do not provoke them."

Stepping out from beneath the umbrella, Rosalie climbed the grand stone steps alone.

The chief maid led her deep into the inner sanctum of the primary palace—not toward the sovereign chambers, but veering off into a secluded, poorly lit guest salon on the eastern wing. It was a silent, petty insult: treating the reigning Empress like an unscheduled foreign petitioner in her own royal home.

"Wait here," the maid said curtly, shutting the heavy doors behind her.

A young attendant appeared after some time, silently placing a teacup on the table before scurrying out. Rosalie glanced down at the cold cup. She did not touch it, nor did she dare complain.

She sat in the quiet gloom, folding her hands neatly in her lap, listening to the rain rattle against the tall, leaded glass windows. In the solitude, a fragile ache coiled deep beneath her ribs.

’Where are you now, my darling?’ she wondered silently, her heart softening with a mother’s quiet, desperate prayer. ’Never rush back to this gilded cage...’

CREAK.

The doors swung open.