From that day on, the distance between Caelum and me slowly lessened, like a painting gradually softened by gentle, warm hues. Every afternoon, as the sun sank softly behind the hill, we would sit together in the small garden hidden behind the mansion. Lavender bushes framed the edges of the garden, their tiny purple blooms swaying in the light breeze, releasing a scent so sweet and delicate it felt intoxicating.

In the center stood a small oak table, covered with a pristine white cloth. Porcelain tea cups, adorned with fine blue patterns, held steaming tea whose fragrance mingled with lavender in the air — creating a peaceful world of our own, far removed from the noise and pressure outside.

Caelum, dressed plainly — in a thin white shirt and cream-colored linen trousers — looked so different from the stern emperor I know now. His silky black hair was neatly combed, and his deep eyes held a rare warmth as he carefully poured the tea and handed me a cup. The afternoon sunlight caught his profile, highlighting masculine lines I had never paid close attention to before.

I wore a simple, pale cream dress, just comfortable enough for sitting in the garden. The breeze stirred my hair and the lavender blossoms around us. Tea and floral scent wove together like a quiet melody meant only for the two of us.

Our conversations were small and tender. We spoke of trivial matters of the day, of private thoughts, of aspirations never voiced before. Soft laughter mingled with distant birdsong, and I felt my heart lighten, the loneliness and alienation that had weighed on me begin to ease.

Perhaps it was for the first time in many months that I truly felt close to Caelum — not as a disgraced prince or an aloof emperor, but as a gentle man who cherished the woman beside him.

And in those quiet moments, I felt something in my heart begin to change — still delicate, not yet named, but anchored enough to hold onto these rare peaceful days with him.

Even now, I rarely hear Caelum speak of the palace. Whenever I ask, he simply smiles softly and shakes his head, as if guarding some secret. All I am certain of is that he is the eighth son of the Emperor — a position that, according to all rules, offered no path to the throne.

Where were his seven elder siblings? Why had a prince born to privilege been sent to this remote hillside town, far from the capital's splendor?

Those questions lingered in my mind throughout our time together, but he never offered a satisfactory answer. Even on the day of his coronation, when the bright stage lights pierced the night, I stood on the outside looking in — watching him ascend a position he was never meant to have.

And to this day, I still do not know how Caelum — the eighth child — became Emperor, became the man I once called my husband.