1 p.m.
The cursed hour when the post-lunch drowsiness rolls in. Luan sat at the auxiliary table in the study, blankly staring into space.
“…”
Before his eyes was spread the domestic-economy report Kirian had handed over, but the letters were dancing. His brain had declared a strike.
There was a limit to running on sugar. What he needed right now wasn't sugar but a stimulant that would flow through his veins and slam into his central nervous system.
Caffeine… I need caffeine.
Luan's hand trembled. In his past life, he'd been a human who maintained a blood caffeine concentration of forty percent. He'd had to down three iced Americanos with an extra shot a day to manage even an ah, now I can function like a person state.
I can't survive on this plain water.
Luan rose from his seat like a zombie.
“Where are you going?”
Kirian, who'd been reviewing approval documents at the head of the table, looked up.
“I need to take some medicine…”
“Medicine? Are you ill somewhere?”
Kirian's gaze sharpened in an instant. After the man had made such a fuss over his back this morning, he set down his pen, wondering if something else had broken down.
“No. My mind's ailing. I'm going to go drink some coffee.”
“Coffee? You can drink it here. I'll call the chamberlain.”
“No. I have to brew it myself.”
Luan said firmly.
“The imperial recipe is too… feeble.”
Leaving those words behind, Luan staggered off toward the pantry. Feeble? Coffee brewed by the empire's finest chef? Feeling both curiosity and doubt, Kirian followed behind Luan.
A short while later, the imperial head chef was breaking into a cold sweat. It was because the way the Empress was brewing the top-grade beans was bizarre.
“If you brew it that strong… it'll be too bitter to drink.”
“It's fine. Just extract the concentrate. Double the amount.”
“T-two shots, you mean? It'll strain your heart…”
“My heart is sturdier than you'd think. Hurry, now.”
At Luan's urging, the chef extracted a dense espresso with trembling hands. A liquid so black it looked like poison filled the cup. Normally, the noble teatime culture was to add warm milk, rich foam, and a generous helping of sugar.
But Luan pushed away the sugar jar the chef held out. Instead, he picked up the ice bucket.
Clatter. The glass filled to the brim with ice. And over it, hot espresso and cold water were poured.
Hiss— As the ice melted, the black liquid sloshed. It was the birth of an iced Americano that looked ready to freeze your tongue at a glance.
“…Perfect.”
Luan gazed at the black liquid with eyes full of emotion. Just then, Kirian, who'd been leaning against the doorway, spoke up.
“What's that ghastly thing?”
“…!”
Luan turned in surprise. Kirian was glaring at the glass, brow fully furrowed.
“You said it was coffee. Why are you drinking pitch-black sludge with ice floating in it? Without even adding sugar?”
“This is real coffee. The flavor in its natural state.”
“Natural state, my foot. It looks like a torture device.”
Kirian wore an expression of utter incomprehension. With warm, fragrant tea right there, why on earth drink cold, bitter water?
Luan, unbothered, took a long sip of the cold drink.
“…Aah.”
The thrill of cold, bitter caffeine flowing down his esophagus. His heart pounded, and his blurred vision sharpened. His dying brain cells blew a wake-up bugle as if slapped across the cheek.
“I feel alive.”
It was an exclamation welling up from sincerity. Vitality returned to Luan's eyes. Kirian stared at the sight strangely. The man who'd been all but dying just moments ago had perked right up after one glass of that cold poison.
“…Is it good?”
“Would you like a taste, if you're curious?”
Luan held out the glass as if doing him a favor. Kirian took it with a suspicious eye. The chill against his fingertips felt unfamiliar. Kirian carefully took a sip.
“…Mngh!”
Kirian's face crumpled mercilessly. Bitter. Dreadfully bitter. And so cold his tongue stung.
“Pah! What is this?! It's like drinking water made from burnt charcoal!”
Kirian hurriedly sought out water and rinsed his mouth.
“You drink this and say you 'feel alive'? Have you lost your sense of taste?”
“It's an adult's flavor. Your Majesty hasn't tasted enough of life's bitterness yet, so you don't understand this deep richness.”
Luan shook his head as though genuinely sorry. At the sight, Kirian's eyebrow twitched.
“Ha. There's a mere three years between us.”
“…”
“I'm twenty, you're twenty-three. And yet you talk like some old man who's lived thirty years longer.”
“Those three years are significant.”
What, he was a kid whose ink hadn't even dried. Of course he'd known the man's age, but the original's depiction had been so brutal. Hearing the actual number was a shock all the same. But this side had its piece to say too. Luan, with an utterly serious face, bit down on the straw.
“In the working world, three years won't change the landscape, but it changes a person. It's time enough for innocence to be corrupted.”
“…Listen to him go on.”
Kirian clicked his tongue in amazement. A mere three years. Yet Luan's eyes seemed to hold more years than that—no, perhaps a weariness beyond them.
The face of someone who's lived a whole life at twenty-three. What in the world did he go through in House Requies?
Luan snatched the glass back and cradled it preciously to his chest. Kirian, marveling, gestured to the chef.
“From now on, prepare the Empress's coffee that way. And don't let it run out of ice.”
“Pardon? But Your Majesty, that lacks any dign—”
“The Empress says it's medicine. Respect his taste.”
Kirian spoke with feigned coldness and turned away.
“Come when you're done drinking. The afternoon's work is a mountain. We have to finish reviewing the domestic-economy report by today.”
The Emperor took the lead as if it were a given. But Luan didn't follow right after; he stopped where he stood.
“Your Majesty.”
“What. Need more coffee again?”
“No. The schedule needs adjusting.”
Luan gripped the iced coffee in his hand like the water of life and spoke decisively.
“I'll finish today's work even if I have to pull overtime. But tomorrow I can't come in.”
Kirian's steps came to a dead stop. He slowly turned to look back.
“…What did you just say?”
“Tomorrow I have to go to the temple. From now on, please designate one day each week as a temple-visit day.”
Kirian's eyebrow twitched. A weekly day off, in the busiest stretch. The caffeine had clearly given him a gall that outsized his belly.
“Look here, Empress. There's a mountain of work right now, and you want to go play at the temple? Do you absolutely have to go now?”
“It's not play, it's a duty. And it's essential for the divorce, too.”
At the word "divorce," Kirian's expression hardened.
“What does divorce have to do with going to the temple?”
“Because I have to undergo a purification rite.”
Luan tossed out the bombshell without batting an eye.
“Before the seal goes on the divorce papers, my body and soul have to be cleansed and purified. Only then can the divorce proceedings move forward without flaw.”
“…Ha.”
Kirian let out a scoff as if dumbfounded.
“Purification? Look here, Luanisiel.”
Kirian strode over and stood right before Luan's face.
“What have we done that we'd need purifying? We haven't laid so much as a fingertip on each other in the way a married couple would.”
There was nothing wrong with what Kirian said. They'd been separated for five years and had only just reunited a few days ago. All they'd done was eat, get put to work, and at most have knotted muscles pressed.
“We've never shared a bed or spent a night together. So what exactly are you going to purify? You need something to wash off before you can wash it.”
Kirian pressed the point as if wronged. But Luan snorted.
“Hmph. As if others would so kindly think that.”
“What?”
“You said you'd handle it, but rumors that we spent a steamy night together are already rampant throughout the palace. You said you'd handle it, and not one bit of it's been cleaned up.”
Luan fired off the facts dryly.
“In the eyes of the world, we're already a couple who've done it all. So I need a certificate proving that, formality though it is, I've purified my body through a sacred rite—otherwise there'll be trouble down the line.”
“…”
“Just think of it as an administrative procedure. Things have to be clean on paper to be tidy.”
Kirian was lost for words. To think the rumor he'd spread would come boomeranging back like this. Does this man have some kind of divorce manual in his head? To even use the temple in order to deny a relationship with the Emperor.
“…You ruthless thing.”
Kirian shook his head with a disgusted expression.
“Fine. Go and wash yourself very, very clean. Clean enough to peel the skin off.”
“Don't worry. I'll come back bleached by divine power.”
“In exchange.”
Kirian raised his index finger and gave Luan's forehead a light push.
“If you don't finish today's quota, there's no outing tomorrow. Finish it even if you have to stay up all night.”
“Understood.”
Luan turned away without a hint of regret. The sight of his back as he held the coffee cup was more resolute than ever. His obsession—toward divorce, and toward securing even a single weekly day off—was something not even the Emperor could break.
