In the lavish hall, the Queen sat upon her jade throne, propping up her smooth chin with one hand and leaning to one side. Her narrowed, slender eyes watched the pomegranate flower at her fingertips gradually lose its color, wither, and fall apart, leaving her somewhat lost in thought.
From budding youth to splendid bloom, from splendid bloom to decay, and finally to withering and silence—just like a love that had died.
The lingering fragrance of half a glass of red wine on the table stirred her scattered thoughts and evoked the Empress's distant memories.
The man she had once loved was a gaunt old man. He had not forced her to do anything, only telling her that she merely needed to see him through his final days. He had even smiled and said that the dances and songs she had learned to please men could be sung and danced to her heart's content whenever she wished.
That should have been a peaceful kind of love.
...Then came the man who had taken her away because he loved her. He had smiled and said that it would be amusing to make her submit, then watch her expression twist with regret.
That had probably been a passionate kind of love.
Although she did not regret killing him, the fact that he had loved her would not change.
She had thought that she would spend the rest of her life being fought over by men, drifting through her remaining years in vain.
Until the projection of a man appeared before her.
"In this era, using schemes to keep men wrapped around your little finger—I have to say, Semiramis, you are remarkable."
The man paused, open and utterly sincere.
"Rest assured, this is not sarcasm. It is praise."
That gaze still held the