The Day the Empress Was Born (1)
She emerged alone from the netherworld, yet plunged fearlessly into darkness. Even the all-knowing, all-powerful Goddess of Radiance might not grasp what this cold-eyed Empress pondered. Wherever her gaze fell, it became land beneath her feet.
—Excerpt from "Ten Most Influential Figures of the Human Race — The Betrayed Forbidden Empress: Kianna Heinkeksfield," Chapter 1, Section 3.
She was noble. She was iron-willed. With her invincible Red Heart Lion Knights, she conquered the land. Raising her Empress's scepter atop the highest peak, she basked in millions' reverent chants below. People sang hymns of praise. They celebrated wildly across mountains. They shouted in unison—
"Long live the Empress."
—Excerpt from "Ten Most Influential Figures of the Human Race — The Betrayed Forbidden Empress: Kianna Heinkeksfield," Chapter 1, Section 6.
...
Let me tell a woman's story.
More tragic than anyone. More tumultuous than anyone.
Her life brimmed with blood and tears. Death's shadow loomed, ready to snatch her away at any moment.
She was stunningly beautiful, with an exceptionally gentle nature. Her family was immensely wealthy. Highly educated, she wrote with elegant grace.
Her father was a merchant; her mother a teacher. A life meant to be happy was shattered instantly by her nation's imperial family.
Her mother was executed. Her father exiled. All family wealth was confiscated.
She was branded a mongrel of the Demonkin, a lowly subhuman.
She didn't understand why. Someone told her: her mother—the beautiful, gentle woman she'd never doubted, who always wore a hat to hide her ears and read storybooks to neighborhood children—was an evil, ugly Demonkin escaped from a seal.
Imprisoned for the "unclean blood" within her, she was violated by a middle-aged man calling himself Emperor, lured by her beauty.
She lived in darkness and dampness. She wallowed in humiliation and hatred.
Never seeing sunlight, constantly abused, she grew frail and pale with illness.
Unable to bear it, she planned suicide. But sadly, she discovered her pregnancy.
She hid it, surviving meagerly until childbirth.
Her belly swelled daily. Her body weakened daily. In the royal prison beneath Soniel Imperial Palace, no one visited except at mealtimes.
She gradually lost speech. She gradually lost the ability to walk.
Each day, she gazed at her belly, touched it, wearing a silly, tender smile.
She fantasized about returning home with her child, living with her parents.
She imagined becoming a teacher like her mother, guiding lovely neighborhood children.
—How wonderfully happy that would be.
She thought this.
But.
It was only a dream.
At dawn that day, all dreams shattered.
An infant's sudden cry broke the prison's silent dawn.
Soldiers, thinking she was escaping, rushed in with swords drawn. They saw only a dirty, disheveled woman—once beautiful—lying peacefully dead.
She died quietly in a damp, filthy corner.
Her legs were severely atrophied, unable to walk. Her frail body was speckled with white spots, reeking of filth.
But.
Amidst this misery, her face wore a happy, gentle smile.
Her right hand lay limp on the ground. Her left pressed a rag-wrapped "cloth ball."
Inside wailed a baby girl.
A soldier lifted the crude bundle. As he stood, he saw beneath her垂 hand a name scrawled in blood—crooked, ugly, nearly illegible.
—Qiana.
In the Human tongue, it meant "wings," "freedom."
"Where is the Second Imperial Princess?"
"I don't know. She was reading in the study earlier, but now..."
"Never mind. I'll find her."
Herathel—the dashing Dream Knight, advanced from Magic Knight, level 59, a step from the legendary Hero's gate—rubbed her forehead wearily. She waved, dismissing the study's maids.
As etiquette tutor and guard to the three-year-old Imperial Princess, she worried constantly.
Not because the princess was naughty... but because she was too obedient, too brilliant.
More well-behaved than anyone. More intelligent than anyone. At three, she'd self-taught the Human Continent's common language and grammar. Her pronunciation was fuzzy but precise; her handwriting stiff yet neat.
Not just literary talent—her occupational aptitude had awakened too.
On her third birthday, when she "accidentally" used water magic, Herathel's mind shattered.
Common knowledge: humans received occupational seeds from the Goddess at six, identified their class at ten.
Yet this princess wielded water magic at three.
Genius? Prodigy?
Herathel lacked words for this violet-haired Second Imperial Princess. Perhaps only divine talent explained it.
—Her future would shine brilliantly.
This was the knight's highest, simplest praise.
But what surprised Herathel was this:
When she reported the news to the old Emperor overnight, guards surrounded her. The Emperor warned, "See nothing, or die here."
Herathel chose survival.
After all, though a knight, she wasn't a rigid Temple Knight. She was a Magic Knight. A Dream Knight.
Herathel left the study, closing the door softly. She turned left down a long marble corridor.
Its floor, walls, and ceiling bore exquisite carvings. At its heart glowed the imperial crest—the Flaming Flower—crafted from red magic stones.
It symbolized: flowers never wither, flames never die; Sornton's light endures forever.
All passing it, except the old Emperor and one ancient duke, must bow their heads and bend their waists.
Herathel bowed to the crest, then continued.
She passed rooms where royal children took art and literature classes.
Sometimes, two or three little ones sneaked out, forcing etiquette teachers to chase them back.
—Imperial Princess Qiana was never so mischievous. Always well-behaved in class... But today, what happened? Where was she?
Herathel kept searching. Maids and stewards bowed; guards saluted. She nodded thanks.
Exiting the palace's back door, she stepped onto the marble path to the rear courtyard.
Her foot touched the stone—and she froze.
A small violet figure crouched in the corner.
"Wah... wah..."
She sobbed, tears and snot staining her purple-gold dress. Her small hands couldn't wipe them clean.
Herathel sighed. She knelt on one knee, gently pulling away the tiny hands. From her pocket, she drew a handkerchief to dry the tears and snot.
"What happened, my dear Imperial Princess Qiana?"
"I-I... heard... Father Emperor and my brother..." The three-year-old's voice trembled, body shaking.
"T-They said I... have Demonkin blood in me... uh."
Herathel covered the princess's mouth before she finished.
The child looked up, puzzled.
Herathel whispered with a bitter smile, "I guessed it long ago... but the truth is explosive. Promise me, Your Highness—never speak of this. Especially your blood."
Herathel's expression turned serious.
Little Qiana stared blankly, then nodded quickly at the furrowed brow.
"I-I know... I promise. N-Never... never tell!"
"Thank you, Your Highness."
Herathel stood, taking Qiana's hand to return to the study. After a few steps, she stopped.
The princess looked up.
Herathel turned, pulling a book from her cloth bag. Hesitating, she handed it to the child and patted her head.
"If you feel wronged or resentful, grow stronger. Strong like the Hero in this book—so no one dares defy your will. I believe you can, my Imperial Princess."
