The Emperor's breath caught in his throat, rough and uneven, as if the silence in the room itself was choking him. He swallowed, trying to steady himself, but his voice still trembled when he spoke—repeating the lie he had clung to for years.
"He… he died of sickness. The royal physicians said his heart just stopped."
Elara looked at him.
Her gaze was cold—sharp in a way that didn't just look at him, but seemed to strip him apart layer by layer. Then she let out a quiet scoff, short and dry, cutting through his words like they meant nothing.
"I killed him with my own two hands."
The room fell completely silent.
The Emperor physically recoiled, as if she had struck him. His eyes widened, not with doubt—but with raw, instinctive fear. Slowly, almost unwillingly, his gaze dropped to her hands. Pale. Small. Calmly holding a book, as if nothing had been said at all.
And in that moment, it hit him.
He wasn't sitting with a princess.
