Etharell awoke early the next morning. A few servants had already gathered around him. He still hadn't grown accustomed to having attendants silently waiting for their king to rise. Without delay, they brought over a bucket filled with cold water. Etharell moved to the side of the bed and began washing his face. In this world, the concept of a bath hadn't yet been invented. Even a king had to cleanse himself this way.
After silently vowing to one day construct a Roman-style bathhouse once he had found the traitors, taken his revenge, and won the war, Etharell allowed the servants to undress him. Using a clean cloth, the servants began to carefully clean their king's body.
Their cheeks flushed as they tended to him—perhaps a natural reaction, considering they were women, and he was a well-built man, fully exposed before them. Once Etharell was clean enough to be considered presentable, they brought in the day's clothing options. He chose the simplest one, deliberately avoiding the more extravagant choices, and the servants began dressing him.
To be treated like a baby every morning was, frankly, embarrassing. Yet, in some strange way, this peculiar form of service was oddly satisfying.
"So this is what it's like to be king..." Etharell thought to himself.
Fully dressed, the young king picked up a few sheets of parchment and left his chamber. At the door, he turned to the guard and ordered the council to convene immediately. The guard bowed deeply before hurrying off. Etharell then made his way to the gardens with Sir Caelen, his chief knight.
He hadn't had the chance to explore the royal palace properly during his previous life in this body. As he stepped into the garden, morning dew still shimmered on the grass.
The sun was slowly rising behind the stone towers of the palace, casting a golden calm across the grounds. The chirping of birds and the gentle breeze briefly pushed away the darkness clouding his thoughts. Sir Caelen walked in silence beside him, astute enough to recognize that his king was lost in contemplation.
Out of the corner of his eye, Etharell noticed a woman crouched in the garden, delicately tending to a rosebush. Her long, dark chestnut hair was loosely tied back, and her slender fingers trembled slightly as she clipped a bloom.
The light spilling over her shoulder made her skin appear even paler. In that moment, he thought—this woman doesn't belong here. She was too beautiful, too alluring. And oddly, the original Etharell had no memory of her.
"Who is that woman?" Etharell asked, turning to his knight.
Sir Caelen flinched slightly, then bowed his head and replied, "Lady Mirella, Your Majesty. She was the fiancée of your late big brother, Prince Thorian. She was permitted to remain here before the war began. Apparently, she enjoys tending to the roses. She helps the gardeners—of her own volition."
Etharell was a little surprised. But then he remembered the nature of the original Etharell's relationship with his brothers. Before the war, he hadn't lived in the capital. Only the crown prince typically stayed with the king, learning how to govern and managing the city as a sort of viceroy. It was both an opportunity for education and practical experience. And Etharell, predictably, was not the crown prince.
He and Thorian had never gotten along. In fact, they had openly despised one another. Thorian had been cold, calculating, and cunning—exactly the kind of man the original Etharell loathed. They had never seen eye to eye since childhood, which likely explained why Etharell had never been invited to the engagement.
When Mirella finally noticed them and lifted her head, a blank, distant expression flickered in her eyes for a brief moment. She quickly bowed her head in greeting, but Etharell raised a hand to stop her.
"Please," he said, his tone softer than even he expected. "You, Lady Mirella, are the last person in these lands who should be bowing."
His voice had come out unexpectedly gentle, even to his own ears. Despite being the woman once promised to the brother he had loathed, something in her eyes—a quiet sorrow—cut through him.
Sir Caelen respectfully stepped back, giving them space. Neither Lady Mirella nor the nearby servants responded. Even the birds seemed to fall silent for a moment, as if the crisp morning air carried the weight of something unspoken between the two.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Etharell said after a pause.
Lady Mirella slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were blue—not like the sea, but more like a frozen lake. Still silent, and hiding countless things beneath the surface.
"Thank you for your kindness and graciousness, Your Majesty," she said softly. Her voice was tired, yet refined. "Roses are silent. But they do not enjoy silence."
Etharell found the response odd, yet strangely moving. He couldn't take his eyes off her. There was something broken in this woman.
"I'll continue walking in the garden," Etharell said suddenly, without turning to Caelen. "I'll have some time before the council convenes. Give the lady some space."
"As you command, Your Majesty," the knight replied, stepping little more back to grant them distance.
Etharell approached Mirella. They began walking side by side. As the grass crunched softly beneath their feet, he allowed a few seconds of silence to pass before speaking.
"Did you love Thorian?" he asked directly.
Mirella didn't stop. She only smiled. But it wasn't a smile of joy—it was the kind that memories etch onto lips, laced with a quiet pain.
"I tried to understand him. But some people are difficult to truly know."
"Or... some people are far simpler than we imagine. You don't need to tread carefully when speaking of my brother. I hated him with every fiber of my being."
Mirella tilted her head slightly. She offered no reaction to Etharell's bluntness, nor did she leap to Thorian's defense. It was as if she had expected such a response. Yet she still refrained from speaking ill of the late prince.
Etharell gave a slight nod. "He was like a merchant—he'd turn even emotions into bargaining chips. I suspect he saw you as a kind of political investment."
Mirella stopped momentarily. Her gaze dropped to the ground, settling on a small white flower near her feet. She bent down, picked up a broken stem, and gently pressed it back into the soil.
"I knew he didn't love me," she breathed. "But he didn't hate me either. I just... existed somewhere in between."
Her words gave Etharell pause. *In between*. Neither friend nor foe. Neither prize nor threat. On the battlefield, there was no room for that kind of gray. And in the palace, things were not different. Everyone wore a mask, played a role.
Etharell couldn't tell if Mirella was too naïve to understand that—or simply too kind to care. Her family ruled a mid-level noble house in the empire. His brother had likely seen her as a convenient pawn.
But that strategy had been foolish. The Emperor of Raddonan wouldn't put his ambitions on hold for the sake of a middling noble family. No one knew exactly why the Emperor wanted this land, but one thing was certain—he, the emperor did want there. Which meant Mirella couldn't have been all that useful as a political tool.
Etharell kept walking. Mirella silently matched his pace. Despite the freshness of the morning air, a subtle tension lingered between them.
"Why did you choose to stay here?" Etharell asked, again without preamble.
Mirella glanced down as she walked. "During the war, this was the safest place. And now\... I have no reason to leave."
"So you're here because you have no other option."
She didn't answer right away. They walked several more steps before she finally spoke. "Some places don't remind you of who you want to be... but of what you've become. Perhaps that's why I stayed."
Etharell furrowed his brow. "And what do you think this place has turned you into?"
She turned her head to look at him. There was no sadness in her eyes—only weariness. "Someone who's learned to be silent."
Etharell came to a halt. Mirella stopped with him.
"Your family likely won't take you back. And you have nowhere else to go. If I win this war, you may remain here."
He realized his words didn't surprise her. Mirella merely looked at him more intently now, as if trying to understand his intentions.
"Don't misunderstand me," Etharell said. "I only wished to help. You don't have to give me an answer now. Until the war is over, rest here in my palace. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a council to attend."
Mirella spoke without bowing, her gaze steady on Etharell's.
"Thank you for the offer, Your Majesty. In this world, every kindly given option is a mercy."
She hadn't said it with flattery, nor with emotion. It was simply the truth, spoken plainly.
Etharell didn't reply. He searched her eyes for any sign of a hidden motive, but found none. No hope. No fear. Only acceptance.
"Rest well," he said at last, then turned and walked away.