Chapter 5
Despair and Ecstasy
2023.08.05.
Lowell knew well that she had been unlucky her whole life.
They say a black cat is a symbol of misfortune in some places, and from the moment she was born with black hair, Lowell could never escape her doomed fate. From being diagnosed at the age of ten with a terminal illness, to her family’s downfall and annihilation, up until she ended up here—she had never once been fortunate.
…But.
She had at least hoped that this—this one thing—wouldn’t happen.
Why must fate be so cruel to her alone?
At this moment, she could clearly read every flicker of emotion that surfaced on the Emperor’s face.
Anger, contempt, hatred—and longing. With a harshly twisted expression, the Emperor spoke.
“If you so badly wish to act as a substitute for the dead, then so be it. Try living as a corpse brought back to life.”
He laughed mockingly as he said this, then slowly smoothed out his features. Though he looked about to leave, for some reason he leaned closer, lowering himself until his eyes were level with Lowell’s. His gaze lingered on her for a long while, probing, searching.
In that look, she saw a reflection of herself just moments ago.
That desperate attempt to find differences in someone who resembled the one you had longed for.
It was a mirror image of her own despair from earlier. With the frantic heart of someone clutching at shards of glass, Lowell opened her mouth.
“…If I am Your Majesty’s ‘Lowell.’”
Instantly, the Emperor’s gaze deepened—no, grew heavier. It was as though he could crush her to death at any moment.
But Lowell didn’t care. Even if her hands bled from gripping broken glass, she didn’t know how to let go. She knew it wasn’t a rope that could save her, but the desperation that told her she had to hold on kept her from releasing it.
“Then… may I call you Peter?”
There was no answer. Lowell desperately hoped he would refuse. That she would never again have to utter that name in such a way.
But luck was never on her side.
“…Say it.”
“Peter.”
The word left her lips instantly, as if it had been waiting. She saw his brow knit faintly.
Of course. If he was the boy she once knew, then it had to be so. That boy had once been thrilled just to hear her call his name. Even the smallest things—meeting her eyes, their fingertips brushing—had filled him with joy he couldn’t contain. Lowell had known that Peter well.
Was this despair—or ecstasy? Unconsciously, her tongue craved the name again.
“Peter.”
Facing those pale blue eyes, Lowell raised her hand. Her delicate fingers, fragile as cut glass, reached toward his face. This was something young Lowell used to do often to young Peter—stroke the corner of his eye with her thumb while gazing into his eyes.
Back then, Peter’s heartbeat would always quicken, his brows furrow as his cheeks flushed red.
Just as the man before her now did.
Softly, her fingertip brushed his skin. Or rather, just as she felt it had—
His rough grip seized her hand, and in the next instant her body was forced down against the bed. His strong fingers clamped around her slender neck in a single, merciless motion.
“How dare you…”
The Emperor’s face bore no trace of laughter now. His voice, rough as a growl scraping his throat, rang in Lowell’s ear. Only then did she realize her predicament—that his patience had worn entirely thin.
The same suffocating tension she’d felt when he kissed her shot down her spine. Her breath was now fully within his grasp. In that sense, wasn’t the exchange of murderous intent much like a kiss? Both sought to steal the other’s breath. Perhaps love and hatred, too, were separated only by the thinness of paper.
Her throat ached from the pressure. If he lost just a fraction more of his control, her neck would snap like a twig.
Would he really kill her this time?
In that fleeting doubt, Lowell felt something wet slide down her temple.
It was a tear—purely physiological, born of suffocation, nothing to do with her will.
But absurdly, at that very moment, the hand clutching her throat slackened. With a short, ragged breath—like a sigh—the Emperor pulled away from her. He retreated so abruptly that one could almost call it flight.
Did he even realize what kind of expression he was making?
If someone had faced a living nightmare, surely they would look just like that.
Confusion, fear, and unease consumed his face—but only for a moment. He was not mad, after all. He understood that this was no dream, but reality.
And into the void left by confusion came fury.
“…Stop toying with my memories. It sickens me.”
Clack. The door shut. Only then did Lowell sit up. The flowers adorning her hair, crushed from the short time she had lain back, fluttered down around her like scattered petals.
“…Ha.”
But none of that mattered. Lowell laughed—a brittle, withered laugh.
Backed against a cliff with nowhere to retreat, unable to deny any longer, she laughed like someone who had gone mad. After a long, broken laughter, she stopped abruptly and whispered:
“Yes… it’s you. Peter.”
Her only lingering attachment. Her sole reason to live.
She could no longer deny it. The Emperor was Peter.
Why hadn’t she realized sooner? His name was Peter von Derayen Belpfgaard.
Had she focused too much on the imperial surname, von Derayen?
Or perhaps it was simply because the name “Peter” was so common. In truth, that was why she had never managed to find him all these years.
But now, every piece fit.
Why he wanted a noblewoman with black hair as his bride. Why she had matched those conditions so perfectly.
The boy who had loved her more than anyone a decade ago had still not forgotten her, though she was long believed dead.
It was laughable.
Because she had returned only to kill him.
As her eyelids lowered, a tear slipped down Lowell’s cheek. With a brittle voice like crumbling petals, she murmured:
“Peter, you should have killed me just now.”
When she entered the palace, her goal had been simple: kill the Emperor. Nothing else mattered if only she could end his life.
But everything had changed the moment she learned that the Emperor was the boy from her memories.
In that instant, ten years’ worth of love, longing, and affection she had nurtured alone collapsed into betrayal.
And nothing is more poisonous than love turned to ruin.
It was different from mere anger or vengeance.
She no longer sought simply the Emperor’s death.
You must despair.
Lowell intended to destroy him—just as she, just as her life, had been shattered.
She touched her reddened, swollen neck and closed her eyes.
Peter.
You’ll regret not snapping my neck when you had the chance.
“I like your hair. Because it’s black.”
When they were children, Peter used to brush Lowell’s hair every day. It took a great deal of effort to comb until it shone, yet Peter stubbornly insisted on doing it, always seeking that time with her.
Perhaps because it let him monopolize her.
Of course, Lowell always scoffed at him.
“The miller’s second daughter has black hair too.”
“But her eyes are brown. Yours are black.”
“How funny. Do you know how many black-eyed maids there are in our house?”
“Seven.”
This time, even Lowell was startled. She hadn’t expected such a quick answer. She began counting on her fingers one by one.
“Anna, Sophia, Marie, Lu… You’re right? You actually counted them?”
“How could I not, when I can see them?”
He said it so matter-of-factly, without a hint of boastfulness, that Lowell’s eyes narrowed.
“Then do you know how many maids have both black eyes and black hair?”
“…I don’t care. I only need to know you.”
“Liar. You know.”
Peter had always been precociously smart. If he knew how many had black eyes, surely he also knew how many had both black hair and black eyes. The only time he pretended not to know was when he wanted to pay attention only to Lowell. And she knew that.
When her lips pouted in the mirror, Peter’s hand paused in her hair.
“Lowell.”
Instead, he tilted his head to meet her gaze through the reflection.
“Do you dislike that I like you?”
It was a question too serious for a child, but Lowell liked that seriousness. She liked that he couldn’t joke about it, that he was earnest and honest with his feelings.
That was why she teased him with such mischievous questions—just to hear him say the words.
“I like everything about you, Lowell.”
Yes, that was what she wanted.
Hearing it, she quickly turned to look up at him, eyes sparkling black.
“Peter, would you still like me if I were a bad child?”
“Yes.”
“What if I were so sick that I’d die young?”
“I’d still like you, even sick.”
“Then… what if I treated you badly?”
“Yes.”
Peter always nodded. And truthfully, Lowell was more often ill-tempered than kind, often snapping at him. Yet Peter never wavered.
“As long as you don’t hate me, I’ll like you no matter what you do.”
