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As long as she had her eyes on "Ryan Wayne," she wouldn't let him make one wrong move. This was Silveria Empire—her territory. She would not allow any political problems to fester under her watch.
'And I won't let political conflicts happen here… no matter how much I despise nobles and their schemes. But if they arise, I'll intervene. I always have. I used to live in that rotten world, after all…'
Her eyes lifted to the night sky.
The moon glowed bright, bathing the clearing in cold silver light. Scarlette's heartbeat faltered as nostalgia washed over her. Faint, distant memories brushed her ears like forgotten whispers.
'You should try this! It's really good!'
'What happened? Are you hurt?'
'Look at this! Isn't it amazing?!'
'I love you… my Empress.'
'Until the end of our time, you are my only one.'
'If there is a next life, I'll find you. I'll bring you back.'
'Please wait for me, my dearest…'
Scarlette's breath trembled.
She shook her head sharply.
"Enough," she whispered, barely audible.
These memories… she shouldn't allow them to surface. Yet they always did—always clawed their way up the moment the night turned quiet enough for her thoughts to echo.
'No matter what you wish for, nothing changes. The past is the past. And you… you are alone now. Forever, until the end.'
Scarlette repeated this to herself countless times. Over and over. A mantra. A chain. A truth she forced herself to swallow even as her heart rebelled against it.
But tonight… the memories refused to stay buried.
Her vision blurred.
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
Then another.
She bit her lip, trying to hold back the sob building in her chest. But the stars above—bright, cold, uncaring—reflected the ache she could no longer suppress.
Scarlette bowed her head slightly.
Her shoulders trembled.
And she cried—quietly, helplessly—for the first time in a long while.
Cried for someone who no longer existed in this world.
For a memory that would forever remain hers alone.
When she finally managed to steady her breath, Scarlette wiped her tears quickly with the back of her gloved hand. She inhaled deeply, restoring her usual stoic façade.
No one must know. Especially not him.
Just as she finished composing herself, footsteps approached.
Scarlette didn't bother turning—she already sensed him.
Ryan stepped into the clearing with bundles of firewood in his arms. At first, he looked satisfied with his load… but his smile faltered the moment he saw her face.
The air around her felt heavier—colder.
And Scarlette—despite her attempt to hide it—had reddened eyes.
"Scarlette?" Ryan called softly. "Are you… alright? You seem upset."
She didn't flinch at his tone. She didn't react at all, save for turning her face slightly away.
"Nothing," she said flatly. "I'm fine. Just thinking."
But Ryan heard the truth behind her words.
Her tone was raspy.
Her eyes carried a faint glimmer of dampness.
Her breath hitched just slightly, like someone who had been crying moments before.
Scarlette pretended not to notice his worried stare.
Ryan set the wood down and stepped closer—slowly, cautiously—as though fearing she might retreat.
He didn't push. He didn't interrogate. But his quiet presence filled the space between them with a strange warmth.
Scarlette's chest tightened.
She hated being seen like this.
But she hated even more that he noticed.
She looked away again, the moonlight glinting off her veil.
Then—unexpectedly—she spoke.
"Do you believe everything that happens has a reason?" Scarlette asked, voice low but unusually gentle.
Ryan blinked.
This was… different.
Her tone wasn't cold.
Nor was it harsh.
It was soft.
Vulnerable.
Almost… human.
Ryan hesitated before answering.
"I… think there is," he said honestly. "There are truths and lies we'll never fully understand. But even so, everything has a cause. We can't see it all at first glance… but the balance of the world always exists, in its own way."
Scarlette's eyes narrowed slightly beneath the veil.
Then she asked another question—one that carried far more weight.
"Then what happens," she murmured, "if that balance breaks?"
Ryan swallowed.
He wasn't sure where this conversation was going. Was she speaking metaphorically? About something she experienced? About something she feared?
He answered slowly.
"Logically… chaos would descend." He scratched the back of his neck. "But even chaos finds a new balance eventually. Maybe not immediately, but the world has its way of restoring order."
Scarlette stared at him.
Longer than necessary.
Long enough to make Ryan shift awkwardly under her gaze.
Her eyes… they look cold, but there's sadness in them. Something deep. Something she doesn't want to admit.
He wanted to ask.
He wanted to understand.
But he couldn't push her.
Scarlette finally turned her gaze back to the sky.
"You're naïve," she murmured.
Ryan blinked. "Eh—?"
"But…" she added under her breath, "perhaps that naïveté is what keeps the world from collapsing."
Ryan scratched his cheek, unsure if that was praise or an insult.
Then he hesitated.
"…Scarlette, if you're hurting, you can tell me. You don't have to pretend—"
"No."
Her answer was immediate.
Final.
She didn't even look at him.
Ryan's chest tightened.
He wanted to reach out—to place a hand on her shoulder, to offer comfort—but something told him she would recoil. Or worse… hearten herself further.
And yet…
Even if she hid her scars, even if she masked her pain, he could not unsee the sorrow in her eyes.
'She cried… and she's trying so hard to hide it. Why does it bother me so much? Why do I want to know what hurt her…?'
Ryan looked down, conflicted.
Scarlette sensed his gaze again and sighed.
"That's enough," she said. "Prepare the fire. The forest grows cold."
Her tone had returned to its usual calm indifference.
Her walls were back in place.
Ryan nodded, though his heart squeezed.
"Alright," he said quietly. "I'll get it started."
Scarlette kept her gaze fixed toward the sky, her expression unreadable behind her veil.
She listened to Ryan's footsteps softly moving around the campsite.
She kept her emotions hidden, buried deep…
where no one—not even Ryan—could reach.
But the ache in her chest remained.
And the stars above bore silent witness to her loneliness.
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