Chapter 01
It was a winter with no sign of thaw.
A dark brown carriage crossed the bridge leading into the imperial palace.
Beneath the gently curved bridge, an artificial waterway carried a clear, steady current.
Since its construction, the channel had functioned like a gate separating the inner palace from the outside world. As proof of that, the carriage rolled firmly across the smooth bridge and entered the palace grounds without obstruction.
After traveling a little further, the carriage finally slowed.
A servant who had been waiting nearby quickly approached and opened the door.
A man stepped out.
He exuded an overwhelming presence, dressed entirely in black from head to toe. He looked as though he would blend more naturally into the night than into this bright midday. Only his gold eyes, sharply luminous, tempered the oppressive impression.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“They are waiting inside, Your Grace,” the servant replied.
After the brief exchange, Valderion stepped into the palace.
Though he did not even possess the name reserved for the master of this place, he moved through the glittering imperial corridors without the slightest hesitation.
Following the servant’s shadow, Valderion extended his hand toward his aide.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Moses said, handing him a pair of gloves with practiced ease.
Valderion bit one glove between his teeth, then pulled on the right-hand glove first before sliding his hand into the left.
Moses observed his master closely, unable to fully conceal his discomfort despite this being only their arrival.
The man he served was not normally fastidious or obsessive. This behavior appeared only when he visited Crown Prince Dailen’s palace.
It was an excessive reaction—but somewhat understandable.
“We’ve arrived,” the servant said.
He opened a massive golden-framed door.
As the gap widened, an unpleasant odor seeped out, scraping against the nose.
Valderion entered without hesitation.
The first thing that caught his eye was a bed concealed behind a thin indoor curtain.
He slowly pressed a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it.
The servant, as if reading his intent from that single weary gesture, rang a bell placed nearby. Yet there was still no response from beyond the curtain. Sensing the situation, the servant brought a sofa and placed it beside Valderion.
He did not sit.
He had no desire to touch anything within this space—decorated entirely as belonging to Dailen.
Even the gloves were a precaution.
A way to avoid the sensation that something like mold might spread the moment his fingertips made contact.
“Sorry.”
The one he had been waiting for finally revealed himself several minutes later.
Soft, golden hair—like finely spun threads—fell in disarray. Beneath the hand that pushed it back, a face emerged, relaxed with the lethargy of someone who had only just woken.
“I didn’t realize you were already here,” Crown Prince Dailen said.
He wore a loosely draped robe under the servants’ assistance and slouched into the guest sofa, retrieving a cigar and placing it between his lips. After lighting it, he exhaled smoke and looked up at Valderion.
Then, as if something amused him greatly, he burst into laughter and held his forehead.
‘He’s still under the influence.’
Without question, he had been immersed in indulgence until dawn. Valderion assessed him expressionlessly.
“I didn’t call you here for nothing.”
Dailen stood, as though he had somewhere else to be entirely.
He gestured lazily with his head, signaling Valderion to follow. Valderion obeyed in silence. Not because he had any obligation to indulge the man’s whims, but because he wanted to end this business quickly and leave.
Dailen walked through the corridors in a robe barely held together at the front.
“Oh, right… do you remember?”
He rolled the cigar between his fingers as he spoke.
“The toy I used to keep.”
“….”
“The poor little Lyrette.”
The moment that name was spoken, they arrived.
Winter had reached its deepest point in the empire. The interior was normally kept warm, but this room was filled with an unsettling chill.
Valderion felt a cold sensation crawl up his spine.
“Her fever wouldn’t break, so I lowered the room temperature a bit,” Dailen said casually.
He walked toward the bed.
“This way.”
Dailen sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned him.
Valderion followed, wary of the man’s intent.
Only when he drew closer did he realize—there was a woman lying there.
“This is what I wanted to show you.”
With a faint, amused smile, Dailen pulled down the woman’s clothing without hesitation.
She was lying on her stomach. From Valderion’s angle, only her back was visible—thin, fragile, every bone clearly outlined.
But that was not what drew his attention.
Beneath the shoulder blades.
There, etched elegantly into her skin, was writing in black ink.
For a brief moment, his vision wavered.
It was too familiar.
“Take her,” Dailen said.
“….”
“She’s your woman now.”
There was no mistaking it.
It was his name.
“Recently she couldn’t even stand properly, so I wondered what was wrong.”
“….”
“Then your Name appeared.”
Until now, Valderion had remained composed. But at those words, his expression twisted.
Dailen smiled, as if he had expected exactly that reaction.
“Still, it’s fortunate she was in my possession. If it had appeared in some uncontrolled woman wandering freely, things would have become far more troublesome, don’t you think?”
While Dailen spoke in a smoke-laced voice, Valderion’s gaze remained fixed on the thin back.
The woman, previously thought unconscious, trembled faintly now and then like someone burning with fever. Each tremor made the name on her skin seem to pulse as well.
“About three days of high fever, and after that she couldn’t properly move her arms or legs. Likely a symptom of the Name.”
“….”
“Take her however you want. A carriage, your arms—doesn’t matter.”
Dailen stood, as though his business was concluded, and left the room without hesitation.
There was a world in which “Names” existed.
They were called fate. Or curse. Or sometimes illness.
The name of another person would appear on one’s body.
At first glance, it sounded romantic—almost miraculous.
But the problem lay in its randomness.
Names manifested without pattern, like a cruel prank of the divine.
It did not discriminate.
As a result, the relationships it bound together were equally arbitrary.
It could appear between lifelong friends, or bind mortal enemies into a forced destiny.
In Valderion’s case, it was clearly the latter.
“Did Your Grace confirm it personally?” Moses asked.
“Yes.”
Moses glanced at his master, unsettled by the sudden event.
Valderion sat with his legs crossed, looking down at the bed with a disturbingly calm expression.
At the end of his gaze lay the woman—secretly removed from the palace and brought in a carriage compartment.
As Dailen had said, she had been burning with fever for days. Her cheeks were flushed red.
Moses studied her face with Valderion before hesitantly speaking.
“Did you hear anything about her identity?”
“Yes.”
“…I see.”
The hesitation in his voice carried clear discomfort.
Valderion’s silence confirmed it.
Moses left the room, saying he would investigate everything related to the Name.
Left alone, Valderion rose and approached the bed.
He lowered himself slowly, though the mattress still sank under his weight. The woman’s hand near the pillow swayed slightly from the movement.
“….”
His golden eyes fixed on her hand.
He had never expected something like this to happen in his lifetime, yet he had still learned a few things about it.
Such as what became of those who manifested a Name.
Once it appeared, it bound the person—mind and body—irrevocably to the name itself.
More precisely, to the owner of that name.
Like a plant that needed sunlight and nutrients to survive, the bearer became dependent.
Without regular contact from the name’s owner, they would wither and die.
That was likely what awaited this woman.
His gaze dropped to her stiff, intertwined fingers.
“Did you hear anything about her identity?”
Moses’ earlier question echoed faintly in his mind.
Valderion leaned forward.
Even with his imposing frame casting a shadow over her, the woman did not move.
Yet he had a feeling.
When she woke and realized where she was—and what had been done to her—there would be chaos.
Because…
The poor Lyrette.
Her misfortune included his own involvement as well.
