The Tyrant's Happy Ending - Chapter 11.3

However, his birthright itself wasn’t bad, and with the powerful aura of being a cousin to the royal family, he had been tagging along with Lyle since they were young.

“W-what…! Your Majesty, how can you come here without your attendants…!”

“There is an attendant, isn’t there?”

Yernen glanced to the side, where Noah stood, shoulders squared in an attempt to look dignified.

“N-no… I mean, the other attendant…”

Yernen could tell who Stephan was searching for.

Russell Bohr. He was likely asking about Lyle’s planted informant. There was no point in responding to such a question about not bringing the spy along.

Yernen ignored Stephan’s ramblings and got to the point.

“Where is Lyle?”

It wasn’t as if he wanted to see him or would be glad to, but if Stephan was here, it meant Lyle was nearby, making him a useful marker.

“The Emperor… His Majesty?”

Stephan’s face twisted oddly.

“Never mind.”

Judging by his expression, Stephan didn’t seem inclined to talk. Yernen left him behind and started walking. Lyle had to be somewhere within the palace. Now that Yernen was inside its grounds, Lyle would surely hear of it.

Like a hunter, all Yernen had to do was find Lyle, wherever he was. There was no need to waste time conversing with a pointless person.

He’s probably in the office or the council room.

With that in mind, Yernen headed for the office, but it turned out to be unnecessary.

Lyle was just exiting the main entrance of the imperial palace.
It had been a while since he had seen that face. Just looking at it made anger bubble up in Yernen. But then, Lyle’s expression changed, looking suddenly strange.

“…?”

Why?

Why is he making that face?

From afar, Lyle shouted something.

The distance and the crowd muddled the sound, making it unclear. But a sudden sense of dread washed over Yernen, and he quickly turned to his right. And then—

“…!”

“Aaagh!”

A piercing scream erupted, filling his ears. The person it was meant for couldn’t even manage a cry.

“Huff…”

So, this is what it means when they say pain can silence a scream.

Yernen had lived through countless pains, burning agony that seared his insides. He had endured years of torment without ever knowing a moment of freedom from suffering. He had even once driven a blade into his own heart to end it.

He had experienced so much pain that he’d become desensitized to it.

But it had been two years since he last knew such suffering. Time, as always, dulled even the most excruciating memories. So, the blade piercing his chest now brought with it an excruciating clarity.

Crack.

“…!”

The sound of bones being split and twisted echoed in his ears. The metallic taste filled his mouth, and soon hot bl00d dripped past his lips.

Someone rushed over and roughly pulled the blade from his chest, followed by another who pressed desperately against the gushing wound. The scene erupted into chaos.

“Your Majesty… Your Majesty…”

Through fading sight, Yernen glimpsed Stephan’s panicked face as he pressed down on the wound, and Noah, eyes brimming with tears, unsure of what to do.

“Ugh…”

He wanted to scream against the onslaught of pain, but bl00d filling his throat stifled even that.

“Your Majesty…! Damn it, call a priest! Get a priest here now!” Stephan’s voice, filled with distress, shouted to the surroundings.

But Yernen’s vision darkened, unable to withstand the fiery agony in his chest. In the midst of numbing senses, he felt someone lifting him and starting to run.

In the blurry frame of his vision, he saw the face of the one holding him—urgent, desperate.

With that look, trying so hard to save me…

Why didn’t you show that face back then?

With that final thought, Yernen’s sight was swallowed by darkness.

He struggled to open his eyes, but it was no use. His eyelashes merely grazed his skin, tickling it. Despite that, Yernen pushed himself, trying to awaken.

A strange calm enveloped him, yet Yernen felt that the peace was off-key, unsettling. He started to trace back his memories.
“…I need to know why you tried so desperately to save me with that expression on your face.”

Lyle stood silent, his gaze averted. The steely mask he usually wore began to show cracks, and Yernen felt a confusing mix of irritation and unease churn within him. Suddenly, as if realizing something, Lyle slowly lifted his head.

“You have no idea the fear I felt the moment you stepped into the palace.”

The words came out of nowhere, catching Yernen off guard. He looked at Lyle with a bewildered expression.

“Fear…?”

“Yes. The fear of losing you. The thought of a world without you, where everything I’ve done becomes meaningless in an instant.”

The confession struck deep, piercing Yernen’s heart. In Lyle’s eyes, Yernen could see the raw emotion laid bare—an amalgamation of resentment, loathing, and a guilt buried so deep it had twisted into something else.

“Then why—why, if you longed so much for revenge—”

“Revenge? That was over a long time ago.”

Lyle lowered his head, his hands trembling slightly. Yernen stood there, at a loss for words, watching the man who had been both his tormentor and savior unravel before him. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, as the truth between them hung in the air, undeniable and unforgiving.

Lyle’s voice was even and resolute as he spoke, “Until the Eastern rebellion is subdued and I return to the capital, I appoint the Empress as acting ruler and transfer full authority to her.”

The words resonated through the room, an unspoken weight settling over everyone present. Yernen felt the full force of that responsibility shift onto him, the weight pressing down on his chest like a physical burden. He met Lyle’s eyes, eyes as cold and expressionless as a lifeless sea. Once, those eyes had been filled with warmth, with shared memories. Now, they were barren, devoid of any flicker of emotion.

Yernen’s gaze dropped to the ring Lyle placed in his palm. The Imperial Seal. It was something that had once been his, a symbol of power and sovereignty. Holding it again felt strange, not as empowering as he remembered, but instead heavy, like a shackle closing around his heart.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay composed despite the bitter aftertaste of it all. The hall was filled with eyes that would seize any sign of weakness, whispers ready to spread like wildfire.

“Understood,” Yernen said, his voice strong, though the bitterness underneath was unmistakable.

With that, Lyle turned away, the finality of his departure palpable. He didn’t spare Yernen another glance, his back a silent testament to their widening chasm. This was supposed to be a moment of duty, of trust exchanged, but it was saturated with silence, with the weight of unspoken thoughts and unresolved strife.

As the magic circle activated, the glow began to envelop Lyle and the elite guards. Yernen’s fingers tightened around the ring until the metal bit into his skin, grounding him in the bitter reality of their fractured connection.

Just as the light began to consume Lyle, Yernen’s voice sliced through the hum of magic, sharp and commanding, “Come back alive.”

Lyle’s body tensed for the briefest moment, a shadow of something unreadable crossing his features, before he vanished, leaving behind only the residual hum of the dissipating spell.
Yernen stood there in the bustling activity of the Imperial Palace, surrounded by a sea of people yet feeling completely isolated. The weight of command, heavier than any sword or crown he had borne, settled into his bones.

Iden Petra’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile as he gazed at the intricate stained glass before him. Reflected in its colorful fragments was not the image of a devout servant but that of an aristocrat—cold, composed, and steeped in ambition. He was the lone pope of the empire, the singular spiritual figure who ostensibly served the divine and the imperial bloodline. Yet, the truth was far more complex, hidden beneath layers of silk and pretense.

Moments earlier, he had watched from above, his fingers brushing the cool marble sill as Yernen and Lyle exchanged their final words before departure. The sight had stirred an old, simmering rage. It was the way Yernen, dressed in pristine white, had looked up at Lyle, that damned glimmer of something between longing and defiance in his eyes.

“Yernen Helio,” Iden whispered under his breath, fists clenching with the memory. That face, so infuriatingly familiar, brought back images of those distant days—when even trapped, even broken, Yernen’s eyes would wander, always seeking someone far beyond his reach.

The realization had come to him on the day of their wedding, as he watched Yernen’s gaze settle on Lyle. It was not the look of a compliant consort; it was a stare filled with suppressed desire, laden with history that Iden knew all too well. How could he not recognize it? The very same eyes, full of impossible dreams, that he had seen countless times on that damned island.

A furious growl escaped his lips as he slammed his fist against the wall, the pain grounding him in the present. The urge to drag Yernen down from his ivory tower, to sully that spotless exterior until he begged for mercy, clawed at him with relentless force.