Antenor emerged from the dungeon accompanied by a warm farewell—and a promise of reunion. When he stepped into the light above, Polus stood waiting with his broken neck, acting as though nothing had happened. Everything that had transpired below felt like a dream.
_Perhaps it really was a dream?_
As Polus approached, Antenor flinched, bracing himself. As usual, the captain placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, leaning his full weight into it—but instead of the familiar painful grip, today the touch was surprisingly light.
"Hey, Ante. You're late."
Antenor exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders at the address. This wasn't a dream after all. Polus never called him by such soft nicknames. _Sir Ante. Ante._ Only Evangeline Rohanson addressed him that way.
As the other knights had teased, he really had become her accomplice.
At that moment, a servant came sprinting toward them, drenched in sweat, clutching a report. The captain's face hardened as he read it.
"Knights of the order—**line up!**"
On command, everyone who had been laughing moments before—including Polus—snapped to attention.
"His Majesty the Emperor has ordered the capture of the criminal who murdered His Highness the Crown Prince."
Several knights glanced involuntarily toward the dungeon, but the name announced was entirely different.
"Tenebrae Reverdy, murderer of His Highness the Crown Prince, has escaped. Leave a minimum guard on the prison; all others are to search for Princess Tenebrae. Prepare to move out."
Antenor limped forward, adjusting his sword at his hip. A comrade watching him with displeasure spoke up:
"Captain, this one's limping. He'll only slow us down during the pursuit."
"True enough. Antenor—stay behind and guard the prison."
In truth, this stripped him of any chance to distinguish himself. But he accepted the order without argument, bowing his head obediently.
_Besides_, he thought, _it's more convenient to remain here—to carry news to Lady Rohanson._ As soon as his comrades departed, he would descend to the dungeon and tell her everything.
---
## — A Little Earlier —
When the Emperor, following Bishop Marik's judgment, declared Tenebrae guilty, a different rumor had already begun spreading among the people: that **Jeremiah** had murdered their father.
The source remained unknown, but whispers claimed it had all begun with Gabriel's suspicions.
The rumors spread slowly at first—then faster, like fire catching dry kindling—until they finally reached Jeremiah herself. Shaken to her core by accusations that she had killed her own father, she fell ill. Her twin sister, Tenebrae, nursed her through the fever.
"Tenebrae, did you hear?" Jeremiah's voice trembled, her face tear-streaked and pitiful. She clutched her sister's hand with desperate strength. "They say I killed Father... How can anyone say such terrible things?"
Her tears blurred everything, making Tenebrae's features swim and shift before her eyes.
"They say Captain Gabriel suspected me first."
The rumor that Jeremiah had killed the Crown Prince supposedly originated with him—the knight she had once admired. Now, the very thought of him filled her with burning hatred.
"He only wants to prove Lady Rohanson's innocence," Tenebrae said softly, stroking her sister's hair. "He's trying to shift the blame onto you, that's all. No one truly believes it. Don't worry, Jeremiah."
"Really?" Jeremiah sniffled. "But the rumors are so _loud_..."
Tenebrae studied her sister—this carefree girl who had always advised _her_ to ignore gossip, now trembling at the first whisper turned against her. Jeremiah, oblivious to the darkness settling over her twin's face, continued:
"You were right there with Father that night. Didn't you notice whatever scheme Lady Rohanson pulled? If you'd testified, everyone would know she's the criminal."
"But we're keeping it secret that we exchanged necklaces that day, Jeremiah."
"Oh... right."
Jeremiah nodded, her brow furrowing as she remembered.
Shortly before the Crown Prince's birthday, Tenebrae had come to her and begged to swap necklaces—just for a while. That day, her sister's face had glowed brighter than usual, radiant with desperate hope. She had practically pleaded.
_I want to dance the first dance with Father too_, Tenebrae had said. _But he only invited you. Let me at least pretend to be you—just once—and dance with him._
It was common knowledge that the Crown Prince treated his two daughters differently, though the carefree Jeremiah had never truly understood it. She had blindly believed their father's excuses: _Tenebrae isn't a good dancer. That's why I don't invite her._
"He probably still thinks you're a poor dancer," Jeremiah had said brightly. "Let's have you go to him under my name first, and then gradually we'll tell him the truth! Once he sees how much you've improved, he'll ask you himself next time!"
Ignoring the Emperor's strict orders to never remove their identifying necklaces, Jeremiah—confident everything would remain their little secret—had readily agreed to the exchange.
---
_"My beloved daughter, would you do me the honor of dancing with me in honor of your father's birthday?"_
Just by changing the necklace, Tenebrae had witnessed how dramatically their father's manner transformed. _Beloved?_ Unable to distinguish Jeremiah from Tenebrae without the jewelry, what kind of love could one even speak of?
Resisting the urge to strangle her naive sister on the spot, Tenebrae had waited. Patiently. She no longer needed to envy anyone. Those golden moments she had touched only once would henceforth belong solely to her.
---
"When you wake up, everyone will realize these are just rumors and calm down." Tenebrae's voice was honey-soft. "You're everyone's favorite princess, aren't you, Jeremiah?"
Jeremiah, soothed by her sister's words, nodded drowsily and closed her eyes. Exhausted by her tears, she slipped quickly into sleep.
After confirming her sister was truly unconscious, Tenebrae moved with practiced silence. She unclasped the green necklace from Jeremiah's throat and fastened the black one—her own—in its place.
_Is it stupidity and naivety?_ Tenebrae wondered, watching her sister's peaceful face. _The inability to suspect others—is it something you're born with? Or is it the self-assurance of someone who, having always been loved, is certain no one would ever dare harm them?_
She left Jeremiah sleeping and slipped from the room.
---
Her maid followed in silence, lips pressed tight. The further they walked, the quieter the palace corridors became, until Tenebrae finally entered a chamber so squalid it was hardly worthy of an emperor's granddaughter.
After Jeremiah's luxurious quarters—the silk drapes, the gilded furniture, the fresh flowers replaced daily—the contrast was devastating.
Jeremiah, on the rare occasions she visited, always dismissed it. _You simply love simplicity, Tenebrae._ Simplicity? These chambers had been allocated by the Crown Prince himself, but they couldn't be properly furnished due to meager funding. Scraps. Leftovers. What remained after everyone else had taken their share.
Remembering that naive, oblivious voice, Tenebrae felt something snap inside her.
She began destroying the room.
Furniture crashed against walls. A mirror shattered. Porcelain exploded into glittering shards across the stone floor. The maid didn't intervene—only watched with steady, knowing eyes.
When the room lay in ruins and Tenebrae stood among the wreckage, chest heaving, her rage finally spent, she allowed herself to be helped out of her clothes. As the maid removed her dress, she noticed the green necklace now resting against Tenebrae's collarbone and asked quietly:
"Lady Tenebrae, the necklace has changed?"
Instead of scolding her, Tenebrae nodded.
"Yes. Because you said, Saraka, that today you would be able to heal all the remaining scars."
"You did well."
Saraka's dark eyes moved over her mistress's body, cataloging what remained. Now, only the whip marks on Tenebrae's back survived—saved for last due to the extensive area they covered.
She retrieved the holy water and knife she had prepared and began her work, carefully cutting away the ridged scar tissue.
"A-ah—!"
Holy water poured immediately into the incisions. Members of the imperial family, having received the sacred blessing at birth, often possessed a heightened sensitivity to it, and Tenebrae was no exception. The moment the water touched raw flesh, new skin began to bloom—pink and smooth, erasing years of cruelty.
Outwardly, she appeared little different from Jeremiah. But beneath her clothes lay a map of suffering: cuts, marks from deliberate falls, poorly healed fractures, evidence of beatings, and the cruel stripes of the whip. How brutally had the Crown Prince treated her, that such scars remained even after all this time?
They didn't heal on their own. Each one had to be sliced deeper, doused again with holy water. And each time Saraka tended to another wound, Tenebrae felt the murderous rage rise fresh within her.
_I killed him_, she thought, _and I still want to kill him again._
Perhaps a single blow to the heart had been too merciful.
Sensing her turmoil, Saraka stroked her back gently—avoiding the fresh wounds—her touch unexpectedly tender.
"Don't torment yourself, my lady. I beg you—_enjoy_ this. Isn't becoming someone else a joyful preparation?"
Just as Saraka herself, in order to play the role of Bishop Marik, had disfigured her own lower face and hands with burns, so too must Tenebrae rid herself of every trace of her past. She needed a flawless body—unmarked, unblemished—if she was to replace the sister who had grown up bathed in love.
"I think I understand," Tenebrae whispered.
Saraka's words were truly comforting. Thanks to her, Tenebrae had finally taken revenge on the father who had tormented her for so many years. Tomorrow, Jeremiah would die bearing Tenebrae's name and Tenebrae's black necklace—and Tenebrae herself would step into her sister's golden life.
The thought made even the searing pain in her back feel **_sweet_**.
At the reception, they had discovered the truth: all they had to do was swap necklaces, and no one—not a single soul in the entire empire—could tell them apart.
"Meeting Bishop Marik," Tenebrae breathed, her eyes bright with something between gratitude and madness, "was the greatest blessing of my life."