Helena glanced at the dining table out of instinct.
Before she knew it, the night had grown deep.
The chill of late autumn seeped in through the window cracks, spreading through the luxurious private room. The once steaming, fragrant fine dishes on the table had now completely cooled. On the thick soup, a thick layer of unappetizing white fat had formed, and the meat juices from the steak had turned into a murky brown jelly.
The full table of leftovers mirrored the present ravaged situation. Glorious on the outside, stiff inside. Only a layer of nauseating grease remained. Like the current situation, no one wanted to continue dining, no one wanted to reheat. Only the teacups before the three of them still emitted faint wisps of steam.
Helena reached out, gently waving her palm above her teacup. Her movements were very slow, her slender, delicate fingers tracing phantom arcs in the air. It was as if she wanted to fan away the rising white steam, or perhaps to disperse the chaotic, tangled thoughts in her mind.
The steam was scattered by Helena’s hand, turning into formless moisture that clung to her gloves.
Helena gazed at the endless rising mist, her eyes becoming distant and pained.
This was just like—
Bulaien and Helena. Helena and Ian. Empire and Duchy. Empire and Holy Kingdom. The late Emperor and the King of the Duchy. One ring after another, each soaked in blood and tears, ultimately woven into a suffocating net. Impossible to cut, impossible to sort.
“To be honest, even now… I still don’t know what to do, what would be right. For so many years, I’ve just been driven by the anger and hatred inside me, tormenting myself… But I still have to do it. If it were you, Lucia, if it were you and the one you love—if letting go of hatred and past unpleasantness would bring happiness, would you choose to let go?”
Helena looked up, gazing through the swirling steam at the young girl across from her, the one who resembled her so much.
Her expression became complicated, as if she were recalling her younger self.
Helena’s voice trembled slightly.
“If you had a beloved—maybe not the hatred between you and him, but hatred between families, or between races. If you let go of the hatred in your heart, let go of those bloody unpleasantnesses of the past, and could gain happiness with him…”
The corner of Helena’s lips curled slightly.
“Would you choose to let go?”
Lucia answered quickly.
“I don’t know… Maybe some hatreds can’t be erased. Just like the undead Bulaien mentioned, maybe there are none to begin with. But if he were alive, and the identity of the late Duchy King’s son were revealed, I’m afraid people would gossip about him.”
The white high heel dangling from Lucia’s toe stopped swinging. She sighed.
“Those closely related who hide are one thing, but even complete strangers, if they knew the truth, would criticize him for being weak, or for selling out to his father’s murderer.”
Helena lowered her head.
“So… that’s why he’s been tormented. After all, the people who first pushed him to become the Great Archbishop of the Holy Church—even if most of them chose to understand and step back, there will always be a small minority, right? If this news breaks out, just one person in the know is enough.”
She looked at the gradually cooling tea in the cup.
The originally boiling liquid no longer steamed; it was completely calm. It seemed that the rising steam was gradually decreasing, just like the turbulent history that would eventually settle into stillness.
Helena picked up the teacup and drank the now-cool, somewhat bitter tea in one gulp.
Just then, Mia, who had been waiting silently nearby, stepped forward soundlessly.
Her oil-slick black-stockinged feet stepped on the carpet without making a sound. She lifted the delicate teapot and carefully refilled Helena’s cup.
Gurgle…
The slightly hot tea poured into the cup, stirring up a whirlpool, then thick white steam rose again, blurring Helena’s vision once more.
In fact, wasn’t this tangled relationship the same?
Just let it go, just abandon it like that cold cup of tea.
But there will always be someone who wants a refill, someone who can’t give up, someone who can’t let go of that warmth.
Humans are social animals; they can’t avoid interaction with others. To say one can act entirely freely according to one’s own will, disregarding others’ interests and public opinion…
It might just be labeled as selfish, right?
One’s own will versus the pressure of the group—sometimes it’s a difficult dilemma.
Helena picked up the steaming tea again, feeling the warmth of the porcelain cup through her fingers, but in the end she didn’t drink it again, just held it in her palms to warm them.
“And besides… Bulaien… in a sense, he doesn’t have the upper hand either. Although he was just a bastard, it was precisely because he was that king’s finest bastard that he was treated that way. In reality, the former king never gave him much care.” Helena’s voice was somewhat distant.
“He didn’t even know of his existence before he entered the orphanage. It was only after his mother’s death that the orphanage handled it according to some established procedure. The king happened to see him when inspecting the orphanage.”
Lucia raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t they look into that?”
“Because at that time… all the orphanages in the Duchy were state-sponsored. Naturally, they investigated. Other suspicious children besides him were also found and dealt with.” Helena smiled, and as the conversation deepened, her smile became more strained.
“But Bulaien’s mother was originally a nameless country girl, no one even knew where she came from, her records completely blank. In the end, he was lucky enough to escape that purge. At the time, everyone around him only thought he was a kind, good child.”
Helena looked at her daughter and spoke softly.
“Just like how you hate me, Lucia. Even if you hate me, we are still connected by blood. As your mother, I can say that I look almost exactly like you. If nobody cared about the identities of ‘Empress’ and ‘Imperial Princess,’ if we wore the same clothes and walked down the street, people would think we were a close pair of silver-haired mother and daughter.”
Lucia crossed her legs, her long legs wrapped in pristine white lace stockings tightening under the table.
Her previously relaxed thigh muscles suddenly contracted, the delicate lace edge deeply digging into the plump flesh at the top of her thighs.
At that moment, Lucia’s toes curled tightly against the insole, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
“Yes… even though you never came to see me for five years, Your Majesty the Empress. I’ve heard that name so many times it’s grown calluses.”
Helena smiled bitterly.
“Same here… people I talk to always use you as a conversation topic. Some even use pitying tones and expressions to show me condolences. But what right do I have? In the end, I can only answer: Lucia is Lucia, not Helena.”