246: Chapter 0001 Red Velvet - IRACEBETH (The Tragic Fortress of the Crimson Queen)

IRACEBETH: The Crimson Fortress

—A dark fairytale novel based on Red Velvet's concept album

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Prologue: Crimson Invitation

(Corresponding to: Intro)

The castle's stone gates swung open slowly without being pushed, the hinges letting out a groan as if rusted for centuries. Inside was not a magnificent hall, but a deep, dark corridor where the dark red patterns solidified on the walls looked like dried blood or splattered jam.

A woman's voice drifted from deep within the castle, low and lingering, like a sigh rising from beneath the water:

"Welcome...to my crimson castle."

(Welcome... to my crimson castle.)

The voice bounced off the stone walls, splitting into countless echoes. Passing through the corridor, the ceiling of the throne room was so high it vanished into the darkness. In the very center, beneath a heavy, blood-colored crown, Irene—or rather, Iracebeth—leaned against the throne. Her head was indeed larger than an ordinary person's, but it was not a deformity; rather, it was an awe-inspiring majesty. Her fingers lightly tapped the armrest, each beat precisely fitting into the gaps of the distorted music box melody in the background, intertwining with the distant ticking of a clock and her own faint but persistent heartbeat to form an eerie overture.

"The only home...I’ve ever known."

(The only home... I've ever known.)

She looked up, her crimson eyes devoid of warmth, filled only with a scrutinizing curiosity as she stared into the void, as if an invisible visitor were standing there.

"Do you like it? Or...should I say..."

(Do you like it? Or... should I say...)

The corner of her mouth curled into an arc that could hardly be called a smile. Then, her volume suddenly spiked, becoming sharp and piercing. That famous and terrifying declaration struck the silence like a judge's gavel:

"'OFF WITH YOUR HEAD?'"

("Off with your head?")

The air seemed to freeze the moment her words fell. The ticking of the clock skipped a beat.

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Chapter 1: The Ticking Childhood

(Corresponding to: Verse 1 - Wendy)

Tick-tock, tick-tock, the teeth of the clock gnaw at childhood.

(Tick-tock, tick-tock, the teeth of the clock gnaw at childhood.)

Fragments of memory flooded in first. They weren't in warm tones, but cold, precise, and measured images.

A young Iracebeth stood before a gilded full-length mirror taller than herself. In the mirror, the girl's golden curls were meticulously groomed, and she wore a princess crown embedded with tiny jewels. However, everyone's gaze—including her own—found it difficult to look away from that overly prominent head. It wasn't ugly, but it was an unsettling "abnormality." The gazes of the court tutors, the maids, and even her parents would always linger there for an extra second, a silence sharper than any criticism.

The shadow in the mirror, a head more prominent than the crown.

(The reflection in the mirror, the head more prominent than the crown.)

"An endless corridor, filled with cold praise."

(The corridor has no end, paved with cold praise.)

The palace corridors seemed endless, the marble floors polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the murals on the ceiling depicting the feasts of the gods. She walked past, holding her hem, as the card soldiers standing on either side (who wore more ornate court guard uniforms back then) bowed stiffly. Words of praise spilled from their mouths like lines rehearsed a thousand times: "Her Highness looks radiant today." "Her Highness's etiquette is impeccable." The words were perfect, but the tone was so flat it lacked any fluctuation, like reading a list. These words fell upon her, bringing no warmth, only adding weight.

"'My dear princess, why... can't you be a little sweeter?'"

("My dear princess, why... can't you be a little sweeter?")

Her mother's voice. It always carried a certain measured regret. During tea time, the silver three-tiered stand was filled with exquisite pastries, and the strawberry jam on the scones shimmered with an overly vibrant luster. Her mother would spread the jam for her personally, her movements elegant but with a laboratory-like precision—just enough to cover the surface, not a drop reaching the edge.

The jam on the plate hardens like a blood clot.

(The jam congeals on the silver spoon, as vivid as a blood clot.)

Sweet admonitions seep into the cracks of the marble.

(Sweet admonitions seep into the cracks between the marble.)

Those "for your own good" teachings wrapped around her like thick syrup. Her posture, the arc of her smile, the volume of her words, even the timing and intensity of her crying were all governed by unwritten rules. She was a gem that needed to be carefully polished to be set into the royal crown; any natural edge was a flaw.

I learned to smile; the angle must be precise to the millimeter.

(I learned to smile; the arc must be precise to the millimeter.)

She practiced in the mirror. Which facial muscles to lift, how many degrees to turn up the corners of her mouth, how much to crinkle her eyes—only then could she construct a "proper, friendly, yet noble" princess smile. Day after day, until her facial muscles developed memory, until that smile became the mask she wore most often.

Until the face stiffens, until it becomes another mask.

(Until the face stiffens, becoming another mask in the exhibition.)

The girl in the mirror's eyes gradually grew hollow. The real Iracebeth—the one who would be sad because the roses in the garden were pruned, who would secretly hide a piece of candy that was too sweet, who was curious about the starry sky—was wrapped layer by layer and sank into the deep pool of her heart.

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Chapter 2: The Tea Party of Loyalty and Madness

(Corresponding to: Pre-Chorus 1 - Seulgi)

The Mad Hatter walks loyally and madly at the tea party.

(The Mad Hatter paces at the tea party, loyal and frenzied.)

Perhaps the only bright spot in her upbringing was Seulgi—the attendant, or rather, playmate, who had been assigned to her but somehow held a sincere (though equally twisted) affection for her. During Iracebeth's limited free time, Seulgi would host small, mad "tea parties" for her. The location might be a corner of the kitchen or an abandoned tower. The tea set was chipped porcelain, and the snacks were secretly saved biscuits. Seulgi would wear a ridiculous top hat found from who-knows-where and pour "tea" (sometimes just water) with exaggerated movements, saying nonsensical yet amusing things in an attempt to make her laugh.

"'Your Majesty! Give the order! Tell the clock hands to turn backward!'"

("Your Majesty! Please give the order! Let the clock hands rotate in reverse!")

Seulgi was the only one who called her "Your Majesty" long before Iracebeth was crowned. She was also the only one who saw through her fear and hatred of the clock that controlled everything and devoured time; she would jump up, pointing at a non-existent clock and shouting that she would reverse time for her, returning to "before those bad things happened." This loyalty was so fervent it bordered on madness, yet it was the only real source of warmth in Iracebeth's cold world.

The card soldiers line up, their heartbeats a unified drumbeat.

(The card soldiers line up, their heartbeats a unified drumbeat.)

But the world outside the tea party was strictly ordered. Guards, servants, ministers... everyone acted as if they had been wound up, moving in unison with blank expressions. Their existence was not to serve a specific person, but to maintain the abstract concept of the "Royal Family." Their heartbeats, if they could be heard, would perhaps be a synchronized drumbeat, pounding out a rigid rhythm.

I grip the scepter tight; I must pierce my palm to maintain the king's mask.

(I grip the scepter tight, piercing my palm to maintain the monarch's mask.)

Her father died suddenly, and her mother passed away in grief shortly after. The crown fell unexpectedly onto her "abnormal" head. At the coronation ceremony, she held the cold, bejeweled scepter, feeling its heavy weight. Gazes from all directions—scrutinizing, doubting, expecting, calculating—pricked her skin like fine needles. She had to keep her back straight and her expression flawless. Her nails dug deep into her palm, the sharp pain keeping her conscious and maintaining the even larger mask she had just put on, the one named "Queen."

Every brick and block of this castle, high walls built of expectations.

(Every brick and tile of this fortress is a high wall built from expectations.)

This castle had been her entire world since birth. Every stone was soaked with generations of expectations, rules, and traditions. They built up high walls that both protected and imprisoned her. She was the "masterpiece" born within this fortress, and also the most prominent "outlier" under its rules.

I am the most perfect work, the most deformed collection.

(I am the most perfect creation, and the most deformed piece in the collection.)

She finally understood that in the eyes of her parents and the courtiers, she might have always been a collector's item: a piece that needed to meet certain standards to be displayed, where any "deviation" would lower its value. Perfection and deformity were paradoxically unified in her.

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Chapter 3: The Coronation of Tyranny

(Corresponding to: Chorus 1 - All)

Coronation was not the end, but the beginning of a longer torment. Beneath the courtiers' surface submissiveness, undercurrents swirled. Whispers were like the mold that could never be fully removed from the castle, festering in the shadows. They talked about her head, her unmarried status, and every decision she made that didn't fit the template of a "traditionally wise monarch."

So cut them off! Cut off those whispering heads!

(So cut them off! Cut off those whispering heads!)

Finally, one day, upon hearing suppressed snickers from behind a pillar once again, the anger, resentment, fear, and loneliness that had been accumulating since childhood, mixed with the cold power she gained after taking office, exploded. She spun around, her crimson hem cutting through the air, her voice not loud but carrying a metallic tremor that echoed through the silent hall:

"Seize them."

It wasn't a request, nor a negotiation; it was a command.

When the guards dragged the two ashen-faced courtiers before her, she looked at their faces, twisted with fear. What welled up in her heart wasn't pleasure, but a deeper sense of desolation. But the arrow had already been shot; there was no turning back. She had to let everyone know who the sole master of this castle was.

“진홍색이 내 드레스를 적시게, 그래야 제대로 된 여왕 같아!”

(Let crimson soak my hem; only then will I look like a proper Queen!)

The sentence was carried out quickly. There was no long trial, only her brief command. Blood splattered onto the white marble floor, inevitably staining the edge of her skirt. That splash of red stung the eyes of all who watched, and it seemed to add the first stroke of her own cruel color to her pale world. As it turned out, making people fear you was much easier—and much more 'effective'—than praying for their love.

“내 고독은 성벽이고, 사랑은 이미 녹슨 창문이야”

(My solitude is a fortress; love is a window long since rusted shut.)

The tyranny began. The phrase "Off with his head" became her way of solving most problems. Simple, direct, and silencing. The whispers in the castle vanished, replaced by a deeper silence and more frequent, uncontrollable trembling. She gained absolute obedience and built higher walls of solitude. Love? That window had rusted shut long ago and could never be opened again.

“나는 왕좌에서 대관식 올려, 함께 춤출 사람 없는 황량함을!”

(I crown myself upon the throne, crowning this desolation where no one dances with me!)

She sat upon the cold throne, looking down at her subjects who prostrated themselves, not daring to lift their heads. Grand balls were held as usual, but no one dared to invite her to dance. The music was magnificent and the dresses fluttered, yet she felt as if she were standing in the center of a bustling desert. The weight of the crown pressed clearly upon her head and her heart. What she had crowned was not glory, but this boundless desolation that no one could share.

The music (imaginary, or played by trembling castle musicians) reached a climax at this moment. The orchestra roared, mixed with cold electronic beats, like the externalization of her inner storm. Wendy's voice led the chorus—it wasn't a hymn, but a scream squeezed from the cracks of a soul, mixed with pain and violence:

“IRACEBETH! 진홍은 내 피눈물의 이름!”

(IRACEBETH! Crimson is the name of my tears of blood!)

“IRACEBETH! 광기는 나의 유일한 갑옷이자 상처!”

(IRACEBETH! Madness is my only armor and my wound!)

Iracebeth. This name was no longer just a flat villain's code in a fairy tale book. It was the color of blood mixed with tears, an armor forged of madness that both protected and hurt her, and the deepest, most painful wound on her body.

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Chapter 4: The Storm and Curse in the Mirror

(Corresponding to: Verse 2 - Irene/Rap)

In the dead of night, the castle was like a sleeping giant. Iracebeth dismissed everyone and came alone to the massive standing mirror. Reflected in the glass was a Queen wearing a crown and deep red finery, her eyes sharp and her posture majestic. But only she knew what lay beneath this shell.

“봐. 그 절하는 신민들. 눈동자가 인형처럼 텅 비어.”

(Look. Those bowing subjects. Their eyes are as empty as a doll's.)

She spoke to herself in the mirror, her voice a cold accusation and a painful introspection.

“날 잔혹하다고 해. 이 머리엔 폭풍과 저주가 들어있다고.”

(They call me cruel. They say this head contains storms and curses.)

The rumors outside were like this: The Red Queen's head was massive because it was stuffed with storms and malicious curses, which was why she was so cruel. They demonized her—a convenient excuse to explain everything unconventional.

“그런데 누가 물어본 적 있어. 이 무거운 머리가. 어릴 때 얼마나 차가운 ‘관심’과 ‘연구’를 견뎌냈는지?”

(But has anyone ever asked? How much cold 'attention' and 'research' this heavy head endured when I was a child?)

Who cared about the truth? Who asked how much 'for her own good' measurement, observation, evaluation, and correction this head—which had drawn attention since childhood for its 'strangeness'—had endured? Those gazes, those whispers, those efforts to 'pull her back onto the right track' were more devastating than any storm.

“어머니의 미소는 자였고, 아버지의 입맞춤은 훈장이었어. 가장 규격에 맞는 초상화에게 수여하는.”

(Mother's smile was a ruler. Father's kiss was a medal. Awarded to the portrait that best fit the specifications.)

Maternal love and paternal kindness were conditional. Only when you met a certain standard—excelling in etiquette exams, behaving properly in diplomatic settings, or even just being quiet and not causing trouble—would you receive a sliver of a commending smile or a symbolic, encouraging kiss. They weren't warm nourishment, but markings on a scale, medals awarded to a compliant work of art.

“나는 나를 분해했어. 그들이 사랑할 모습을 맞추려고. 남은 건 바닥에 흩어진 파편들과 점점 더 아파오는 태양 하나.”

(I dismantled myself. Trying to piece together the version of me they would love. But only shards scattered on the floor remain, and a sun that aches more and more.)

She had tried so hard. Dismantling her nature, her preferences, and her emotions, trying to assemble them into the shape her parents, the court, and even the entire kingdom expected. And the result? Her true self was broken into pieces, scattered across the floor. Meanwhile, the anxiety of failing to meet expectations, the grievance of not being recognized, and the longing for love were like a sun in her chest, constantly expanding, heating, and burning, threatening to incinerate her from the inside.

“그래서 나는 규칙을 녹여 쇳물로, 새로운 법을 주조했지: ‘나를 작게 느끼게 하는 모든 것은 사라져야 한다.’”

(So I melted the rules into molten iron and cast a new law: 'Everything that makes me feel small must disappear.')

Since I cannot fit your rules, I will create my own. Since your love is conditional, I will demand unconditional fear. Since you make me feel so small, abnormal, and unworthy, then every person, thing, and matter that evokes this feeling in me has no need to exist. This was her logic after despair—twisted, yet self-contained.

“공평하지 않아? 결국 이 성 안에서, 나는 진정으로 거대해진 적이 없으니까.”

(Isn't it fair? After all, in this fortress, I have never truly been grand.)

She gave her reflection a smile that was almost harrowing. Fair? In this fortress built of expectations and discipline, when had there ever been fairness? She had never felt truly powerful, safe, or accepted here. So, what was wrong with using fear to 'appear' powerful? This was the most 'fair' response she could give to this twisted world.

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Chapter 5: The Cheshire Cat's Mockery and the Loneliness of the Feast

(Corresponding to: Pre-Chorus 2 - Joy)

Not everyone feared her. For instance, Joy, the court jester—or rather, observer—who was elusive and always wore a mysterious smile. Like a Cheshire Cat, she often appeared in unexpected places—on beams, behind curtains, or even in plain sight—watching everything with eyes that seemed to see through it all, including Iracebeth's tyranny and loneliness.

“체셔 캣이 들보 위에서 웃어. 입꼬리가 귀까지 올라가. ‘모든 건 단지 게임일 뿐이야, 친애하는 폐하.’”

(The Cheshire Cat laughs upon the beam, the corners of its mouth stretching to its ears. "Everything is just a game, my dear Majesty.")

During a court session, when Iracebeth flew into a rage over a trivial matter again, Joy's voice drifted down lightly from above. There was no reverence, only a playful, almost mocking reminder. She reminded Iracebeth that this cruel game of power, this serious court life, might essentially be just an absurd play.

“‘진실은 잼보다 더 끈적이고, 즐거움은 녹은 아이싱 같아.’”

("Truth is stickier than jam. Pleasure is like melting icing.")

Sometimes, Joy would lean in and speak unsettling 'truths' in a sweet voice. Truth was often uncomfortable, sticking to one's hands like jam that was hard to get rid of; while fleeting pleasure was as fragile and illusory as icing melting rapidly under the sun. She was hinting that the absolute control Iracebeth sought and the violent pleasure she immersed herself in might be just as illusory and fragile.

“그녀는 눈을 깜빡이고, 조롱하는 연기만 남기고 사라져.”

(She blinks and vanishes, leaving only a plume of mocking smoke.)

After saying these things, Joy would usually vanish like mist before a response could be given, leaving only the faint, lingering shadow of her signature smile and an air of mockery. She never directly disobeyed, yet she always managed to shake the defenses Iracebeth built with her anger.

“그리고 나는 만찬을 지켜. 칼과 포크가 부딪히며 외로움의 선을 그어.”

(And I keep watch over a table full of feasts. Knives and forks collide, drawing arcs of loneliness.)

The loneliest moments were perhaps the grand state banquets. The long table was laden with delicacies from across the kingdom, silver gleaming and crystal glasses refracting candlelight. Iracebeth sat at the head, flanked by high officials and foreign envoys who were as quiet as cicadas in winter. The sound of knives and forks clattering against porcelain was amplified in the overly quiet banquet hall; every clink was like a line of loneliness drawn upon a silent canvas. No one dared to converse with her casually, and no one dared to meet her eyes with a smile. She presided over this feast, a symbol of power and plenty, yet she tasted only a loneliness that seeped into her very marrow. Joy's words seemed to echo in her ears at that moment: Look, this is the game you 'won'.

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Chapter 6: The Girl in the Blue Dress and the Light upon the Ruins

(Corresponding to: Bridge - Yeri)

The kingdom maintained a fragile peace under high pressure, until that girl appeared.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

"Later... a girl arrived. A blue dress. Eyes full of curiosity."

She called herself Yeri, having wandered into the castle by mistake. She was completely out of place with everything within its walls. She did not fear the card soldiers, even curiously poking their stiff armor; she felt wonder rather than fear at the twisted corridors and eerie decorations; her most striking feature was those clear eyes, unpolluted by rules, brimming with pure curiosity.

"She said all of this was 'strange'. Said we needed to 'wake up'."

Yeri was blunt. She thought the order to behead was 'very strange,' thought it 'very strange' that everyone feared Iracebeth, and found the oppressive atmosphere of the castle 'very strange.' She was not being provocative, merely expressing her confusion with sincerity. She even said to Iracebeth: "All of this is like a dream, don't you think? We should wake up."

"She passed through the rose bushes with ease. As if the rules were merely an illusion to her."

The thorny, maze-like rose bushes in the castle garden were obstacles ordered by Iracebeth, and also a symbol of her internal defenses. Yet Yeri always seemed to find unexpected paths, passing through with ease, not even snagging the hem of her skirt. Those fearsome rules and obstacles seemed to lose their power before her, becoming nothing more than ignorable background.

"She saw me. Not as a queen, nor as a monster."

What shook Iracebeth to her core was the way Yeri looked at her. There was no fear of a subject, no calculation of a courtier, no morbid curiosity of a bystander. Yeri simply looked at her as if she were... a person. An ordinary person who might get lost, might feel sorrow, might need help.

"Just... as if looking at a weeping giant. Sitting upon the ruins of her own wounded heart."

Yeri's gaze seemed to have a penetrating power. She appeared to see the little girl curled in a corner beneath Iracebeth's fine robes and crown, crying because she could not find love; she saw her sitting upon the ruins of her heart, piled high with childhood trauma, familial loss, loneliness, and rage, trying to use violence to feign strength. Beneath the symbol of 'Iracebeth,' Yeri saw the scarred, wounded soul named 'Irene.'

"In that moment. My castle. For the first time, light shone."

The feeling of being 'seen'—not judged, but understood (even if only initially)—was like a faint yet real light, piercing the haze that had accumulated over the years in the castle, shining into the long-sealed depths of Iracebeth's heart. It was a strange, shivering warmth, and also a source of immense panic.

"... And then. A deeper darkness."

For light makes shadows appear thicker, and renders the jagged ruins all the more clear. The fragility laid bare was harder to endure than the lonely throne. This beam of light did not bring the hope of redemption; instead, it illuminated the depth of her descent into darkness, making her realize just how far she was from being 'normal' or 'loved.' Thus, what followed was an even more overwhelming impulse to destroy this light and return to the familiar darkness.

Chapter 7: The Exile of Light and the Final Choice (Corresponding: Breakdown & Final Chorus)

Iracebeth locked herself in the throne room for a long time. Yeri was temporarily kept under house arrest in a comfortable guest room. Finally, Iracebeth made her decision.

"Light... it's too blinding."

She summoned Yeri, but did not look at her, gazing instead at the eternal, gray-red sky outside the window, her voice dry.

"I am used to the shape of shadows."

She was accustomed to surviving in loneliness, anger, and control. That beam of light, representing understanding, innocence, and another possibility, was too strange, too blinding; it left her at a loss and made her sturdy armor seem ridiculous.

"Go back. Girl in the blue dress."

"Go back to your sunshine, your grass, your normal size."

She gave Yeri her freedom, but also severed another possibility for herself. She ordered her soldiers to escort Yeri safely beyond the castle boundaries, back to that 'normal' world—a world she could never return to, and perhaps, one she had never truly possessed.

"Tell the people outside."

"That this is not Wonderland."

"Only..."

"Built with 'love'..."

"A prison."

This last sentence was as light as a sigh, yet heavy enough to freeze the air. She finally admitted that this castle, this kingdom, her life—this magnificent fortress built with twisted 'love' (expectations, discipline, conditional relationships)—was essentially a prison from which there was no escape. And she was both the sole prisoner and the only jailer.

Yeri left. The light vanished.

A profound sense of loss and a madness even greater than before swept over Iracebeth. She stepped onto the balcony, overlooking her kingdom. The music (whether internal or the howling winds of reality) reached its most explosive peak; orchestral swells and electronic noise roared, as if the castle were collapsing beneath her feet.

"Then cut it! Cut away even that single light that shone in!"

She screamed at the void—it was both a declaration and a curse upon herself. She chose darkness, actively severing that faint possibility of redemption.

"Let the ruins be my throne; let me and my trauma hold the coronation together!"

Since she could not be healed, she would coexist with her trauma. Since she could not build a paradise, she would admit that the ruins were her only home. She was no longer crowning royal power, but all of her pain, madness, and loneliness. She became one with them, becoming the eternal core of this Crimson Fortress.

"My fairy tale has no sugar coating, only the sweet scent of blood and the coldness of iron."

Her story was never a sweet fairy tale. It is a story of iron and blood; a story of cold rules colliding with warm wounds; a story of longing for love, only to receive fear, and ultimately, to fear even herself.

"I am Iracebeth, the Crimson Queen, the eternal yesterday and the end!"

She proclaimed her name. This was no longer a title, but a curse, a definition, a destiny. She was the existence crystallized from all the pain of the past ('the eternal yesterday'), and the inevitable end-point toward which all these stories must drift ('the end').

The music exploded at its peak, like the castle dome collapsing and masonry pouring down. Then, all sound ceased abruptly, sinking into absolute, deathly silence.

"IRACEBETH!"

Only her own name, like a final heartbeat, echoed through the empty ruins before fading away.

Final Chapter: Reverberations and Nursery Rhymes (Corresponding: Outro)

How much time had passed, no one knew—perhaps an instant, perhaps an eternity. In the absolute silence, a faint, twisted melody slowly emerged. It was the music box from the beginning, but it seemed broken, only able to play a few notes, intermittent and off-key.

Against the backdrop of this broken melody, a voice—extremely faint, as if from the depths of a distant memory—began to hum an old, simple nursery rhyme. It was Irene's voice, yet it had shed all the majesty and violence of the Queen, leaving behind only a childlike, bewildered fragility.

"Round and round the garden..."

"Like a teddy bear..."

"One step... two step..."

"Tickle you... under there..."

The tune of the nursery rhyme was innocent and carefree, forming a cruel contrast with the deathly ruins surrounding her. Perhaps this was one of the few unpolluted fragments of memory from her childhood, a remnant of simple happiness. The humming grew fainter and more uncertain.

Finally, at the nearly inaudible tail end of the melody, a breath carried a word—a question, an instinctive call suppressed for a lifetime:

"... Mama?"

There was no answer.

Only a long, boundless silence, swallowing the nursery rhyme, swallowing the question, swallowing this Crimson Fortress, and the Queen, forever trapped on her lonely throne within.

(Silence)

— IRACEBETH, the tragic fortress of the Crimson Queen, closes its final page here. Yet, perhaps the shadow of the castle still stands silently in some corner of the heart.