He decided to become the cursed Princess’s maid.

[After all, you will eventually need me.]

Chapter : Rapunzel (illustration)

In the stories that parents tell by a child’s bedside, the stories that everyone commonly calls fairy tales, a love story between a Princess and a Prince cannot be missing.

A Princess who disappeared leaving only a glass slipper behind, and a Prince searching for that Princess. A Princess who ate a poisoned apple due to a witch’s scheme and fell into a deep sleep, and a Prince who wakes her with a kiss.

Some people curse such stories as trite cliches, but to call something trite originally means that it is a popular and well-received story. What other story stimulates human emotions as much as love blossoming amid hardship?

However, the reason people like fairy tale-like stories is because such fairy tale stories cannot happen in reality. Imagination is merely imagination, inevitably different from reality.

In reality, everything that appears in fairy tales exists. Princesses locked in towers, witches, gallant Princes, and love.

But there is no guarantee that all those things will be connected. The handsome Prince who will save the Princess cursed and locked in a tower has not yet appeared.

“Will he appear? A Prince like that.”

“Ah, unlikely.”

The old tale of a handsome Prince appearing and saving a beautiful Princess has become stale.

It has been over 15 years since the Princess locked in the tower became mere gossip among the servants of the royal family. People pitied the Princess whose entire body was disfigured by the curse, but also mocked her.

“What Prince would love a woman whose body is deformed? He would first worry that the curse would be passed onto him.”

“Right. Such a pity. They say she was extremely beautiful when she was young.”

The Princess abandoned by her parents and siblings had no one who loved her.

“Ugh, if it were me, I would have bitten my tongue and died long ago… hick!!”

Except for one person.

“Shh.”

The Princess was not alone.

“The Princess can hear you.”

There was a loyal maid who willingly took the position of serving the Princess that everyone else avoided.

A maid who disregarded the views of others and only served the Princess.

People called that maid the Prince.

Chapter 1: The Maid in the Slums

If asked which country is the most powerful on this continent, one would give the same answer every time. Orléans, the country where the sun never sets.

To the extent that even the expressions ‘Emperor’ and ‘Empire’ that no one else on the continent dared to use were slowly being adopted without any backlash, the might of Orléans was overwhelming.

So it was no surprise that Hyperion, the capital of Orléans, was the greatest metropolis on the continent.

El Dorado, the City of Gold – the nickname given by some explorer who discovered the city while traveling an unknown continent had now become Hyperion’s nickname. The nobles of the city boasted that there was no city more deserving of the nickname ‘City of Gold’ in this world than Hyperion.

But the brighter the light, the bigger the shadow. For the slum rats hiding in the shadows where the sun didn’t shine, this city was still the City of Gold.

Among those slum rats hiding in the shadows cast by the City of Gold, there was one man.

In the northwestern part of Hyperion, there was a slum district. All the poor who had migrated to the city to make a living, unable to withstand the exploitation of the feudal lords or for other reasons, were crammed into the northwestern quarter of the city.

Why the northwest? The reason was simple yet utterly childish. According to the royal family who claimed descent from the sun and the central nobles who followed them, the lowly poor weren’t worthy of receiving the grace of the sun.

Thus, the slums were located in the northwest, where the sun shone the least, by the standards of those arrogant humans who claimed to know the will of the sun.

“…”

Walking down the streets of the slum district, the man took out a cigarette and lit it, to fill his lungs with just a little more of the acrid, pungent smoke.

His destination was a place filled with the stench of all sorts of potent chemicals, stronger than the foul stench of this filthy slum. If he didn’t smoke beforehand, he might lose his mind from that potent smell.

11 Sangsong Street. The address of the destination designated long ago by the now meaningless Hyperion City Hall. A three-story building that appears when turning right from the main street into an alley, then right again.

The man nonchalantly opened the dilapidated, practically useless door and entered, sliding an old cabinet to reveal a basement staircase that an ordinary person would never dare to descend.

After descending three and a half spiral staircases, he arrived at his destination.

“What is it, couldn’t hold back from crawling in again?”

The one who greeted him with a voice mixed with boredom and welcome in a 9:1 ratio was a girl who did or didn’t seem to fit in with this slum, at least in appearance.

“Half a day. It’s only been half a day since you received your payment for the last request. What did you do to forget that much money so quickly?”

The man was a so-called fixer who took on requests and resolved issues. Of course, while called a fixer, he was closer to an errand boy who took on all sorts of odd jobs.

And this girl in a witch’s disguise, known as the Witch by the slum residents, was the middleman who arranged requests for him in Orléans.

“Gambling.”

“…I see.”

Alcohol, tobacco, gambling. The reasons his wallet was always starving, despite his never meager earnings.

“Couldn’t you do just one or two, or hell, even skip the gambling? You blow through money so fast that’s why it runs out immediately.”

The witch didn’t like the man’s ways. His pattern of blowing through all his money shortly after completing a request, becoming broke, and then coming back to ask for another request annoyed her greatly.

“Request.”

“Alright, alright. As it happens, a request perfectly suited for you just came in.”

Thus, the witch had been waiting for an opportunity – an opportunity to be rid of the man.

“What was the longest outstanding request you’ve had before?”

“Two weeks.”

A request with a long deadline meant the man wouldn’t be a nuisance for that period.

“This one could take at least a few years. Does that matter?”

Hence, the witch silently prayed that the man would accept this request.

“Payment?”

“Incomparable to any request you’ve done before. Enough for three generations to live off of. The client said they’ll cover all expenses incurred during the request.”

“Fine.”

Fortunately for the witch, the man readily accepted the request. For a man whose biggest concern was money, there was no better justification to act than a massive reward.

“The target and target’s location are-“

“Calm down, there’s something to do first.”

But this time was different.

“From now on.”

This request was one that would give even a man as money-crazed as him pause.

“You’ll have to become a maid.”

An insane-

“…What?”

No, a special request.

“A maid… the kind I’m thinking of?”

Normally when one thinks of a maid, the image is of a female servant in uniform attending to a noble.

“You don’t really look the maid type, even if you put on the outfit.”

“Who would have a maid that looks like an uncouth brute like you?”

But as a man, he couldn’t be a maid. Even if he looked delicate like a woman or was young, let alone his height being a palm taller than most people.

“So you’re to drink this.”

The witch was not unaware of what even the not-so-bright man knew.

“What is this?”

“A potion to turn you into a woman.”

Thus, the witch had prepared the most crucial element for this request.

“…Become a woman just for one request?”

“Don’t want to?”

Seeing the man show his displeasure, the witch chuckled.

“A down payment of 4 million louvres.”

“I’ve always wanted to live as a woman for once.”

For the witch knew his weakness all too well.

“First drink it while I tell you what needs to be done.”

The man, silently alternating his gaze between the witch whose laughter showed no signs of fading and the ominous potion vial, briefly hesitated.

“…”

But soon drank the potion without further ado.

* * *

The King of Orléans, Charles XIII, officially acknowledges only three children.

Though in reality he has far more children, he has only three legitimate children with the Queen – two sons and one daughter.

-Please protect the youngest Princess of Orléans.

A request had come in to guard Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans, the youngest of those three siblings.

-But doesn’t the royal palace have a royal guard?

The man couldn’t understand the request, for the Hyperion palace already had a royal guard formed solely to protect the royal family.

-If the royal guard could completely free the Orléans royals from the threat of assassination, they wouldn’t be so constantly anxious.

However, the royal guard pledges allegiance only to the royal family and the King, not to each individual member of the royal family.

-The client is asking you to become part of the Princess’s inner circle. The current Princess has not a single attendant, let alone a vassal.

Within the royal family, the Princess’s standing is lower than even the King’s illegitimate children, so much so that she can scarcely find any attendants.

-But why? She is a Princess acknowledged by the King as his child, not a bastard.

Even children born with disabilities or violent tendencies would have at least one or two attendants if they had the legitimate royal bloodline. What is the issue?

-Have you heard of the curse afflicting the Orléans royal family?

To the man showing confusion, the witch explained the ancient tale passed down through the mouths and songs of wandering bards.

-You already know the story that the first wife of Jason, the founder of the Orléans Kingdom, was a witch.

The story of how Jason rose from a common sailor to become a sovereign ruler has been famous since long ago. Equally famous was his utterly licentious relationships with women.

The heroic Jason sailed around the world achieving great deeds, meeting and parting with countless women along the way. Among them was the witch Medea, who wielded magic.

-Medea truly loved Jason, but Jason abandoned Medea.

Despite Medea’s help throughout his journey, in the end Jason discarded Medea who had devoted herself to him so.

Why did Jason abandon Medea? Some say it was due to ambition, others that he grew tired of her cruel nature.

But whatever the reason, it meant nothing to Medea. In the end, what mattered was that she had been abandoned.

-Resenting Jason who abandoned her, Medea cursed his bloodline with a rotting curse.

Since then until now, the curse has been passed down through Jason’s bloodline, the Orléans royal family, manifesting in the youngest surviving member of the lineage.

When the cursed one dies, it passes to the next youngest of the lineage, and when that bloodline dies, to the next youngest.

-And this time, the one cursed is that Princess.

The man finally realized why the Princess had no attendants.

-It’s like being a leper, isn’t it?

No one willingly approaches a disfigured, foul-smelling patient out of an unconscious fear of contracting the disease.

Yet they couldn’t simply leave a member of the royal bloodline to suffer and die, so they must have sought an attendant from outside – which is how a mere commoner like him got the chance to attend the Princess.

“Halt, this is sacred royal ground. Without proof of your status, we cannot admit you.”

Ah, how pitiful.

“Here is my letter of recommendation.”

“A new servant? The post assigned to you is… the High Tower?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“…You’ll have a hard time then. You may enter.”

“Thank you.”

Receiving an escort from the guard who turned kindly upon seeing the words ‘High Tower’ on his letter of recommendation, the man, no, the maid, slowly advanced forward.

Toward a journey longer than any request so far.

–…So the name, are you really going with that?

-Yeah, it’s simple and nice. Doesn’t really stand out either.

-Well, do as you please. It’s the name you’ll be using after all. My little bird, no…

…Dorothy Gale.

Chapter 2: Homme Au Masque De Fer

Even before founding Orléans, Jason called himself the son of the sun.

The catalyst for his decision to board a ship and travel the world to achieve great deeds was his self-indulgent conviction that, having received the grace of the sun and been born into this world, he must illuminate the entire world like the sun.

To such an extent did Jason obsess over the image of the sun. And that obsession with the sun hasn’t changed even centuries after Orléans was founded, only shifting from Jason himself to his descendants, the royal family.

What is the sun?

The source of light that brightly illuminates the world, a star gazing upon the world from beyond the distant sky, akin to a deity.

The result of combining the solar lineage complex with the great deeds of their ancestor Jason was to turn the royal family into a gathering of artists obsessed with grandeur and dignity befitting their self-professed descent.

The sun, the deity, must have appropriate dignity. Who would call something that doesn’t radiate light the sun?

Thus, the royal family pursued beauty. Flawless, perfect beauty.

“Chief chamberlain, may I enter? I’ve brought a guest.”

“Please come in.”

It is no surprise that such a perfectionist tendency influenced even the servants attending the royal family.

“Good day.”

“Ah, I’ve been waiting. I heard someone would be coming to attend to the Princess, and that must be you.”

The chamberlain Matthieu de Fontaine, the closest attendant to the current King even before his ascension.

“I am the aged Kingdom’s chamberlain Matthieu de Fontaine. Please address me as you wish.”

The aged chamberlain scrutinized the woman with a piercing gaze, as if inspecting an item for flaws.

‘Outwardly, there are no issues. Her appearance and conduct seem fine, even worthy of extra points.’

To the discerning eye Matthieu had developed from years of royal service, the woman’s appearance passed muster.

Light brown hair, ruby-red eyes. Skin without a single blemish, and clothing that didn’t seem overly expensive yet gave an even more tidy impression for that reason.

Though not glamorous, she exuded poise, earning bonus points for her unhurried movements.

“Miss Dorothy Gale, correct? That is the name on Count Villefort’s letter of recommendation.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Hmm…”

If there was one issue, it was that she was not of noble birth.

The royal family’s servants are mostly selected from the central nobles residing in Hyperion, as no status is more suitable to become a close guard to the King than the central nobles.

‘A maid… will that do?’

Of course, not all royal servants are nobles, but Dorothy would be attending to a member of the royal family, the King’s own daughter no less, directly at her side. Thus, Matthieu hesitated.

“…It should be fine.”

But he didn’t hesitate long.

No matter that she is the King’s daughter, the Princess is effectively an abandoned child with no political standing, doomed to horrific curse where no attendant lasts more than a month by her side. Was this the situation to be picky?

“If Count Villefort’s recommendation, I have no choice but to trust it.”

Moreover, the name ‘Count Villefort’ is effectively royal land where the King’s illegitimate sons reside.

The title of Count Villefort is a kind of disguise created by the royal family to conceal their intentions.

“Very well. I shall escort you to the Princess’s residence.”

If such are the royal family’s intentions, there is no reason to disobey.

How dare a servant defy their master’s orders?

* * *

“Orléans became the foremost power on the continent…”

Dorothy leaned back against the carriage armrest, chin propped up as she gazed out the window.

It wasn’t because the overly zealous chamberlain had been droning on for hours about the utterly tedious history. She had simply become curious.

“But regrettably… Miss Dorothy? Miss Dorothy, are you listening?”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

Does such a thing as a curse passed down the royal bloodline for generations truly exist?

If curses really exist, just how dreadful must this curse be for the King to exile his own daughter to a place so far from the palace and capital?

“In any case, what I would advise is that even if she is cursed, she is undoubtedly a Princess of royal blood, so please attend to her with utmost reverence and propriety… that is what I mean to say.”

“Rest assured, Chamberlain.”

Dorothy knew that to receive proper compensation, she must take every task seriously and do her utmost.

Let alone appeasing a member of the royal family, no small matter for a commoner, any negligence could cost her not just the payment, but her head.

“I shall never neglect the Princess.”

“You seem trustworthy. Ah, we’ve arrived.”

As the carriage stopped and the door opened, a desolate and quiet scene vastly contrasting the royal palace’s grandeur entered Dorothy’s eyes.

Beyond the overgrown, dilapidated walls and rusted gate lay an empty field, with a solitary high tower in the center.

“Well then, I shall take my leave. Supplies will be sent by carriage once a week, so if you need anything, write a letter and pass it to the coachman each time.”

“Understood.”

As soon as Dorothy dismounted, Matthieu hurriedly left as if fleeing, urging on the coachman.

“…”

Dorothy suddenly lowered her gaze to the ground, looking at the footprints and wheel tracks left on the dirt.

“He didn’t dismount.”

There were no footprints from the loyal chamberlain anywhere to be seen.

Mulling over that utterly absurd sight, Dorothy turned once more toward the High Tower.

* * *

In places where humans live, there is an indescribable vitality, a human energy that can be felt.

“Strange, I don’t feel any vitality.”

Yet in this High Tower, no vitality could be felt, despite the clear traces of habitation remaining.

‘Did they flee without time to pack, or did they leave everything behind intentionally?’

Rummaging through various items including clothing that seemed to have belonged to the servants attending the Princess rather than the Princess herself, Dorothy thought:

‘…Ah right, I need to change clothes.’

Soon finding a crumpled maid uniform in the clutter, she belatedly changed into her prepared outfit.

“…Did I put it on correctly?”

After changing, the perfect maid appeared before Dorothy in the mirror. Of course, that was based only on her vague memories of what a maid should look like, not having seen many before.

Whether it would seem odd to the Princess who must have seen countless maids since birth was another question.

“…”

Even as Dorothy fussed about downstairs, the tower’s owner showed no reaction.

‘It would be problematic if she’s already dead.’

Dorothy raised her head. According to the tower map the chamberlain had provided, the Princess’s bedroom should be on the top floor.

‘Should I go up?’

It was too late to hesitate now. Then it would be better to seize the opportunity.

Clack, clack. With each step up the stone stairs, her footsteps echoed through the tower.

Without hesitation, Dorothy climbed the tower, passing the kitchen and study as she ascended toward the top.

“…”

And finally, at the top floor landing grasping the bedroom doorknob, Dorothy thought she should knock first.

“Princess, are you awake?”

Knock knock.

Along with the knocking, Dorothy spoke to the person of highest status she had ever addressed, the Princess beyond that door.

“…Princess?”

There was no answer, but.

“…I’m coming in.”

Perhaps it would have been more proper to wait for permission to enter.

But Dorothy did not.

The mindset more accustomed to being a street ruffian than a maid, a man than a woman, had not taught her the virtue of patience.

“…Ugh.”

The moment she opened the door and entered, Dorothy couldn’t help but scrunch her face in disgust.

‘This stench…’

The overpowering foul odor filling the bedroom made it difficult to even see, let alone breathe properly.

However, it wasn’t the stench of something rotting.

‘Medicine.’

A small jar emitting swirls of pink smoke entered Dorothy’s vision.

Whether it was medicine to treat the curse or simply painkillers to dull the agony, she couldn’t tell.

“Princess.”

Only the Princess would know the truth.

Bandages tightly wrapped around her mummy-like body, tattered and worn clothing clearly visible. Even her face concealed by a silver mask.

An ordinary person likely couldn’t bring themselves to speak upon seeing the Princess’s pitiful state.

“…An unfamiliar voice. An unfamiliar face.”

“I just arrived at this tower today.”

An ordinary person, that is.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess.”

Clasping her skirt with both hands, the maid curtseyed in greeting.

“I will be attending to you from now on.”

Perfectly, as if rehearsed.

“My name is Dorothy Gale.”

The Princess of the High Tower, and her maid.

Their bond began like this.

___

Tl/note: The title of the chapter means ‘The Man In The Iron Mask’, who was France’s most famous prisoner.

Voltaire speculated there was only one reason why an unknown prisoner would have to hide his face: he resembled the only man who would be instantly recognisable to all Frenchmen, the Sun King himself.

Chapter 3: The Disastrous First Impression

The thought that first crossed Dorothy’s mind upon seeing the Princess’s appearance was, ironically, that she’s pretty.

‘Pretty eyes.’

Of course, that only referred to her eyes.

Dorothy’s aesthetic sense was ordinary. She was not so distorted in her appreciation of beauty as to find a woman wrapped in bandages from head to toe, expressionless behind an iron mask, to be beautiful overall.

If Dorothy differed from others in one regard, it was that she liked beautiful eyes. And to her, the Princess’s eyes, like sapphires, seemed very lovely.

‘…Well then, did I do it properly?’

However, Dorothy couldn’t be certain if her conduct appeared proper in the Princess’s eyes.

More than concerns of royalty or nobility, she was fundamentally a drifter from the slums who had never properly learned basic etiquette.

Even the witch who arranged this request knew this better than anyone else. Thus, until the day before entering the palace, Dorothy had undergone arduous training from the witch to ingrain the conduct befitting a maid.

But that was etiquette learned from a witch residing in the slums. For that reason, Dorothy couldn’t assert with certainty that her conduct was flawless.

“…What about the other servants?”

“From now on, I will handle everything alone.”

Fortunately for Dorothy, the Princess did not specifically criticize her conduct. Whether it was because there was no need to point it out, or because she saw no prospect worth pointing out, Dorothy couldn’t tell.

“…Speaking of which, two weeks was about as long as they lasted.”

“…Two weeks?”

“That was how long your predecessors remained in this tower attending to me.”

Two weeks is not a very long time. Most jobs that receive wages rather than payment per task like Dorothy tend to have monthly pay periods, do they not?

“This time it’s just one person… it will be difficult for you. You’ll be taking on the workload three servants used to share.”

Her tone seemed to pity her, but Dorothy sensed a complex tangle of emotions in the Princess’s innermost feelings – extreme melancholy, scorn directed at her, and more.

Regardless of how proper Dorothy’s conduct was, the Princess’s attitude toward her was not very welcoming, like someone putting on airs of disapproval while unable to hide their ridicule.

“Not at all.”

“What is not?”

“How could I possibly complain about being tasked with attending to the great Princess of Orléans?”

But Dorothy had no choice but to stick by the Princess’s side, whether she liked it or not, until the client informed her she no longer needed to guard her.

Perhaps she would have to care for the cursed Princess her entire life, as the request didn’t specify a time limit.

Therefore, at the very least, it would be better to establish and maintain an amicable relationship with the Princess to lessen her burdens somewhat.

“Anyone who says that usually doesn’t last a week.”

The Princess’s heart, long inured to the contempt and disregard of others, was deeply rooted in distrust of humanity.

“Get out.”

“…Yes.”

It seemed her prospects were not bright.

Letting out a silent sigh, Dorothy sensed an arduous future ahead.

* * *

After being dismissed from the Princess’s bedchamber, the first thing Dorothy did was assess the tower’s layout.

Contrary to its slender, shabby appearance from outside, the tower’s interior had quite spacious floors that could easily accommodate dozens of residents.

Five floors in total. Excluding the fifth floor which was entirely the Princess’s bedchamber, and the fourth floor study she likely would have little reason to visit, Dorothy had three floors at her disposal – the equivalent of a three-story house, an unimaginable luxury compared to the single tiny room she had in the slums.

Of course, she did have one housemate, so to speak.

“Not bad.”

It was a satisfactory environment. For Dorothy, who had grown up drifting the streets, this tower represented opulence she never dared dream of experiencing in her lifetime.

She lacked confidence in caring for someone, especially a cursed invalid, but in such an environment she could endure. At least, that’s what Dorothy thought.

“The question is, how do I win over the Princess’s heart…”

Strictly speaking, there was no mention of befriending the Princess in the request, only guarding and caring for her.

However, to live comfortably going forward and successfully complete the request, becoming close with the Princess was not a choice but a necessity. No matter how you slice it, the Princess was of a noble status Dorothy as a common drifter could scarcely look upon, and more immediately, her future housemate.

What should she do to gain the Princess’s favor? Turn the desolate field into a garden blooming with colorful flowers? Or perhaps learn some wit and charm?

“…I should start with cleaning first.”

Of course, before that, she would need to thoroughly dispose of the traces left by her predecessors.

* * *

The cleaning Dorothy expected to finish quickly ended up taking far longer than anticipated.

“…I really did live like trash.”

The reason was Dorothy’s disastrous housekeeping skills. For someone who had only known cramped single-room dwellings, cleaning up the traces of three people scattered throughout the spacious tower was too daunting a task.

She hadn’t even properly cleaned those single rooms before. How many people in the slums truly did housekeeping work?

“Phew…”

Wiping the beads of sweat from her brow, Dorothy packed away the clothes and odds and ends in a large bundle, hoping in vain that leaving it outside the gate would somehow return the items to their owners.

“Still… it does look nice and clean.”

Surveying her newly refreshed living quarters, Dorothy smiled in satisfaction. It was the first time she had experienced the rewarding feeling of cleaning.

“…But I feel like I’m forgetting something.”

However, so focused on cleaning, Dorothy had forgotten an important matter.

“…Ah right, the meal…”

As is well known, a maid’s duties encompass general housework – cooking, cleaning, laundry, dishwashing, and so on.

With no other maids to share the workload, all that housework fell solely on Dorothy. That meant cooking, cleaning, laundry, dishwashing – everything was her responsibility alone.

And Dorothy had neglected one of those duties – her obligation to serve her master a meal. In other words:

“…I’m doomed.”

It meant she had starved the Princess. A mere maid had starved her.

“…What do I do?”

But realizing it now didn’t solve the problem. Not only was it too late, but Dorothy’s cooking skills were utterly disastrous.

As mentioned before, Dorothy’s housekeeping abilities were ruinous. When was the last time she had cooked for herself?

If she had money, she would dine at a tavern, if not, she simply went hungry… and now she had to cook directly.

If it were just for her own consumption, Dorothy would have made do sloppily, or skipped the meal altogether.

But now, the recipient of Dorothy’s cooking wouldn’t be herself, but another person – no less than the Princess of the Kingdom, someone of exalted nobility.

“Um… uh…”

Dorothy panicked. What in the world should she serve? Having already missed the meal time, leaving the Princess to starve, what dish could she possibly prepare?

* * *

“…”

The result was disastrous.

“…?”

Poking with a fork at the fried egg, burnt on bottom but raw on the top, the yolk burst and eggshell fragments mixed in, the Princess looked up at Dorothy.

It was not just the egg’s pathetic state that prompted her gaze. For the Princess was seeing something she had never laid eyes on in her life, something that could scarcely be called a cooked egg dish.

Thus, the Princess silently questioned the culprit who had served this un-dish on a plate – just what was this supposed to be?

“I’m… sorry, Princess. My skills are lacking…”

Under the Princess’s unspoken interrogation, Dorothy could only prostrate herself. No matter that she was cursed, no matter that she was an outcast child, she had undoubtedly served utter garbage to the Princess.

If it had at least been a proper fried egg, but she had served a burnt-raw, yolk and shell-mixed fried egg to the Princess. Even a minor noble would be tempted to loosen their belt if their maid brought such a thing on a plate, would they not?

“Not everything on a plate qualifies as food.”

Leaving that scathing remark, the Princess pushed the plate away, declaring she would not eat it.

Of course, Dorothy hadn’t expected the Princess to actually eat such garbage in the first place. Rather, she was thankful the Princess didn’t throw the plate in her face.

Not that it absolved her of guilt, however.

She had made the Princess wait due to her tardiness, and at the end of that wait, presented something that could scarcely be called food.

In the end, Dorothy had left her master, the Princess, to starve all day long.

“…I’m sorry.”

With that apology, Dorothy barely managed to exit and close the bedroom door behind her.

“…Haha.”

It was a moment where her life as a maid became even more tangled.

Chapter 4: You Must Learn To Survive

Ugh this total failure.

It was the maid’s harsh self-rebuke for the grave mistake she made on the very first day.

At the very least, shouldn’t she have known what her job entailed, and moreover, done at least some basic studying?

Of course, Dorothy had her own defense as well.

The request Dorothy had accepted was to protect the Princess. The client likely hired her solely based on her combat skills.

Naturally, given the nature of a maid’s work, she had expected a certain amount of housework. She thought she could simply observe and learn housework from others.

The problem was that those ‘others’ had all fled, leading to her being summoned as the maid. She had expected that even if cursed, the Princess would have a few attendants, allowing her to receive at least a rough handover.

But her premise was flawed from the start, resulting in a failure of a maid with zero housekeeping knowledge, including cooking, being left alone in the Princess’s tower. It was like throwing a newborn baby unfamiliar with anything into the heart of the wilderness.

“…Haah…”

Even if she was skilled at fighting, what use was that in this remote empty field far from human habitation? Hunting beasts?

Fighting is done against people. And here, the only other person was the Princess. She could hardly beat up the Princess she was supposed to serve. That would likely cost her not just the payment, but her head.

“…Should I ask them to send a recipe book or something?”

If there was one consolation for both Dorothy and the Princess, it was that Dorothy at least had the will to learn.

“Are there any recipe books in the study on the fourth floor?”

Dorothy recalled the study she had glimpsed in passing. While it resembled a typical storage room packed with old, worn tomes, perhaps she could find some ancient recipe books if she searched thoroughly.

“…Ah right, the bathwater.”

Of course, she still had a mountain of tasks to do first.

* * *

Before arriving at the High Tower, Dorothy had received a schedule from Matthieu.

While instructed not to cling too rigidly to the schedule, adjusting it flexibly as the Princess desired, expecting such discretion from a newly arrived maid was too much. The reason for providing the schedule must have been to follow it if unsure.

“Princess, I have prepared your bathwater.”

Thus, Dorothy resolved to diligently follow the schedule. As the saying goes, if you stay still, at least half gets done – she judged that simply doing as instructed would minimize reprimands. The only problem was-

“Um… Princess?”

“Speak.”

“…Do you require assistance?”

That she knew nothing of noble etiquette.

Dorothy had heard stories of nobles so accustomed to servants that they couldn’t even properly dress themselves without assistance, let alone bathe. The royalty would surely be no different.

But the Princess was effectively a leper. Of course, being afflicted did not make her any less royal, but how was one supposed to bathe someone whose flesh was rotting from their body?

“No need.”

Fortunately, Dorothy was spared this conundrum, as the Princess shook her head and entered the bathroom alone – whether due to her unsightly appearance or simply an aversion to exposing her bare skin to others.

“…Um, then I shall prepare towels and fresh clothing.”

All the foolish maid could do was provide her master with basic conveniences.

“…Hmm…”

Suddenly, Dorothy wondered – was bathing even possible in that fully wrapped state?

Of course, she would remove the bandages for bathing. But then new bandages would be needed. No, before that, was she even capable of perfectly re-wrapping the bandages around her entire body without any gaps?

‘…I don’t know.’

How could she please the Princess? How could she properly care for her?

“…I should go down to the study.”

After pondering, Dorothy came to a conclusion.

First, she would learn and think.

* * *

Contrary to Dorothy’s worries, the bandages wrapped around the Princess’s body were not much of an issue.

“…Unravel.”

They were not ordinary bandages, but a magic item imbued with sorcery.

A handy item that stayed perpetually clean, automatically unwinding and re-wrapping itself at the Princess’s command. So Dorothy’s efforts to find new bandages had been futile.

“Phew…”

Effortlessly unraveling the bandages, the Princess Sibylla immersed herself in the underground bath filled with magic-imbued spring water that helped suppress her curse.

This High Tower was replete with traces of sorcery throughout, the result of her father the King summoning mages from across the kingdom to provide some convenience for his afflicted daughter. Sibylla was no less intimately acquainted with magic than an average mage.

“…Ha.”

Sibylla let out a dry chuckle. How ironic that the very cause of her ruined life, the curse, was itself a witch’s magic.

A life ruined by magic, sustained by magic’s aid. What an absurd state of affairs.

The underground bathroom in the tower basement was conducive to contemplation. The simple act of immersing one’s body in warm water naturally induced relaxation, and the only sound was the gentle sloshing of water, making it ideal for clearing the mind.

“…I wonder how Father and brothers are faring.”

Amid her musings, the faces of her family back in Orléans surfaced – the current King and her two elder brothers.

“I hope they are well.”

Sibylla knew, or rather, could not avoid knowing about her family’s affairs.

Upon realizing his youngest daughter had become the curse’s victim, the current King had desperately sought a way to break the curse, only to descend into madness. Now he was effectively a mindless living corpse, showing no reaction, his life merely lingering on.

The Crown Prince, her eldest brother, was governing the Kingdom in their father’s stead, while the Second Prince, the younger brother, was keeping a watchful eye on the Crown Prince while subtly coveting the throne himself.

Whether any of it was truth or falsehood, Sibylla paid it no mind. It was a matter she had no desire to know – the quarrels between brothers.

“Phew…”

Having mulled over such thoughts, Sibylla soon came to her senses and raised her arm from the bathwater. No matter how therapeutic the medicinal bath, soaking too long would cause her body to swell, making it difficult to re-wrap the bandages.

“…”

Thus, as Sibylla rose to exit the bath, she suddenly stared intently at her own reflection in the water.

Without mask or bandages, what was reflected was her bare face.

Her hideously disfigured, cursed bare face.

“…”

An appearance abhorred even by Sibylla herself, let alone anyone else.

Who could possibly claim to love such an unsightly visage? Sibylla thought even God could not make such a claim.

“…God.”

If God existed, He would never inflict such a dreadful ordeal upon His own children.

“…I’ve wallowed enough in self-pity.”

Shaking her head to dispel such idle thoughts, Sibylla exited the bathroom.

“She’s not here.”

There was no sign of the newly arrived maid. Perhaps she had gone upstairs, or fled unable to stomach the master she was to serve and her foul appearance.

“What grand expectations could I have of a mere maid?”

It was rather a boon for the Princess, as she had bathed herself in any case.

Unlike the self-wrapping magic bandages, the towels bore no enchantments. The same went for her clothing, of course.

“…?”

As Sibylla headed to her bedchamber intending to rest after her bath, her eyes fell upon the maid diligently poring over books from the study, taking notes and memorizing.

Observing closely out of curiosity over what she was so intently studying revealed they were all cookbooks.

“…Heh.”

So she herself realized that egg dish was an utter failure. The corners of Sibylla’s mouth twisted into a wry smile.

From the outset, Sibylla had harbored no particular expectations for this maid. For good reason – she was hopelessly inadequate.

While the deep-rooted human distrust built over many years was not without influence, even setting that aside, the brown-haired maid fell far short of acceptable.

Making blunder after blunder from day one, unaware of even her most basic duties – Sibylla had witnessed all those unsightly displays without the maid realizing.

“…She might last a week.”

Even the most stalwart of the exceptional royal servants could not endure a single month before returning to the palace. If the royal servants could not last, how could such a bumbler persist?

Of course, Sibylla had no intention of voicing such thoughts to dampen the maid’s earnest efforts. For she considered the possibility that her judgment might be a misguided product of her own jadedness and narrowed perspective.

“…I loathe them.”

But now, looking without rose-tinted lenses:

“Humans, I utterly loathe them.”

Her heart’s wounds were far too deep.

Chapter 5: After All, You Will Eventually Need Me

The eventful first day at the High Tower was finally coming to a close.

“Ahhh…”

After bathing, Dorothy let out a long yawn as she toweled her damp hair. The simple act of fully immersing her body in warm bathwater, an indulgence unimaginable in the slums, was enough to induce drowsiness.

“…But can I really use this?”

Suddenly, such a thought occurred to her after enjoying the bath.

From the outset, it was glaringly evident that this bathroom had been designed from top to bottom for the Princess’s use. Although quite spacious for solo use, was it not a grave discourtesy for a mere servant to share the Princess’s personal facilities?

Of course, it was too late to ponder after having already indulged, but still.

“…Eh, whatever.”

It’s not like there were separate bathing facilities nearby. Her predecessors must have used this too, whether secretly or openly. Imagining as she pleased, Dorothy rationalized her actions.

“By the way… how do I tie my hair?”

Having resolved, or rather circumvented, the first issue, a second immediately reared its head.

Her newly grown bronze locks since taking the potion to become a woman had become a headache for the novice maid.

As a man, she had never given a single thought to her hair, keeping it cropped short due to disinterest in fashion and lack of means.

But as a woman, as a maid, it was different. The hair reaching past her shoulder blades was itself a nuisance if not properly tied back, heavy and cumbersome.

Initially, she had considered cutting it short again as before taking the potion, seeing no use for long hair.

But the witch had violently disabused her of that notion, stating that as a woman, and more so as the Princess’s maid, any flaw in appearance was absolutely unacceptable.

To Dorothy’s protest about the inconvenience of keeping it untied, the witch had taught her on the spot how to style a chignon, as the Orléans people called it.

“…This isn’t right.”

While undoubtedly a relatively simple yet tidy hairstyle, the problem was that even that was too difficult for Dorothy.

The result was something that begged the question of whether it was hair or a hairball coughed up by a cat, resembling a bird’s nest harboring a small creature, a complete and utter mess overdue for a reset, no, just a mess outright.

“I’ll do it tomorrow…”

Undoing the messy chignon-esque spikes, Dorothy deferred her hair troubles to her future self.

“…Hmm, it is comfy though.”

Removing her previous maidwear and tossing it into the laundry basket, Dorothy changed into comfortable sleepwear, enveloped in the fluffy new fabric’s unique sensation.

Compared to sleeping in her outdoor clothes or even underwear as before, the mere concept of sleepwear itself symbolized her altered circumstances.

“Why have separate clothes just for sleeping? What a waste of money.”

To Dorothy, whose mindset was akin to slum scammers who would be aghast at spending money on sleepwear when that money could fund several more rounds of gambling, nightwear was still a luxury. But:

“Huh? Oh?”

As she stretched and headed for the bedchamber, Dorothy noticed the front door was wide open.

“I don’t remember opening the door…”

Approaching to close it, Dorothy found the reason for the open door outside.

“…Princess?”

There was the Princess, standing amidst the overgrown field, her bandages fluttering in the breeze.

The mask she always wore was clutched in her hand, but her face wasn’t visible either.

The bandages concealed even her face. Only natural, as the curse rotting her body would hardly spare her face.

Thus, all Dorothy could see was faded blonde hair and blue eyes, the Princess silently gazing up at the night sky in the empty field.

“…Beautiful.”

To Dorothy, the Princess’s appearance seemed incredibly beautiful.

“…How long do you intend to keep watching?”

“…Ah.”

Lost in admiring that pitiful yet beautiful sight, Dorothy belatedly realized the Princess had sensed her watching.

“Please forgive my disrespect toward you, Princess.”

“It’s fine. Empty apologies bring me no delight anyway.”

While chiding Dorothy in words that could be mocking or scolding, the Princess gestured for her to approach.

Dorothy swiftly complied with the summons. If her master bid her come close, how could she not obey?

“I didn’t mean for you to come rushing over so hastily.”

“You commanded me to approach, Princess, so I sought to follow your order as quickly as possible.”

Any other royal or noble might have laughed heartily in satisfaction at such devoted loyalty from Dorothy.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

But not this cynical Princess.

“Do you know who I am?”

The question posed to the closely approached Dorothy.

Dorothy pondered how best to respond.

“Yes, you are Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans, the youngest daughter of His Majesty the King, the Princess of Orléans.”

“Yes, and also the very embodiment of the curse that afflicts the royal bloodline.”

Dorothy’s attempt at a straightforward approach was smashed from the outset. Though in fairness, any answer would likely have fallen short of pleasing the Princess.

“Then do you also know what kind of place this is?”

“The tower where you reside, Princess…”

“A correct yet incorrect statement.”

Oh come on, what is she aiming for here?

Just as uncouth thoughts began sprouting in Dorothy’s mind, the Princess suddenly pointed her finger at the tower.

“This is a prison where the cursed royals are confined until their last breath. And when their life ends.”

The finger pointing at the tower gradually lowered, now indicating the ground.

“They are buried here, without so much as a modest gravestone.”

The Princess’s voice was devoid of any emotion – neither anger nor sorrow.

“The cursed cannot escape this place, even in death.”

In a dispassionate tone, unflinching, the Princess simply stated the miserable fate of the cursed royals, despite knowing it would be her own future as well.

“I don’t know why you came here – out of curiosity about the Princess trapped in this tower, or as a new palace servant ignorant of everything, compelled by rank and hierarchy to come to this universally dreaded place.”

The Princess’s eyes were calm. No, it would be more accurate to call them gloomy – eyes devoid of any hope, chilled and sunk into melancholy and despair.

“But let me advise you to return to the palace at the earliest chance, or quit if not possible. Though the Chamberlain is an unbearably obstinate man even to look at, he will not go so far as to stop someone insisting on leaving.”

She held no expectations, of people or of the world.

“So-“

“Princess.”

Thanks to that, Dorothy realized.

“Do you wish for me to leave your side, Princess?”

And inwardly rejoiced, for she had found the answer.

“If you so command, I shall obey.”

The answer to winning the Princess’s heart.

“But Princess, is that truly your wish?”

And that answer was ridiculously simple.

“…What?”

“If you desire my departure, Princess, I shall pack up and leave immediately.”

Whether before or after being cursed, the Princess’s character hadn’t changed much.

“However, if you command me to stay, I shall remain by your side until you breathe your last.”

It was merely due to her many experiences, the betrayals and resulting pain that caused her to close her heart and act like a lifeless doll.

“What are you…”

“Princess, I am your servant. A servant who faithfully obeys her master’s orders.”

The girl Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans thirsted for affection. No one had given her a single drop of the water called affection, leaving her parched mouth agape until shriveled dry.

“Meaning I am no different from a dog, only walking on two legs and speaking human words.”

A dog is loyal to its master, even if the master is unworthy.

“So command me, Princess. Your dog.”

And for such a dog, the Princess – this foolishly naive girl – was a worthy master deserving of loyalty.

“To leave or stay.”

“…”

Ah, foolish and pitiful Princess. Wounded Princess.

“I…”

She must be steeling herself even now, I think. Chastising herself for still failing to come to her senses despite the repeated betrayals, suppressing the hope she had harbored.

But I know the choice you will make.

After all, you will eventually need me.

Chapter 6: Where The Green Dwells

Typically, the air is cleaner and fresher in rural areas with fewer people compared to crowded cities.

Let alone comparing the slums of the overpopulated capital Hyperion to this remote backwater where only two people reside, the difference in air quality is blatantly obvious without need for comparison.

“Haaaam…”

Breathing in the crisp, pristine air she could never experience in the dark, unclean slums, Dorothy awoke.

“So refreshing…”

So this is why nobles prefer areas with good water and air quality. Marveling anew at nature’s superb comfort, Dorothy rose from bed and stretched.

Though narrower than the Princess’s bedchamber that occupied an entire floor, Dorothy’s assigned room was still quite spacious, incomparable to the single tiny room in the slums.

Moreover, having a room previously used by three people to herself was practically heaven compared to the slums where she could barely lie down properly.

“The bedding is nice too.”

The furniture including pillows and blankets was of decent quality as well. At least, that’s how Dorothy saw it, having no proper basis for comparison since even a bed was a luxury in the slums, making do with a thin mat on the bare floor.

There were no pillows at all, and a tattered rag was the extent of her blanket back then. So of course anything would seem agreeable to the gambling drifter addict she was.

“Nngh… it’s still difficult.”

Attempting the hairstyling method the witch had taught her while looking in the mirror, the result for Dorothy was a spherical bundle.

Hoping the Princess would at least tolerate such inelegance, Dorothy headed downstairs to the kitchen.

“For breakfast today…”

Fortunately, the HIgh Tower’s study contained cookbooks, quite a number of them in fact.

The Orléans people take great pride in their national cuisine, which naturally led to its extensive culinary development.

While the development process was rife with trial and error and unsavory incidents, is it not said that failure is the mother of success? Such turmoil is inevitable in any endeavor.

“…But I don’t understand any of it.”

Of course, that only applied to the cuisine enjoyed by the royal family, nobility, and wealthy bourgeoisie on par with nobles – not to Dorothy, who had never seen such cuisine in her life.

“Hmm…”

Thus, Dorothy pondered. Should she attempt the recipes that left her utterly bewildered, the cuisine of the wealthy upper class? Or should she serve something more befitting her station – in other words, something so base and paltry as to be unworthy of presenting to the Princess?

“…Alright.”

* * *

“…What is this?”

“A sandwich and coffee.”

Dorothy opted for the latter.

“Sand…which?”

“A sandwich – a dish where fillings like ham or cheese are placed between slices of bread. I buttered a baguette and inserted ham, so it could be called a jambon beurre.”

A sandwich made by slicing open a baguette, spreading butter, and inserting ham – the jambon beurre can be commonly found anywhere in Orléans. It is simple to make yet guarantees a certain level of taste, while also providing a hearty, inexpensive meal.

“Isn’t this… too much ham?”

However, one issue was that Dorothy’s jambon beurre was the crude, ham-stuffed version from the cheap taverns she frequented the most.

Of course, the ingredient quality was worlds apart – how could the ingredients fed to beggars struggling to survive each day possibly be on par with those destined for the revered Princess’s mouth?

But no matter the quality, what meaning was there if the eyes of the viewer, the mouth of the eater, found it unappetizing?

“This is the jambon beurre I know.”

Unable to discern good from bad ingredients, to Dorothy a baguette was a baguette, ham was ham, butter was butter – was there even a meaningful difference in quality for something like pepper?

Thus, Dorothy simply recreated the jambon beurre as she remembered, resulting in the Princess, who knew nothing about this dish to begin with, experiencing total cultural shock at the grotesque sight she had never laid eyes on before.

“…It doesn’t look like it will fit in my mouth.”

“I can cut it for you.”

At the Princess’s request indicating her predicament, Dorothy readily took up fork and knife, having anticipated it would be difficult to eat.

Obscured by bandages, Dorothy couldn’t tell if the Princess’s mouth was large or small. But regardless of mouth size, having it wrapped in bandages would undoubtedly cause difficulty eating.

“Here, please eat.”

Thus, out of consideration, Dorothy sliced the sandwich thinly and speared the pieces with a fork to feed the Princess, like a parent to a child or a lover to their partner.

“…?”

From a certain perspective, it could be seen as a grave discourtesy to a Princess of the Kingdom.

“…Are you trying to mock me-“

But Dorothy was common. Would a commoner concern themselves with propriety?

“Does it fit in your mouth?”

The Princess eyed her maid’s calm, sensible expression as she politely asked that question.

There was not a hint of contempt for her master or any mocking intent in that look.

Was this maid truly cutting the food out of pure intentions for her sake?

Without a word, the Princess slowly chewed the sandwich piece that easily fit in her mouth, eventually muttering softly:

“…Salty.”

Too salty. And far too much.

For the Princess who disliked greasy, salty foods, the crudely made jambon beurre overloaded with common coarseness was overwhelmingly stimulating.

* * *

“Princess, there is one thing I would presume to ask your permission for.”

Though she had left over half uneaten, having somehow finished the meal, Dorothy addressed the Princess.

“…What is it?”

“I wish to plant flowers around the tower to create a garden. What do you think?”

Dorothy’s words were far from what the Princess expected. Or rather, a servant so directly addressing their master in such a manner was itself unexpected.

“…A garden?”

“Yes, a garden. It just seems too desolate left as is.”

An overgrown grassy field, separated only by a wall and gate yet hardly different from the outside.

“…Did you not hear what I told you yesterday? I said there are royals buried in that field.”

The Princess’s reaction was utterly gloomy. From a certain viewpoint, that grassy field was the grave of cursed royals who could not even leave their names behind. Would it be proper to plant anything there?

“Which is precisely why I cannot leave it be. Should the resting places of those who could not even receive a proper coffin or gravestone, merely buried beneath the weeds, truly be left neglected like that?”

“That’s…”

But Dorothy’s words did have a point.

Those royals buried beneath the High Tower were pitiful victims who did nothing wrong, only receiving the dreadful curse for the misfortune of being born at the wrong time, cut off from the world until death. To abandon the land where they were laid to rest to such neglect was indeed lamentable.

Would it not be better to instead plant flowers there in commemoration? The Princess contemplated this seriously.

“And this is also a request for your sake, Princess.”

Seeing the pensive Princess, Dorothy added.

“…For my sake?”

“Yes, while countless royals may have passed through this place in the past, the current owner of this High Tower is you, is it not, Princess?”

By Orléans law, the High Tower and surrounding lands are the territory of the residing royal. In other words, the Princess is the landowner.

“I wish for the scenery you see when you look outside your window in the morning to be beautiful.”

It was not empty flattery – Dorothy truly wished for the Princess’s well-being.

If seeing the garden brought the Princess emotional comfort, allowing her to open her heart, it would also make guarding her easier.

“…You speak with no conviction.”

“I am poor at lying, Princess.”

That is why the Princess should be happy, if only for the sake of her maid.

“Do as you wish. Plant flowers, trees, engage in whatever unnecessary labor you desire – I won’t stop you.”

“…”

“…You… no, never mind. I will be in the study until noon, so take a morning nap or go for a walk as you please.”

“Yes, call for me whenever you need.”

Watching the Princess’s departing back as she headed to the study, Dorothy inwardly smiled.

“…”

And belatedly realized.

“…Come to think of it, doesn’t that mean I have to plant those flowers myself?”

That she had brought this calamity upon herself.

‘I won’t stop you’ if you ‘desire’ to engage in ‘unnecessary labor.’

“…Oh no.”

As mentioned before, currently only two people reside in this High Tower – the Princess and Dorothy herself.

There was simply no way she could ask the Princess of Orléans herself to plant flowers. Excluding the Princess, that left only one person to do the planting.

“…I’m an idiot.”

Dorothy Gale, none other than herself.

Absentmindedly gazing outside at the unnecessarily spacious courtyard, Dorothy muttered to herself:

“…Should I revoke it while I still can?”

Chapter 7: The Prince On The White Horse

The palace servants were pushing the task of attending to her onto inferiors. Seeing the steadily declining quality of those arriving at the High Tower calling themselves servants, the Princess realized this.

Who would enjoy caring for a diseased invalid whose body was rotting? And yet the Princess was hurt by their blatant displays of dislike toward her.

Thus, the Princess did not place much expectation in the servants. What was the point of giving her affection to those who would quickly tire and leave?

No matter how hard they tried not to show it, their eyes betrayed their emotions – the Princess remembered the fear and disgust in the eyes of every servant who said ‘I won’t mind you, Princess.’

Thinking the palace had finally run out of servants to send to the High Tower, the Princess intended to pay no heed to the foolish, discourteous newly arrived servant.

“What kind of flowers might the Princess like? Well, putting that aside…”

But she, Dorothy Gale, was different.

When the Princess first saw Dorothy, she was surprised – because she couldn’t read any emotion in her eyes.

It is rare for someone to completely conceal their feelings from others. And the palace servants, mostly of noble birth, were particularly unskillful at hiding their emotions.

Thus, the Princess could only be surprised at Dorothy’s gaze, devoid of any disgust or fear. But:

“Haah… when will I finish planting these…”

Dorothy was not hiding her emotions. She simply had none.

While the Princess’s appearance was certainly unsightly, even more hideous sights were commonplace in the slums. For the slum-born Dorothy, the Princess’s appearance was not particularly dreadful.

Moreover, Dorothy was not someone with a very expressive face to begin with, even after taking on a woman’s body.

“Should I till the soil first? I hear farmers always do that…”

What mattered to Dorothy now was not the Princess’s visage, but the overgrown courtyard ill-suited for planting.

The completely unmaintained courtyard was overrun with weeds – resilient nuisances that monopolize soil nutrients and prolific reproducers, a lifelong enemy to any farmer.

Even if planting flowers rather than crops, the need to thoroughly remove the weeds remained unchanged.

“Haaah… no choice.”

As the saying goes, if the bull’s horn is stuck, you might as well pull it all the way out. Having already rolled up her sleeves, it would be better to finish the task a little faster.

Having procured a hoe, shovel, and iron rake from a nearby shed, Dorothy thought it would at least be easier than doing it barehanded.

Just one problem.

“…How exactly do you till the soil?”

Dorothy wasn’t a farmer. Born and raised in the slums her entire life, farming was merely a tale she had heard from former farmers who migrated to the city.

Till the soil, spread fertilizer, then plant crops – she could understand the fertilizing and planting parts.

“…Till it… with this? How?”

The tilling part was the problem, as to Dorothy the verb ‘to till’ only referred to sharpening blades or replacing components, or was used in relation to people.

“…A book, I need a book.”

In the end, the foolish maid once again turned to the study for help.

At least she had the will to learn, so perhaps she deserved some credit for that?

Though spending excessive time learning how to till the soil did result in the minor issue of skipping the Princess’s lunch and delaying dinner.

* * *

The position of the Kingdom’s chamberlain is a weighty responsibility of managing and supervising the entire palace while conveying the King’s words to the people.

A weighty responsibility means, in other words, an abundance of work. As the overseer of the palace where the sovereign ruler resides, any mistake by a subordinate causing issues in the palace falls squarely on the chamberlain’s shoulders.

Thus, it was customary for the King to personally select a capable, trusted noble as chamberlain. Even the capable chamberlains handpicked this way frequently resigned or perished from overwork.

“Chamberlain, about the palace’s expenditures last month…”

“Hmm.”

Having managed the royal palace as the royal family’s chamberlain for nearly decades, Matthieu was an exceedingly rare case.

“Personally, I think reducing expenditures slightly may be advisable, but there will likely be strong objections that it would undermine the sun’s dignity. For now, let us allocate the same budget as last month.”

“Yes, understood.”

The reason Matthieu could maintain the chamberlainship for so long was his rigorous self-discipline bordering on self-torture. Despite his advanced age, his back was straight and physique more robust than many younger servants.

“You may leave, Mr. Franz… it seems an esteemed guest has come to seek this old man.”

“Sir? Yes, Chamberlain.”

Thanks to this, the chamberlain’s intuition would sometimes convey borderline precognitive insights to his master.

“Then I shall take my lea- Oh, Your Highness the Crown Prince!”

“Greetings, Your Royal Highness.”

Beholding the radiant blond hair and blue eyes of the Crown Prince, reminiscent of yet distinct from the current King in his youth, Matthieu rose and bowed.

“Did I interrupt your work?”

“Not at all, I had just finished.”

Even if he hadn’t finished, Matthieu would have said so, for the one ruling Orléans now was not the King but the Crown Prince.

“Have a seat.”

“Yes. Mr. Franz, you are dismissed. Give my regards to your father as well.”

“Understood!”

Watching the young servant depart with a vigorous voice, Matthieu sighed.

“Quite different from his father in many ways. So full of youthful vim.”

“Is that not for the better? The more such vigorous youths we have, the more prosperity this nation will enjoy.”

Seating the Crown Prince at the head before fetching a teapot and cups, Matthieu poured him a cup of tea.

“What matter brings you to seek this old servant, Your Highness?”

“I have something to say.”

And just as Matthieu was about to drink his own cup of tea:

“There are those who seek the Princess’s life.”

“…!?”

The words that suddenly left the Crown Prince’s mouth were like a bombshell.

“…What is the… is this truly fact?”

“It is. I swear it on the blood of the sun.”

Swearing on the blood of the sun was, to the Orléans royals, tantamount to staking everything on their honesty.

Only then did Matthieu realize this was not mere deception from the Crown Prince, but his sincere belief.

“…If what you say is indeed true, Your Highness, this is an issue that cannot be overlooked.”

Threatening the life of a royal, let alone the direct bloodline, was an absolute taboo in Orléans where the King was regarded as a living deity.

Who dared set their sights on the sun itself? It was an unforgivable evil.

“But who dares seek to kill the Princess?”

“I don’t know the details. But their intent is clear.”

Moreover, to target the powerless Princess confined to a tower due to a curse, without even a faction to call her own within the palace…

“To transfer… the curse?”

It was clear the intent wasn’t directed at the Princess herself, but the curse afflicting her. When a cursed royal dies, the curse transfers to the youngest royal, and the youngest royal in Orléans now was-

“To my son.”

The Crown Prince’s newborn son.

“How could such a tragedy…!! Ah, pardon me. To speak so rashly before Your Highness…”

Unconsciously rising from his seat at those words, Matthieu belatedly realized his blunder and apologized as he sat back down.

“…This cannot be tolerated. The culprit must be found and executed in the most severe…!”

Though his outrage hadn’t fully subsided.

“Calm yourself. If I knew who the culprit was, I would have handled it myself without telling you. So consider – who stands to gain by transferring the curse to the Crown Prince’s firstborn son?”

“Hmm…”

Numerous individuals flashed through Matthieu’s mind – regional nobles frequently at odds with the royal family, foreign kings praying for Orléans’s downfall, and…

“Perhaps my own little brother.”

The Second Prince, who could increase his standing as heir should any blemish befall the Crown Prince.

“…But you know better than anyone that the Second Prince is not that kind of man.”

However, Matthieu, who had witnessed the upbringing of the King’s sons, shook his head.

The Second Prince cherished family more than anyone and greatly disliked harming others. It was unthinkable that he would seek to kill his own brother for power.

Of course, there was the saying that family meant nothing before power, as evidenced by the many disruptions plotted by royals eyeing the throne during the current King’s coronation.

But the Second Prince, that Matthieu knew, would never do such a thing. Someone who would kill their own kin for power was rather…

“Your-“

You, the Crown Prince, are you not?

Swallowing the blasphemous words he couldn’t voice, Matthieu let out a hushed sigh.

Chapter 8: Knight 3

Though she had inadvertently missed a meal, the Princess didn’t reprimand Dorothy for it.

For the Princess’s narrow stomach, the first course alone was excessive, no, more than excessive – it was an ordeal. Her appetite had not returned even by late dinner.

“…I don’t recall giving you permission to use the bathroom as you pleased.”

Nevertheless, it was unacceptable for a servant to use the facilities prepared for royalty first.

“…I’m sorry. I couldn’t find anywhere else to bathe…”

“It’s fine.”

But the Princess forgave even that.

The previous servants didn’t dare enter the Princess’s bathroom, not because they thought servants couldn’t use the royal facilities, but because they feared the curse might transfer if they shared the same bath as the cursed Princess.

Whether a curse or Princess, to them she was effectively a leprosy-ridden master – an undesirable invalid they were forced to attend to. Would they wish to use the same facilities as such a patient?

Thus, the Princess didn’t reprimand Dorothy. That she even considered bathing in the same waters as the diseased her was novel to the Princess.

“…So that’s why children love ants.”

“Pardon?”

“You need not prepare dinner. I’m not hungry yet.”

It was quite amusing watching her labor, drenched in sweat as she dug up and tilled the vast courtyard.

* * *

“…?”

After bathing, when the Princess ascended to the study, her eyes fell upon Dorothy intently reading a book.

It wasn’t unusual to see Dorothy reading books in the study, as she had studied whatever piqued her curiosity through books, such as cookbooks, since arriving at the tower.

“…A fairy tale?”

But the book she was reading now was not for study, but a fairy tale collection compiled from popular children’s stories.

“What are you reading?”

Why was she incongruously reading fairy tales? Puzzled by this strange sight, the Princess unconsciously approached and addressed Dorothy.

“Ah, Princess. This is…”

“I do not mean to embarrass you. I am simply curious why you would read such fairy tales.”

It was a book of fairy tales she hadn’t read even once after her fifteenth birthday, never popular among the servants either.

That faded fairy tale book gathering dust in a study corner, suddenly resurfacing before a maid who appeared more adult and mature than the Princess herself.

“Do you enjoy fairy tales?”

“Yes, I’ve liked them since I was little.”

Watching the expressionless maid nod, the Princess thought her an eccentric woman the more she learned about her.

“To be precise, a friend I knew as a child loved fairy tales, so I came to like them as well. She even fancied herself a Prince from the stories, despite being a girl.”

“I see.”

It was her first time hearing about someone’s personal past, so the Princess unintentionally lent an ear to Dorothy’s story.

“It’s been so long since we parted that I can barely remember her face now.”

But it seemed Dorothy had no intention of elaborating further on her personal history.

“I don’t like fairy tales.”

Contrary to Dorothy, the Princess disliked fairy tales. No, she greatly disliked them.

“I enjoyed them once and would read them all day, but not anymore.”

For fairy tales contained an existence the Princess least wished for – the Prince who rescues the Princess from hardship.

Thus, the Princess both liked and disliked fairy tales. When she believed a Prince might come to rescue her someday, she would read fervently enough to tear the book’s pages. But once that belief crumbled and she faced reality, she avoided even briefly laying eyes on them.

“I have no particular fondness for fairy tales themselves.”

Of course, she had no intention of revealing such an embarrassing secret to her servant, so the Princess left it at that.

“But I do enjoy heroic tales and the like.”

“Heroic tales?”

The Princess’s study did contain many heroic tales, though she had not read them.

“Recite one heroic tale you know.”

“A heroic tale I know… by word? Um…”

Flustered by the unexpected command, Dorothy soon began reciting a heroic tale the Princess had never heard before.

Long ago, there lived a farmer named Charlie.

Though not particularly bright, Charlie was brave and exceedingly mighty, earning him the rare moniker of a ‘one-in-a-millennium talent’ in his village.

Then one day, a civil war broke out in the country, and by the lord’s conscription order, Charlie was drafted to serve as a soldier on the battlefield. There, he distinguished himself, catching the lord’s eye, and Count Stoke made him a knight.

Even after being knighted, his exploits continued. Earning great merit on numerous battlefields, his name became renowned nationwide, and while people praised his valor, they also feared his borderline madness and brutal ferocity, giving him the nickname ‘The General.’

But innately violent Charlie would sometimes become more engrossed in slaughtering enemies than achieving victory on the battlefield. And at the equestrian tournament held to celebrate the war’s end, he ultimately could not control his savage instincts, strangling and killing King Sanchez III who had come from a foreign land to view the tournament…

“Hold on.”

Interrupting the story-reciting Dorothy, the Princess looked at her.

“Can this truly be called a heroic tale? It seems merely the biography of a madman.”

For the protagonist of Dorothy’s tale was someone the Princess could never consider a hero by any conventional understanding.

“But that is what a hero is, originally.”

However, Dorothy countered the Princess’s words.

“There can be no perfect person in this world, and even those called heroes inevitably have one or two flaws. Was not even the founder of this nation himself imperfect?”

Perfection is impossible. Especially for those born human, it is impossible to attain perfection.

Even Jason, who claimed descent from the sun, had the great flaw of complicated romantic entanglements despite his tremendous deeds. In fact, it was because of that flaw that his descendants now suffered the curse – who could call such a flaw trivial?

“And that imperfect hero’s descendant stands before you now.”

“…Ah.”

“Well, no need to dwell on it.”

It had become a case of insulting an ancestor before their descendant, but it was fine. The curse currently ravaging the Princess’s body was practically caused by that very ancestor’s philandering, after all.

“You must mind your words.”

The words from Dorothy’s mouth were quite novel to the Princess.

Had such words been uttered in palace or noble social circles, the speaker would have been executed for blasphemy. For it was tantamount to insulting the entire royal family who carried the founder’s blood, not just the founder himself.

“I shall let this matter pass, but you must not utter such words before others.”

“I will be mindful.”

The Princess smiled, though hidden from Dorothy by her mask.

She belatedly realized she had unconsciously smiled – when was the last time she had smiled?

“…I’ll retire for the night, so you should return to your bedroom as well.”

“Understood… Ah, one moment.”

Having hastily risen to depart in an indescribable elation, the Princess halted at Dorothy’s words.

“I would like your counsel on what flowers to plant. What kind of flowers does the Princess prefer?”

“…Flowers?”

The Princess had little interest in flowers, nor much knowledge of their varieties.

“Plant whatever you wish.”

Thus, the Princess gave Dorothy discretion, thinking she would know best since she was the one who proposed planting flowers.

“…Ah, but…”

There was just one thing she wished for.

“I would prefer a variety of colors.”

The Princess remembered the palace gardens of her childhood, vividly blooming with colorful assorted flowers.

A beautiful sight she had longed to see again after being confined to the High Tower due to the curse.

If the courtyard was to be made into a garden, she wished for it to resemble the gardens she had seen then, though she knew a single maid could not perfectly recreate the palace gardens.

“I’ve never seen the palace gardens, but… I’ll try my best. Good night then, Princess.”

Yellow dahlias, blue myosotis, white bellflowers, purple rosemary-

“…Princess!! Get down…!!!”

And red anemones.

“What…”

Simultaneously tackled to the ground by the maid who suddenly threw her body at her, the Princess’s consciousness returned to reality. And then:

Schlick…!!

A sickening sound of flesh being sliced that sent chills down one’s spine assaulted the Princess’s ears.

“Damn nuisance.”

“Wha…t…”

A third voice that should not be heard in the High Tower where only the Princess and Dorothy resided.

But the Princess didn’t hear that voice, her gaze captivated by the horrific sight before her eyes.

Red, a deeper red than anything else in the world.

Scattering like anemone petals, like rose petals.

Whose owner was all too apparent – blood.

Chapter 9: As You Command

The maid, collapsing in a spray of blood while shielding her master.

“You merely hastened your own demise. Had you abandoned the Princess and fled, you might have lived.”

The maid’s body, thrown aside like trash by the assailant after sacrificing herself to protect the Princess.

“Let me confirm first – are you the Princess?”

That assassin whose intent was all too clear, a dripping, bloodstained blade in his hand.

“Well, no need to answer if you don’t want to. It’s obvious at a glance. Your hair may be a bit faded, but you’re blonde with blue eyes… what? What are you staring at so intently… ah, I see.”

But the assassin was of no concern to the Princess. Her gaze was solely fixed on the fallen maid.

That eccentric woman unlike anyone the Princess had ever met before. The very same woman who brazenly insulted Orléans’s founder without a care, using the royal bathroom meant for the Princess before the Princess herself, also out of sheer nonchalance.

The madwoman, no, the lunatic who suddenly decided to create a garden and turned the entire courtyard upside down.

The Princess disliked foolish people, those without propriety, and those who could not control the words leaving their own mouths.

-…Hair, it’s so hard to tie.

She disliked uncouth servants who could not even properly groom their own hair.

-The jambon beurre… it’s a shame to waste it, should I eat it?

She disliked those so gluttonous as to covet others’ food, and those so stingy as to hesitate over discarding leftovers.

The maid Dorothy Gale was someone who embodied everything the Princess disliked – devoid of even the most basic etiquette, lacking any noble grace or dignity.

-It must have been extraordinarily difficult to find someone willing to attend me, Chamberlain.

From the moment she first heard the name Dorothy Gale from the chamberlain, the Princess had already let go of any expectations. For it was a name not of the Orléans language, but a foreign one.

While a native noble was one matter, servants were typically not recruited from foreign nobles. So she was likely a commoner, and to assign a non-noble commoner, no, a servant to a royal was something that would not occur unless there was a dire shortage of people.

What expectations could be had of a foreign commoner servant? In reality, Dorothy lacked even the basic qualities required of a maid.

“…Dorothy.”

And yet, nevertheless.

“Get up.”

The Princess could not bring herself to completely dislike her.

-I wish for the scenery you see when you look outside your window in the morning to be beautiful.

Those embarrassing words she uttered so nonchalantly without changing her expression.

“Didn’t you tell me? That you wished for the scenery I see to be… beautiful?”

For they provided some solace, however slight, to her wounded heart.

“This is not beautiful. This is not beautiful at all.”

Thus, the Princess could not bring herself to fully hate Dorothy, so desperate was she for that affection, sincere or deceptive.

“Dorothy, Doro…”

“You must have cherished that wench quite dearly, Princess. No matter, I’m merciful. I’ll send you directly to the next world so you won’t miss her.”

Gazing emptily at the assassin’s moonlit blade, the Princess looked up at the empty sky.

The moment when her past struggles to somehow live on despite enduring unbearable agony became meaningless.

Then at the very least, for the end:

Could she not be granted an easier death?

Along with a resentment toward the Creator that would never be answered, the Princess closed her eyes.

* * *

“…Then should the Royal Guard not be immediately dispatched to the Princess’s location?”

Unable to watch the Crown Prince calmly sip his tea after dropping such a bombshell statement, Matthieu asked.

“Is this not an urgent situation where those vile scum daring to threaten the blood of the sun could strike at the Princess’s life at any moment, Your Highness?”

Matthieu loved all three of the current King’s children, the Crown Prince, the Second Prince, and even the Princess.

He had attended to the current King even before his ascension to the throne, witnessing the birth and growth of his three children firsthand. Having personally seen their upbringing, how could he not develop affection for them?

Though he avoided her out of fear of the curse, his affection for the Princess hadn’t waned. Thus, while knowing the Princess would have to live her entire life burdened by suffering unless her life ended, Matthieu also wished for her not to die.

Which was why Matthieu could not understand the Crown Prince’s calmness. How could this man be so composed?

Matthieu knew he was someone whose thoughts differed greatly from ordinary people, so-called lacking in emotion, and likewise devoid of any affection for his siblings born of the same parents.

Matthieu could not fathom how the Crown Prince could be so indifferent, but could accept it to some degree. However, was the current crisis not threatening not just the Princess?

“If the Princess dies, that curse will transfer to the young Prince – your own son, Your Highness.”

The youngest of the current royal bloodline was the Crown Prince’s firstborn son, the young Prince. The moment the Princess was killed, the curse would pass to the mere newborn young Prince.

“Your Highness, he who will succeed you on the throne. How could you allow that dreadful curse to befall him?”

It was clear the Crown Prince’s heart held no affection for his siblings, parents, or even his own wife. But no matter how coldhearted, how could he remain emotionless toward his own child?

Even if that were possible, Matthieu thought the Crown Prince would not simply watch this plot unfold.

Though the Crown Prince may shower his family with not a shred of love, he had also always been a war hero devoted to the nation. In other words, this homeland of Orléans was something even the emotionless Crown Prince cherished and cared for.

The young Prince was the prime candidate to eventually succeed the Crown Prince to the throne, the legitimate heir. If the curse transferred to such a legitimate successor, chaos would surely ensue. Surely the Crown Prince would not permit such a calamity?

“I’ve already sent someone, in any case.”

Of course, that was not possible.

“There’s no need to send the Royal Guard. That person will handle it.”

An uncharacteristic, steadfast trust from the ever-cautious Crown Prince.

“Might I presume to ask who you have sent?”

Matthieu asked, wondering just who could inspire such confidence as he pondered.

In response, the Crown Prince took a puff of his pipe and exhaled smoke as he answered:

“A fixer.”

* * *

“…Guh-“

The last strangled breath that reached the ears of the Princess as she closed her eyes to face death.

Instinctively opening her eyes, the Princess saw the assassin who had raised his blade to slit her throat frozen in that very pose.

“…?”

“Guh- uck- Kuhuck-“

His face grotesquely contorted in pain, the assassin could not move a single step as if snagged on something.

Soon, dimly illuminated by the moonlight, the Princess realized why the assassin’s blade had not reached her.

“Wire…?”

There was wire there, extremely thin wire, binding the assassin’s neck and blade-wielding arm, preventing his movement.

“Not wire, a garrote wire.”

“-!!”

Turning her head hastily toward that voice she inexplicably yearned to hear, the Princess saw.

“Though a garrote wire could be considered a wire made of metal, in a sense.”

A face more welcome than any this night, rising while casually brushing off dust with one hand, unbothered by the still-bleeding wound.

“How- How is this poss- You was cut deep-“

“You… you’re not dead…!?”

“Indeed, as you can see.”

Her right fist clenched tight.

A white glove was now donned on her right hand, connected to the garrote wire.

“Didn’t I swear to remain by your side for the rest of your life, Princess?”

Slowly rising with her back to the assassin, Dorothy spoke.

“How could I dare utter a false vow before you, as your servant?”

That vow Dorothy had made, which the Princess had dismissed as merely glib words.

“Does this truly mean… you were sincere?”

“As I’ve mentioned several times before, I have little talent for lying.”

Dorothy rose to keep that vow, for the Princess’s sake.

“Princess, I came here having accepted a request to protect you.”

From the beginning, her task was to guard the Princess, by force if necessary.

In other words, this was the perfect situation to demonstrate her talents to the fullest.

“So command me, Princess.”

The servant asked, no, requested permission from her master.

“Command me to protect you.”

To allow her to serve her master with what meager skills she had.

“…Protect me.”

“Wait- I have something to say. So spare my life, spare my life-“

Permission granted. Then all that remained was:

“As you command.”

To simply follow orders.

Chapter 10: Αράχνη (Arachne)

“Hmm…”

Only one coachman was tasked with commuting between the High Tower and Hyperion.

There was no particular reason for this, it simply happened naturally as most coachmen avoided going near the Princess, who was openly rumored to be cursed.

The reason this sole coachman took on the job others refused was exceedingly simple – he urgently needed money.

He was offered quadruple his usual coachman’s wages as daily pay, how could he refuse? For someone already struggling financially, it was an offer he could not turn down, no matter how fearful of the curse.

Was there any curse more dreadful than poverty? Thus, the coachman always drove the carriage gladly, scoffing at the other coachmen avoiding such a simple task of merely transporting cargo once a week.

And that cargo weighing down the carriage only needed to be unloaded at the High Tower before his job was done – what could be simpler than that?

“Come to think of it… what is this?”

However, this time he could not return empty-handed, though strictly speaking, he had never returned completely empty-handed before either.

The maids attending the Princess would write down necessary supplies on a note each week to be delivered to the palace via the coachman.

“There’s something inside…”

But this was the first time he had been asked to deliver physical items to the palace. Thus, he had wondered if it was truly permissible.

Of course, there were no instructions prohibiting item deliveries, so the coachman simply followed the maid’s request. Ultimately, it was the chamberlain’s duty to make judgments and decisions – he was merely an errand boy following the chamberlain’s orders.

Whatever this item was, the final decision rested with the chamberlain. A lowly coachman’s role was simply to pass it along for the chamberlain’s judgment.

“…Didn’t she say not to look inside?”

However, separate from that, the coachman was curious about the item inside the box.

Despite the maid’s repeated stern warnings not to look at the contents, or rather, because of those very warnings, he became even more curious about the reason for such insistence.

Was it a valuable treasure? Or some secret of the royal family?

To be so adamantly warned against opening it, it could not be an ordinary item.

Moreover, out here in the middle of the forest path, there was no one to monitor him. As long as he did not tamper with the item, he could feign ignorance without any consequences.

“…Ah, whatever!!”

Unable to resist his curiosity any longer, the coachman opened Pandora’s box.

“What is this… Guheck!!!!”

There is an old saying – curiosity killed the cat.

“Uwuweghheck-!!!”

As punishment for recklessly prying into secrets, he ended up vomiting everything he had eaten that morning.

* * *

“Why isn’t that bastard coming down?”

The assassin who had come to kill the Princess after receiving a request from the mysterious client was not alone – there were four of them in total, not individually hired but originally a quartet.

Though their rapport could not be called particularly good, these four always carried out requests together whenever one came in. Each had different specialties, and they knew their efficiency and success rate were highest when working as a group.

“Is he messing around with her before the kill again?”

“Are you insane? Transfer the curse? Looking at that rotting body, who would get turned on unless they’re a real psycho?”

“That bastard might. He’s obsessed with women, isn’t he? Mark my words, he’ll get himself killed one of these days for screwing around too much.”

Thus, after sending up the most agile and proficient assassin of the quartet, the other three waited for him.

“It’s freezing out here. Why is the weather like this?”

“We’re in the North, dumbass. Don’t you know it’s Lombardy bumpkin territory just over those mountains?”

“Even for the North, this is way too cold considering how close we are to the capital… By the way, why isn’t that bastard coming down yet? I’ll go check…”

Clack, clack.

The sound of footsteps reached the ears of the trio grumbling complaints.

“What took him so lo-“

The man about to berate the reason for making them wait in the cold abruptly fell silent.

For the footsteps did not belong to the comrade he knew.

Assassins normally wear soft-soled shoes to minimize noise. Not clacking bootheels like those gradually approaching – something they would never even own, let alone wear on an operation.

The other comrades froze with grim expressions, all sensing an ominous feeling from the nearing bootsteps.

Clack, clack, clack.

The footsteps stopped beyond the closed door.

Creak-

And through the door that opened with a deeply unsettling sound.

“…?”

There was a maid.

A maid staring blankly at the uninvited guests, unbothered by the deep gash in her chest.

Of course, even if cursed, the Princess was still royalty and would naturally have servants in attendance.

But why was it an unfamiliar maid at the door instead of their comrade who had gone up?

Had she done something to him? No, that was unlikely.

They knew their comrade’s skill. While admittedly reckless and overly honest about his desires, his skill was top-notch, unmatched by anyone.

“…Ah, could it be…”

But their denial of reality could proceed no further.

“You are comrades of that assassin?”

For the undeniable proof that something had happened to their comrade was clenched in the maid’s hands.

In her left hand she held a head, in her right a leg, dragging the torso along the ground.

To think that severed head and body had once been a single person – it was a grotesquely unsettling sight.

“…Ah.”

The maid, who had been dazed for a long time in front of the people who had just witnessed the terrible end of her colleague, turned her gaze to them with an exclamation as if she had come up with a good idea.

“How fortunate.”

Those bloodred eyes filled with an eerie glow like fresh blood turned toward them – the eyes of a monster.

“I just needed fertilizer.”

The spider’s web of death ensnared the pitiful prey.

* * *

In the past, there was an incident where the beloved daughter of the Kingdom’s prime minister, Nicolas Colbert, was kidnapped by those hired by a noble politically opposed to him.

Behind it was one particular noble, greatly displeased by the populist policies of the upstart bourgeois prime minister, who plotted to take his most cherished daughter hostage to control him.

The noble’s plot proceeded smoothly. Colbert’s daughter, who happened to be passing through the Duchy of Königsberg in the Lombardy Confederation, was easily taken into his custody, leaving only the prime minister himself to be pressured using her as leverage.

But instead of submitting to the noble’s threats, Colbert devised another solution – to hire someone to retrieve his daughter.

A discreet hiring process conducted in utmost secrecy to avoid the noble’s notice.

At the end of it, the one Colbert hired was a nameless, faceless fixer from the slums.

And the next day, half of Königsberg’s criminal organizations had vanished.

As a bonus, the noble who had ordered the kidnapping was found stripped naked in the central fountain of Hyperion’s plaza, with a placard reading ‘I am a deviant who enjoys public nudity’ hung around his neck.

Observing the politician’s humiliation with relish, Colbert asked his returned daughter if anything had happened.

Trembling with fear, his daughter replied that it was all thanks to the person her father had sent that she could return unharmed, not a single hair out of place.

‘Then why are you trembling?’ Colbert asked.

‘That person was too frightening,’ his daughter answered.

“Phew…”

The savior who had approached, drenched in blood after tearing people to shreds beyond recognition.

“…I probably should have left one alive, to hand over to the chamberlain…”

It was an appearance too terrifying for a cherished daughter raised with her parents’ devoted love to bear witnessing.

“…At this rate, there’s no way to tell who’s who… Ah, there was one intact part – the neck.”

As his daughter’s eyewitness account spread from mouth to mouth, becoming more embellished, it eventually found its way into the social circles of Orléans nobility.

“I can just package and send it.”

By then, the rumors had evolved to the point of being akin to an urban legend.

There was someone who could tear people to shreds beyond recognition with sharp wires, it was said, accomplishing any task for money.

A fiend with an obsession for human blood and flesh, they said, a madman reveling in slaughter.

Perhaps not human at all, but a spider hybrid? The blood of spiders and humans intermingled? Awakened to power after a spider’s bite? Always wearing red?

“It’s a complete bloodbath…”

The rumor had become so distorted beyond retrieval that it was nearly impossible to discern truth from falsehood.

“…Come to think of it, I’ll have to clean this up myself.”

This was the name the nobility gave to the subject of those rumors.

“Ah… what a hassle.”

Arachne.

Chapter 11: Time To Think

“Arachne… you say?”

Matthieu couldn’t help but lament at the Crown Prince’s words.

“You sent such a dangerous person to the Princess? How could you…”

Matthieu had also heard rumors about Arachne, for the incident of Prime Minister Colbert’s beloved daughter being kidnapped occurred during the current King’s coronation period when he served as chamberlain.

From Colbert’s public display of anguish to secretly sending someone to retrieve his daughter while inflicting great humiliation upon his political rival – the figure who came to be known as Arachne played a crucial role in that entire process, though Matthieu didn’t entirely believe the increasingly outrageous rumors.

However, he thought there must be some reason behind such uncanny rumors spreading in the first place, as the saying goes – where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

“She is not so dangerous, merely a common slum dweller surviving day-to-day on alcohol, tobacco, and gambling.”

“Which is precisely why she must not be allowed to attend the Princess…”

Whether addicted to alcohol or gambling, such wretches are equally unfit for close company.

Let alone someone addicted to both vices – where could one find a more hopeless case?

“Had I known her true nature from the start, I would never have permitted her to attend the Princess.”

“Which is why I kept it secret, lest you risk your life to stop it.”

Anticipating Matthieu’s objections, the Crown Prince had secretly hired Arachne, utilizing the false identity of Count Villefort created to conceal the royal family’s intentions.

“Is she truly so valuable? Do you truly believe she can properly attend the Princess?”

The aged chamberlain couldn’t hide his unease. How could he expect such loyalty and ability from someone of such poor quality as to be addicted to alcohol and gambling?

“She will get it done. Undoubtedly.”

Dismissing Matthieu’s concerns, the Crown Prince affirmed it.

“For when it comes to loyalty to her master, there is none in this nation who can match that spider.”

A fanatical, borderline suicidal level of loyalty that would unhesitatingly follow if her master ordered her to slit her own throat.

As long as that loyalty was directed toward the Princess, the Princess’s life wouldn’t be in danger.

“So you can set your mind at ease. Sibylla will not die.”

“Chamberlain. Your Highness. Something has arrived from the High Tower.”

Just as Matthieu was about to ask how the Crown Prince could be so certain, a maid entered carrying a wooden box.

“What is that, Miss Corde?”

“I… I’m not sure. The coachman who brought it strictly instructed me not to open it, to deliver it directly to the chamberlain…”

As if entranced, the maid didn’t dare defy the coachman’s stern warnings, though she was curious about the box’s contents. But it had come from that accursed High Tower, so she didn’t wish to risk opening it carelessly.

“I see. You may leave.”

After dismissing the maid, Matthieu set the wooden box she had brought on the table for the Crown Prince to examine the contents.

“…”

Silence hung between the Crown Prince and chamberlain.

Without a word, they could surmise what was inside that box.

“…What a foul stench.”

“A stench we are quite familiar with, having experienced all manner of palace intrigues and battlefields.”

The putrid reek of decaying corpses.

“‘The Princess is safe. From Dorothy Gale’…”

The note on the lid, that stench, and the box’s size easily large enough to contain a human head.

Was there any doubt left as to its contents?

“Did I not say Sibylla wouldn’t die?”

The corners of the Crown Prince’s mouth, utterly unmoved until entering the chamberlain’s office, curved into a faint smile.

* * *

It didn’t take long to dispose of the corpses, or rather unidentifiable chunks of flesh, strewn across the courtyard.

Since they were meant to be buried in the ground from the start, all Dorothy had to do was shovel them up, flesh and soil together, and rebury them.

Finely minced beyond recognition into a meat paste of bone, tendon, and flesh, they were easy to scoop up. The single remaining torso minus a head was a bit unsightly, but no different from the other corpses and easy enough to render similarly.

The only issue was the absurdly small quantity being insufficient to spread across the entire courtyard, but Dorothy had not intended to plant flowers over the whole area from the start. She could start by cultivating flowers around the tower perimeter first, then gradually expand outward.

“It really won’t come off…”

The problem was the blood left behind by the assassin who had tried to kill the Princess.

In her excitement over receiving the Princess’s permission, Dorothy had unconsciously used excessive force, cleanly severing his head.

“I should have restrained myself…”

If she had simply strangled him or snapped his neck, he would have died all the same without this messy aftermath, but she had needlessly made cleanup difficult for herself.

Lamenting her past self’s mistake, Dorothy wiped the blood-stained stairs.

“How much more is left…?”

Simply wiping the blood from the study would not be the end of it, as she had dragged the corpse along, leaving a trail of blood on the stairs as well.

Moreover, the study was on the fourth floor, meaning the gory path extended from the fourth floor all the way down to the first.

In other words, she had to clean that entire lengthy stretch.

“Haah…”

Bloodstains didn’t come off easily – she had to scrub vigorously just for a faint chance of erasing each mark as she climbed up and down the tower, such a troublesome task.

But who was there to blame but herself, as it was all her own doing?

“It might have been easier if I’d arrived as a Royal Guard instead of a maid… no, nevermind.”

Then instead of a maid’s uniform, she would be wearing a stifling formal uniform just looking at it.

Marveling at her own limited experience in various ways, the failure of a maid busied herself cleaning up the aftermath of her own actions once more today.

“…Ah, right, the Princess needs her breakfast.”

Simultaneously realizing she had committed the grave error of making the Princess skip yet another meal.

* * *

“…”

While Dorothy was outside scrubbing away her past mistakes, the Princess remained in her bedchamber, gazing out the window.

It wasn’t hunger pains that had woken her from slumber, for she hadn’t slept a wink in the first place.

How could she sleep after witnessing someone’s head cleanly sliced off, spraying blood before her very eyes?

Moreover, the Princess had never seen such a horrific sight in her life. Even professional executioners who routinely carried out executions would lament the suffering each time, so how much more for the Princess unaccustomed to such brutality?

-…He’s dead, right?

It was her first time witnessing death.

Even if the one who perished was a nameless assassin attempting to take her life, the fact remained that he had died, suffering an exceedingly cruel demise no less.

The Princess dwelled on that assassin’s death, on the very moment he died.

His rolling eyes, mouth agape struggling for breath with tongue lolling out, face drenched in tears, mucus, and saliva – every bodily fluid.

The Princess witnessed the entire process of a human being’s passage into death and the myriad emotions experienced therein.

Despite being the assassin sent to kill her, by the end the Princess even felt pity as he died a wretched death engulfed in agony and terror.

And the one who had delivered such an agonizing demise to that assassin was the Princess’s sole maid, Dorothy Gale.

“…Dorothy Gale.”

From the start, the Princess had not trusted that maid.

From her name to her conduct, there was nothing to her liking.

But that was undoubtedly a lack of trust in her qualities as a maid, not personal distrust toward Dorothy herself – it was the same distrust she harbored toward the royal family and her elder brothers.

Her ambiguous origins and character were of no concern, for even nobly born maids didn’t necessarily have better personalities.

Rather, it was toward Dorothy, who had allowed the Princess to open her heart to some degree, that she harbored complex feelings.

While she was still a dismal failure as a maid deserving outright rejection, her attitude toward the Princess herself was kinder than any previous maid.

Certainly inadequate as a maid, but the Princess couldn’t bring herself to entirely dislike or disregard Dorothy, who strove without a hint of aversion shown by other maids toward their cursed mistress.

Not quite affection nor hatred, an ambiguous feeling difficult to define.

But if pressed which it leaned closer to, the Princess’s feelings were undoubtedly nearer to affection. They would have been.

“…Just who are you?”

But the Princess’s scale tilted slightly to the other side – not hatred, but fear.

The maid who had casually taken a life, callously casting aside the corpse like trash – that inhumanity instilled fear in the Princess for the first time.

“…Were you truly acting to protect me?”

And yet, it was undoubtedly the Princess who had commanded her to do so. Dorothy had merely obeyed that order.

The Princess couldn’t bring herself to be utterly terrified of the maid who had dirtied her own hands to protect her.

“Princess, I’ve prepared your breakfast, albeit late-“

“There is no need, leave me.”

Thus, the Princess needed time.

Time to collect her thoughts and consider how to deal with Dorothy.

Chapter 12: The Unambiguously King of Cooking

“How in the world did you handle this!?”

The man’s roar echoed through the room.

“Were they not supposed to be the top assassins in Orléans!? Yet three of them vanished and only one returned, just a head!?”

“Calm yourself, Baron Clermont, is this cause for such outrage?”

“Not cause for outrage? Did you see the head hung at the city gates?”

The quartet was rumored to be the second-best group of assassins in Orléans. Thus, Baron Clermont had trusted them enough to hire them for a hefty sum.

But that trust from Clermont was betrayed. The purported leader’s head, rotten with putrid fluids dripping, was hung at the city gates, while the remaining three had vanished without a trace.

“The others must have died as well. And if not, I’ll find them and kill them myself!!!”

He shouldn’t have trusted lowly slum scum. Regretting his past mistake to the bone, Clermont slammed the table.

“Look on the bright side, is this not for the better? We have confirmed the Princess is no easy target.”

“Are you truly so daft? This means our grand endeavor has become more difficult!”

Witnessing the blatant failure with his own eyes, yet that nobleman still calmly pontificated from afar, prompting Clermont’s outrage. He could be so nonchalant because it wasn’t his money – damn weasel!

“And it is not the diseased Princess herself who is the issue, but the one by her side.”

“You’re right. Marquis Vallière, this is no trivial matter we can be optimistic about.”

With his ally spitting and patting his protruding belly as he ranted over the fortune senselessly squandered, the nobleman seated opposite reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“That maid – we had assumed she was some stray mutt plucked from a back alley, but it seems the Crown Prince personally selected her.”

“It could have been the chamberlain’s selection. He is one who greatly fears any harm befalling the royal family, is he not?”

What they hadn’t anticipated was the ability of the maid Dorothy Gale assigned by the palace to attend the Princess.

Even if the slain quartet’s skills fell short of expectations, they should have had no trouble ending the life of the defenseless Princess.

In other words, they had likely fallen victim to that maid attending the Princess – a consensus among this secret meeting.

“Do you have any information on her? Personal details, family, relatives…”

“I said there is no information at all. It’s as if she appeared out of thin air.”

Even the nobility’s extensive intelligence networks couldn’t unearth a single detail about Dorothy – she had truly seemed to materialize from nowhere.

“Let’s not get overly excited. We still have plenty of time.”

However, it was precisely in such situations that they must remain calm, lest hasty actions jeopardize their endeavor.

“First, let’s begin by gathering information on that maid. And… let’s make contact with Königsberg.”

“What, Marquis Vallière, have you lost your mind? To employ Lombardy savages to kill the Sun’s blood?”

An uproar arose among the nobles at Vallière’s words. No matter the target, the Princess was undoubtedly of the sacred royal bloodline.

To employ foreigners from beyond the mountain ranges, non-Orléans Lombardians, in killing such a noble lineage – this was tantamount to blasphemy for the nobles steeped in notions of being a chosen people, particularly looking down on Lombardians as inferior.

“Moreover, were they not the same ones who failed before? Do you not know what became of that Lord Grimaldi who hired Königsberg to kidnap Colbert’s daughter?”

Even setting aside such hubris and prejudice, Königsberg had already suffered a resounding failure once before. It was only natural for the nobles to distrust that city.

“Have no worries. That time there was someone called Arachne or whatever involved, but not this time.”

However, the organizations based in Königsberg were undoubtedly highly skilled. As long as they didn’t encounter another calamity akin to last time, Vallière was certain they wouldn’t fail.

“All for the sake of Orléans.”

Utterly unaware of where that very calamity currently resided.

* * *

“…Someone’s talking about me.”

Scratching her itchy ear, Dorothy gazed up at the ceiling.

For there were only two people in all of Orléans who could discuss her. The witch and the Princess.

“…Ah, they must have arrived by now, come to think of it.”

Adding the chamberlain as a candidate after sending that gift which would inevitably prompt discussion of her, Dorothy sliced the meat.

“Slice the beef… carrots, onions, potatoes and bay leaves…”

The dish Dorothy was attempting this time was Bœuf Bourguignon, a beef stew commonly enjoyed by Orléans commoners as home cooking.

Soak the ingredients in red wine for a day, then sear the marinated beef, sauté the onions in lard, add to the pot with the other ingredients, stir in tomato paste and the wine used for marinating, and simmer.

In a way, it was a dish that embodied the wine-obsessed nature of Orléans – though any alcohol would evaporate during cooking, so no worries about intoxication.

While appearing difficult at first glance, it wasn’t an overly complicated dish if faithfully following the recipe, like most stews and soups.

“Now let it marinate for a day… wait, a day?”

The problem, as always, was straying from the recipe due to circumstances.

“Even if I cook it right now, there won’t be enough time…”

As one palace chef had said, those who claim their dish was ruined despite following the recipe were usually the ones who had changed it arbitrarily.

“…Can’t I just cook it like this?”

And here was one such unruly individual, attempting to abbreviate the recipe.

The chef who wrote it would likely scoff that she might as well use the pot as a trivet instead.

“…Oh, come on.”

Thus, Dorothy took the first step toward what chefs hate most – ignoring carefully crafted recipes to cook recklessly, only to complain to the innocent chef later.

“I know what Bœuf Bourguignon is supposed to taste like anyway…”

Of course, the taste she knew was merely one particular cook’s version, like the jambon beurre last time.

Unlike the jambon beurre which simply required layering ingredients without any special equipment, Bœuf Bourguignon was a dish that required substantial time and effort despite appearing relatively simple.

“I can just adjust the seasoning as I go…?”

In other words, a dish a complete novice ignorant of even the basics should not attempt while blatantly disregarding the recipe.

In fact, dishes involving broths or stews tend to be like that – they require more time than other cooking methods to develop flavor, easy enough for experienced hands to make blindfolded yet challenging for uninformed beginners.

But that is precisely why recipes and tools exist – for a beginner to simply ignore all that and cook arbitrarily?

“…What is this supposed to be?”

The result could hardly be good.

“It’s the Bœuf Bourguignon.”

“I mean, what is… never mind, explaining will only make my mouth hurt.”

The Princess gazed at the dish, no, the blackened, vaporous something on the plate before her.

“At least the last one resembled food to some extent. But this time…”

Petroleum? Demon’s blood?

The Princess gave up trying to define the grotesque thing defiling her pristine plate, knowing any deep consideration would only render it more absurd.

While the jambon beurre had clashed with the Princess’s tastes, it wasn’t entirely flavorless, and its appearance, while problematic, was simply unconventional rather than her preferences.

But this Bœuf Bourguignon, or rather whatever vile liquid undeserving of the beef name, could not be called food by any measure. Who would willingly take a spoon to such a hideous concoction?

“…It seems you must relearn cooking from the very beginning.”

“It is… my first time cooking.”

At those words, the Princess stared intently at Dorothy with a gaze that seemed to ask, ‘Can you truly call this cooking?’

“…”

Under that gaze, Dorothy unconsciously averted her eyes, for even to her the anomaly before them resembled an alchemical byproduct more than food, let alone beef or stew.

“I had intended to refrain from harsh words if possible.”

You created a curse, not a dish.

To create something inedible using tools meant for crafting food humans can consume – was that a talent of sorts?

“…Bring croissants instead.”

“Yes, Princess.”

Thus, the Princess substituted her late lunch with croissants and coffee.

Chapter 13: This Hypocrite

“Haaah…”

Another failure in the end, even more disastrous than the last.

Gazing at the blackened, still bubbling sludge on the plate that had been there for quite some time, Dorothy let out a deep sigh.

With the jambon beurre previously, there was at least the excuse of clashing with the Princess’s tastes.

No, it wasn’t merely an excuse – there was no inherent issue with the food itself. It had simply been a culturally jarring shock for the Princess, the unrestrained tavern roughness unfamiliar to her palate.

But this time was different, for even to Dorothy of slum origins, it was clear that horrific black slime couldn’t be called Bœuf Bourguignon.

If the cook whose style had greatly influenced Dorothy’s cooking witnessed this, he might have raged ‘How could you make something like this based on my teachings?’ and tried to kill her with his kitchen knife.

Fortunately, there was no such cook here, and even if there were, he would have no way of knowing Dorothy was the gambling addict who used to frequent his establishment.

“I’m sorry…”

Still, the weight of guilt was so heavy that Dorothy couldn’t bring herself to raise her head as she apologized to that cook.

“…I’m hungry.”

After discarding what had once been beef into the trash and cleaning up her disastrous attempt at cooking, Dorothy’s stomach began to growl in protest.

Since arriving at the High Tower, Dorothy had been subsisting on the leftovers from the Princess’s meals. The Princess was such a light eater that a single slice of bread would fill her, while Dorothy had been serving portions slightly larger than a normal person’s.

Just last time, she had eaten the jambon beurre the Princess left behind. But this Bœuf Bourguignon was such an utter failure even Dorothy herself couldn’t bring herself to take a spoonful.

“I can cook something separate for myself, can’t I?”

In fact, it was stranger to eat others’ leftovers, and her predecessors had prepared their own meals separately, so it shouldn’t be an issue.

However, to serve the Princess an inedible disaster fit only for strays while eating proper food herself would prick even the triple-plated conscience of Dorothy to the point of questioning if she was even human.

The greatest difference between humans and beasts was the ability to exercise restraint. Allowing instinct to precede reason was the mark of an animal, not a human.

“…Princess, I’m sorry.”

But to disregard the findings of various biologists classifying humans as a species of animal was one of the three fallacies Orléans people must avoid – confirmation bias. Should she ignore the life’s work of scholars who do nothing but research and eat?

Thus, Dorothy was about to try her hand at beef again… before stopping herself. A premonition warned that another beef attempt could produce something even more monstrous than the last.

“I should just eat a jambon beurre… Hm?”

As Dorothy considered falling back on the familiar safety of the jambon beurre, her eyes caught sight of a carriage approaching the tower in the distance.

“But the coachman just left?”

Dorothy remembered the chamberlain’s words that the coachman would only come once a week. Yet what her eyes beheld was unmistakably a carriage, albeit with a slightly different appearance.

“Should I go down?”

Whether greeting guests first was the duty of the maid or the master was a conundrum for Dorothy, unfamiliar with noble etiquette. But-

“Hmm… I should probably go down.”

Even if etiquette dictated the master should receive them first, would it not be rather excessive to impose such protocol on an invalid?

“What a hassle…”

Thus, Dorothy sighed deeply and tidied her attire.

Carelessly provoking guests would only bring scolding upon herself, benefiting neither her nor the Princess.

The unexpected person who greeted Dorothy after her hasty preparations was:

“…Miss Gale.”

“Chief Chamberlain?”

The chamberlain, Matthieu de Fontaine – the elderly man who had appeared reluctant to even set foot here now stood rigidly before her.

“…What brings you directly to the High Tower, Chamberlain?”

The first thought upon seeing him was, ‘Can he even get down?’

When Dorothy had arrived with him previously, the chamberlain had been visibly averse to disembarking from the carriage, likely due to the Princess’s curse.

“For a moment, there is something I must discuss.”

But this time was different – he was standing firmly on both feet. And without a separate coachman to drive the carriage, it was clear the chamberlain had handled it himself.

“Then let me escort you to the Princess…”

“Not the Princess, but you, Miss Gale, are the one I must speak with.”

What wind was blowing? Dorothy wondered, for his grave demeanor suggested this was no trivial matter – something serious enough to disregard even that dreaded curse.

“Ah, could this be about those assassins?”

“…”

She had hit the mark, judging by the chamberlain’s silence, confirming her guess that he had come regarding the assassin’s severed head delivered to him by her own hand.

‘Was my explanation lacking? It shouldn’t be, though?’

But was that reason enough to come in person, setting the mood like this? Dorothy knew the chamberlain was no simpleton to miss such implications.

“First, shall we board the carriage? This is not a discussion suited for the Princess’s presence.”

“That will not be possible.”

However, the chamberlain’s following words made Dorothy wonder if this elderly man was perhaps duller than she had assumed.

“The Princess nearly came to harm just last night. In such a situation, how could I leave her side unattended?”

If not for Dorothy, the Princess would have died then and there. With only Dorothy as the Princess’s sole protection detail, if she were to leave, the Princess would be utterly defenseless.

“…It seems my thinking was shortsighted. Then we shall speak here.”

“Yes, by all means. It hardly seems a suitable place to enjoy tea and refreshments, in any case.”

“No matter, at my advanced age chewing is already difficult enough.”

The chamberlain walked past Dorothy through the gate, under his own power.

“Whose neck is that?”

After silently surveying the ravaged courtyard, the chamberlain suddenly asked Dorothy.

“It belongs to one of the assassins who tried to harm the Princess.”

Why even ask when he should know full well already?

“If one of the assassins, does that mean there were others?”

“Yes, a total of four. One who directly targeted the Princess, and three who waited outside for their comrade. That neck belongs to the one who tried to harm the Princess directly.”

At Dorothy’s answer, the chamberlain turned to face her.

“And what of the remaining three?”

“Have no worries, I eliminated them without a trace to prevent any further trouble. Though I regret being unable to deliver their necks as well due to the severity of their… bodily damage.”

In the chamberlain’s eyes, Dorothy read an emotion distinct from his previous evaluative gaze – a look of unease and disorder.

“Miss Gale.”

Clenching and unclenching his fists as if about to throw a punch, the trembling chamberlain forced the words out:

“Are you… Arachne?”

“…Arachne?”

Posing his question like a detective unveiling her identity before the final curtain, Dorothy fell into contemplation at the chamberlain’s inquiry.

‘What is Arachne?’

From the outset, she had little interest in worldly affairs. So would she even consider the consequences of her actions, or what she might be called by others?

‘…Ah right, the witch did mention it.’

After straining to dredge up her memories, Dorothy recalled the witch saying, ‘Those noble bastards are calling you Arachne.’

“Yes, I… suppose so. Probably.”

Unable to say for certain, but supposing she was likely the one the chamberlain sought, Dorothy unhesitatingly answered.

“…I had hoped not.”

It didn’t seem to be the answer the chamberlain wished for, however.

“How could such a murderer be allowed at the Princess’s side…”

“Is it not precisely because I am such a murderer that I am at the Princess’s side?”

Dorothy responded to the chamberlain’s murmurs.

“Everyone else avoids attending the Princess.”

She took no offense at being called a murderer, for it was the truth.

“So someone like me with tarnished hands ended up being assigned to the Princess. The able-bodied nobles with not a single burden in life shunned the Princess, leaving the opportunity to this wicked one who would kill for money.”

But at least to those primarily responsible for leaving the Princess in a murderer’s hands, she didn’t wish to hear such words.

“I don’t know if you have the right to call me a murderer, Chamberlain.”

“What…”

“Are you not one of them as well?”

Absolutely not.

“Refusing to even disembark from the carriage, unwilling to lay eyes on that dreadful sight for fear of vomiting everything in your gut – all because she is the Cursed one.”

To those wretches who ignored and turned their backs on a child, severing her from the world solely because she was cursed:

“This hypocrite.”

She didn’t wish to hear it from someone like him.

Chapter 14: A Different Person

Unexpectedly, Dorothy’s moral compass didn’t differ much from others’ – meaning she was aware that she herself and her actions were not exactly upright.

An errand runner who would grant any wish for money. A fixer who would undertake any unsavory task without complaint as long as she was paid.

The Colbert affair could be considered a just cause to some extent, but Dorothy didn’t solely take on such work. Money made no distinctions between good and evil.

Alcohol, tobacco, gambling – her hobbies all demanded substantial spending. Already lacking any sense of frugality or thrift, compounding it with the worst possible hobbies, how could she ever keep money in her purse?

Whenever she ran out of funds, she would accept a request. After completing the request and earning money, it wouldn’t be long before she squandered it all, returning to poverty. So she would accept another request, only to frivolously waste that earnings as well.

For the fleeting pleasures of intoxication, she burned through the lives of an elderly banker. For a whiff of tobacco smoke, the only daughter of a noble family. In the thrills of gambling, an ordinary innocent youth.

She traded lives for her own temporary gratification, savoring her blood-stained earnings while recalling her victims’ final expressions.

Dorothy Gale, Arachne, was an irredeemable villain no one could deny. She herself was most keenly aware of this.

And in a sense, her nonchalant embrace of such evil acts despite this awareness only made her more wicked.

“I don’t fail to understand the chamberlain’s heart. No matter how loyal and capable a chamberlain devoted to serving the royal family, his nature ultimately differs not from others’.”

In any case, this was why Dorothy could understand and empathize with the chamberlain’s feelings.

In society, the Fontaine family is said to be the pillars upholding the sun, having produced more chamberlains than any other central noble family in Orléans.

Matthieu de Fontaine was among the most capable and loyal of those numerous chamberlains, an exemplary individual.

But no matter his qualities, did that change the fundamental fact that he too was merely human in the end?

“You must have always worried over the Princess, pitying her plight of bearing a curse through no fault of her own, merely for being the youngest of the royals. You likely resented the witch who inflicted such a curse.”

That the chamberlain overcame his fears of the curse enough to directly visit the moment he grasped the situation’s gravity was alone worthy of credit.

“But that was Chamberlain’s limit.”

Yet he could proceed no further, for no matter his ties to the royal family as a noble, he was ultimately no different from others – human.

“The visceral revulsion, instinctive dread of the unknown. You couldn’t overcome those, Chamberlain.”

To face the Princess, to make contact with her – in the end, he couldn’t do it.

“It is impossible to use gender as an excuse, as you yourself well know.”

“…”

The trembling in the chamberlain’s body gradually subsided, as if the boiling emotions had abruptly cooled.

Dorothy gazed at the chamberlain, at his hollow eyes drained of vitality like a departed soul.

“…Are you different?”

The elderly man’s voice was far calmer than before.

No, it would be more accurate to say the vigor had left him – his turbulent emotions had ebbed, leaving him mentally exhausted.

“Is Miss Gale different from ordinary people?”

Was that question directed at her, or at himself?

Dorothy couldn’t tell. Not that there was a need.

“Do you think I am different from ordinary people, Chamberlain?”

“Yes, I do.”

The chamberlain answered Dorothy’s question without hesitation.

“Miss Gale, Arachne, is far from ordinary.”

Even soldiers trained to kill cannot take a life without hesitation.

Murder is that formidable an act, daunting even for those destined to cross blades with the enemy their entire lives.

The only reason they can kill foes is the desperate survival instinct when faced with being killed themselves.

There are soldiers who soil themselves after stabbing an enemy for the first time, such is the enormity of taking a life.

The reason is that they are still sane, having not fully experienced the battlefield and gone mad.

In other words, the veterans who have survived numerous battlefields are that much madder.

They must go mad, or they cannot endure. That is the nature of the battlefield, the nature of murder.

“I suppose so.”

But to the chamberlain, Dorothy countered:

“Perhaps you are right, and I am indeed a mad person.”

There was no denying a murderer addicted to money couldn’t be considered sane, that much was clear.

“But is it not thanks to that very madness that I can properly attend to the Princess without issue?”

Thus, Dorothy readily took on tasks others shunned – because there was money in it.

“I don’t think I differ much from others.”

Dorothy spoke.

“I simply have the knack of viewing things from a slightly different perspective.”

Curses were terrifying, as was the unsightly appearance of lepers, true.

But Dorothy chose not to dwell on such trivial elements, adjusting her perspective slightly askew from the ordinary and viewing the world through that unconventional lens.

“You… the Princess…”

“Doesn’t frighten me.”

Therefore, Dorothy gazed directly at the Princess, making no attempt to avoid contact.

“If one focuses solely on the positives, nothing is frightening.”

Concerns about curses and the like were cast far aside.

“I like the Princess’s eyes. I like her hair.”

She favored those blue eyes brimming with azure hues, that faded golden tresses.

“I like her gentle voice and graceful bearing.”

To Dorothy, Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans wasn’t a terrifying existence.

“The Princess is beautiful.”

There was no falsehood in those words, for Dorothy truly saw the Princess as a beautiful person.

“Even bearing a cursed body, she is beautiful.”

A battered sapphire – that was how the Princess appeared in Dorothy’s eyes.

“Return to where you belong, Chamberlain.”

Different from others.

“Don’t come here again until the Princess no longer appears a terrifying existence to you.”

Unless he realized that slight difference.

Matthieu de Fontaine would never be able to stand before the Princess again.

“…I entrust the Princess to you.”

“Yes.”

The chamberlain soon turned and trudged back the way he came, departing through the gate.

He then boarded the carriage, driving it away himself while kicking up dust.

“…Phew…”

Only after the carriage disappeared from sight did Dorothy finally release the breath she had been holding.

She had worried the chamberlain might lose his composure and lash out with his fists.

“Those were no ordinary muscles…”

Despite his advanced age, the chamberlain’s sinewy muscles were clearly visible through his clothes – he was built like a rock.

Of course, such a physique was only possible through rigorous training to maintain it. But.

“To still have such a muscular build at that age…”

Dorothy could tell it wast mn’erely for show, but the battle-honed musculature forged through thorough, grueling training.

“…If I took one of those fists, I might die.”

Dorothy thought if the chamberlain truly struck with those fists in earnest, her bones would be pulverized.

“There’s nothing to be gained from picking a fight with the chamberlain anyway…”

Not that she doubted her ability to prevail, but Dorothy had no intention of fighting the chamberlain.

The chamberlain was likely affiliated with the royal family who had hired her, so it would be vastly more beneficial to remain on good terms rather than invite conflict.

“Besides, he doesn’t seem like a bad person…”

Moreover, the chamberlain was one of the few confirmed to have a favorable stance toward the Princess, Dorothy’s master. What good would come from alienating a potential ally of the Princess, only harming Dorothy herself and the Princess?

Her creed was to strive wholeheartedly for her master until the request was complete.

A servant must not bring harm to their master. Reminding herself not to become an inconvenience to a master whose life was already arduous enough, Dorothy turned – only to come face-to-face with her.

“Shall I prepare your bath, Princess?”

“…Hmm.”

“Why did you come outside…?”

“The commotion drew me out. And since I didn’t wish to disturb your conversation with the chamberlain, I simply eavesdropped… you certainly know how to say embarrassing things.”

“Ah… that was… that…”

The praises about the Princess that had flowed naturally from her mouth. Looking back, they were indeed the sort of unrefined, simplistic flattery only a lovesick bumpkin might utter.

“…So, were those words truly from the heart?”

“…What?”

But such rustic compliments amounting to cringeworthy clichés from a century ago:

“Can you vouch that every word you uttered contained not a shred of falsehood?”

Seemed to reach the Princess differently.

Chapter 15: The Shackles Named Command

The child was born into blessings.

At 9:35 PM on April 13th, in the royal bedchamber of the royal palace of Hyperion.

Amidst thunderous cries, welcomed and celebrated by all of Orléans.

The spark of life for Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans began to burn.

From the moment of her birth, the Princess had already monopolized the attention and love of all Orléans.

The youngest and only daughter with a moderate age gap from her brothers – that alone was enough to make her the darling of the royal family.

The current King was hailed as a brilliant ruler who had overcome turbulent times to revive the nation, so the people too welcomed the King’s youngest daughter.

Rumors openly circulated of the usually composed King who always emphasized royal dignity throwing decorum aside to dote on the Princess like a fool whenever she barged into court sessions. Not a single person found it strange, as the Princess was the idol of Orléans.

Naturally, all this was possible because the Princess was beautiful.

Inheriting the royal family’s trademark golden locks and blue eyes passed down from Jason, coupled with her mother the Queen’s looks, the Princess was showered with praises of beauty from a young age to the point of becoming wearisome.

Of course, who could call the King’s daughter anything but beautiful? Yet it was undeniable that the Princess was strikingly attractive.

A face destined to be loved, an environment destined to be loved.

No one could have foreseen the Princess’s path would be anything but smooth, for even nobles of foreign nations wholly unconnected to her saw her future as rosy.

Thus, when reddish-brown spots began appearing on the Princess’s fair skin, the King desperately tried to deny the cruel reality befalling his daughter.

What were the odds of the unthinkable coincidence occurring where the only remaining royal younger than the ten-year-old Princess happened to die, conveniently passing the curse onto her?

In truth, calculating probabilities was meaningless, for it had already happened.

The lingering chaos within the royal family since before the current King’s coronation had prevented any royals younger than the Princess from being born. Then through a servant’s careless blunder, the relatively better cared for and younger current cursed royal, in better condition than previous cursed royals, met an untimely accidental demise.

Coincidence compounded coincidence, and the young Princess suddenly bore the curse that should never have befallen her rosy future.

“…”

The Princess suddenly recalled her carefree childhood days in the palace, when she couldn’t have fathomed bearing a curse in her wildest imaginings.

Back then, she had taken everything for granted – the praises of beauty, the love and attention from all around her.

Looking back now, what an ungrateful attitude, the Princess ruefully reflected.

How ephemeral beauty was.

There were no mirrors in the High Tower, as past royals confined there frequently lost the will to live after glimpsing their reflections and took their own lives.

Of course, magic was now used to prevent the tower’s occupants from harming themselves altogether, but there was still no need to deliberately torment royals whose daily existence was already hellish enough with mirrors, which is why not a single mirror could be found in the High Tower.

Such was the ugliness and hideousness of a cursed one’s appearance.

There was no need for comparison – it would suffice to envision a leper, as the symptoms and signs were nearly indistinguishable from leprosy.

The Princess knew her unsightliness better than anyone.

Her once radiant blonde hair had faded, her skin entirely flayed off with her whole body rotting – no matter how narcissistic, one could hardly claim to be beautiful in such a state.

“Since becoming cursed, not a single person has called me beautiful.”

Though confined to the tower, the Princess was well aware of society’s evaluation of her like no other.

“Not even my parents or siblings.”

The King went mad, the Queen turned her back on her own child. The Crown Prince, always reticent, no longer even paid lip service. Even the Second Prince who had always been kind to the Princess could no longer utter such words.

“And yet you look upon this cursed form and call me beautiful.”

Thus, the Princess couldn’t comprehend this maid’s words. Just what was beautiful about her?

“Are you crazy?”

The Princess abruptly asked Dorothy.

“No, don’t answer. Having overheard your previous conversation with the chamberlain, I have more than understood that you’re not of sound mind.”

The Princess had overheard the full exchange between the chamberlain and Dorothy, revealing this maid fidgeting before her to be:

“There was a complete lack of hesitation in your movements, evidence of one acclimated to murder.”

Arachne – the murderer who had drenched half a city in blood.

“You are a madwoman. That is why you don’t avoid me.”

Because she was insane, unlike a sane person who would shun the cursed Princess, she attended without a shred of complaint. That was the Princess’s understanding of Dorothy.

“…Princess, I…”

“Don’t speak.”

Cutting off the tight-lipped Dorothy, the Princess spoke:

“I despise you.”

The Princess spoke.

“You, more useless and foolish than any servant I have seen, unable to do anything properly.”

The words began as a rebuke toward Dorothy.

“And yet shamelessly conducting yourself as if wearing an iron mask, treating me like an ordinary person.”

But the tone that had initially sounded like questions and reprimands gradually changed.

“You who are always kind to me, foolish but diligent you.”

Emotion bled into the previously calmly even voice.

“I despise you for being that madwoman, I despise you for being that unparalleled murderer.”

“Princess…”

“But what I despise even more is…”

And again interrupting Dorothy’s words, the Princess confessed:

“Myself, swayed by that madwoman’s kindness.”

Her true feelings.

“I can’t be certain whether your words are sincere or lies, having been betrayed too many times by those I trusted.”

Betrayed by her subjects, betrayed by her servants, betrayed by her brothers, betrayed even by her parents.

“And yet I find myself wavering at those words and actions whose sincerity I can’t discern.”

Still, the Princess couldn’t compose herself against the honeyed words of this maid she had known for not even a month.

“I don’t trust you, nor anyone else.”

The Princess continued to distrust all, for they were the very ones who had made her cursed life more miserable.

“And yet my feeble self still seeks out that faintest glimmer of warmth.”

Yet she couldn’t abandon that futile hope, still clinging to them in a way.

“Having resigned myself, vowing never to expect anything from anyone ever again. My own foolishness is so, so…”

Pitiable, utterly pitiable – that was how despicable the Princess found herself, filled with loathing.

“…”

Trailing off, the Princess raised her head, lest the welling tears spill over.

“…Dorothy Gale, my maid.”

“Yes, Princess.”

Choking back the lump rising in her throat, the Princess asked Dorothy:

“When is the deadline for your request to be completed?”

“I cannot say for certain. I was informed it could be extended indefinitely. But likely…”

“You need not say more. You guess it is until I succumb to the curse and die, do you not?”

The moment the Princess died, Dorothy’s task would end, for there would be no one left to guard.

“Then does that mean you must work as my maid until the request is complete?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

What an irresponsible request, the Princess inwardly thought.

“…You said before that you are my servant, no different from a dog that walks on two legs and speaks.”

“Yes, that is correct.”

But thanks to those words, she could impose such compulsion. Should she be grateful or not?

“Were those words untrue?”

“I will stake my life to guarantee they were not.”

Dorothy had referred to herself as a dog – one who would obey any command from its master.

And the one currently holding that dog’s leash was the Princess, Sibylla.

“…Then as your master, Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans commands her loyal servant Dorothy Gale.”

If Dorothy’s words were true, then the Princess could issue her any command, for she was a servant.

“Free me from this curse, with all your might.”

Thus, Sibylla shackled Dorothy with chains called Command.

“Make me happy.”

Until those shackles were removed, unable to leave her side.

Of course, Sibylla herself knew full well those shackles were tenuous – there was no way to lift the curse rooted in bloodline, nor could one under its grip find happiness.

But Sibylla resolutely bound that leash to Dorothy’s neck, one she could sever at any time.

“As you command.”

For she felt she could no longer endure otherwise.

Chapter 16: Going Out (illustration)

The request, no, the command to lift her curse and make her happy.

Dorothy contemplated her young master’s order. Was the Princess’s wish even possible? Did she herself have the ability to complete such an order?

“It will be difficult.”

Dorothy thought it was impossible. Even if possible, the chances were not high.

A curse older than the Princess, older than Dorothy herself, older even than the current King – a curse that had persisted for centuries without breaking, one the heroic Jason himself couldn’t dispel and had to pass down to future generations. There would be no way for a mere slum urchin unrelated to the royal bloodline to lift it.

“Hmm…”

Dorothy pondered. Could someone incapable of even basic housework resolve such a monumental task? Even stray dogs would laugh themselves silly at the notion before becoming some beggar’s next meal.

“That woman, though…”

However, Dorothy thought there might be a way if not her, but someone else. The world did not solely consist of incompetent fools like herself, did it? For instance:

“The witch…”

The one nicknamed witch, living in the dampest, mustiest corner even among the dank slums, that ancient crone always reeking of mildew.

“She was the one who turned me into a woman, after all.”

The witch had accomplished the logically impossible feat of altering one’s biological s*x at birth with a mere vial of dubious potion.

Perhaps that witch could discover a way to break the curse as well?

“Hmm…”

In truth, this possibility wasn’t particularly high either, as the witch and the curse were completely unrelated.

Moreover, if the witch knew how to break it, she would have done so herself instead of sending Dorothy as a proxy to attend the Princess.

However, among those Dorothy knew, the witch was the only one who might possess even a shred of a clue about the curse. Her foul personality aside, there were few as wise as her in all of Orléans.

“I should go meet her.”

The sole existence who might know anything about this curse.

“…But how do I meet her?”

The problem was that to meet the witch, she would have to go to the slums.

Dorothy had never seen the witch leave her workshop.

A reclusive loner – what better way to describe the witch?

It wasn’t due to shyness or excessive modesty.

She simply couldn’t be bothered to go out – that was the entire reason for her reclusion.

“There’s no way to send a letter, and even if I did, she wouldn’t come…”

No matter how desperately she pleaded for the witch’s aid in lifting the curse, that foul-tempered witch would just fart and ask what business it was of hers.

So if Dorothy wanted even a semblance of her heeding the request, she would have to directly visit the witch’s lair in the slums.

“Hmm…”

Having vowed to her master to lift the royal family’s curse, Dorothy couldn’t break that promise, for a master’s command was absolute.

Thus…

* * *

“…You wish to go to the slums?”

“Yes, I seek your permission.”

Watching the maid request her permission as usual after another meager meal, Sibylla thought.

Why does her madness seem to worsen by the day?

“You of all people should know well what kind of place the slums are.”

The danger of Hyperion’s slums was something the slum-born Dorothy undoubtedly understood better than anyone – the sun’s underbelly, Orléans’s shadow, a lawless zone where any incident was unsurprising.

“So you intend to visit those very slums? Now?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

Despite Sibylla’s question, Dorothy simply nodded as if it were no issue.

“I know the slums better than anyone, having lived there from childhood until now.”

Dorothy was confident she could return safely from the slums.

Navigating the dark, filthy alleys and sewers, she had learned how to survive there.

“So have no worries about that. Only…”

“Can you truly guarantee you will return unharmed?”

Cutting off Dorothy, Sibylla asked:

“Can you vouch with absolute certainty there is no chance of injury, of losing your life, of being unable to return?”

“…To claim there is absolutely no such risk would be a lie…”

“Meaning there is a possibility you may not return. Then what about me?”

If Dorothy didn’t return, what would happen?

“If you don’t return, I will inevitably die.”

The only one guarding Sibylla’s side currently was Dorothy alone.

“Is there any assurance assassins will not come for my neck again like that time?”

If even Dorothy left the Princess’s side, Sibylla would be utterly defenseless.

“Contact the palace to borrow the royal guard…”

“This High Tower is a place even that loyal chamberlain was reluctant to visit. Would the royal guard be any different?”

Sibylla didn’t trust the royal guard.

“How could I entrust my protection to those who dread even laying eyes upon me?”

For she had learned from her father how untrustworthy the royal guard could be.

“Thus, I cannot permit you to leave for the slums.”

Of course, Sibylla herself knew full well it was a mere pretext, no matter how elegantly she tried to package it – her innermost feelings were not so.

Deliberately ignoring her selfish, childish inner voice, Sibylla didn’t grant Dorothy’s request.

“…Princess.”

Though her hidden feelings had been seen through once already, there were no rules against being read a second time.

“Are you afraid of me leaving the Princess’s side?”

“…If you say another word, I shall severely punish you for blasphemy-“

“Then let us go out together.”

In a tone as casual as discussing the next day’s menu, Dorothy proposed to Sibylla.

“…What?”

It was not so trivial a suggestion to be so lightly tossed out.

“Princess, don’t you wish to go outside?”

* * *

11 Sangsong Street – the address of their intended destination designated long ago by the now meaningless Hyperion municipal office. Take a right from the main street into an alley, then another right, and a three-story building would appear.

Push open the dilapidated, practically non-existent door and enter, slide the old cabinet aside to reveal a spiral staircase leading underground, descend three and a half turns, and an aged door would come into view.

Beyond that door was the workshop of a young girl – or rather, an old crone donning a young girl’s guise, befitting the slums.

She was called the witch in the slums.

Her witch-like attire and somewhat sinister appearance contrasted with her girlish looks, coupled with a gruff tone and mannerisms more akin to a cantankerous old woman, and most decisively, the various items she would produce that defied the world’s natural laws, all contributing to her witch moniker.

“…Achoo-!!!”

Suddenly seized by an itchy nose, the witch let out an unceremonious sneeze as she gazed into the empty air.

“Someone’s talking about me, my ears are itching. Hmph…”

But the witch soon attributed the sneeze to the dust permeating her workshop, sniffling as she brushed away the swirling particles.

“So, what brings you here?”

She then addressed the guest silently watching her.

“…”

“When an adult speaks, you should respond. You’re still utterly graceless, I see.”

The witch knew this guest, for they were bound by a bitter connection.

A guest as unwelcome as Dorothy – that was who this woman was to the witch.

“Arachne is…”

“What, did you come dreaming of completing that unfinished revenge from back then? Though I suppose the residents of Königsberg are famously stubborn.”

The woman hailed from Königsberg, a city that had once suffered greatly at Arachne’s hands – a city of evildoers.

“Arachne is gone, off on quite the lengthy request. It would be nice if she dropped dead over there and never returned, tehee…”

But the witch herself knew better than anyone that would never happen, for Dorothy Gale, Arachne, wasn’t so weak.

“I have no business with Arachne.”

“Then what brings you here? That’s the second time I’m asking.”

In lieu of a verbal answer, the woman retrieved something from her bosom and set it on the table in response to the witch’s question.

“Oh ho, this is…”

“My target to kill.”

It was a photograph, so shaken that the subject was difficult to make out, as if the photographer had palsy.

“The Princess, Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans.”

But the witch easily recognized the person in the photograph, as the one provided by the client when arranging Dorothy’s request had been of similar quality.

“I wish to obtain information on the target.”

“Oh-ho.”

So the Lombardy fools have not regained their senses yet, the witch inwardly mused.

‘Though I suppose those idiots would have no way of knowing who is currently guarding the Princess.’

She wondered how they might react in Königsberg if they learned the nightmare from nine years ago was by the Princess’s side.

‘Not that it would change anything even if they knew.’

It might even be more dull than expected, the witch thought as she observed the envoy they had sent.

“Well, very well, I shall tell you. Slave Prince.”

“…”

“What, would you prefer I call you Slave Princess instead? Kuhuk.”

Ah, it had been too long since she had some fun.

The golden eyes glinted ominously.

Chapter 17: Glinda The Good Witch

From the start, Dorothy had no intention of going to the slums alone.

She knew that if assassins attacked again while separated from Sibylla like last time, she would be powerless to deal with it.

Moreover, seeing is believing – Dorothy judged that directly showing Sibylla’s condition would be slightly more helpful in breaking the curse than merely describing it verbally, as her own speaking abilities weren’t particularly eloquent when it came to detailed explanations.

Opportunities to meet that reclusive witch would be few and far between. So would it not be better to properly handle everything at once, whatever it took?

Of course, Dorothy also knew bringing Sibylla to the slums was equally dangerous.

What kind of place were the slums, after all? A lawless land where naive outsiders who blundered in would be stripped of not just their possessions, but their very bodies, unable to return?

To bring a frail woman there, moreover one in such a dreadful cursed state, was suicidal. Dorothy vividly remembered the various atrocities that occurred in the slums’ shadier corners.

Had it not been for the unprecedented attack by assassins, Dorothy would have gone to the slums alone no matter how fervently Sibylla protested. But with Sibylla’s life confirmed to be targeted, she couldn’t afford such recklessness.

Thus, Dorothy decided to bring Sibylla along, for as dangerous as the slums were said to be, it was no more perilous than leaving the Princess alone in the tower.

And so, in the dead of night when all had fallen asleep, a horse boldly appeared before the High Tower.

“…What is that horse?”

“I brought it from a nearby stable.”

“You didn’t steal it, did you?”

It was the middle of the night, and the horse was but a mere beast, yet for some reason Sibylla could sense its inner turmoil and reluctance.

“When Orléans’s Princess requires a horse, who would dare refuse? Everyone would be overjoyed and insist I take their steed, if anything.”

The horse’s unease suggested it hadn’t been properly cleared by its owner, yet Dorothy shamelessly saddled it and offered her hand regardless, prompting Sibylla to let out a ‘Huh’ – whether a sigh or something else, she couldn’t tell.

“Mount up, Princess, I shall handle the horse.”

“You know how to ride, then?”

Horseback riding was a more difficult skill than it appeared, for horses were inherently unruly, selfish beasts by nature.

Even experienced grooms would occasionally provoke a horse’s ire and meet an untimely end by hoof, incidents uncommon enough to be reported, demonstrating riding’s difficulty. And that only covered a horse’s temperament and the act of mounting – properly handling one required technique.

“I learned in the past. I had more occasions to ride than expected.”

“I see- Kyaaah!?”

Before Sibylla could finish, Dorothy had lifted her onto the horse’s back and mounted up behind her, taking the reins.

“Hold on tight. You may fall off if not careful.”

For a moment, Sibylla wondered what to hold onto, as there was only one thing to grasp from horseback.

“…”

Soon, she embraced Dorothy from behind, leaning against her back.

“…Is this alright with you?”

Then, Sibylla suddenly asked Dorothy.

For this was the first physical contact she had experienced with another since becoming cursed.

Previous servants had avoided not just touching Sibylla, but even meeting her gaze. And Sibylla hadn’t found such treatment particularly strange either.

Rather, the one who seemed strange to Sibylla was Dorothy, behaving as if the curse meant nothing – an utter anomaly to Sibylla, who had suffered the curse’s effects for over half her life and grown accustomed to the subsequent treatment.

Was she truly unbothered by such close contact, by this embrace?

“Is something… uncomfortable?”

“No, no, it is not you.”

But despite Sibylla’s concerns, Dorothy showed no signs of discomfort, only asking if there was any inconvenience.

Suddenly embarrassed by Dorothy’s attitude, Sibylla tightened her arms around her waist and buried her face in her back.

* * *

“…That aside, what is with that outfit?”

“I temporarily donned clothes from the second floor wardrobe. Riding sidesaddle in a long skirt would be inconvenient, and going to the slums in a maid’s uniform would draw unwanted attention.”

A beige checkered coat and hat evocative of a detective, plus some pipe and monocle of unknown origin.

“…Have there been any servants who dressed like that?”

It was an outfit both befitting and unsuited, Sibylla assessed.

“…Ah, come to think of it, we should decide on an alias.”

“An alias?”

Sibylla made no attempt to hide her bewilderment at Dorothy’s words. What was this about deciding on an alias?

“I can’t call you Princess out there.”

“…I suppose not.”

That the Princess had been cursed was already common knowledge throughout Orléans, the slums no exception.

So what would happen if a suspicious robed figure appeared calling their companion ‘Princess’?

“An alias, an alias… but nothing comes to mind.”

Yet when it came to actually choosing an alias, Sibylla couldn’t think of a suitable idea.

Was not giving an alias essentially naming someone? Having never named even a dog or cat, let alone a human, the task of nomenclature was too daunting for Sibylla.

“Then may I suggest one?”

“Do as you wish.”

But unlike Sibylla, Dorothy confidently requested permission, as if she had already prepared an alias.

“How about Ozma?”

“Ozma?”

An unfamiliar name, not a foreign-sounding one like Dorothy Gale, but a strange name of unknown origin.

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing in particular. I only recall it was the name of a Princess from a fairy tale I read in childhood.”

“Ah.”

Sibylla had momentarily forgotten this eccentric maid’s fondness for fairy tales.

“A fairy tale, is it…”

“If you dislike it, I can suggest another name…”

While not particularly appealing to Sibylla, who didn’t care for fairy tales:

“No, Ozma will do.”

Still, she accepted the alias Ozma. It was a name she would only use once and discard, after all.

Compared to ‘Princess So-and-So’ or ‘The Girl with The Cape’ or whatever, Ozma at least sounded like a proper name.

* * *

Orléans people generally disliked being active after sunset.

Part of it stemmed from their sun-worshipping tendencies, but even without that, working by day and resting at night was effectively a genetic instinct ingrained in humanity long before achieving proper civilization.

Fundamentally, humans and most animals are diurnal creatures active during the day. How could one function, move about, if they could not see?

Thus, unless evolving as nocturnal creatures to avoid predators or take advantage of prey’s vulnerability, most animals preferred activity during the day rather than night – humans were no exception.

Even the residents of Hyperion’s slums, considerably more active after sunset compared to other districts, would return home for a good night’s sleep once past the 3-4 AM threshold more often than not. Truly nocturnal lifestyles were quite rare.

“What, do you expect me to open my door during my precious free time for rude guests?”

And the witch was one of those few genuinely nocturnal humans.

“Still sleeping by day and rising at night, I see.”

“These days, I keep encountering faces I’d rather not see. Maybe I should move to Lombardy.”

Even before Dorothy came to know the witch, she had been a nocturnal human.

Not due to busy workloads or insomnia, but simply someone who chose to become nocturnal out of pure preference for sleeping during the day and being active at night.

“I had thought you would be awake at this hour.”

“If you’d come just two or three hours later, I wouldn’t have had to see your face at all.”

Despite their long journey, the witch made no attempt to hide her disdain toward the unexpected guests, prompting Dorothy to inwardly remark: She hasn’t changed, has she?

“So, what business brings you? Your request couldn’t possibly have ended already.”

“It is not me, but this person who can better explain directly.”

The robed, unidentified figure who had appeared behind Dorothy.

“Oh-ho… I didn’t expect to meet you here.”

But the witch immediately saw through her identity.

“Princess Sibylla. Such esteemed presence in this humble… no, this humble presence in an esteemed place.”

One target someone sought to protect, while others wished to kill – the subject of two opposing requests.

“So what brings the Princess here… Ah, but first I should introduce myself.”

Seeing the Princess she had assumed would never leave the High Tower standing before her very eyes, even outside the tower, the witch chuckled.

“I am… what should I call myself? The Good Witch, perhaps? And my name… right.”

Murmuring inwardly that she would be seeing many things in her long life:

“Call me Glinda for now, Glinda the Good Witch.”

Chapter 18: Straight Out Of A Fairy Tale

“It doesn’t suit you.”

Dorothy chided the witch who had introduced herself as Glinda.

“Glinda is not as crotchety as you, nor as short-tempered.”

For the good witch Glinda from the fairy tales Dorothy loved shared only the witch part in common with her.

“You already have a proper name, don’t you?”

“What, attaching meaning to a mere alias? And if we’re going there, you’re completely different from ‘Dorothy Gale’ too, you shameless thing.”

Not that Dorothy was in any position to talk, but still.

“And you’re not good at all.”

Brushing off the witch’s retort, Dorothy gazed at the witch who was neither good nor Glinda.

“I had thought you might improve a little in the presence of nobility, but your rude mouth remains as foul as ever. Just like a dimwit who ate too many potty words.”

“My hair is brown, actually.”

Caught between their bickering relationship of unclear amicability, Sibylla tightly sealed her lips, unable to interject in the tense atmosphere.

“Ah, right. I’ve kept the real guest waiting while trading insults with this one. So, what brings you to this gloomy witch, Princess?”

Noticing Sibylla’s discomfort amid their banter, the witch waved her hands dismissively at Dorothy as if shooing away a guest unlikely to return.

“…That is…”

Sibylla suddenly wondered if it was alright to reveal her purpose for coming to this unidentified woman.

Her childlike appearance contrasted with her unbecoming conduct. The casual way she presented her witch moniker, which any Orléans person would find unsettling.

Suspicious – the witch seemed more suspicious than anyone Sibylla had ever encountered.

Moreover, the very word ‘witch’ was akin to a trauma for Sibylla.

“…I wish to lift the curse, the curse flowing through the blood of Orléans’s royal family.”

However, Sibylla ultimately confided her purpose to the witch, judging this might be her only chance to break the curse.

And above all, she was Dorothy’s acquaintance.

If she was Dorothy’s acquaintance, perhaps she could be trusted.

“You wish to know a way to be liberated from that curse devouring your flesh, is it?”

“…Yes, that is correct.”

The dreadful curse left by Medea – if only she could be freed from that curse, Sibylla could do anything.

She didn’t truly expect this unidentified slum-dwelling girl to know the way, but still:

“Very well, I shall tell you.”

“…Is that so? I didn’t expect much, but it seems you don’t know either- Wait, what did you say?”

However, the witch’s crisp response reached Sibylla’s ears, prompting her to widen her eyes in disbelief.

“I said I will tell you the way to break your curse.”

“Truly… do you speak the truth? That there is a way to break the curse?”

She had not misheard – this enigmatic girl was testifying that there was a way to lift the curse.

“Why, do you not want to know? If not, then never mi-“

“No, tell me! Tell me the way to break the curse!!!”

Unconsciously seizing the witch’s hands in both of her own, Sibylla desperately pleaded, until-

“…Tsk.”

“…Ah…”

Belatedly releasing her grip after the witch’s expression twisted from having her hands grabbed by the cursed one, Sibylla stepped back.

“Well, it’ll be a bit awkward explaining it plainly like this.”

Brushing off the hands Sibylla had grabbed, the witch once again curved her lips into an ominous smile.

“A reward… do you require a reward? I will give any amount, any amount at all.”

“No need for rewards. This old lady is not some vulgar materialist constantly squandering money on alcohol, tobacco, and gambling like some people.”

“…”

If she had been short on funds, she would have directly lifted the curse herself long ago. The fact that she hadn’t implied another reason.

“It is simply that this old lady greatly enjoys riddles.”

“Rid…dles?”

“Yes, riddles.”

Whether the curse could be broken or not held no significance to the witch.

The Princess being liberated from the curse to find happiness, or succumbing in the end to pass it down to future generations – either outcome was entertaining for the witch.

“Fairy tales.”

Thus, the witch recited a hint.

“That is the hint.”

Unraveling the answer would be up to them.

* * *

In the end, they gained nothing.

The witch who had claimed to know how to break the curse left a word that was hardly a hint, then abruptly kicked out Sibylla and Dorothy the moment Sibylla tried to ask its meaning, issuing a silencing spell.

“…She certainly picked the precise words she dislikes reciting.”

Sibylla was in a foul mood, for fairy tales and witches were things she disliked.

Moreover, a witch babbling about fairy tales – could there be anything more dreadful?

“My sincere apologies, Princess.”

“No, I can’t say it wasn’t your fault… You did harbor some trust in her, enough to put me through this ordeal, didn’t you?”

If Dorothy was at fault for anything, it was trusting the witch.

Of course, if the witch’s words were true and she did indeed know how to break the curse, the story might be slightly different, but-

“To think such an unsavory character…”

The problem was that witch herself.

If she was merely boasting without knowing the truth, she was a swindler, and if she did know yet still acted that way, her personality was unbearably twisted.

And if asked which was more plausible, Sibylla would unhesitatingly choose the former – the stench of a swindler wafted undeniably, no matter how she looked at it.

“I don’t think the witch is someone who would lie.”

Yet Dorothy still trusted the witch.

“I can’t fathom where that trust stems from.”

Sibylla couldn’t comprehend Dorothy’s stance.

Their conversation alone made it clear they were previously acquainted, but were they close enough for such unwavering trust?

No, at most they were adversaries, if Sibylla was being generous – in reality, their relationship wasn’t even worth the term friendship.

“While she may not be trustworthy, I still believe the witch. For she is not someone who would speak falsehoods, merely someone who delights in angering others with her words and actions.”

“Meaning she enjoys toying with people, I see…”

Sibylla gave up trying to understand Dorothy, unaware of the depth of her adverse connection to the witch and thus unable to grasp the source of that firm belief.

“Let’s return. If we linger too long, people may notice.”

“Yes, understood.”

However.

“…But where are you heading now?”

Contrary to her words, Dorothy didn’t steer the horse back toward the High Tower.

“This is not the way back to the tower, is it?”

“Have no worries, Princess. I shall return you to the tower before dawn.”

The horse’s head gradually turned deeper into the forest.

“Just where are you going? This is not the path, this is…”

“…”

Unnerved by Dorothy’s abrupt change in demeanor, Sibylla’s unease grew. Why this sudden shift? Just what was her aim in taking her… where?

“Enough, don’t mock me further. Have you not toyed with me enough already? Enough…”

But Sibylla’s concerns didn’t last long.

“I wished to show you this place, Princess.”

What emerged beyond the shrubbery and trees was a breathtakingly beautiful lake that rendered the word ‘scenic’ an understatement.

“What is… this?”

“I don’t know myself. From your reaction, it seems to be an unknown location even to you, Princess.”

A vast lake cradling the shimmering moonlight, its beautiful waters as if the night sky itself had been captured, surrounded by vibrant blooming flowers.

“This is a lake untouched by human footsteps. It seems no one sets foot here as the entire surrounding area belongs to the royal family.”

“If it is royal land… there should be sentries patrolling the perimeter, no?”

“Which is why I didn’t return by the patrolled routes.”

More like she had blazed an entirely new trail, Sibylla briefly wondered.

“And with a member of the royal family, the daughter of the current King herself present here, who would dare block entry?”

“…”

With the Princess present, there were no issues – that was Dorothy’s claim.

“You are becoming increasingly brazen. No, were you always this brazen?”

But Sibylla didn’t buy it in the least.

“…In any case, do you like it, Princess?”

“I wonder.”

The lake’s scenery was undoubtedly beautiful, incomparable to any palace garden.

Though it might be somewhat harsh to compare a man-made garden to nature’s own magnificence.

“But was it truly necessary to go through such trouble just to show me a mere lake?”

That said, Sibylla’s feelings toward this lake were somewhat ambiguous.

“It seems like a hasty attempt to make up for your failure, no matter how I look at it.”

“…Ugh.”

This maid, perfect yet sloppy, considerate yet simple-minded, must have been troubled by her unsatisfactory meeting with the witch.

Thus, she had brought Sibylla here by crossing an unbeaten forest path to this secluded lake only she knew of.

Her intentions were too transparent, Sibylla thought.

“…Well, I suppose… I don’t dislike it.”

But Dorothy’s efforts were not in vain.

“It is beautiful, I will give you that. Shall I praise your commendable efforts?”

More than the lake’s splendor itself, it was Dorothy’s efforts to show her this sight that slightly lifted the Princess’s mood.

“Indeed, it is straight out of a fairy tale – the scenery, and also…”

The person.

Swallowing her final words, Sibylla tightened her embrace around Dorothy.

Chapter 19: The Invitation

Dorothy has been leading an exceptionally busy life lately.

“Huff… Ugh… My back hurts…”

This was because the flower seeds she had requested via letter had arrived by carriage – enough to fill the passenger seats intended for people.

The courtyard was spacious, but did she truly need this many seeds?

“When will I… finish planting…”

In the end, it turned out she did need that many, for the courtyard was far vaster than Dorothy had imagined once she had tilled the soil.

Reacquainted with the courtyard’s expansiveness she had momentarily forgotten after preparing the ground, Dorothy planted the seeds more akin to a farmer than a gardener.

Perhaps she should hire a gardener.

Just maintaining this vast courtyard might require an entire day’s work.

While worried if the flowers would even grow, if they did sprout that would be another concern in itself, for flowers were more delicate and high-maintenance plants compared to roadside weeds.

Dorothy regretted her decision – how many times had she regretted by now?

“For now… this much.”

Only after planting the seeds along the pre-drawn lines could Dorothy finally straighten her hunched back.

Rather than scattering the seeds across the entire courtyard at once, her judgment that dividing it into sections for gradual cultivation would be more convenient for growing the flowers and maintaining the garden…

…Or perhaps it was more her survival instinct, realizing that was the only way to avoid overworking herself to death, that made her take the practical approach.

She would start by growing this section first, then plant seeds in the other sections later.

Putting off that uncertain later for now, Dorothy relocated the still bulging seed sacks to the shed.

By the way… what could it mean?

Collapsing onto the relocated seed sacks like deadweight, Dorothy pondered the witch’s riddle.

That witch surely didn’t just spout meaningless nonsense – there must be some significance to that hint.

“Fairy tales, fairy tales…”

Dorothy thought the hint was likely meant for her rather than the Princess, as the witch was well aware of Dorothy’s fondness for fairy tales.

Was the key to breaking the curse hidden within fairy tales? Or were fairy tales themselves the key?

“Glinda the Good Witch…”

A heart of tin, a brain of straw, a potion that grants courage.

If she gathered items that might truly exist somewhere, could she liberate the Princess from her curse?

…No.

But Dorothy soon shook her head, dismissing that hypothesis, for in the story those were mere tin scraps, a sack filled with straw, and fake potions rather than an actual heart, brain, or potion.

The witch likely chose the alias Glinda simply to humor Dorothy by borrowing the name of her favorite fairy tale heroine, with no deeper meaning.

Dorothy thought it was more likely the witch’s hint encompassed all fairy tales beyond just that one. Perhaps the universal cliches of fairy tales held the answer…

“Why are you lying in the warehouse like that?”

“…Princess?”

Deep in pondering the hint, Dorothy opened her eyes at the Princess’s voice.

“Why have you come all this way?”

“You didn’t emerge from the warehouse for a while, so I came searching directly. Causing such trouble for your master, you are truly a wretched maid.”

“…Were you watching?”

Strictly speaking, Dorothy was aware that Sibylla would observe her from the tower’s windows whenever she was outside.

“…No, I had merely glanced outside while reading in the study, and happened to spot you.”

For some reason, Sibylla seemed reluctant to admit to observing Dorothy, so Dorothy pretended to be oblivious as usual.

“More importantly, there is something I must tell you. Come to the study.”

“Yes, I will bathe and join you shortly.”

Watching Sibylla’s retreating form with a seemingly reassured gait, Dorothy rose to her feet.

“…It’s okay if you don’t have to bathe.”

“…?”

Dismissing the preposterous notion as an auditory hallucination, for those were words the Princess would never utter.

* * *

“What is the matter, Princess?”

Still patting down the lingering dampness in her hair with a towel despite having wiped it once, Dorothy asked Sibylla.

“It seems you should take a look at this as well.”

“That’s…”

What Sibylla handed over was undoubtedly a luxurious envelope containing a letter, one a different coachman from before had delivered along with the seeds, instructing it be given to the Princess.

Since it bore the royal family’s seal, Dorothy had simply passed it along without reading it herself. But was there some issue with the contents?

“Read it yourself.”

“Understood. To Her Highness Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans…”

And as Dorothy read through the letter, she realized her initial guess was correct.

[To Her Highness Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans, First Princess of the Kingdom of Orléans.

In commemoration of the start of the Argo Period on the 12th of August, a Heroes’ Festival shall be held.

With this, we hereby extend an invitation for Your Highness Princess Sibylla d’Orléans to attend and grace the occasion with your presence.

—Count Villefort]

“…How impudent.”

A mere four lines, just two without the sender and recipient. What kind of sloppy penmanship was this?

For a mere count, no matter the Princess’s cursed state, to treat the Princess thusly? The King’s own daughter?

“It is not a matter of impudence. Count Villefort is an identity employed by the royal family.”

“Ah.”

But that wasn’t the real issue – the identity of Count Villefort was one the royal family used when they wished to conceal someone’s identity.

In other words, while the sender’s identity was unknown, it was undoubtedly the will of the royal family.

“…But why?”

Yet Dorothy couldn’t begin to comprehend – why would the royal family do this?

When forces clearly existed that sought Sibylla’s life, taking the Princess outside the tower would only endanger her further, wouldn’t it?

“…That is what I wish to ask. Why me, now…”

“Do you really have to attend?”

“Does it not bear the royal seal? This is a royal decree, something I cannot disobey.”

That something was going dreadfully awry – both Dorothy and Sibylla sensed it.

* * *

Orléans had three major festivals.

The Founding Day commemorating the Kingdom’s establishment. The Argo Period celebrating the five greatest feats of the heroic Jason. And the Sun Festival marking Jason’s birthday.

Of them, the most grand and lengthy was the Argo Period’s Heroes’ Festival.

Lasting five whole days, the Heroes’ Festival invited nobles from across the nation as well as Kings and nobles from around the world for a grand celebration spanning the entire capital.

However, as hosting such an extravagant festival annually would bankrupt the nation, the royal family had implicitly agreed to hold the Heroes’ Festival only once a decade.

And this year marked that decennial Heroes’ Festival.

“Why do you bar her from coming!?”

“Do you truly think this is reasonable now!!!”

Yet as the decennial Heroes’ Festival approached, the Royal Tripartite Assembly responsible for national policies and review had erupted into unexpected shouting.

“It’s the decennial Heroes’ Festival! It is only appropriate for the First Princess, His Majesty the King’s own daughter, to attend. Would you have the Princess secluded in the High Tower during this joyous celebration for all to partake in? How could you be so cruel?”

“When have you ever given thought to the Princess’s well-being!!!”

For a heated debate had arisen regarding the matter of inviting the imprisoned First Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans to the Heroes’ Festival.

“She attended even ten years ago, but you would bar her this year? That is treating the Princess with utter disrespect!”

Those in favor of extending the invitation were the nobles and clergy.

“Times haven’t changed!! We all know full well the Princess’s frail constitution makes it difficult for her to leave the High Tower!! Have you forgotten the curse she bears!?”

Those opposed were the upstart bourgeoisie.

It was traditionally mandatory for Princes and Princesses to attend the Heroes’ Festival, for it was somewhat absurd for the descendants to be absent from a celebration honoring their ancestors’ feats.

However, Princess Sibylla was cursed, and the customary practice had been to exempt cursed royals from such obligations – something the nobles, clergy, and indeed everyone had seen as a matter of course.

Thus, the bourgeoisie were bewildered beyond confusion at the nobles and clergy’s abrupt insistence that Princess Sibylla attend the Heroes’ Festival. Just what was the meaning of this?

“Surely you’re not intending to bring harm upon the Princess…”

“Insolent fool! How dare you make such vile insinuations at the Tripartite Assembly? Guards, kick out this wicked commoner right now!!!”

The situation was on the verge of descending from a heated argument into physical violence.

“Heh.”

At the farcical spectacle unimaginable for a Tripartite Assembly gathering, the Crown Prince let out a brief scoff.

“It seems you are quite eager to kill Sibylla, Louis.”

The Crown Prince’s gaze was not directed at the nobles or clergy, but rather-

“…I don’t know what you imply, brother.”

The Second Prince seated beside him, wearing a bright smile.

Chapter 20: I Shall Be Your Shadow

“Is this not going too far!?”

Slamming the table, a young capitalist roared.

“Inviting the Princess to the Heroes’ Festival – do you think we are oblivious to what that implies?”

“Calm down, you are far too excited.”

Even the relatively older capitalist attempting to placate the irate youth couldn’t conceal his own anger and bewilderment from showing on his face.

“However, he speaks the truth. Despite being well aware the Princess narrowly escaped a life-threatening situation, the reason they insist she attend the Heroes’ Festival is…”

“At the very least, it implies either they wish for the Princess to perish and the curse to pass to the next generation, or worse, that the ones who ordered the assassination are among them.”

It was an established fact for the capitalists that there was a shadowy presence among the central noble factions holding decision-making power in the Tripartite Assembly. While still circumstantial, the objective and motive were far too evident.

To transfer the Princess’s curse onto the youngest Prince, the Crown Prince’s son.

“But to go that far just because the Crown Prince’s actions don’t suit their tastes…!!”

The Crown Prince wasn’t on good terms with the nobles, for his extensive military leadership experience had left him little opportunity to socialize and forge connections with the central nobility.

Moreover, after seizing effective power, the Crown Prince steadfastly adhered to a strict meritocracy, frequently clashing with the established central noble factions over every issue until the rift between them only deepened.

Instead of the central nobles, the forces the Crown Prince had chosen to support him were the military dominated by provincial nobility, and the rising capitalist class. Reorganizing the former national assembly dominated by nobles and clergy into the current Tripartite Assembly by including the bourgeois commoners had been entirely the Crown Prince’s initiative.

As the Crown Prince pursued reforms backed by the military and with the capitalists at the forefront, the central nobles vehemently opposed him.

“Those damn clergymen…”

“They’ve always been the types to look down when told to look up, point right when told left, toward the royal family that practically worships the sun instead of their god.”

The clergy of the Nazarene faith, who held the sun-worshipping Orléans royals in disdain for not revering their god, had voted in favor as usual on matters displeasing to the royal family.

“Scum not worth the air it takes to curse them, those nobles and clergymen…”

“The clergy have always been the same, but the true issue lies with the nobles. It is clear their blades point toward the Princess and the Crown Prince.”

The nobles were more adept at political machinations than anyone. Too formidable an adversary for the newly minted capitalists or provincial noble-born military officers ignorant of court intrigue.

“With the royal authority no longer what it once was, recklessly provoking them will only bring harm upon us and the Crown Prince.”

Orléans was an absolute monarchy – in times past, any evidence could have been fabricated through torture if necessary.

But the current King had gone mad, and the one effectively holding the nation’s reins was the Crown Prince.

The Crown Prince wasn’t the King, merely an agent wielding borrowed authority in place of an unsound monarch.

In the world of politics where legitimacy was paramount, the Crown Prince’s position was utterly precarious, only kept from crumbling thanks to his military accomplishments and popular support for his reformist leanings.

“…Is there a possibility the nobles are colluding with the Second Prince?”

“Hmm…”

Everyone present fell silent, pondering one capitalist’s question.

“I can’t say. Was the Second Prince not rumored to cherish his kin above all else, never displaying any ambition for the throne?”

The personality of the Second Prince, Louis Ferdinand d’Orléans, was well known – devoid of lust for power, deeply loving toward his family, fond of art, with the benevolent moniker ‘Gentle Spring.’

Moreover, the capitalists themselves harbored no ill will toward Prince Louis – he was one of the few who treated all equally regardless of status, and many capitalists had personally benefited from his assistance.

“Hmph, who’s to say it’s not all an act? Who better than him would understand the nobles’ machinations?”

Unlike his brother who had campaigned, Prince Louis had walked the archetypal path of royalty by remaining in the capital until adulthood, interacting with the nobles. This meant he had deeper ties and support from the nobles.

Considering most major government positions were occupied by central nobles, Prince Louis effectively had the backing of forces capable of dominating the central political sphere from the shadows. In other words, he was the epicenter the capitalists had to overcome.

“But surely the Second Prince couldn’t…”

“We must not underestimate him. Absolutely not…”

Was Prince Louis part of the shadowy faction intent on killing Princess Sibylla, or merely a public face put forth by the nobles? This was the debate raging among the capitalists.

“Enough.”

The one who ended that debate with a single word was the Crown Prince, who had been silently observing them.

“Whether Louis intends to kill my younger sister is irrelevant. What matters is those gathered around Louis seek Sibylla’s life, and we have no legitimate means to preemptively thwart their schemes.”

The nobles’ claims, while principled, didn’t deviate from the nation’s laws – legitimate discourse.

The Crown Prince’s own supporters lacked justification to forcibly override such legitimate discourse.

“For now, remain vigilant. You never know when those vipers may strike at my poor sister’s neck.”

However, if they could acquire justification, evidence.

He could thoroughly eradicate that antiquated obstruction to his reforms.

* * *

The air in the High Tower felt somewhat different.

“Hyperion, Hyperion… back to Hyperion…”

For the usually aloof and indifferent Sibylla had, unprecedentedly, fallen into a panic.

“Princess, are you alright?”

“I’m fine. No, I’m not fine. No, I’m fi-… I’m not… not fine at all.”

Her usually languid pace was nowhere to be seen as she paced about the study in a frantic fluster, a pitiful yet amusing sight like a rat with its tail on fire.

“Princess, calm down. Take a deep breath first. Inhale, and exhaaale.”

“Huff… Whoo… Huff… Whoo…”

Gently holding the distraught Sibylla, Dorothy helped her calm down.

“Are you feeling better now?”

“…Yes, I’m calm now.”

Though she had sat down and caught her breath, Sibylla’s heart remained troubled.

“Are you anticipating going to Hyperion? Or are you worried?”

“I’m not sure. Whether it’s anticipation or worry… my heart refuses to settle.”

Excluding their brief previous outing, this would be Sibylla’s first time leaving the High Tower since being imprisoned.

And not just any place, but Hyperion, the capital city where she was born and held many memories – it was only natural for her to be unable to contain her excitement.

The problem was that her excitement didn’t solely stem from anticipation.

Hyperion was fundamentally a highly populated metropolis. And as the Heroes’ Festival was held only once a decade, the population might swell several times, perhaps even dozens of times more than usual.

Before being cursed, Sibylla had directly witnessed and experienced the Heroes’ Festival herself. The immense crowds that had packed Hyperion’s expansive streets were enough to give even those fond of socializing pause.

“…I must go to Hyperion in this form? Attend the Heroes’ Festival in this form, appearing before all those people?”

To reveal her bandaged, masked cursed visage amid those throngs.

The very thought made her dizzy, almost nauseous enough to start foaming at the mouth – only by forcibly swallowing the bile rising in her throat did she avoid such an undignified display.

“…I’m afraid.”

Sibylla was afraid – afraid of facing all those countless people.

She wanted to flee somewhere, anywhere. Or failing that, wished to die instead. Why must she endure such an ordeal? Why?

“…Princess.”

As Sibylla descended into panic once more, trembling hands a-quiver, Dorothy moved her face before Sibylla’s and met her quavering azure eyes.

“Look at me, Princess. Gaze into these eyes.”

“Eyes… eyes… your eyes…?”

Such beautiful eyes, no matter how many times she saw them – like deep pools.

“If the sunlight frightens you, I shall be your shadow.”

Suppressing the burgeoning impure thoughts regarding those eyes, Dorothy made a promise to Sibylla.

“I will always be on your side, Princess. As long as you see me as your servant.”

To reassure her, to fulfill her duty as a maid.

“…O…Okay…”

Sensing Sibylla’s trembling gradually subside, Dorothy straightened up and stepped back.

Ultimately failing to notice how Sibylla’s concealed cheeks had flushed crimson beneath her mask and bandages.

Chapter 21: The City Where The Sun Sets

“We meet for the first time, Princess.”

The one who arrived at the High Tower the day before the Heroes’ Festival to escort the Princess was not the chamberlain, but a carriage led by someone else.

“Antoine Mancini, working as a lowly servant in the royal palace.”

A young servant whose face seemed to say ‘A blunt, unlucky stickler for rules and principles if there ever was one.’

“Did the chamberlain send you?”

“Yes. The chamberlain had intended to personally attend to the Princess, but he is leading such a grueling life lately with the Heroes’ Festival preparations that he can’t even sleep two full hours a day. Thus, I have come in his stead.”

“I see… no wonder he is so busy.”

The position of the Kingdom’s chamberlain was an extreme occupation that entailed handling numerous tasks even in ordinary times – to put it rather dramatically, a constant cycle of work, work, and more work around the clock every single day.

The chamberlain’s office was akin to a crematorium just shy of having a servant accompany the deceased, constantly teetering on the line where the living entered before the dead were carried out.

An already work-consumed role, made even more arduous by having to prepare for the once-a-decade Heroes’ Festival.

“I see. Convey my… no, never mind, I’ll meet him at the palace anyway.”

She would likely encounter the chamberlain frequently once at the royal palace, so she could pass along her regards then.

“Dorothy, and you… Antoine Mancini, was it? May I address you as Mancini?”

“Yes, please feel free to address me however you wish.”

“Very well…”

As Sibylla moved to board the carriage with one foot on the step, she abruptly froze.

If she boarded this carriage, she would go directly to Hyperion, forced to reveal her unsightly, repulsive form before the masses.

“…Alright, let’s go.”

But in the end, Sibylla overcame her fear and entered the carriage.

For she had received that promise:

-I shall be your shadow.

* * *

No words were exchanged inside the carriage.

The young servant, not one to readily show his inner thoughts, fixed his gaze outside to conceal any instinctive fear and revulsion toward the cursed Princess. Sibylla herself wasn’t one to initiate conversation.

And Dorothy, tense enough already, didn’t speak either to Sibylla or the servant she would likely never meet again.

Thus, the carriage merely rattled onward toward Hyperion accompanied only by the sounds of clopping hooves and turning wheels.

“…I would like to inquire about the proceedings of the Heroes’ Festival.”

The one who broke that silence first was Dorothy.

“…Do you mean an Orléans native is unaware of how the Heroes’ Festival unfolds? You seem old enough to have experienced it before…”

“No, I am aware of how it proceeds from the second through sixth days.”

While a grand celebration inviting dignitaries from around the world, at its core the Heroes’ Festival during the Argo Period was an Orléans national holiday commemorated and enjoyed by all Orléans citizens regardless of status.

Thus, aside from the first day’s events held within the palace and the seventh day’s events spanning outside and within, any penniless commoner could partake in the festivities from the second through sixth days.

And while far more modest in scale compared to the Heroes’ Festival, the basic premise of the events held nationwide during the Argo Period was similar.

“However, as a newly appointed maid to the palace, I am unfamiliar with the events of the first and seventh days.”

Dorothy had experienced two Heroes’ Festivals since birth and the Argo Period annually, so she knew of the festivities spanning the entire city from the second through sixth days.

But she was unaware of the first and seventh days, particularly the palace events, for she was but a lowly commoner – not palace staff, nor noble, nor capitalist.

“The first day will have the current King’s opening address and a palace banquet. However, as the arrival times of the foreign dignitaries will vary, and there is no need for the Princess to make an appearance from the very first day, Miss Gale need only attend to the Princess.”

With the current King having gone mad, the address would likely be given by the Crown Prince or Queen instead, but the overall proceedings wouldn’t change much. It was customary during the first day to turn a blind eye even if the royals were absent due to their unsound states, so the servant judged that the Princess could remain in her room.

“But from the second day’s events onward, you must attend without fail, so Miss Gale will be kept quite busy as well.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

The outdoor events from the second through sixth days had the royals viewing the Heroes’ Festival from the reserved VIP seating area.

In her childhood, Dorothy had witnessed the current King, Queen, and Second Prince in attendance.

“And on the seventh day, there will be a closing ball to mark the end of the Argo Period. Like the first day, it will be chaotic with many foreign guests departing for their homelands, but unlike the first day, you cannot be absent from your seat.”

“I see.”

In other words, the only relatively comfortable day would be the first, while the remaining six would be an unrelenting grind to properly guard and attend to Sibylla.

It wouldn’t be an easy journey, Dorothy inwardly reflected.

“We will soon enter Hyperion. Prepare yourself to attend the Princess, Miss Gale.”

“Yes.”

While instructing her to attend the Princess, the servant continued averting his gaze, a rather unsightly sight, but Dorothy obediently followed his orders regardless.

Humans were inherently selfish creatures, after all.

* * *

The Soleil Palace, the royal palace within the capital Hyperion.

While Orléans didn’t have just one royal palace, ever since the Bourges Palace was demolished three centuries ago, the Soleil Palace had been Hyperion’s sole remaining palace.

Dorothy had occasionally passed by the Soleil Palace’s majestic exterior vista – radiant enough to dazzle the eyes, imposingly grand from every angle.

But this would be her first, or rather second time entering the palace interior, for her previous visit had been brief, merely resolving her errand before departing. So this could be considered her first proper look inside.

Upon entering the palace grounds, the sounds of servants busily preparing for the Heroes’ Festival could be heard from all directions. But by deliberately having the carriage approach from the relatively secluded rear entrance, Sibylla’s party managed to keep some distance from the commotion.

“Proceed to the fifth floor. The Princess’s guest chambers are there.”

Following the young servant’s guidance, Sibylla and Dorothy ascended the stairs while avoiding prying eyes.

In truth, Sibylla couldn’t climb all the stairs herself, only making it to the third floor before Dorothy had to carry her the rest of the way due to her abysmal stamina.

There were two minor incidents where the guiding servant was taken aback – first by Dorothy’s unrestrained physical contact with the Princess, and again by her carrying a person up the stairs with apparent ease. But.

“From here, we will take over attending the Princess.”

As Dorothy reached the fifth floor carrying Sibylla, other servants approached them.

“…”

Dorothy briefly hesitated, uncertain if she should hand Sibylla over just like that.

Among them could very well be assassins who had targeted Sibylla’s life, or even those manipulating such assassins from the shadows – she couldn’t claim with certainty that none existed. Would it not be safer to remain by her side?

“They are trustworthy individuals, Miss Gale.”

While Dorothy was deliberating, a familiar elderly voice came from behind her.

“Chief Chamberlain.”

“They are all loyal servants who pledge allegiance solely to the royal family, uninvolved in any political machinations. You can entrust the Princess to them without issue.”

“But…”

The royal palace servants would undoubtedly be better versed in court etiquette and protocols, yet Dorothy found herself unable to leave.

“I will summon you once the preparations are complete. Until then, please rest yourself.”

“…”

If the chamberlain trusted them, she could likely entrust Sibylla to them as well. But to be prepared for any contingencies, it might be better to remain by her side.

“You may enjoy a short break as well.”

“…Princess?”

However, upon the Princess’s command, Dorothy had no choice but to obey.

“But only briefly. Once the preparations are complete, I will summon you again. And then, I won’t grant you even a moment’s rest.”

“…As you command.”

Watching Sibylla’s retreating form after leaving what sounded like a personal remark, Dorothy exited the palace and returned the way she came.

If she lingered inside, she would undoubtedly be constantly summoned here and there just for being dressed as a maid, with no chance to truly rest.

“But that said…”

The problem was that there might not be anywhere suitable near the palace to take that rest.

She couldn’t stray too far from the palace grounds, yet finding a spot to relax in front of the noisy palace gates with carriages and automobiles constantly coming and going would also be difficult.

“…?”

Then an odd sight caught Dorothy’s wandering eyes.

A young man clearly of common origin playing pétanque against children by the palace walls – a scene wholly unsuited to palace grounds.

It wasn’t so strange for commoner children to be near the palace, especially during the Argo Period.

But the young man frolicking with them made this otherwise ordinary scene extraordinarily unnatural.

Blonde hair tied back, blue eyes.

Similar to Sibylla’s yet more radiant golden hair, comparatively bright blue eyes.

He was royalty – moreover, a Prince.

Louis Ferdinand d’Orléans, the Second Prince of the Kingdom of Orléans, was merrily enjoying traditional games with the commoner children.

“…Won’t you yield, just this once?”

He was even losing to them. Quite miserably, at that.

“…”

This was… a Prince?

Chapter 22: The Foolish Prince

Louis Ferdinand d’Orléans had long been considered an eccentric.

For his every action dealt quite the shock to the nobles.

Unlike his brother who had campaigned on the battlefield from a young age, Prince Louis had walked the archetypal path of royalty – residing in the palace, socializing to build connections, cultivating support bases.

Thus, when the Crown Prince returned to the capital backed by the military and capitalists, the nobles propped up Prince Louis as his rival challenger, regardless of his own will.

However, separate from his support base or political standing, Prince Louis’s way of thinking differed significantly from that of typical royalty in many ways.

Unlike the Crown Prince, who upheld royal authority while suppressing the nobles and aiming to restore monarchical power through reforms backed by the rising capitalist class and military, Prince Louis hadn’t a shred of intent to assert such authority.

He would often remark, both publicly and privately, that he was royalty solely by chance of being born the King’s son, fundamentally no different from commoners or slum orphans save for his parents – remarks that left not just the nobles, but even capitalists dumbfounded.

And it wasn’t mere words. The Prince would frequently donate from his own wealth to the slums, inviting impoverished parentless children to his estate in Orléans’s suburbs whenever he could, routinely displaying an anti-authoritarian character.

Thus, no less than the reformist war hero Crown Prince, Prince Louis too enjoyed immense popular support from the masses. To the extent that even nobles supposed to support him voiced displeasure, while capitalists not backing him still held favorable impressions of the Prince himself.

Always frolicking with commoner children, deliberately letting them win to boost their self-esteem, the citizens affectionately mocked Prince Louis as the ‘Foolish Prince.’

“No way, this time you can’t let me win no matter what.”

“W-Well, I do feel bad about…”

Though few realized he was genuinely incapable of defeating them, not patronizingly yielding.

“Alright, hand over the candy.”

“Ugh… Okay, two each should do it?”

Wow, a Prince being shaken down by beggars.

Witnessing the Prince of this mighty Kingdom, a supposed descendant of the sun, being cowed by scruffy little orphans, Dorothy thought.

“…Hm?”

The Prince, who had risen while smiling a complex smile as he watched the children scamper off with candy in their mouths, abruptly met Dorothy’s intent gaze as he turned his head.

“…Ah.”

A prolonged, awkward silence accompanied by a dejected mutter.

“U-Um, I… that is…”

Perhaps it was due to the unsightly spectacle of losing to children, even begging for them to yield just once.

“This is, well, you see…”

The Prince stammered, face flushed as he flailed his arms about aimlessly.

“Don’t worry, I won’t speak of it.”

To reassure the Prince, Dorothy spoke up.

“The fact that you lost to those beggar children, even pleading for mercy just before your defeat is-“

“Waaahhhh-!!!!!!”

Though it didn’t seem to help much.

* * *

“Have you calmed down a bit?”

“Haa… Haa… Phew… Yes, I’m calm now… Thank you.”

Led by the Second Prince muffling her mouth while freaking out, Dorothy arrived at a park bench.

She had considered stopping him midway, but the palace wasn’t too far, and recklessly raising her hand against the Prince could cost her head.

So she allowed him to bring her to the park to catch his breath, sitting on the bench as she calmed the Prince who had belatedly realized his overreaction and hurriedly apologized. This was the story of their aimless flight until its inevitable end.

“My apologies, it seems I have caused you trouble.”

“No, it is alright.”

Dorothy had simply obliged the Prince, having nothing better to do at the moment anyway.

“That incident from before…”

“Rest assured, I will keep it a secret and not breathe a word to anyone.”

He was also an entertaining person, in a way.

“By the way… I don’t recognize your face, are you a newly appointed maid?”

“No, I was appointed a little while ago.”

“Then…”

Though not even a month had passed, as the Second Prince residing in the palace, he should have at least glimpsed the servants’ faces in passing occasionally.

“I am Dorothy Gale, attending to Princess Sibylla.”

“Ah, Sibylla…”

The Prince nodded, as if finally understanding.

“That’s right, Sibylla was supposed to attend this Heroes’ Festival too, wasn’t she? If Miss Gale is here, then Sibylla must be as well.”

“Yes, she is currently preparing within the palace.”

“…Hmm…”

At Dorothy’s words, the Prince closed his eyes and mumbled in a hushed voice, as if deep in thought.

“…It has been over a decade since Sibylla left Hyperion. As the brother who hasn’t even laid eyes on her once during that time, I may not have the right to ask… but is she doing well? Our sister…”

“I am doing my utmost with my meager abilities to ensure she can live as comfortably as possible.”

Dorothy couldn’t readily affirm that the Princess was doing well in response to his inquiry, for the fact remained that she was still imprisoned in the High Tower while burdened by an agonizing curse, and Dorothy’s capabilities were insufficient to properly care for her.

Guarding was different from caring for someone. While she could guard against assassins, as someone utterly inept at housework, Dorothy couldn’t properly take care of Sibylla.

“I see… I entrust my sister to you, Miss Gale. If only that dreadful curse didn’t exist… she would have been a child beloved by all the world…”

The Prince’s expression as he entrusted his sister to her was too complex to put into words.

Mournful eyes betraying sorrow, guilt, and fear in a jumbled mix of emotions.

“Understood.”

All Dorothy could say before the Prince was a simple ‘Understood.’

“By the way… did you know I am the Prince? I don’t recall mentioning it…”

She could have made the excuse that she had overheard the beggar children addressing him as Prince…

“I saw you once during my childhood.”

But Dorothy didn’t bother concealing the truth.

“It was during a past Heroes’ Festival, though you may not remember, Your Highness.”

With the massive crowds and Dorothy’s differing appearance, age, and even gender back then, it was only natural the Prince didn’t recognize her.

“You were seated in a prominent location, which is why I remember.”

But the boy had seen them – those limpid blue eyes unlike her own bloodshot slum-dweller’s gaze, clear like the open sky.

“Your eyes, Your Highness.”

You are a kind person.

Yet also a frail one.

* * *

Dorothy was soon summoned to Sibylla’s chambers upon returning to the palace.

“You have changed attire.”

“Indeed, she had me change. Though I suppose a pristine white cloak is better than that dingy black robe.”

It was merely Sibylla’s usual black robe changed to a white one, but still.

“Even so, I feel white suits the Princess better than black.”

“Enough with the flattery. So, what have you been doing?”

Should she simply say she had gone to rest?

Dorothy briefly pondered, for such a casual response might not sit well with her demanding master.

“I encountered the Second Prince.”

“…Brother Louis?”

So Dorothy honestly answered that she had met Louis Ferdinand d’Orléans, the current King’s second son and Sibylla’s own brother.

“…I see, this is Hyperion after all. So, what kind of person was my brother?”

“What kind of person, you ask…”

What kind of person had the Second Prince seemed to Dorothy?

“He gave off the air of a noble scion, perfectly refined.”

His appearance itself was flawless beyond reproach. While the Orléans royals were renowned for their looks, coupled with his Queen mother’s beauty and meticulous self-care, ‘noble scion’ was the most fitting description of the Prince’s appearance.

“Yet to an extent unbelievable for one born and raised in the royal family, he didn’t discriminate between high and low-born. I had never before seen royalty frolicking with commoner orphans.”

However, his character was somewhat at odds with the typical image of a noble scion – gentle yet courteous, with an undertone of deliberate vulnerability. That was how the Prince had appeared to Dorothy.

“Overall, he seemed a kind-hearted individual who would likely be a popular candidate for Princesses and nobles of other nations seeking a groom.”

Simply by virtue of being an Orléans Prince, he would already be a top candidate in high society.

With his handsome looks and amiable personality, many were likely already salivating over him, Dorothy mused.

“…I see.”

Sibylla responded in a slightly subdued tone compared to her usual affect.

“It seems you rather enjoyed your encounter with Brother Louis.”

“Enjoyed it… yes, I guess you could say I enjoyed it.”

Perplexed by her change in demeanor – whether gloomy or irked, Dorothy couldn’t know – as she had rather bluntly evaluated Sibylla’s own brother.

“Leave me for a moment.”

“…Pardon?”

“Out, now. That is an order.”

Though obediently following Sibylla’s dismissal laced with a silencing spell, Dorothy inwardly wondered.

Why?

Chapter 23: Good Night, My Master

“…”

Why had she kicked Dorothy out?

Sibylla asked herself – why had she treated Dorothy so harshly?

This was the palace, moreover right before the Heroes’ Festival. It wasn’t unusual for her brother residing in the palace to encounter a maid.

And if an unfamiliar face in a maid’s uniform was wandering the palace grounds, it would be in his nature to show some interest. For the lowborn Dorothy to earnestly respond to the Prince’s questions was only natural.

Her kind-hearted brother would have treated Dorothy with the same courtesy he showed everyone. Especially if he knew she was the maid attending to his cursed sister, he would have been even kinder.

Sibylla knew it was highly likely Dorothy had received such a favorable impression of the Prince due to her brother’s demeanor.

And yet.

“…It hurts.”

Clutching her chest with one hand, Sibylla winced in pain.

As if ensnared by thorny vines, her aching heart cried out in agony.

She understood it rationally, yet why did her heart hurt so?

“Why…”

Prince Louis was a good man, unreservedly kind and gracious to all without prejudice.

Had he known Dorothy was Sibylla’s maid, he would have simply offered some words of encouragement before entrusting his sister to her care, not going any further.

Dorothy wasn’t one to take much interest in others – whether the witch or the chamberlain, whenever conversing with someone other than Sibylla, she always maintained an indifferent expression and casual tone.

Even if the Prince was renowned for his charm and popularity among women due to his looks and character, such positive traits likely didn’t resonate with Dorothy. If they had, her demeanor would have been different when describing him to Sibylla, or so she thought.

“Knowing that, why am I…”

Yet the aching in her chest refused to subside. Just what was this feeling?

Anger? Impossible. What reason could she have to be angry over her brother and Dorothy’s meeting?

Sorrow? No, not that either. Dejection, fear, panic, melancholy.

“No, no, no.”

Vehemently shaking her head in denial of those baseless, unfamiliar emotions resurfacing in droves, as if muttering ‘It can’t be, it can’t be’ to herself.

But Sibylla was undoubtedly feeling it – a searing, burning ache in her chest. What was the root of this pain, why must she endure such torment?

“…Could it be…?”

Amidst the turbulent emotional turmoil thrashing about, a single word flashed across Sibylla’s mind as she sought the answer.

“…Jealousy…?”

And simultaneously, she vehemently rejected it like never before.

“Just who am I supposed to be jealous of…?”

It wasn’t that she couldn’t comprehend feeling jealous of someone.

“Why would I… be jealous of my own brother…?”

She simply didn’t want to accept that the object of her jealousy was her own kind brother.

Just because her maid had conversed with him a little, just because her maid had spoken favorably of her brother.

Was she truly jealous of her benevolent brother over something so trivial?

What was she, what was a mere maid to her?

Sibylla didn’t wish to acknowledge the feelings she harbored toward Dorothy, nor the fact that she had become jealous of her own brother because of them.

For to acknowledge those feelings and that jealousy would be:

“Too… unsightly… Sibylla Thérèse…”

Tantamount to admitting the ugliness flowing through her veins wasn’t blood, but impure thoughts.

* * *

“…”

Outside Sibylla’s chamber, Dorothy stood idly waiting.

Waiting for Sibylla to call her by the name until the sun had set.

“Just what is that woman doing out here? Everyone else is working but her…”

“Don’t you know? She’s the Princess’s maid. Don’t bother picking a fight, you might catch the curse.”

“Eh, you should’ve said so sooner… she’s staring right at us…!!”

Regardless of the comments from passersby, Dorothy remained stationed before the door, for it was a maid’s duty to attend her master and follow her orders.

“Why are you lingering outside, Miss Gale?”

“…Chamberlain.”

The chamberlain, who had been passing by, noticed Dorothy loitering outside and approached, finding it strange.

“That is…”

To the chamberlain, Dorothy explained meeting the Second Prince outside, conversing with him, returning to inform Sibylla, only for Sibylla to react with displeasure and dismiss her.

“I don’t understand why the Princess expelled me. Was it because I spoke too freely of her own brother, a fellow royal, displeasing her?”

“Hmm… No, I do not think so.”

After muttering contemplatively at Dorothy’s explanation, the chamberlain shook his head, as if having found the answer.

“It is… likely jealousy.”

“Jealousy… you say?”

To Dorothy, the notion of jealousy seemed quite out of the blue.

“That look of incomprehension, I see.”

“Honestly… yes.”

Dorothy couldn’t understand. Why suddenly mention jealousy?

“Does the Princess have any reason to be jealous of me? I am but a mere maid…”

Dorothy thought Sibylla had no reason to be jealous of her. At most, Sibylla was cursed while Dorothy’s body remained unaffected – was there anything else Sibylla didn’t surpass her in?

Status, position – there was an unbridgeable gap between Princess Sibylla and the lowborn commoner Dorothy.

“Was the Second Prince that intimate and important to the Princess?”

Thus, Dorothy couldn’t understand – was the mere act of conversing with the Prince grounds for the Princess to be jealous of someone as lowly as a maid who did not excel her in any way?

“No, the Princess is not jealous of Miss Gale.”

Tutting at Dorothy, the chamberlain corrected her misunderstanding.

“The one the Princess is jealous of is the Second Prince, Louis Ferdinand d’Orléans – not Miss Gale.”

“…The Prince, you say?”

Even then, Dorothy found it equally incomprehensible. Of course, compared to Dorothy herself, it was understandable for Sibylla to be jealous of the Prince who wasn’t only royalty, but also uncursed and beloved by Orléans’s citizens. However.

“It seems you still don’t understand, Miss Gale.”

“…Embarrassingly, no.”

Haa. Heaving a deep sigh, the chamberlain gazed at Dorothy’s blank expression, so unlike how she had chastised him before.

“Miss Gale, if you were ordered to serve the Prince instead of the Princess, would you comply?”

“No.”

To that, Dorothy could readily and confidently answer no, for her current master was Princess Sibylla.

“Then go inside and convey those very words to reassure the Princess. The Princess fears you may leave her to become the Prince’s maid instead.”

“…?”

“Go on.”

As if no longer willing to explain further to the still uncomprehending Dorothy, the chamberlain pushed her through the door.

“…I hadn’t been ordered to enter, yet now you disregard orders as well?”

Through the door, Dorothy saw Sibylla still seated on the bed, her back turned in a silent ‘I’m angry’ protest.

“I entered… of my own volition…”

The chamberlain had told her to reassure Sibylla, hadn’t he?

“…No.”

Instead of potentially hurtful words, Dorothy slowly approached Sibylla.

“…!!??”

And gently embraced her from behind.

“Y-You, what are you doing? Such impudence and audacity…!!”

“Princess.”

Dorothy’s voice reached Sibylla’s ear.

“I will always be your maid.”

“…!!”

And the words Sibylla wished to hear more than anything else slipped from Dorothy’s lips.

“I won’t go anywhere. I won’t leave your side.”

“B-But compared to someone like me… Brother Louis is far more charming…”

“Yes, he is undoubtedly a charming individual. He has excellent looks and character.”

The jealousy she had tried so hard to deny, her inferiority toward her own brother.

“But he is not my master.”

All of it melted away by the sweet devil’s whispers.

“Do you know who my master is, Princess?”

Her breath tickling her ear, that beautiful voice scrambling her thoughts.

“…Me… me… Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans… I am your master…”

“Yes, you are my master, Princess.”

The ruthless devil unwittingly bewitched her prey.

“So have no worries, Princess. Until the day your curse is lifted, I, Dorothy Gale, won’t leave your side.”

“…”

“Then, good night.”

Having judged she had sufficiently conveyed her intentions to the Princess, Dorothy moved to leave after releasing the embrace with a bow.

“…Princess?”

“Stay.”

Until Sibylla’s hand clasped her arm.

“There is… no separate room for you here in this palace…”

Servant quarters were naturally prepared, of course.

Yet Sibylla lied to her in a trembling voice:

“So… remain in this room with me, until the Heroes’ Festival ends…”

“…”

A blatant lie that would have been immediately exposed had Dorothy known palace protocol, or felt any dissonance even if she didn’t.

“As you command.”

However, Dorothy readily accepted Sibylla’s request – or was it an order? She couldn’t tell.

“Good night…”

The last words from Dorothy as she lay together with Sibylla on the bed were such.

“…My master.”

Engraving themselves deep in the Princess’s mind.

Chapter 24: The Orléans Family

It had been too long since she last had a restful morning.

Ever since being cursed and imprisoned in the High Tower, Sibylla’s mornings were never free from fatigue.

No matter how she tried to grow accustomed, the unrelenting agony of her rotting body was simply unbearable.

Oscillating between tormented wakefulness and fitful slumber, eventually succumbing to sheer exhaustion as she dozed off in a state neither fully awake nor asleep – that was what constituted a good night’s sleep for Sibylla.

“…Hwaam…”

Yet for some inexplicable reason, this time was different.

After a very long time, Sibylla could feel the refreshing sensation of waking up in the morning.

What could have caused this? It wasn’t due to the curse being lifted, nor any drastic changes in her environment.

Of course, the poorly maintained High Tower differed vastly in quality compared to the capital’s sole remaining palace, an unfair comparison, but such differences were trivial to Sibylla.

“…Ah.”

As she rubbed her eyes and surveyed her surroundings, Sibylla soon realized the cause behind her restful slumber.

“…Dorothy…?”

Lying by Sibylla’s side on the same bed, the maid slumbered so soundly she might not awaken even if carried elsewhere.

The most significant change to Sibylla’s sleeping environment was the presence of Dorothy sharing her bed.

“…Why?”

Still not fully awake, Sibylla pondered why Dorothy was sleeping in her bed.

Unless the master had impurely coerced the maid into bedding her by asserting their hierarchical relationship, it was highly unusual for a master and servant to share the same bed.

“…!!!”

‘Unless coercing the maid into bedding her by asserting their hierarchical relationship-‘

“Oh… Oh no…”

Sibylla now recalled her shameful conduct from the previous night.

Dismissively kicking Dorothy out until sunset simply for conversing with her brother, only to fall for Dorothy’s affectionate promises after she had barged back in, even lying to demand they sleep together.

An impure master harboring indecent desires – that had been Sibylla’s behavior, capriciously ordering her maid about at her whim before invoking her authority as master to command they share the same bed.

“I’ve lost my mind…!!!”

Unable to cry out or thrash about lest she wake Dorothy, Sibylla could only clench the bedsheets tightly as she buried her face, swallowing her words.

Just what had she been thinking…?!

Muffled screams, trembling from the self-loathing and shame directed inward, that was all the wretched Sibylla could manage at present.

“Haa… Haa…”

Her heart starting to pound like it might burst at any moment, Sibylla barely kept her composure as she gazed at the soundly sleeping Dorothy by her side.

With her hair completely undone instead of its usual messy bun, wearing loose sleepwear rather than a maid’s uniform.

“…Ugh…”

Her defenseless sleeping face, her slovenly attire, made Sibylla’s already racing heart palpitate even more intensely, feverish heat rushing through her entire body beyond just her face and chest.

“Nnn… Ughh…”

Before her entirely unchecked heart, all Sibylla could do was squeeze her eyes shut, grit her teeth, and struggle not to think about it.

And so until Dorothy finally awoke, Sibylla remained doubled over clutching her chest, silently stifling her groans.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Princess. For your servant to awaken after you…”

“No… it’s alright. It is I who sleeps little, not you acting strangely, so don’t trouble yourself…”

“…?”

Noting Sibylla’s rather fatigued appearance, Dorothy expressed her puzzlement. Had she not slept well?

Well, for someone accustomed to sleeping alone, suddenly sharing a bed with someone else, a servant no less, would understandably be difficult, Dorothy thought. Though as someone who had simply followed orders, she did feel slightly hard done by.

“…Hmm, for today’s schedule…”

After changing clothes and tying her hair, as Dorothy moved to comb Sibylla’s hair while explaining the day’s itinerary, she stopped herself – for she was unfamiliar with the palace’s schedule.

“…Umm…”

“There is no need to force yourself to pretend you know. One of the servants will undoubtedly arrive to guide us in any case.”

True to Sibylla’s words, a knock soon came at the door.

“Princess Sibylla, may I enter?”

“Enter.”

Upon Sibylla’s permission, the maid who entered curtsied before speaking to her:

“There is to be a royal family breakfast soon. His Majesty the King has requested the Princess’s attendance as well.”

“I doubt that was from Father, more likely it was Brother Charles’s request. No, Brother Louis is the more probable source.”

Despite her cynical reply, the maid simply waited in silence for Sibylla to finish preparing herself.

“Leave us. I shall attend on my own. One maid to attend me is sufficient.”

“Yes, I shall inform them as such.”

“…Tsk.”

Sibylla clicked her tongue as the maid swiftly departed upon receiving her orders.

“The palace servants are entirely displeasing. They think they conceal their true feelings perfectly.”

“Must you really attend? Wouldn’t it be better to have someone bring the food to your room instead…”

“No, I must go.”

Though Dorothy’s suggestion was tempting, Sibylla couldn’t accept it.

“Legitimacy and decorum are paramount to the royals and nobles. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have summoned a cursed royal from exile under the pretense of tradition.”

Truth be told, barring a miraculous cure, Sibylla had no intentions of coming to Hyperion.

It was that damned insistence on procedures and traditions that had compelled her summons against her will.

“I must indulge them, lest it endanger your life rather than mine.”

“…My life, you say?”

“You are unaware?”

To Dorothy’s question, Sibylla answered in a relatively kind tone:

“When it’s difficult to directly punish someone, the most common method is to place the burden of responsibility on their subordinates.”

In other words, if Sibylla were to commit some transgression, Dorothy would be the one to bear responsibility.

“Let’s depart once you are ready.”

Calling out to the briefly stunned Dorothy upon hearing such unfairness, Sibylla rose from her seat.

“It has been too long since I last enjoyed a good meal with my family.”

* * *

The venue for the breakfast was prepared on the floor directly below.

Not having invited any special guests, it was a private setting solely for the current King and Queen along with their three children.

For just five people, the dining table seemed excessively large to Dorothy’s eyes. The sheer variety of dishes was equally excessive.

“It has been too long. Father, Mother, I trust you have been well?”

Upon taking her seat, Sibylla offered a simple greeting to her parents, the current King and Queen who had arrived earlier.

“…Yes, Sibylla. I hope you have been doing well too.”

“…”

The Queen responded tersely, while the King didn’t even extend that much.

Yet from the shadows, Dorothy silently observed them both, who didn’t seem particularly admirable parents.

The King’s eyes were hollow like a corpse’s, lending credence to the rumor that he had gone insane after his daughter was cursed.

Gone was any trace of the benevolent, wise, and dignified air he once possessed – only a withered, decrepit husk remained. His hair had largely fallen out, his vacant gaze fixed on the empty air, mouth agape like a vegetable.

Compared to the broken King, the Queen showed some signs of aging like wrinkles, likely from the ordeals she had endured, but appeared relatively unscathed overall.

The peerless beauty she had once been lauded for hadn’t completely faded, leaving her with the haughty air of a disgraced noblewoman. At least her mind seemed intact.

In other words, unlike the King who had lost his sanity after their daughter was cursed, the Queen was of sound mind when she abandoned her child.

“It has been too long since I last saw you as well, Brother Louis.”

“Yes, it has been a while, Sibylla. I’m relieved to see you have found reliable company.”

Prince Louis, who had spoken, glanced at Dorothy with a smile before giving a small wave.

“…Ahem.”

Sibylla seemed quite displeased by her brother’s demeanor, but soon after-

“Where is Brother Charles?”

She inquired about the Crown Prince, her eldest brother who hadn’t yet arrived.

“Ah, about Brother…”

At that moment, the banquet hall doors swung open. And upon seeing who emerged, Dorothy was…

“…!!!”

Utterly shocked.

“My apologies, I was caught up with work.”

Unlike the Second Prince whose younger self she had witnessed, this was Dorothy’s first time seeing the Crown Prince in person.

Yet she could instantly sense his true nature.

Cropped hair, unkempt stubble as if he hadn’t properly shaved.

Taller than even Prince Louis or the King, with dark circles heavily shadowing his eyes.

“No one has touched the food yet, have they? You could have started without me.”

At a glance he appeared bedraggled, wearied beyond his years like some vulgar drunkard, yet when Dorothy met his gaze she realized.

A ruthlessly calculating, emotionally detached sociopath who perceived everything in the world besides himself as mere objects.

“Then.”

The Crown Prince of Orléans, Charles Théodone François d’Orléans.

“Let’s begin.”

Was one of her kind.

Chapter 25: Dance?

“Let’s begin.”

The breakfast that began with the Crown Prince’s terse words was far too quiet to be called a warm familial meal.

The insane King was too preoccupied obliviously receiving the food the servants fed him, while the Queen ate in solemn, dignified silence befitting her foreign royal upbringing, making scarcely a sound as her utensils clinked.

Perhaps influenced by his long military stint, Crown Prince Charles’s eating manners were considerably more boorish compared to the Queen, though he was equally as taciturn.

Sibylla, who had undoubtedly been taught noble dining etiquette like the Queen, was much the same.

Of course, the servants thought their silence was likely not solely due to table manners.

While the unsound King’s reasons were difficult to discern, the others aside from the Second Prince were simply not particularly talkative by nature.

It was only natural for the Crown Prince, who had scarcely rested even after returning to the capital from the frontlines, or Sibylla, who had lost everything after being unexpectedly cursed during her blossoming years, to be reticent.

The Queen too had long been regarded by the citizens as composed – in other words, lacking presence.

“Umm… excuse me, Brother. Regarding the Heroes’ Festival schedule…”

“It is the same as ten years prior. There is no need to explain twice, is there?”

“Ah…”

The attempt by the more genial Prince Louis to break the awkwardness was swiftly shut down by the Crown Prince.

“W-Well then…”

All Louis could do was focus on the food before him.

The stifling silence, the resulting discomfort.

Feeling like they were seated on a bed of nails, the servants inwardly pleaded: Please let us leave this place soon, or at the very least, let someone break this silence.

“…Brother Charles.”

Yet even when their wish was granted, the servants couldn’t bring themselves to rejoice, for the one who shattered that silence was none other than the principal cause of this discomfort.

“What is it, Sibylla?”

“May I be excused? I am full.”

“Already? You have scarcely eaten anything…”

The one who responded to Sibylla was not the Crown Prince, but Prince Louis – for to his prying eyes, her paltry intake wouldn’t even sate a child’s hunger.

“Have it your way. You don’t need to attend today.”

In contrast to Louis, the Crown Prince’s reaction was coldly indifferent.

To him who couldn’t feel affection for his kin, Sibylla was merely a burden to be endured, forced to survive alone in the High Tower for as long as possible.

Moreover, Sibylla’s summons to Hyperion under the pretext of the Heroes’ Festival hadn’t been the Crown Prince’s intention, but that of the nobles with obvious ulterior motives. So the Crown Prince’s callous treatment of his younger sister was only natural, the servants reasoned.

“Yes, I will do so.”

Of course, that was the perspective of those unaware the Crown Prince’s demeanor toward Sibylla had been no different even before she was cursed.

“Then I’ll take my leave. Father, Mother, and my brothers.”

“Ah, wait, Sibylla…”

Ignoring Prince Louis’s protest, Sibylla wiped her lips and rose from her seat, departing with her maid in tow.

“…Must you really treat our sister that way after so long apart?”

“Is there an issue?”

“No, just… haa… How did you even get married, brother?”

“A political marriage.”

“…I have no words.”

All that remained was an even more awkward atmosphere.

* * *

“…Will you be alright? Even for breakfast, just a half-slice of quiche and two bites of salad…”

On their way back to the room, Dorothy asked with concern over Sibylla’s meager intake.

“You already know my stomach is not as large as yours.”

“But it’s not an issue of stomach capacity…”

Dorothy was aware Sibylla had a small appetite and ate far less than average.

However, the paltry meals in the High Tower could be reasonably attributed to Dorothy’s abysmal cooking skills. Whenever decent food was available, Sibylla would eat less than others yet still consume a satiating amount.

Yet this time Sibylla had barely touched her meal, as if served a liquid brunch at some slum tavern. Dorothy found it quite perplexing.

The pride and philosophy Orléans people held toward cuisine was extremely robust, and palace cuisine could be considered the quintessence of Orléans culinary arts.

Prepared by the world’s finest chefs using premium ingredients following the finest recipes – that was Orléans palace cuisine, a veritable feast of unrivaled quality and flavor compared to the simple fare or literal scraps Dorothy used to make, ignorant of even cooking’s basics.

Having grown up eating palace cuisine, there was no way Sibylla’s palate would reject it. So why had she skipped the meal?

“It’s not as if the ambiance put me off my appetite. Those disagreeable faces I saw after so long were hardly welcoming.”

The wounds etched in Sibylla’s heart ran too deep for her to warmly receive her reunited family.

To her reticent eldest brother, of course, but also her ever-affable second brother, even her own mother who had birthed her – the abandoned child couldn’t, or rather lacked the capacity to forgive her own family.

“I wish to return as soon as possible, but I can’t, can I?”

“I will do my utmost to try…”

“No, it is enough that you remain by my side.”

Thus, Sibylla wished to fully indulge in the solitary free day out of the entire week. With Dorothy.

“Perhaps I shall take a nap.”

“…But didn’t you say you tend to sleep little?”

“…”

In the past, she wouldn’t have even entertained the notion of an ultimately unproductive nap.

However, the restful slumber she had so rarely experienced, the comfort she had felt in Dorothy’s embrace, had been too sweet.

“That is an order. Do you intend to defy your master’s command?”

“…No, I don’t.”

Despite knowing it was unsightly, Sibylla once again invoked their hierarchical relationship to command her.

Solely to experience that warmth again from the previous night.

* * *

How embarrassing.

Dorothy thought, watching Sibylla resolutely clinging to her.

“I understand you wish to return to the High Tower, but…”

Wasn’t she being overly childish?

The Sibylla she had first met had seemed an utterly insurmountable cliff to Dorothy.

Someone who had completely shut the door to her heart without the slightest gap, unlikely to even properly converse until their arrangement concluded.

But not anymore. While initially aiming to open that door to her heart, had she opened it too far?

For someone of Princess standing to demand they share the same bed as a mere maid would be grounds for execution if the King were of sound mind.

Had she been too overly familiar?

From now on, Dorothy pondered if she should maintain some distance in how she treated Sibylla.

Compared to her practically lifeless demeanor before, at least she now showed a will to live, which was an improvement. But this was too problematic – Sibylla was undoubtedly a Princess.

Yet Dorothy couldn’t fathom what might happen if she abruptly put distance between them, leaving her troubled.

“Should I have a pet brought in? A puppy or something…”

Dorothy didn’t think she could become an important person to Sibylla. Aat best, a treasured possession or devoted servant, no matter how well she served.

To Dorothy, Sibylla’s current clinginess stemmed from a sense of deprivation and loss of her former daily life, a form of possessive attachment toward an object.

If there was a being that could assuage that deprivation, even slightly, a being that could freely show affection toward its master, might her condition improve?

“…A puppy would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Dorothy felt a dog would best fit those criteria.

Of course, it would depend on the breed and individual temperament, but had dogs not long been regarded as human’s faithful friends and obedient companions?

Even in the Orléans royal family, she had heard the notoriously cold and taciturn Crown Prince kept dogs. If Sibylla didn’t dislike or avoid dogs, one could make an excellent companion for her.

“First, I’ll inquire… if she agrees…”

Once she confirmed Sibylla’s preference, the rest would be straightforward, Dorothy thought – for the palace had the all-capable chamberlain who could procure virtually anything by carriage.

She had realized the chamberlain Matthieu de Fontaine’s remarkable competence from how he had perfectly fulfilled her request to deliver all manner of flower seeds.

Thus, Dorothy judged a single puppy of the desired breed would be easily attainable from him.

“Princess, it is chamberlain Matthieu de Fontaine. May I enter?”

As if summoned by her thoughts, the chamberlain’s voice came from beyond the door accompanied by a knock.

“The Princess is resting. If you have business with her, I can convey it on your behalf…”

“Actually, I do have business. But not with the Princess, with Miss Gale.”

The chamberlain’s words came as a surprise to Dorothy, for she hadn’t expected anyone to have business with a mere maid besides the Princess.

“Miss Gale, by any chance do you know how to dance?”

“…What?”

The subsequent question was even more unexpected.

Chapter 26: The Approaching Shadow

Do you know how to dance?

Faced with that unexpected question, Dorothy briefly pondered how to respond.

“Yes, I know how to dance.”

“Is that so, I had assumed you could not… Wait, did you say you can dance?”

“Yes.”

And after some thought, Dorothy decided to simply answer honestly.

“…How so?”

“I once received a request for it.”

While assassination was her main line of work, Dorothy didn’t particularly discriminate when it came to jobs, for her nickname was the ‘Fixer’ rather than the ‘Assassin.’

As long as it paid, no matter how trivial, she would accept it. If it didn’t pay, no matter how grandiose, she would refuse. That was Dorothy’s belief, or perhaps more accurately, her way of thinking.

“It was a request to be a dance partner for a young lady. So I learned back then.”

“That is… quite unexpected.”

At Dorothy’s response, the chamberlain widened his eyes in apparent surprise.

Well, the Dorothy Gale – or rather, Arachne – he had envisioned was likely just a ruthless murderer, so such a reaction was understandable.

“By any chance, could you provide a demonstration?”

“Sure, why not.”

While his astonishment did seem a bit excessive, Dorothy didn’t make a show of it. Had that request never come, she would never have learned to dance in her life.

Dorothy recalled that memory – learning dance from the witch in order to carry out that request.

“…Could you perhaps bring a mannequin? It’s a bit awkward to dance alone.”

“Ah.”

Noble dances inevitably required a partner, after all.

How bothersome.

* * *

The chamberlain could scarcely believe it – that she could dance.

He could believe her capable of blade dances to slay, but ordinary dance from Dorothy Gale, Arachne?

“…Remarkable.”

However, Dorothy promptly shattered the chamberlain’s disbelief.

“This should suffice without need for further practice.”

While it looked rather comical embracing an unmoving mannequin as her dance partner, Dorothy’s dancing itself was flawless.

“Your movements and posture seem more masculine than feminine, is there a particular reason?”

“Didn’t I say it was a request to partner a young lady? Is there an issue?”

The chamberlain was unaware of Dorothy’s past as a man, and Dorothy saw no need to disclose it.

Thus, she cited the request details as her excuse – her partner had been a noble lady, so naturally she had taken the male role.

“I see. No, there is no issue. In fact, one could say it is perfect this way, as you don’t need to learn any special poses or movements.”

The chamberlain accepted her explanation without further suspicion.

“But may I ask, what is the occasion for suddenly seeking out a dancer?”

Now it was Dorothy’s turn to inquire.

“Are you aware there will be a ball on the final day of the Heroes’ Festival, Miss Gale?”

“Yes, I’ve heard as much.”

She had learned of the palace ball from the servant who had escorted her to retrieve Sibylla.

“We would like you to serve as the Princess’s dance partner there.”

“…The Princess’s?”

However, she hadn’t expected to be requested to attend that ball.

“It’s not mandatory, but dancing at such balls is a customary practice. Yet a dance inevitably requires a partner.”

Leaving aside Prince Louis, even the Crown Prince had enjoyed the affections of many noble ladies before his marriage.

“Had it not been for the curse, there would have been a line of suitors to dance with the Princess…”

“But as it stands now, there are none.”

Finally, Dorothy understood the chamberlain’s intent.

“So in summary, you dislike the prospect of the Princess sitting alone at the ball, and wish for me to step in?”

“Precisely.”

“Hmm… While I can’t speak for the Princess’s thoughts, very well.”

If it could lift Sibylla’s spirits, Dorothy saw no reason to refuse as her maid.

Thus, Dorothy readily accepted the chamberlain’s proposal.

“But will it be appropriate for a mere maid like myself to attend an event hosting esteemed guests?”

“That shouldn’t be an issue. Participants at Orléans balls fundamentally wear masks, after all.”

Masquerade was a basic element of Orléans balls.

Of course, at a typical ball even while masked, most would still recognize each other – a mere token formality of hiding behind masks, so to speak.

But the Heroes’ Festival was different, inviting dignitaries from abroad in addition to domestic guests, making unfamiliar faces the norm rather than the exception.

“No one will recognize or obstruct Miss Gale’s attendance. Not only will you be masked, but your true face is not exactly well-known either.”

“I suppose that is a relief, but…”

Even if their identities were mutually unknown, would her presence not stand out and risk exposing her?

“Then I will have to prepare a costume for you.”

“A costume, you say?”

“Yes, would you care to meet a skilled tailor I can introduce? I’ll accompany you.”

In the end, taking measurements would be required to tailor a costume, necessitating meeting the tailor in person.

“…”

Dorothy pondered as she slightly opened the door to gaze upon Sibylla’s soundly sleeping form.

“The Princess…”

“Have no concerns. This is not the High Tower.”

It should be fine, for the palace had its own guards, after all.

“Let’s return as swiftly as possible, just in case.”

* * *

“Nnngh…”

Unlike Sibylla, who had returned to her room immediately after breakfast and not emerged until sunset, Prince Louis personally welcomed the arriving guests to the royal palace.

While he wasn’t strictly obligated to attend the first day’s events, there had been a notion that at least one member of the royal family should directly greet and converse with the guests.

The King was insane, the Crown Prince lacked time as he handled the incapacitated king’s duties, the Queen inherently disliked receiving guests, and Sibylla was out of the question.

Thus, the remaining Second Prince had naturally taken on that task. With his outstanding looks, connections, and amiable personality, he was well-suited for the role, but still.

“It’s tiring…”

Even for the affable Prince, constantly greeting a stream of guests inevitably depleted his energy.

With a weary expression, the Prince trudged over and plopped down on a chair in the palace gardens.

“What misery… being born second was my life’s great tragedy…”

The Prince too greatly wished to rest, for he already had six consecutive grueling days awaiting him at the very least, not counting this additional day of work.

Yet besides the Second Prince, there was no suitable alternative – his brother was occupied, his sister was cursed, his father insane.

While his mother the Queen’s circumstances were practically trivial in comparison, he could hardly request his own mother, the nation’s Queen dowager, to toil in his stead regardless of her status. The Prince had filial piety after all.

“Truly exhausting, these nobles are…”

Whether supporters or detractors, all had pushed this duty onto the Prince, leaving him no choice but to accept.

“…These privileged folk have skin far too thick.”

Moreover, separate from his political standing, the Prince didn’t particularly favor the nobles, domestic or foreign.

He felt repulsed by the inherent affectation and hypocrisy typical of nobles, ever-present behaviors he had grown accustomed to. Not that he disliked them as people per se, but their mannerisms grated on him.

“I wish I could escape to the villa…”

He wished he could run away to the villa and frolic with the impoverished children there instead, the Prince thought.

The slum children weren’t purely innocent and virtuous – rather, many were cunning tricksters adept at manipulating others.

Yet to the Prince, they were preferable. At least they weren’t hypocritical or disingenuous – merely mischievous children acting their age, for better or worse.

“I’m so tired…”

Was it the adults, or the nobles, that wearied him so? Perhaps it was both.

Heaving a deep sigh, the Prince rose to his feet once more. The sooner he rested, the longer he could recuperate before the imminent hardship, allowing him to endure a bit longer.

“…Hm?”

As the Prince turned to head back into the palace, he suddenly sensed an inexplicable discomfort and glanced over his shoulder.

“…?”

There stood a woman.

Crimson hair like blood, feline golden eyes that seemed to glow.

Clad entirely in jet-black attire, her menacing gaze alone made one’s shoulders instinctively hunch as she stared unblinkingly at the Prince.

“…Do you have business with me?”

Despite being unnerved by her unsettling appearance, the Prince didn’t show it as he addressed her.

“If you are seeking lodgings, might I suggest the hotels along the front street would serve you better…”

However, the woman remained utterly mute, merely continuing to stare intently at the Prince as if harboring some motive.

“…Could you be… not a guest?”

A sense of creeping dread slowly welled up within him.

“…Yet I don’t recognize you at all. You don’t seem to be from the slums either, but judging by your attire, you are no noble or affluent capitalist…”

Scrutinizing her from head to toe, the Prince belatedly noticed something.

“…A dog collar?”

Only then could the Prince hazard a guess at her identity.

“You couldn’t be-“

Chapter 27: A Fleeting Encounter

“…Is this… a tailor shop?”

Dorothy was surprised by the exterior of the building they had arrived at, following the chamberlain’s guidance.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, not a problem at all…”

Were tailor shops usually this large?

Dorothy knew what a tailor shop was – there were even some in the slums.

But the tailor shops Dorothy was familiar with were cramped spaces filled with cigarette smoke, barely managing to maintain a semblance of inventory using cheap fabric scraps.

“…It’s huge.”

“This is a tailor shop operated by a noble family from the Nordland Alliance in the northern continent… the Mannerheim family.”

“Mannerheim…”

Unfamiliar with Nordland, Dorothy nodded vaguely as if she knew, trailing off. Unlike Lombardy, Nordland was far too distant from Orléans for her to have any knowledge of it.

“The young lady of the Mannerheim famoly happens to be staying in Hyperion, so we should receive better service than usual.”

“But… by using such an extravagant tailor shop, won’t we stand out? The staff alone…”

If the operating entity was a noble household, there was a risk of rumors spreading through high society’s grapevine.

Dorothy’s concern wasn’t baseless, for the noble social circle had an expansive information network transcending national borders.

‘No tale walks on footless legs.’ The default trust among nobles by virtue of their status, coupled with humanity’s innate desire to share juicy gossip – the social circle was effectively a global web.

“Don’t worry. The Nordlanders are known for being tight-lipped, more averse to conversing with others than anything.”

As if to reassure Dorothy, the chamberlain informed her of the Nordlanders’ near-pathological tendency toward poor communication.

“And the Mannerheim young lady currently in Hyperion is… particularly extreme in that regard.”

Nordland wasn’t only geographically distant from Orléans, but quite insular by nature.

Thus, Nordlander nobles in Orléans were subtly ostracized, though they seemed to prefer such treatment themselves.

“If you say so, then I will believe it.”

If he went so far as to state it outright, she could believe him.

The chamberlain didn’t seem the type to make unnecessary false claims over such trivial matters. That was Dorothy’s assessment of him.

“Then let’s proceed. The Mannerheim household’s skill should allow them to swiftly produce a suitable outfit.”

“I see.”

Trusting the chamberlain, Dorothy entered the tailor shop.

“Nghh… Truly, no wine can surpass Orléans vintage.”

“…”

That trust immediately shattered upon seeing the drunken lout lying atop a desk clearly not intended for such purposes, blowing raspberries into an empty bottle.

“…Chamberlain?”

“…Despite appearances, this person is exceptionally skilled when it comes to tailoring. He also serves as the valet for the Mannerheim young lady I mentioned earlier.”

Following the chamberlain’s words, Dorothy gazed again at the drunkard.

Disheveled hair. Flushed, ruddy complexion with a vacant grin. Crumpled dress shirt, tie barely knotted around his neck.

“…That woman…?”

“…”

The chamberlain remained silent.

“Ohoho? If it isn’t Mr. Fontaine? Greetings, Mr. Fontaine~”

Spotting the two lingering silently by the entrance, the drunken tailor waved in greeting.

“Long time no see? And who’s this maid of yours? Don’t tell me… your lover?”

“…Ms. Es.”

“Just joking, just joking~. As if I’d seriously say something like that to an old geezer who could be my grandpa, you know?”

Despite appearing more like a father and daughter – or rather, a meticulously maintained elderly gentleman and his prematurely born granddaughter – the drunken tailor’s conduct was overly casual, one could say either affable or outright rude toward the clearly much older chamberlain he seemed acquainted with.

Could one truly act so improperly toward an elder, even if they were acquainted?

“Ah, care for some wine? It’s from Aquitaine, I believe… now how did they pronounce this one?”

“It is Château Margaux. More importantly, we didn’t come for wine but to have a dress tailored, so please stand up.”

“Alright, alright~ Always such a fussy old granny… hic.”

However, as the chamberlain himself didn’t seem particularly offended by the tailor’s demeanor, Dorothy didn’t comment on it either. As the saying went, ‘Turn a blind eye, and half is gone.’

“Now then, let’s see… Mr. Fontaine’s measurements from last time were…”

“Not for me, but for Miss Gale here. We need an outfit tailored for her.”

Taking a step back, the chamberlain gestured toward Dorothy.

“Oh, is that so? What kind of outfit?”

“A costume for the masquerade ball. I shall leave the design entirely up to you, Ms. Es.”

“…?”

At the chamberlain’s words, Dorothy surveyed the tailor’s slovenly appearance once more.

“Does my assistant look too unsightly to you, dear?”

“To be honest, yes.”

Before her unsightly attire or demeanor, the more concerning issue was whether this clearly inebriated drunkard blowing into bottles could truly be trusted.

While Dorothy herself enjoyed alcohol, she generally avoided drinking while working, for alcohol was the devil’s brew that could turn men into beasts.

“Have no concerns, Miss Gale. Despite appearances, this person’s tailoring skills are unmatched by any other tailor in Orléans.”

“…If you insist, I’ll believe you for now.”

Dorothy was well aware the chamberlain wasn’t one for empty platitudes. However, her trust had already taken a significant blow.

“So, care to come over here? What… was your name again?”

“Dorothy Gale.”

“Dorothy Gale? An unusual name in Orléans. Well, whatever… strip.”

Given her unsightly demeanor left little room for gracefulness anyway, the tailor grinned lecherously as she brandished a tape measure, uttering:

“…What?”

“Take off your clothes. How else am I supposed to get your measurements properly?”

Enough for Dorothy’s mind to elevate the tailor from a mere drunkard to a lecherous drunkard.

“Just kidding, just kidding~. No need to glare at me with such vicious eyes? It gives me this feeling… like my entire body will be finely minced.”

No, restrain yourself, inner Arachne.

It was a moment when Dorothy’s patience was pushed to the limit.

* * *

“I’ll have it sent to the chamberlain’s office tomorrow, so wait for it~”

“…I have a headache.”

Despite only having her measurements taken, why did she feel so dizzy?

Dorothy muttered, feeling her eyelids growing heavier despite not lacking sleep. 

“My apologies, Miss Gale. I have unintentionally caused you trouble.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t intend to bother me purposely, Chamberlain, so it’s alright…”

Was it really alright? For in the end, this man was the root cause.

Had he not first proposed she attend the ball? Had he not brought her to this accursed tailor shop?

Dorothy thought to herself – the true origin of all evil was this elderly man.

“…Let’s return to the royal palace.”

However, it wn’t in Dorothy’s nature to nitpick over such trivialities, and she had already reached her mental limit. So rather than needlessly bickering with the chamberlain, she chose to return – the sooner, the safer for Sibylla’s sake as well.

“I wish to rest a bit-“

Unable to finish her words, Dorothy abruptly stopped in the middle of the street.

As if her entire body had turned to stone.

“Miss Gale?”

“…Just now.”

Amid the bustling crowds, among the passers-by brushing past her side.

“Something… just now.”

Amidst the mingling scents of body odor, perfume, and leather, Dorothy caught a faint yet familiar aroma.

She whipped her head around in pursuit of that scent, but all she saw were the backs of numerous heads.

“Miss Gale, what is the matter?”

“Did you not sense it? That smell… just now…”

Acrid yet sharp, stinging the nostrils.

“…No.”

The stench of blood.

“Let’s return, swiftly.”

“Wait, Miss Gale. At least provide an explanation-“

An ominous premonition spurred Dorothy’s steps onward.

“…”

And so, she failed to notice the golden eyes observing her amidst the crowd.

* * *

The atmosphere at the palace was unsettling, enough for even Dorothy and the chamberlain to immediately sense the dissonance.

“Wait, running about the palace like that… Gyaahh!?”

But Dorothy paid no heed to such commotion, for her sole concern was Sibylla’s well-being.

“…Did something not just pass by?”

“A maid. Swifter than your palace steeds, it seems.”

Dashing up the stairs, sprinting down the hallway, Dorothy arrived at Sibylla’s chamber door within a minute of entering the palace grounds.

“Haa… Haa… Whew…”

After adjusting her disheveled attire and catching her breath before that door, just as she moved to knock:

“Princess!?”

The abruptly opened door caused Dorothy to stumble backward, falling on her rear.

“…Why is your hair such a mess? And what is with all that sweat?”

“You are… unharmed.”

Contrary to Dorothy’s fears, Sibylla was unharmed. The figure before her was undoubtedly the Princess she had vowed to protect.

“While I wish to ask what happened… I feel I can already guess the reason.”

“…What?”

However, her concerns weren’t entirely unfounded.

“There has been an attempted assassination within the palace grounds.”

“…The victim?”

That the owner of that bloody scent had passed through the palace, causing such commotion, was undeniable fact.

“Prince Louis.”

Chapter 28: Go, Don’t Go

News of the attempted assassination on the second Prince, Louis Ferdinand d’Orléans, was tightly controlled under the oversight of the royal family.

They barely managed to prevent information from leaking out, as the ambush had occurred in a secluded location with little foot traffic and late at night.

However, no matter how much secrecy was maintained, nobles were ones who learned perceptiveness and social graces from a young age. It was inevitable for the foreign dignitaries to sense that something was amiss.

“The nobles are spreading rumors throughout Hyperion.”

Moreover, some Orléans nobles were fanning the guests’ suspicions by deliberately disseminating rumors – strictly speaking facts, rendering ‘rumors’ somewhat inaccurate.

“…While it may seem an overreach, the timing is too uncanny. As if…”

“You wish to say it is as if they knew Prince Louis would be ambushed from the start?”

At the Crown Prince’s words, his aide silently nodded in affirmation.

“There were few who witnessed Prince Louis being escorted. Even fewer who saw him bleeding. Yet they are simultaneously spreading remarkably accurate rumors that the Prince was attacked by an assassin.”

The Second Prince’s ambush had occurred in a secluded area, and the servants who first discovered the bleeding Prince had been strictly sworn to silence.

Yet their seemingly coordinated efforts to widely propagate the same rumor, as if having prepared in advance, were highly suspicious.

“For now, I believe it would be wise to record the names of those nobles and secretly monitor them.”

“Do as you suggest.”

They were presently unable to take direct action against such adversaries without firm evidence, despite their suspicions.

However, by committing them to memory, it would save effort when the time came to eventually purge them. The Crown Prince accepted his aide’s counsel.

“And regarding Prince Louis’s injuries…”

“Were they severe?”

“His life isn’t in danger, but it was a grave wound – had it gone any deeper, he might have lost complete use of one arm. He was incredibly fortunate it didn’t penetrate further.”

The woman describing the Prince’s injuries didn’t seem particularly cheerful. For the capitalists supporting the Crown Prince, Prince Louis was not only their rival’s leader, but also an esteemed individual who transcended class distinctions and a benefactor.

Thus, she could neither rejoice nor lament. While the Second Prince as the nobles’ central figure being injured could be seen as glad tidings, from her personal perspective knowing his benevolent character, it was anything but.

“…What are your plans? For now, I have had a physician accompany the Prince to the villa he frequents…”

“Instruct him to focus solely on recovery. I too do not wish for Louis’s demise.”

The popular Prince Louis meeting such an assassin’s end would reflect poorly on Orléans as a nation, so the Crown Prince saw no need to actively seek his own brother’s death.

“And have it announced that Louis was ambushed.”

“Pardon? But if we do that…”

“It doesn’t matter. Sooner or later, all will become known regardless. How could those lacking such basic perception survive high society? And moreover…”

Rather than futilely concealing the truth until the end and inviting further suspicion, the Crown Prince judged it better to openly disclose the facts.

“If we utilize their actions properly, we can turn their weapon against them instead.”

From the battlefield as his tutor, the Crown Prince had learned:

How to turn crisis into opportunity.

* * *

That very morning, the royal family officially announced that Second Prince Louis Ferdinand d’Orléans had been ambushed by an assassin.

This occurred right as the central nobles supporting Prince Louis were busy disseminating rumors and subtly insinuating that the shadowy forces were the Crown Prince and his supporters.

Ordinarily in similar situations, the Orléans royals would always vehemently deny such incidents to avoid damaging their prestige.

Thus, their frank admission of the facts while attributing responsibility to their own lax security was an unexpected decision that thoroughly perplexed the foreign guests.

“We will take stringent measures to ensure such an incident never recurs, and the vile perpetrator behind this atrocious act will be caught and duly punished. The royal family offers its sincere apologies to all Orléans citizens and esteemed guests attending the Heroes’ Festival…”

A sincere apology from the typically arrogant Orléans royals.

“In light of this calamity, we have judged it improper to continue with the existing festivities. Thus, we will abridge the remaining events and hold the final day’s activities tomorrow instead…”

Moreover, their uncharacteristically unorthodox departure from tradition and procedure left all astonished.

“…It seems my brother Charles was quite eager to see me depart Hyperion post-haste.”

Though it didn’t strike the one who had discerned that intention as particularly surprising.

“Are you displeased with the Crown Prince’s decision?”

“I can’t say I am pleased or displeased. While fortunate I can return to the High Tower sooner, is this not simply treating me as a nuisance to be rid of?”

It wasn’t that she was unperturbed by such unfavorable treatment, for she had grown accustomed to it. Uncertain whether to laugh or cry at that irony, Sibylla could only let out a resigned sigh.

“But the ball will not be omitted, I suppose… I think I know the reason.”

The other events besides the ball were outdoor festivities open to all Orléans citizens, implying a larger scale that would be difficult to control if any untoward incident occurred.

Thus, they were likely omitted to minimize potential losses.

However, the ball was held within the palace with limited attendance.

A relatively lighter burden, and sending the distant guests home without any event was also unbecoming.

“The ball, is it… Have you ever danced with a partner before?”

Suddenly, Sibylla asked the nearby Dorothy.

“Yes, I have. For a request.”

“I see. As for me… I have learned dance, as it is considered a basic requirement for nobility.”

Sibylla recalled her eccentric yet artistic dance instructor from childhood, their peculiar demeanor and speech.

“An odd character, but a skilled teacher nonetheless. I wonder where that eccentric is now, what they are up to.”

“So you know how to dance, Princess.”

“Yes. Though I question whether there is any meaning in it.”

Under the pretext of cultivating social graces required to participate in high society, Sibylla had endured rigorous training.

“…Social graces, what nonsense. Without a partner, it is but a half-measure, useless.”

Yet she had never once had the opportunity to put that training to use.

“Would you like to dance, Princess?”

“No, I have long discarded such wistful notions.”

Sibylla shook her head at Dorothy’s question.

“Where could I possibly find a partner willing to dance with someone as cursed and withered as I? Would you, even if I ordered you to?”

“If you so commanded, I would gladly oblige.”

“…Hah…”

Yes, that was precisely the sort of person Dorothy was.

“Forget it. Rather than invoke our hierarchical relationship to force you, it is better if we do not.”

Human hearts were truly insidious things, Sibylla thought.

For it had been none other than Princess Sibylla herself who had repeatedly invoked that hierarchy to compel Dorothy until now.

And yet, fearing Dorothy’s resentment, she now made the same excuse.

“…How unsightly.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t referring to you.”

Unsightly – Sibylla couldn’t bear her own unsightliness. If her physical form was unsightly, her heart should have at least remained beautiful. But if her heart too became as sullied as her body, what then?

“Leave me for now. But don’t simply loiter outside my door like last time, converse with others instead.”

“Yes, Princess.”

In the end, Sibylla once again dismissed Dorothy with those very words.

The conflicting desires to keep her close, yet inability to do so.

Bridging that gap was impossible for Sibylla in her current state.

* * *

Another dismissal, was it?

As she exited, Dorothy pondered why the Princess subjected her to such trials – demanding they share a bed one moment, only to drive her out the next.

“Just what rhythm am I supposed to follow…?”

Heaving a deep sigh as if the ground might cave in, Dorothy walked on, for this time the command wasn’t to wait outside like before.

Should she consider it fortunate or unfortunate? Since she had been told to go somewhere, was that a blessing? Or was it a misfortune, since she had been instructed to converse with others?

“I dislike getting entangled with people…”

While not to Sibylla’s extent, Dorothy too wasn’t particularly extroverted – preferring solitude over company, indoors over outdoors.

For someone like her, the command to mingle with complete strangers was difficult to readily fulfill, even if it came from her master.

“…”

It seems you haven’t noticed yet.

My small surprise, prepared for you.

“…”

I wonder how you will react, my master.

Anticipating the following day, Dorothy headed toward the chamberlain’s office.

Chapter 29: Shall We Dance?

Due to the chaos caused by the attempted assassination on the Second Prince and the subsequent royal response, the esteemed guests who had traveled great distances to enjoy the Heroes’ Festival ended up wasting their time without fully savoring the festivities or properly mingling with other guests.

Considering that fostering camaraderie was of utmost importance in high society, for them it amounted to an utterly fruitless waste of time devoid of any gains.

Thus, they eagerly awaited the ball as their final opportunity to fulfill that purpose.

“It seems they have all but forgotten Louis’s ambush.”

“Is that not simply human nature? Wicked and selfish.”

Uttering words somewhere between lamentation and mockery toward their indecency, the Crown Prince conversed with the woman seated beside him – the Crown Princess.

“Will you not dance? Dance.”

“How long has it been since my brother nearly lost his life? Cutting a rug before prying eyes will only court unsavory rumors.”

“How uncharacteristic of you to heed such concerns.”

The Crown Princess, Adelaide.

There was no undue intimacy between the Crown Prince and this foreign Princess from a nation his Orléans forces had once defeated.

For Adelaide had become Crown Princess solely out of pragmatic reasons – to mend strained international relations due to the war, as well as produce an heir. Such was the nature of Charles Théodone François d’Orléans, a man incapable of love.

“I would prefer not to pay it any heed, but I must. The war has ended, and this is not a battlefield.”

“Words that would make our father clutch his chest, coming from you.”

Though they didn’t share romantic love, their relationship wasn’t unpleasant.

The Crown Princess was prudent, and the Crown Prince treated her with particular respect not as a wife, but a colleague of sorts – a partner. Such was the Crown Prince’s demeanor, which the Crown Princess didn’t take particular issue with nor seem offended by, allowing them to become excellent partners.

“How is the Prince? I heard his life is not in danger.”

“He has regained consciousness. However, the physician advised minimizing his movements to avoid reopening the freshly sutured wounds, lest they become difficult to treat again.”

While the Second Prince could technically be called his rival, the Crown Prince didn’t want him to die. Not out of familial affection, but the simple pragmatic reality that it would only invite more undue rumors if he perished needlessly.

“A misfortune or blessing for you?”

“A blessing. Louis alive is more advantageous.”

For if the Second Prince, a member of the Crown Prince’s opposition faction within Orléans politics, were to perish, the nobles would undoubtedly sow chaos by pinning the blame on the Crown Prince, as they were already trying to do even with the Second Prince still living.

Thus, the Prince had to live – for his own sake, as well as the Crown Prince’s.

“And what of her?”

The direction the Crown Princess’s finger indicated was toward-

“Not yet.”

Where Sibylla was located.

* * *

“…”

It was dizzying.

The dazzling lights, the kaleidoscope of colors.

Sibylla’s eyes, long accustomed to the dim and dreary High Tower, couldn’t process that brilliance and chromatic vibrancy.

“Hah…”

Tilting her head back slightly, Sibylla closed her eyes. Since she was masked anyway, hardly anyone would notice her keeping them shut.

The mask’s eye holes appeared deceptively small from the outside, almost doubtful whether proper vision was possible.

Of course, that was merely an external illusion – sight was relatively unobstructed, but most would still be unable to perceive the wearer’s actual eyes.

All except a certain eye-admiring maid, that was.

…Hadn’t Dorothy arrived yet?

Seated in what felt like a bed of nails, Sibylla surveyed the hall.

After telling Sibylla she needed to prepare something first and leaving her side, Dorothy had yet to reappear.

“…”

Just what preparations were taking her so long? What could she possibly be preparing that required such prolonged absence?

Fidgeting her legs restlessly, head lowered as she wrung her hands, Sibylla awaited Dorothy’s return with mounting unease.

“…When she said she would remain by my side.”

She had promised to obey Sibylla’s orders, to never leave her side.

Yet her unilateral actions were becoming increasingly frequent, constantly trying to depart Sibylla’s presence ever since arriving in Hyperion.

“…?”

At the unsightly wave rising within her heart, Sibylla abruptly raised her head in bewilderment.

Just what was this feeling?

“…Dorothy is not a possession.”

Dorothy Gale was human. An individual life and entity before being Sibylla’s maid.

A person with the right to think and act of her own accord. Yet somewhere along the way within Sibylla’s mind, Dorothy had become something she had to possess, no matter what.

Possessiveness – an improper desire to harbor toward a fellow human being.

It was undoubtedly possessiveness – that misguided craving for Dorothy to remain solely by her side, to move according to her whims alone.

“…Ugh…”

Sibylla felt revulsion toward herself, yet simultaneously even more repulsed by her own impatient longing for Dorothy’s return.

“…”

No matter how much she chastised herself or tried to regain her senses, the unease only intensified rather than subsiding.

“…Loneliness.”

Solitude.

Sibylla was intimately familiar with loneliness, having lived in solitude ever since being cursed.

The High Tower was always cold and desolate. The nameless skeletal remains beckoned to the tower’s newest resident. The few servants shied away from even addressing the one they were meant to tend to.

Her heart had grown numb, her perception of the world around her fading to shades of gray. That expressionless, indifferent mask eventually became a reflection of Sibylla’s own heart.

But all of that had changed, because of one maid.

Foolish, completely lacking in skill, incapable of doing anything properly.

Yet loyal, strong enough to protect her master from assassins, and kind.

Dorothy Gale had awoken Sibylla to loneliness.

Dorothy Gale had made Sibylla aware of her own wretchedness.

“Hah… Hah…”

Hunched over, eyes squeezed tightly shut as she panted heavily.

Her ragged breaths, the sweat trickling down her cheeks – yet none in the resplendent ballroom took notice of Sibylla’s distress, swathed in bandages in a relatively dim corner.

“I must… I have to return… To go back…”

However, the oppressive atmosphere rendered her feet immobile.

This ballroom brimmed with myriad hues. For Sibylla, who had lived in a world of ashes, no matter which way she turned her gaze the inescapable radiance felt like an open-air prison.

“…Ugh…”

Please, someone, anyone, rescue me from this place.

If that was impossible, then at least bring me some semblance of solace.

Sibylla prayed. A prayer unlikely to reach the attendees or any god.

Yet no one approached Sibylla, not a single person noticed her plight. And even if they had, who would possess the courage to approach the cursed Princess?

Clack, clack-

“…?”

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps reached Sibylla’s ears. Footsteps were approaching her.

She had initially dismissed it as a delusion or auditory hallucination, for amid the music, chattering voices, and shuffling footfalls filling the hall, how could a single set of footsteps ring out so distinctly, so vividly?

Thus, Sibylla vigorously shook her head to banish those inexplicably audible footsteps drawing nearer, even biting her lower lip to dispel such unfounded fancies.

But the footsteps didn’t disappear. Instead growing louder as they neared until those footfalls were all she could hear.

And finally, when they ceased right before her, leaving no other sound behind.

“…?”

Sibylla raised her head, realizing.

“Why do you suffer such torment alone, Princess of Orléans?”

Those footsteps had been no delusion nor hallucination.

“You… you are…”

Before Sibylla’s eyes stood a Countess.

Clad in a black tailcoat, white trousers, and boots.

Wearing a riding outfit complete with a masquerade mask, her bronze hair and crimson eyes unmistakable.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

No, Sibylla knew better than anyone that this woman was no mere Countess or anything.

How couldn’t she recognize her, no matter what she wore? She had seen that hair, those eyes, far too many times before.

“You are-“

“Shh…”

But the Countess merely smiled as she pressed a finger to Sibylla’s lips.

“Confirming each other’s identities at a masquerade where all obscure their faces behind masks would simply ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?”

That first smile to grace those familiar yet unfamiliar lips was breathtakingly beautiful, visible even beyond the concealing mask.

“Princess… no, nameless young lady.”

Extending a gloved hand toward the entranced young lady, the Countess proposed:

“Shall we dance, on this vibrant stage awash in myriad hues?”

And the young lady didn’t refuse that offered hand.

Chapter 30: Femme Fatale

Moon river, wider than a mile ♪

Across the wide river bathed in moonlight ♪

I’m crossin’ you in style some day ♪

Someday I’ll cross you in style ♪

Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker ♪

Oh, you who made me dream and broke my heart ♪

Wherever you’re goin’, I’m goin’ your way ♪

Wherever you flow, I’ll follow you ♪

Two drifters, off to see the world ♪

Two drifters setting out to see the world ♪

There’s such a lot of world to see ♪

Yet there is so much world to see ♪

We’re after the same rainbow’s end ♪

We chase the same rainbow’s end ♪

Waitin’ round the bend, my Huckleberry friend ♪

Waiting around the bend, my dear friend ♪

Moon river and me ♪

The moon river and I ♪

The hall previously filled with music and chattering laughter had fallen deathly silent, as all eyes were fixated on the mysterious Countess’s spectacle.

No one knew the identity of that beautiful bronze-haired Countess, for many guests besides her had concealed their faces behind masks.

Or rather, they likely had no interest to begin with. To those who had already prioritized which connections to cultivate, an unfamiliar Countess of unknown origins could hardly concern them.

Yet as the Countess approached the royals’ seating area, people’s gazes inevitably turned toward her.

No matter how esteemed the guests, none could outrank Orléans royalty. And even setting aside class disparity, for a guest to audaciously mingle with the hosts without permission was a breach of decorum that simply shouldn’t occur.

However, the Countess ascended the dais without hesitation, striding forth undaunted as if the Orléans royals’ authority meant nothing to her. And her destination upon the dais wasn’t the Crown Prince’s seat, nor anyone else’s – but directly before the one person none dared approach.

“Why do you suffer such torment alone, Princess of Orléans?”

The cursed Princess all had shunned.

“You… you are… why are you dressed like that… you are-“

“Shh…”

Their exchange couldn’t be clearly heard, for the Princess’s voice was never particularly loud to begin with, and the Countess seemed to match her register with an equally soft tone only audible to those nearby.

“Shall we dance?”

Yet the Countess’s final words rang out clearly enough for the entire hall to hear, as the Princess accepted her proffered hand.

“…”

With the hand not holding the Princess’s, the Countess gestured toward the orchestra that had fallen silent.

Without even turning her head, a simple flick of her wrist prompted them to resume playing.

…♪♪♩♬~

Slowly, one step after another, the pair began to move in rhythm with the music as all eyes focused squarely upon them.

“W-Wait, I have only learned the steps, never actually danced before…”

The Princess’s movements were understandably clumsy, having merely studied the theory without any practical experience, those lessons cut short long ago.

“Don’t be so tense. I’ll lead, so relax your body and move naturally. That is the essence of the waltz.”

However, the Countess didn’t chastise the Princess nor force her movements, gently guiding her partner with the nurturing care of a mother.

“One, two, three.”

“One, two, three…”

Following the Countess’s instruction, the Princess’s stiff form gradually began to loosen and move with increasing grace.

Still lacking refinement yet steadily recalling long untapped memories, one step then two, holding and parting hands.

The Princess steadily adapted to the Countess’s gentle lead, her unnatural motions fading as their union became as harmonious as long-practiced partners.

Whether aware of the Countess’s identity or not, all silently watched their waltz in awe.

They had been profoundly influenced by the wave of Romanticism pervading high society since the war’s end – ideals of romance and sentimentality that the current era prized above all else.

So in their Romantic eyes, how did the pair appear?

The Countess extending her hand without hesitation to the shunned, cursed Princess entombed in exile. The Princess rising to accept, slowly overcoming her fears.

It was the epitome of Romantic ideals to those enthralled by such notions.

As their waltz concluded with the music, the hall fell silent once more.

Clap, clap, clap-

That silence was broken by the Crown Prince’s applause as he watched their dance, prompting-

“…Huh…?”

A smattering of applause to erupt from all directions.

The Countess’s identity didn’t matter. For one couldn’t sully such unabashed Romanticism with tawdry presumptions of being ‘unrealistic’ or ‘contrived.’

The Princess and Countess were actors on stage, the rest mere audience. And if the audience didn’t applaud an excellent performance, how could they be called good audience members?

“What is… this…”

But that was merely an outsider’s perspective.

The actual subject, Sibylla, couldn’t comprehend why they received such applause.

No, she had already lost her senses the moment the Countess offered her hand, following her gentle lead in a half-dazed trance.

Yet even through that hazy consciousness, the Countess’s presence had seared itself deeper into Sibylla’s heart-

Like a brand upon bare skin.

* * *

“…”

After the ball’s conclusion, Sibylla somehow managed to stagger her way back to her room.

That she could even find her way back without getting lost was quite the feat, given her state – repeatedly stumbling and crashing into walls along the return path.

“…Ughh…”

Clutching her chest, Sibylla collapsed onto the bed.

“Why…”

This very ball she had wished to escape and conclude as swiftly as possible.

Yet as it neared its end, Sibylla had instead longed for it to last a little longer.

“Princess.”

A familiar voice came from beyond the door, accompanied by a knock.

“My apologies for the delay, may I enter-“

As if entranced, Sibylla rose from the bed and swiftly strode over, flinging the door wide open.

“…Princess?”

“Hah… Hah…”

There stood Dorothy, her eyes slightly wider than usual in apparent surprise. Her typical shameless, foolish maid.

“Is something the matt-“

“…Follow me.”

Seizing Dorothy’s wrist, Sibylla dragged her into the room and flung her onto the bed.

Of course, Sibylla was well aware this wasn’t through her own physical strength, for Dorothy towered over the Princess of stunted growth and was far stronger.

“Heh… Heh… Hahah…”

Yet the very moment Sibylla climbed atop Dorothy, pinning her wrists above her head, she felt an indescribable rush of elation surging through her.

What expression was she making right now? Sibylla couldn’t bring herself to wonder.

“…What was your reason for appearing at the ball?”

“…”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Sibylla asked Dorothy in a strained, hushed voice.

It should be clear to all present that any outlandish excuses were no longer possible.

“…I wanted to please the Princess.”

“Did I give you such an order?”

“No.”

Sibylla had never requested that Dorothy spare her the embarrassment of appearing at the ball.

“This was an act of my own volition.”

And yet Dorothy had done so, acting for Sibylla’s sake without being instructed.

“…Why?”

“Didn’t I already say?”

Oblivious that her unilateral actions had inflicted a deep wound in Sibylla’s heart.

“I wished to bring you joy, Princess. That’s all.”

“…”

Sibylla gazed into Dorothy’s eyes, praying her words were lies, mere lip service to satisfy her master.

But as always, Dorothy’s eyes held not a shred of falsehood, confirming the truth behind every word she spoke.

“…Hah, hahah…”

Only then did Sibylla finally understand Dorothy.

“Hahah, hahahah…”

Her endlessly foolish, simple-minded nature.

“…You’ll never comprehend the gravity of what you have uttered, for the rest of your life.”

No, perhaps all of her words and deeds until now had been thus.

“For you are one who can’t foresee the consequences of her own speech, who makes no attempt to do so.”

Sibylla’s hands undid the collar around Dorothy’s neck.

“My Hélène, my Carmen, my Esmeralda.”

A doe-eyed femme fatale who, through pure goodwill and affection, led all around her to ruin.

“If you are such a person, then I too shall no longer deny myself.”

Having recognized Dorothy’s nature, Sibylla could finally confront the unsightly desires she had desperately tried to reject and turn away from.

“This is an order, Dorothy Gale.”

“Ugh…”

Sibylla’s lips met Dorothy’s nape.

“Become mine.”

A small mark branded the neck of the servant.

Tl/note: Femme fatale – the French phrase, which means ‘deadly woman’ or ‘lethal woman’. An attractive and seductive woman, especially one who is likely to cause distress or disaster to a man(woman?) who becomes involved with her.

Chapter 31: Notre-Dame de Orléans

If this tale were a novel, Dorothy wondered what sort of scenes readers might envision from the previous night’s events.

Perhaps they would imagine the sort of lurid depictions found in erotic novels, she thought.

Even without hypothetical readers, Dorothy herself had found the situation rather unsettling, for Sibylla had never before been so brazenly forthright.

“…Mmm…”

Though it might disappoint those imaginary readers, their desired scenario didn’t unfold, as Sibylla’s psyche was far too lucid for her frail body to handle, and Dorothy wasn’t one to simply watch idly.

A brief gesture was all it took for Dorothy, intimately knowledgeable about the human body’s physiology, to render the feeble Princess unconscious.

“…Your teeth seem stronger than I expected, Princess.”

The mark Sibylla had desperately left behind didn’t fade even after dawn broke.

“Should I wear a scarf or something… but in this summer heat, that would be…”

Caressing the undoubtedly misunderstanding-inviting mark, Dorothy gazed down upon the soundly sleeping Sibylla.

“…Mhm…”

She had anticipated this to some extent. No, she had even encouraged it – for the young Princess to open her heart and rely on her emotionally.

“But this… has gone far beyond my expectations…”

However, Sibylla’s transformation had progressed much further than Dorothy had envisioned.

She had expected no more than a guardian or familial role, perhaps akin to a parent at most, beyond their master-servant dynamic.

Yet what depraved wretch harbored carnal desires toward their own parent? She had misjudged the situation’s trajectory.

“Is she too open-minded… or conversely, did her excessively sheltered upbringing leave her without any preconceptions…?”

Dorothy had thought it inconceivable for the King’s sole cherished daughter to view her in such a light, what with the obstacles of her lowly status as a same-s*x servant.

No, she hadn’t even entertained the notion, for no matter how liberal and romantic the current era, they were both women, weren’t they? Dorothy’s true gender was irrelevant since Sibylla remained unaware of it.

The reason Dorothy had acted rather boldly to gain Sibylla’s favor was precisely because she perceived them as the same s*x. If she could ingratiate herself to the one who had suffered such misfortune, it would aid her mission, or so she had thought.

“This is… not reliance, but dependence.”

Yet as she traced the marks on her neck, Dorothy realized how naive that thinking had been.

Her well-intentioned warmth and affection had not simply melted Sibylla’s frozen heart, but set it ablaze with amorous, carnal desire.

“This won’t do…”

Love in the sense of friendship or familial affection would have been fine. But the love reserved for lovers, for cherished ones, was utterly problematic.

For such love wouldn’t foster obedience, but rather an insatiable craving for even deeper affection, rendering her utterly incapable of refusal.

“I shouldn’t have trusted that chamberlain so blindly…”

As if having forgotten all her prior groundwork, Dorothy brazenly blamed the chamberlain with a grumble.

Though admittedly, the proposal to attend the ball that dealt the decisive blow had been his suggestion, so he couldn’t be entirely absolved of responsibility.

“No, even he likely didn’t foresee this outcome.”

The chamberlain too had likely not anticipated Sibylla’s feelings devolving to such an extent. As someone at the apex of conservative noble society, he probably couldn’t even conceive of Sibylla developing amorous feelings toward a lowly same-s*x servant far beneath her station.

“Haa…”

A dejected sigh echoed hollowly through the room.

Was there any way to rectify this catastrophe? If she treated Sibylla coldly from now on, could she somehow resolve the situation?

No, that wouldn’t work. Not only was it unlikely for those deep-rooted feelings to be easily discarded, but even if they were, it would merely become another problem by utterly shattering what favor she had left with Sibylla.

“…I must seek out the witch.”

Thus, Dorothy decided to consult the witch and glean the riddle’s answer to break the curse.

If the curse was lifted, she would no longer need to remain by Sibylla’s side, receiving her payment while freeing herself from Sibylla’s fixation. It’s the best possible outcome.

“Fairy tales and nonsense…?”

But just as Dorothy steeled her resolve to depart, she suddenly felt an inexplicable pressure on her right wrist.

“…Princess…?”

“…”

Too afraid to face the source of that constricting force, Dorothy’s neck creaked rigidly like an old wooden doll as she turned to find Sibylla’s hand firmly grasping her wrist.

“Just whom were you intending to seek out?”

“Th-That is…”

Before Sibylla’s unusually intense gaze, Dorothy could only shrink meekly.

“Dorothy.”

“…Yes, Princess.”

Rising from the bed, Sibylla stared at the mark she had left on Dorothy’s exposed nape, her collar still undone.

“You spoke of seeking the witch. Why is that?”

“With just the hints I received previously, deciphering the answer remains difficult, so I wished to extract more concrete hints or the answer itself…”

To Sibylla’s query, Dorothy responded partially truthfully while concealing her true intentions, for breaking the curse had been Sibylla’s order which she was duty-bound to obey as her maid.

“So Princess…”

“I forbid it.”

However, Dorothy’s excuses didn’t sway her.

“…What?”

“I said I forbid it. I have no intention of sending you to the witch.”

More firmly than ever before, Sibylla outright rejected Dorothy’s request without even hearing her out.

“Don’t leave my side again like before. That is an order.”

“…”

Just what should she do, how could she overcome this predicament?

No matter how much she agonized, no solution presented itself, for the root cause of Sibylla’s fixation on Dorothy was ultimately Dorothy’s own doing.

“…As you command…”

She hadn’t foreseen matters escalating to this extent.

Silently lamenting the consequences of her complacency, Dorothy tightly shut her eyes.

* * *

The carriage bound for the High Tower had departed in the early hours before dawn.

The royals wished for Sibylla’s swift return to her place of exile, and Sibylla herself no longer desired to remain in Hyperion surrounded by fearful, disdainful gazes.

While the previous night’s ball had rendered public sentiment toward Sibylla relatively amicable, even sympathetic, it meant little to her.

“Princess, could you please release me now…”

“No.”

“No, that is… haah…”

Need the chamberlain’s expression upon witnessing Dorothy being firmly grasped and dragged about by Sibylla from the crack of dawn be described?

Suffice to say it was quite an astounding sight, one that warranted such a reaction.

“I wish we could depart Hyperion’s outskirts swiftly. The city air is unbearably foul.”

“Well, there are no factories near the High Tower, so…”

Dorothy had started to provide a rational explanation before meeting Sibylla’s gaze and immediately falling silent, realizing her words’ implication.

Beyond merely disliking human interaction, Sibylla had fallen into outright misanthropy and distrust of humanity itself. The very presence of people in an unpleasant locale was an immense source of stress.

“…”

This felt wrong, like she shouldn’t be returning to the High Tower – Dorothy’s intuition rang alarm bells.

That same intuition which had warned her master like an animal sensing danger was incessantly tolling within her mind, signaling the impending loss of something precious.

“…”

Dorothy had an inkling of just what that precious thing might be, yet fervently prayed she was mistaken.

Not her life, but something just as precious – her masculinity, her chastity.

To put it rather bluntly, her instincts were warning that she might be violated.

“…That’s a bit…”

Of course, the actual likelihood of such an occurrence was virtually nil, for Dorothy surpassed Sibylla in every physical aspect – strength, height, stamina.

Yet she could hardly respond with brute defiance against her master, the Princess she was duty-bound to serve, frail form notwithstanding.

“Haah…”

Not that she had any intention of doing so to begin with, but if it came to that, she would prefer to take the initiative after breaking the curse first.

For that was likely the only way she could preserve her innate gender identity.

…Then again, was it not absurd to fret over her masculinity after brazenly renouncing it for mere money in the first place?

“…?”

Lost in needless contemplation, Dorothy belatedly noticed the carriage’s speed gradually decreasing until it came to a complete halt.

“…Coachman, is something amiss?”

Sensing something awry, Dorothy opened the door and headed toward the coachman’s seat.

“Coachman? Co- “

But the sight that met her eyes instantly rendered her speechless.

The coachman, perfectly fine until they had departed Hyperion’s vicinity, now hung limply with blood gushing from his chest.

And in that split second her eyes were drawn to the coachman’s corpse, that infinitesimal instant-

“…!?”

The assassin didn’t miss their chance.

And-

Shunk.

“…Ah-“

The source staining the white apron crimson.

That source, the dagger plunged into her abdomen. Dorothy gazed into the assassin’s eyes as she gripped it.

Eyes indelibly etched into her memory, those soulless golden orbs devoid of any emotion.

“Slave… Prince…”

The moment their bitter relationship reunited once more.

Chapter 32: The Slave Prince

It was during the time before Dorothy went by that name, when he eked out a wretched existence as a nameless drifter and blind errand boy.

A time of earning money only to fritter it away on alcohol, tobacco, and gambling in a downward spiral toward ruination.

Having received a request from the witch to rescue the prime minister’s daughter and accepted it, he had headed to Königsberg, only to immediately encounter obstacles as he could find no leads on who had kidnapped the prime minister’s daughter.

With so many brazen organizations openly advertising their operations in that unsavory city, locating the prime minister’s daughter proved immensely difficult. The sheer number of such overt organizations implied even more rats lurking in the shadows without signboards.

Thus, after much deliberation, he decided to ransack anything that seemed suspicious one by one. If he thoroughly turned over every stone, he was bound to stumble upon a lead eventually.

That was the reason half of Königsberg had been reduced to a field of rubble.

The Slave Prince was the one he had clashed with after finally discovering the prime minister’s daughter’s whereabouts amidst that mayhem – his ultimate adversary.

A conspicuous man with red hair and eyes that seemed to glow like a wolf’s in the darkness.

While roaming around and turning the riffraff of Königsberg into silent corpses at every turn, the Slave Prince was the only opponent who fought on par with him.

“Back then… I was certain you would perish soon after…”

Dorothy recalled the sensation of ripping out the Slave Prince’s throat.

“Yet you managed to survive… though you seem to have changed somewhat…”

However, the Slave Prince had indeed lived and now appeared before her, inexplicably as a woman.

Yet that transformation didn’t prevent Dorothy from recognizing him, for while his form had changed, those soulless eyes remained unaltered. (tl/n: In the original Korean text, the pronouns used to refer to Slave Prince are masculine, so I think I will do so too not to get confused, because the character still uses a ‘male’ name as well as a nickname)

“…?”

Yet the Slave Prince seemed unable to recognize Dorothy, regarding the impaled maid with a puzzled expression.

“Well… it doesn’t matter… Ugh..!!”

In that moment, Dorothy shoved the Slave Prince back and kicked him away to create distance between them.

“Haa… Haa… Damn… nuisance… Ugh..!!”

Ripping out the dagger buried in her abdomen, she clutched her wound as she glared at her long-unseen nemesis.

“So the one you’re after… is the Princess, isn’t it?”

“…”

There was no response, yet Dorothy was certain – she had personally slain the assassins who had previously attempted the Princess’s life and infiltrated the High Tower.

It was hardly unusual for the client to dispatch an even more formidable assassin after an initial failure. The Slave Prince she knew undoubtedly possessed skills surpassing ordinary assassins.

“…Haah…”

Yet she couldn’t retreat, for her mission was to protect the Princess.

Against an enemy who had come to kill the Princess, she couldn’t yield a single step. That was the contract, the promise she had made.

Producing a white glove from her pocket and slipping it on, Dorothy steadied her breathing.

Had this been her past self, she might have succumbed to exsanguination. But now-

…It was mere conjecture, but she had nothing else to believe in.

“Princess, can you hear me?”

“What is happening out there?”

Releasing the wire, Dorothy met the Slave Prince’s gaze with renewed composure.

“Please remain crouched down as much as possible. That should keep you relatively safe.”

The situation was undoubtedly unfavorable – she had allowed the ambush and had someone to protect.

Yet victory wasn’t impossible, for if this was indeed the Slave Prince she knew, then he was at least an opponent she had defeated once before.

“While I am unaccustomed to fighting while guarding another…”

Well, what choice did she have? She had to do what must be done.

* * *

With wires intricately strung like a spider’s web and the maid nimbly perched atop them, the Slave Prince – Ruslan – finally recognized his opponent’s identity.

“Arachne.”

“It seems you’ve realized at last.”

The spider from Orléans who had once inflicted defeat upon him.

“You’ve become a woman.”

“We’ve both changed, have we not?”

The pair who had once fought a life-or-death battle in Königsberg now faced each other again amidst the Orléans forests, their appearances transformed.

“…”

Witnessing his altered form, Ruslan briefly pondered if it was the witch’s doing.

Such a feat would certainly be well within that witch’s capabilities, regardless of the underlying principles.

But that thought didn’t linger, for whether her outward form had changed or not, his objective remained the same.

“…”

Gripping the dagger that had emerged from his fluttering sleeves, Ruslan gazed up at Dorothy perched spider-like upon the wires-

The spider atop her web, and the centipede poised to pounce.

Fwish-

The first to move was the spider, Dorothy’s wires unfurling to ensnare her enemy.

Yet Ruslan didn’t become mincemeat, leaping straight up to easily evade the tightening wires that could only shred the hapless tree behind him instead.

Not wasting that opening, Ruslan flung the dagger in his grasp toward Dorothy.

Clang!! The sharp clang of clashing metal as the deflected dagger ricocheted away. But Ruslan had already regained his stance, charging Dorothy as he snatched the airborne dagger to swing it once more.

Grating screeches assaulting their ears, Ruslan’s slashing dagger forcing Dorothy to retreat as her wires constricted his breathing, only for Ruslan to fall back as Dorothy pressed forward when he evaded.

“?”

To Ruslan, who had prior experience battling Dorothy, her actions seemed highly peculiar.

In the past, she had rarely taken the offensive, preferring to maintain an optimal distance by freely manipulating her wires – especially advantageous against foes wielding short-ranged weapons like daggers.

Yet now she recklessly advanced despite the risks, failing to maintain the range most favorable to herself.

But why had she abandoned her previous methods for this less efficient approach?

“…”

It didn’t take long for Ruslan to discern the reason.

And that single reason proved the decisive factor in their battle.

* * *

Unease.

Despite Ruslan’s increasingly fierce onslaught compared to their initial clash, Dorothy felt an inexplicable sense of disquiet.

While Ruslan’s fighting style was indeed inherently relentless and dogged like a ferocious beast unconstrained by any particular discipline, he didn’t completely disregard being injured.

Rather, Ruslan was one of the most calculated fighters, meticulously weighing potential gains and losses to devise the most advantageous strategy.

Yet the current Ruslan was different, recklessly charging like a rabid beast with utter disregard for his own well-being.

Though she had narrowly avoided any immediately lethal wounds, Dorothy was well aware that one could perish from non-fatal injuries alone.

Thus, she couldn’t comprehend her bloodied, injury-riddled opponent who fought on undeterred despite copiously bleeding from countless wounds. Even if he held his own life cheap, what could drive him to such extremes?

Then suddenly, Ruslan abruptly froze.

“…?”

Had he finally reached his limit? No, that couldn’t be it.

The Ruslan Dorothy recalled possessed such indomitable tenacity that he would unhesitatingly press the attack even with a severed limb. For such a man to so abruptly cease moving?

Suspecting some ulterior intent, Dorothy cautiously trained her wires on Ruslan, prepared to reduce him to shredded flesh the moment he charged.

“…”

Yet contrary to Dorothy’s readiness, after that brief pause Ruslan unexpectedly turned and fled.

“…Huh?”

Stunned by that unforeseen conduct shattering her preconceptions of the Slave Prince, her thoughts ground to a halt for a moment.

“…!!!!!”

But she soon realized Ruslan’s initial target had never been her to begin with-

Ruslan’s true objective, the one he was after, was Princess Sibylla.

Dorothy’s master, the one she had vowed to protect.

Having been forced back by Ruslan’s relentless assault, Dorothy had strayed too far from the carriage Sibylla was in.

In other words, Sibylla within that carriage was now completely defenseless and exposed.

“No way…!!”

Her hastily flung wires fell short as Dorothy gave chase after Ruslan, running toward the carriage.

She couldn’t permit Ruslan to approach, couldn’t allow him to turn his blade on Sibylla.

Having utterly lost her composure, Dorothy poured all her strength into her legs, praying she could close the distance, praying she could catch up.

“St-“

Yet in that moment:

“-op…?”

Ruslan stepped onto the wires Dorothy had laid, using the recoil to fling himself straight at her.

From the start, Ruslan’s intention had been to goad Dorothy into recklessly charging while abandoning her calm.

But by the time Dorothy realized it, Ruslan’s blade was already at her throat.

“Kughh-“

A strangled gasp as the dagger pierced through Dorothy’s neck.

Chapter 33: To Have Aged Means To Have Survived

Blind rage robs one of their sight, while haste robs one of reason.

Thus, Dorothy’s defeat at Ruslan’s hands could be seen as inevitable.

“…”

The telltale wheezing sound when one’s throat or lungs are pierced.

Hearing that chilling noise, meeting her bulging eyes, Ruslan withdrew the dagger embedded in Dorothy’s neck.

“Kugh… ghh…”

The maid’s body crumpled, spraying blood into the air as she collapsed.

While he had grazed past her carotid artery, it could hardly be called a non-fatal wound. Left unattended, she would soon lose consciousness and die.

“…”

Ruslan didn’t bother confirming the kill. Dorothy wasn’t his true target.

Thus, rather than directly silencing her, he simply left her to bleed out – just as he himself had once experienced at her hands in the past.

Not out of any particular desire for vengeance or resentment, but simply returning what he had received, as he had been taught.

Turning his back on the fallen Dorothy, Ruslan approached the carriage.

His mission from the start had been singular – to kill Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans of the Orléans Kingdom.

What value could the life of a mere cursed Princess exiled to the High Tower possibly hold that he would target her neck? It mattered not to Ruslan, held no meaning for him.

There must have been a reason to kill her, so he would kill – for a dog simply bites when its master commands. What cause had he to question further?

Tales of some curse or other from that remote, fallen border royalty were unknown to him. Even if he knew, it would change nothing.

Tak, tak-

The reaper approached his sacrificial lamb.

Gripping the dagger stained with Dorothy’s blood, he moved to claim his target’s breath.

Ching!!

Once more, that piercing screech echoed through the woods – the sound of Dorothy’s wires clashing against Ruslan’s dagger.

“…”

Ruslan turned to regard Dorothy’s eyes, still defiant despite her unfinished death throes as she manipulated the wires in a futile attempt to ensnare him. Those blood-red eyes that hadn’t yet lost their spark.

No matter how desperately she struggled, the inevitability of her demise remained unchanged.

That was a question directed at himself as well, as his steps carried him back toward the fallen Dorothy rather than his actual target.

Why did the Slave Prince bother approaching this paltry nuisance who could offer no meaningful resistance, whose feeble thrashing amounted to nothing?

Ruslan couldn’t answer that question – the reason his feet had turned away from his objective, the reason he approached the downed Dorothy.

Was there any purpose in wasting time with such inefficient movements? Even as he crouched beside Dorothy, raising his dagger skyward, Ruslan didn’t know the answer.

“Kghh-“

He simply stabbed.

“Kghh, ughh, gkkhh, aghh-“

Surrendering to his impulses, mindlessly thrusting, slashing, thrusting again as he butchered Dorothy’s body relentlessly.

Until her death rattles ceased, until her twitching stilled, until the crimson light faded from her eyes – Ruslan showed her no mercy.

“…?”

Like a child digging in the dirt, lost in that singular act, Ruslan’s trance was broken by the chill impact against his head.

Raising his gaze in response, dark storm clouds had gathered as raindrops began pattering down to greet him.

Only then did Ruslan rise, leaving behind Dorothy’s further mutilated remains.

Now that he thought about it, it was summer.

As the downpour intensified into a thunderous deluge, Ruslan turned his head.

The one who had witnessed every moment of Dorothy’s grisly execution from start to finish-

“Dorothy…?”

The one who had witnessed every moment of Dorothy’s grisly execution from start to finish-

“No way…”

The cursed Princess’s gaze, full of grief and despair that couldn’t be concealed even by the mask.

* * *

What kind of person was Dorothy to Sibylla?

It would be difficult to define her with simply any word or any specific term. Sibylla’s feelings toward the single human being named Dorothy Gale were more complex than any difficult problem and more severe than any deadly poison.

A person she believed in yet couldn’t fully trust, someone she wanted to have but hesitated due to her own shortcomings.

At the very least, she had managed to fasten the first button somehow, but Sibylla still couldn’t completely escape from that agony. Because she wasn’t an honest person.

However, if there was one thing certain amidst those complicated feelings, it was her belief in Dorothy’s strength.

A strength that could instantly solve any hardship, like a Prince or Hero from a fairy tale.

Watching the assassin’s head, who had tried to kill her, get sliced off right before her eyes, Sibylla was convinced. Dorothy, this woman, was strong.

In reality, Dorothy was indeed strong. More than anyone Sibylla had ever seen. Perhaps except for the chamberlain, there was no one comparable.

That’s why Sibylla believed in Dorothy’s strength. She believed and relied on it.

Some might call it blind faith or fanaticism. But if she didn’t do so, she felt like she would crumble and collapse, unable to endure the situation where her life was threatened.

And such Dorothy had fallen. In a miserable state.

Dorothy, who had always extended her hand to her like a Prince without losing her composure, had been brutally slaughtered.

“…No.”

While trying to protect Sibylla, her master.

“There’s no way… Dorothy would lose…”

“Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans.”

Despite the assassin who had slaughtered Dorothy approaching with heavy steps, Sibylla couldn’t run away. Because fear had tied her ankles. Fear of death. Fear of the assassin.

“Doro… thy..”

Yet her greatest terror was the reality of Dorothy’s absence from her side.

Dorothy had been the one who allowed Sibylla to take even a single step into that world brimming with vibrant hues.

If Dorothy was gone, if she was abandoned once more to that ashen, monochrome world-

“…Then I’d rather.”

Then death would be preferable.

She had abandoned any thought of escape. No, she had never intended to flee in the first place.

For she didn’t wish to return to that dim, dreary world.

Then she would follow you instead.

“…”

Awaiting the approaching death, Sibylla closed her eyes.

“…?”

Yet the agony she had braced for, the demise she awaited, didn’t arrive.

“How dare you… presume to…”

“…!!”

For the arm Ruslan had raised to impale her with his dagger began twisting at an unnatural angle.

“Touch… my master…”

Wires ensnared and contorted his arm, drawing streams of blood from the unnaturally bent limb.

“…I had expected you would soon die.”

“I don’t think it’s time for demise yet.”

The owner of those wires was, of course, Dorothy – an impossibility in the eyes of Ruslan who had brutalized her himself, and Sibylla who had witnessed it.

“How are you standing?”

Dorothy was indeed standing, though her precarious stance seemed on the verge of collapse. Yet she did stand, on her own two feet.

The injuries Ruslan had inflicted should have killed her instantly from shock or blood loss before she could even rise. Yet she had risen.

“Who knows…”

Perhaps the heavens deemed it too soon for her demise.

Dorothy’s condition was so dire, even she couldn’t fathom how she remained upright.

“Maybe it’s the will of God… for me to complete my duty first.”

Yet despite her calm demeanor, somehow managing to move amidst the agony, Dorothy held Ruslan in her grasp.

“So… Ugh…”

Eventually succumbing to the pain, she sank to her knees – yet didn’t relinquish her hold.

“…It doesn’t matter. I have one arm remaining.”

“Yes, as a human you were born with two… I lack the strength to stop you, but…”

Watching Ruslan approach with a dagger gripped in his left hand, Dorothy inwardly prayed.

That the owner of those vibrations transmitted through the earth to her ears would be a reliable ally.

After collapsing from Ruslan’s assault, instinctively pressing her ear to the ground, Dorothy had sensed a familiar tremor-

The urgent yet rhythmic cadence akin to a horse’s hooves at full gallop.

“…How about over here?”

And immediately after crippling Ruslan’s arm with her wires, Dorothy realized those were indeed the sounds of hoofbeats, their source having approached right behind Ruslan’s back.

The whinnying of a horse. The sound of someone dismounting. Footsteps drawing nearer through the rain-soaked mud.

So Dorothy prayed – please let those footsteps belong to an ally, let her bluff become reality.

“…”

Yet Ruslan showed no reaction despite the newcomer’s arrival, as if they were allies.

No, the Slave Prince had simply always been that way.

Oh please no, please let it not be so, please –

“…?”

Whether her prayer was answered or not, Dorothy felt a weight settle upon her shoulders, something covering her body.

“…A… coat…?”

Lowering her gaze revealed it to be a coat – a brown coat.

“You may rest for now, Miss Gale.”

“…Ah…”

Only after hearing the coat’s owner’s voice did Dorothy feel the tension leave her body in relief.

Ah, a reliable person has come.

“Leave the rest… to this old man.”

The one who had arrived amidst the downpour was no saint, hero, monarch or knight-

Merely an aged chamberlain who had long served a single master and their family.

“…You have prevailed, Chamberlain.”

With those final words as she watched the chamberlain roll up his sleeves and march forward…

Dorothy’s vision flickered out.

Chapter 34: Don Quijote

There are times in life when an ominous premonition strikes without any forewarning. An uncanny feeling akin to a divine revelation, like a lightning bolt sending a chill down your spine.

Had this been any ordinary day, the chamberlain wouldn’t have been swayed by such baseless intuition, for relying on gut feelings is inherently irrational.

Yet this time felt different. If he ignored the warning this time, he sensed something untoward would occur.

Thus, by the time the chamberlain came to his senses, he had already mounted a horse in hot pursuit of the carriage Sibylla and Dorothy had departed on.

“You have endured much, Miss Gale.”

And now, the chamberlain was grateful to his past self for heeding that premonition.

“Then… may I ask your name, young lady?”

“…”

Alternating his gaze between this new obstacle and his shattered arm, Ruslan was deep in thought.

Did he stand a chance of victory against this new foe?

Ruslan’s condition was dire – covered in numerous self-inflicted wounds from his relentless assault on Dorothy, his right arm utterly mangled beyond use.

Could he prevail in this compromised state with one arm incapacitated against this man?

If there was any favorable factor for Ruslan, it was that the man appeared quite elderly.

With his stark white hair, wrinkles, and hunched posture, he was undoubtedly an old man – though he had clearly maintained his physique, musculature still visible.

Moreover, he was unarmed and dressed in a typical suit, hardly garb suited for combat. Thus, Ruslan judged he had a reasonable chance.

Above all, his true target wasn’t Dorothy or this old man, but the Princess under his control.

“…”

Hence, Ruslan unhesitatingly raised his reverse-gripped dagger to impale the kneeling Sibylla.

“…?”

Yet in the mere blink of an eye before he could strike, the chamberlain somehow closed the vast distance between them in an astounding burst of speed.

What Ruslan had failed to account for was that the chamberlain hailed from the Fontaine lineage.

A chamberlain’s duties weren’t limited to merely attending to the King, but also their protection and managing the royal household – requiring knowledge, wisdom, substantial physical prowess, and martial ability.

Thus, the Fontaine family had long pursued an aesthetic diverging from other central nobles, venerating robust and heroic physiques.

And Chamberlain Matthieu de Fontaine stood out even among his illustrious lineage, having won equestrian tournaments against the finest knights well into his sixties through sheer prowess.

Admiring his valiant vigor unfitting his age alongside the power to back it up, the people of Orléans had affectionately dubbed the chamberlain:

Don Quixote.

Woosh- The intense windblast belatedly followed in the chamberlain’s wake.

Only then did Ruslan attempt to withdraw, realizing he should retreat.

Yet in that infinitesimal moment before his feet could leave the ground, the chamberlain’s fist had already reached Ruslan’s face. And-

Kabooom!!!!

The deafening thunderclap impact slammed squarely into Ruslan.

“…I’m glad I have arrived just in time, Princess.”

After watching the direction Ruslan had been sent hurtling for a moment, the chamberlain turned to address the kneeling, mud-caked Sibylla.

“Why does one born of the solar lineage wallow in such filth? Rise at once-“

“You said… you weren’t too late?”

And the chamberlain could only be taken aback by Sibylla’s response, for it wasn’t her usual emotionless, hollow tone, but one thick with visceral feeling.

Needless to say, it wasn’t positive sentiment. Not in the slightest.

“…So… it may seem that way to you. Anyway, I’m not dead.”

The voice of a woman who had witnessed her beloved’s demise before her very eyes.

Yet the chamberlain couldn’t claim ignorance of Sibylla’s heart, for he was aware of her ardent feelings toward her maid, Dorothy Gale.

While he didn’t consider it romantic love, he had discerned that Dorothy was the most precious person to Sibylla. Thus, instead of trying to raise Sibylla, the chamberlain moved to attend to Dorothy’s bloodied body, her breath already stilled.

“…Had you not been here, the Princess would have lost her life to the assassin.”

Dorothy’s mutilated state was utterly gruesome, lying in a pool of her own blood. That she had retained consciousness until the very end was astounding.

“I… have no words. I should have… been more vigilant…”

Overcome with dejection before Dorothy’s form, the chamberlain could only repeatedly apologize, lamenting how he had once rejected her as a murderer.

“I don’t know if Miss Gale had any family, but… if she did, I shall return her body to them without fail. If she had none, then I alone shall see to her funeral rites…”

Finishing his apologies, the chamberlain reached out to carry Dorothy’s corpse, for leaving the maid who had sacrificed her life protecting the Princess lying in the mud would be unpardonable.

“…?”

But the moment he cradled her body, the chamberlain saw.

“…This is…”

And realized.

“…Princess, quickly board the carriage.”

“…Yes, I must return. To the High Tower…”

“No, we won’t be going to the High Tower.”

Striding back to Sibylla, the chamberlain took her hand and firmly raised her to her feet without hesitation.

“…Chamberlain…?”

“There is no time. Get in the carriage right away. Miss Gale is-“

Miss Gale is not dead.

* * *

…Truly, it was a dream.

Only after pinching his own cheek did the boy realize he had been aimlessly adrift within a dream.

A sensation akin to drifting across a vast ocean without even a ramshackle raft, let alone a proper vessel to cling to.

He had once enjoyed dreams as a child, for their unpredictable tales unfolding within the realm of imagination had been surreal, hence all the more enthralling.

But now, the present boy didn’t enjoy dreams, for they no longer invited him into that fantastical paradise of old.

Instead, as if to rebuke or mock him, dreams merely dredged up memories of the past, unfolding unpleasant tales before his eyes.

-You, what’s your name?

-Ah, it’s you again.

Perhaps ‘again’ was inaccurate, for this girl always appeared in the boy’s dreams.

-A name… I don’t have one.

The boy answered the girl’s query in a listless tone, for few slum children were born with names. Having no name was hardly unusual.

-Same here, I don’t have one either.

And the girl too hailed from the slums.

-Then how about we give each other names?

-…Names?

And on that day, the boy received a name.

…Idiots.

Watching those panoramic flashes of memory, the boy offered his assessment.

What was the point of putting so much thought into coming up with such names, foolish children who knew nothing?

-Look, ■■■, a new storybook!

He had enjoyed his time with the girl.

-…But there’s not a single intact page?

-Huh? What? Whaaaat?

The girl had been foolish and mischievous.

-It’s okay! We can fill in the blank pages ourselves and make our own story!

Ceaselessly optimistic, never losing her cheerful demeanor.

-■■■ you’re good at sewing, huh?

-…Just a hobby. Nothing special.

-Nothing special? It’s amazing!

No matter what the boy did, she would beam and lavish praise without reservation.

-Okay, I’ll be the Prince, and ■■■ can be the Princess!

-..Why am I the Princess? I’m a boy. You’re the girl here.

-Well Princes shouldn’t be gloomy like ■■■.

Unabashedly tomboyish like any boy her age.

-So don’t worry no matter what! This Prince will take care of everything!

Always taking the lead with an outstretched hand, utterly self-assured.

…The boy had liked that girl.

His childish heart couldn’t discern if it was romantic or platonic affection, but.

The boy liked the girl. The girl with those beautiful eyes that shone more brilliantly than any jewel.

-…Sorry, ■■■. I shouldn’t have believed in fairy tales, I guess.

For that light wasn’t eternal, making it all the more-

…Depressing.

Dejecting, unpleasant memories tormented the boy as always.

The crushing weight of regret and guilt, as if he might burst apart.

-You’re in quite the pathetic state. A mere sewer rat despite your larger size.

It was at that lowest point the boy encountered her.

-If you have nowhere else to go, why not stay at this old witch’s home for a spell? I was feeling rather lonely.

Family.

“…Mother.”

“Yes, your real mother.”

And by the awakened boy’s bedside:

“Did you sleep well, my son?”

The witch gazed down at him with an unusually calm expression, offering her lap as a pillow.

Chapter 35: Bittersweet

“…”

Was this a workshop?

That was Dorothy’s initial thought, for how else would this indolent witch be before her eyes?

However, she soon realized this wasn’t the witch’s underground workshop, lacking the musty smell and pungent aromas of various potions and concoctions.

There was a place to lie down, and more importantly, the surroundings were bright. It couldn’t be underground to be so well-lit.

“…Long time… no see… uh, witch?”

“Not going to call me mother? I had rather enjoyed the chills it sent down my spine whenever you did, after so long.”

“I won’t call you that…”

The witch had reverted to her usual ominous demeanor, playfully twirling Dorothy’s hair with her fingers.

“Why, are you embarrassed? When you were little, you would chirp ‘Mama, Mama’ like a fledgling bird no matter how often I told you not to.”

“That was ages ago…”

For better or worse, the long-acquainted pair’s relationship wasn’t unpleasant, despite the apparent dislike. At the very least to Dorothy, the witch was one of the few she could freely banter with.

“Where is this…”

“The royal palace. As unsavory as this foul place is, I have come because someone foolishly flaunted their body before inviting grievous harm.”

To the witch, Dorothy was like a child she had partly raised, with all the mixed feelings that entailed – hoping to never see her again one moment, yet unable to feel completely at ease upon hearing she was injured.

“How did you end up here?”

“Well…”

* * *

The room Dorothy had been carried to in her critical state was right next to Princess Sibylla’s guest chambers within the palace.

“So… she truly didn’t die? Is Dorothy… alive?”

“Yes, her life is not in danger, though an extended convalescence will be required. With around two weeks of rest, she should be able to move about unhindered.”

Only after the physician’s explanation did Sibylla sigh in relief, plopping down on the bare floor.

Having ridden the chamberlain’s carriage at top speed back to Hyperion, Sibylla had been utterly petrified seeing Dorothy’s bloodied, seemingly dying form, unable to even touch her for fear of worsening her condition. Was there truly nothing she could do to aid Dorothy?

Lamenting her own powerless ineptitude, Sibylla pounded her chest with her fists. Would it not be better to perish than live like this?

Yet lacking even the courage to end her own life, all the disgraced child could do was sob soundlessly.

Thus, it was only natural for the tension to leave Sibylla’s body the moment she learned Dorothy’s life was no longer in danger, after berating and blaming herself so thoroughly.

Supporting the exhausted Sibylla onto a sofa, the chamberlain regarded the physician gravely.

“…Are you absolutely certain? Just moments ago, she appeared on the verge of death.”

They had hurriedly returned to the capital harboring mere hopes of her survival, not any certainty she would live.

She could still perish – or rather, death had seemed the likelier outcome, which was why they had rushed the carriage at maximum speed to increase her chances however slightly.

“To be honest… I had initially deemed her prospects nonexistent. She had lost far too much blood, and even if she somehow survived, lasting aftereffects seemed inevitable.”

Even to the chamberlain’s relatively untrained eye, her condition had appeared dire. One could only imagine the physician’s assessment upon first seeing the maid’s mangled state lying in that bed.

Indeed, the physician had judged her unsalvageable in that initial moment.

“But… her condition somehow improved on its own. Despite my treatment only stemming the bleeding and applying medication, her severed tendons gradually reconnected, her internal injuries steadily healing…”

Yet Dorothy’s condition had slowly yet undeniably improved, color returning to her once pallid lips and complexion.

“I speak outrageously, but her recovery rate has far surpassed the bounds of humanity. In decades spent saving lives, I have never witnessed anything like this.”

It wasn’t merely astonishing, but utterly astounding. Dorothy’s ability to heal.

Thus, despite confirming the patient’s survival, the physician couldn’t help but regard her gravely, rendered speechless by a phenomenon defying all established medical knowledge.

“This has already exceeded the purview of medicine – or at the very least, my own capabilities. While I don’t foresee any further issues based on my assessment, I can’t state so with certainty. Thus, I would recommend summoning someone more intimately acquainted with this maid.”

“Someone acquainted with Miss Gale…?”

Dorothy Gale, Arachne – did such a person even exist?

The chamberlain knew of none, for the slums too were like murky waters concealing their depths from view.

“…I know of one.”

“…Princess?”

Yet unlike the chamberlain, Sibylla did know of one person.

An eccentric old witch, at once youthful yet ancient, seemingly kindhearted yet wicked – an enigma defying simple categorization.

* * *

“So that is why I was summoned. The muscular old chamberlain sent someone.”

“…I’m sorry. For troubling you unnecessarily…”

Obediently receiving the witch’s ministrations, Dorothy apologized for the trouble she had gone through to reach the palace.

“Fool, just focus on recovering. Not that you could readily die even if you wished, with the body you now possess.”

“Speaking of which… what did you do to my body…?”

Ever since sustaining grave injuries protecting Sibylla from the quartet of assassins before her encounter with the Slave Prince, Dorothy had harbored doubts.

“Wounds that shouldn’t have healed so swiftly were completely mended within a few days…”

Before ingesting the potion that had turned her female, Dorothy had never exhibited such remarkable recovery. Her former self – Arachne – had merely been an ordinary human, after all.

“I don’t know what specific injuries you refer to, but it is true I added special ingredients to the potion that made your life’s thread even more tenacious.”

To Dorothy’s query, the witch explained in a relatively amicable tone compared to her usual manner:

“You would know the nature of fairy tales, with that vacant space between your ears.”

“…Ah, it has been too long since I was on the receiving end of such scathing barbs. How nostalgic…”

Compared to usual, at least.

“It seems your wits have yet to fully return. In any case, are you not familiar with those fabled tales chronicling a protagonist’s life?”

Stories of girls trapped in wondrous realms, or physicians forced to journey between lands of miniatures and giants.

“A common trait of such fairy tale protagonists is that they rarely perish, no matter their ordeals.”

Not all fairy tale heroes avoid death, but those in novelistic chronicles or life story formats typically survive until the very end, no matter the peril.

Losing limbs is but a minor inconvenience, easily remedied by turning a page to find them whole and hale once more. Fanciful tales only possible within fairy tale logic.

“Consider yourself akin to such protagonists. In other words, you have become the story’s lead.”

“The lead…”

Not to the supernatural extent of immediately regenerating severed limbs like a lizard’s tail, but rendering you effectively unkillable barring the most extreme circumstances.

“That doesn’t mean recklessly relying on your enhanced durability, however. You can still perish if that head of yours departs your shoulders.”

“Understood.”

“Tsk, you speak well while letting it go in one ear and out the other.”

Paying the witch’s admonishments little heed, Dorothy obediently presented her head to receive the witch’s ministrations.

“The Princess…”

“Is in the adjacent room. Why, did you wish to see her?”

“No, it’s just… presenting myself in this state feels improper.”

It was comfortable – this indifferent touch she hadn’t felt in so long.

Not that she sensed any particular affection, yet it was enough for Dorothy.

“There, child.”

Cradled in the witch’s ambiguous embrace, wavering between mischief and tenderness.

“You have earned the right to rest.”

Dorothy began drifting into a deep, dreamless slumber once more.

* * *

Meanwhile, at a villa in Hyperion’s outskirts.

“Is your arm okay, Prince?”

A middle-aged nobleman of dignified countenance inquired of the villa’s master gazing out the window.

“As you can see, not well. The physician said it will be some time before I can properly move it again.”

After the assassination attempt, Prince Louis had been confined to this villa under the pretext of convalescence.

“While avoiding those insufferable foreign guests is a relief… this means I can’t play with the children for the foreseeable future.”

The price of escaping an unpleasant duty was losing an enjoyable one – he would even have to make do as a one-armed man for a while.

Was it not too lopsided an exchange? The Prince’s hollow laughter belied his mirthless eyes.

“…Perhaps this is an opportunity to sever ties with those uncouth riff-raff?”

Perceiving the Prince’s displeasure, the nobleman suddenly recalled the impoverished orphans who would brazenly visit this very villa with the Prince’s tacit permission, mocking him and absconding with pastries and toys.

“The sheer audacity of those baseborn pauper brats to mock a Prince of the country is unforgivable, they deserve to lose their heads on the spot for such-“

“Viscount Lusignan.”

What the nobleman had intended as well-meaning advice was met with an icy rebuke:

“If you utter such drivel again in my presence, you had best be prepared to never set foot in Hyperion for the rest of your days.”

“…Forgive my insolence, Your Highness.”

Yet despite the curt reprimand.

“…By the way, are my brother and Sibylla unharmed?”

“Yes, though an assassin did target Princess Sibylla along the way, the chamberlain and her personal maid ensured her safety.”

“I see… That is good to hear…”

The Viscount’s report brought a wistful smile to the Prince’s face.

“…It wasn’t enough.”

The Viscount couldn’t discern who that ‘not enough’ was directed toward 

The chamberlain’s efforts? The grievously injured maid? The Princess whose life was threatened? Or perhaps…

“To have sacrificed even my arm.”

The Prince himself?

Chapter 36: The Second Hint

The Heroes’ Festival, which should have been grander than ever as it is only held once a decade, ended up being hastily concluded in an understated manner due to the compounding incidents and accidents.

And the arduous task of addressing the aftermath fell squarely on the royal family. More specifically, the chamberlain duty-bound to manage all matters pertaining to the royal household.

“You’ve worked hard, Chamberlain.”

“…Ah, Your Highness the Crown Prince.”

Exhausted from consecutive all-nighters and overwork, the chamberlain attempted to rise upon the Crown Prince’s arrival, only to sink back down.

“…How unsightly. For Orléans’s very chamberlain to present such a feeble appearance.”

“No, it is not you who are feeble. Even your stalwart physique can’t endure relentless toil without rest, day and night.”

Well aware of the chamberlain’s arduous efforts, the Crown Prince didn’t reproach him.

The chamberlain’s post was already laborious enough, made doubly so during the busiest period compounded by the Heroes’ Festival’s disruption. An ordinary man would have long since resigned or succumbed to his workload.

That he could endure such hardship was solely due to Matthieu de Fontaine’s robust body and indomitable spirit.

“However… there is one matter I wish to inquire about.”

The Crown Prince’s gaze, seated in an empty chair, turned toward the front.

“Why is my sister here?”

“…”

For seated in the chair opposite him was his younger sister Sibylla, who shouldn’t have been present according to plan.

“I have heard the accounts – that she was nearly killed by assassins once more, and the maid attending to her was gravely injured in the process.”

The Crown Prince was aware of the assassin’s attack on Sibylla and the subsequent injury to her maid, as well as how the chamberlain had rescued them both.

It had been a member of the Crown Prince’s faction, the younger son of Colbert who had previously regained his kidnapped daughter through Arachne’s abilities, who had hired Dorothy Gale – Arachne.

“If you are concerned for that maid, have no worries. I shall have her tended to by the finest physicians, and provide a protective detail as well…”

The Crown Prince also knew she had been entrusted with an important mission, having shouldered all the duties the royal guards should have undertaken in addition to her work as a maid. Filling the void left by Dorothy wouldn’t be simple.

“…No. I won’t be returning.”

“…Hmm?”

However, Sibylla’s response was contrary to his expectations.

“How surprising, for you to express a desire to remain in Hyperion.”

Sibylla had an intense aversion to Hyperion. During the Heroes’ Festival, the Crown Prince had frequently witnessed her struggle to suppress the urge to immediately flee.

Not just Sibylla, but most cursed royals tended to exhibit similar reactions, recoiling from the fear and revulsion of the very people they had been forced to avoid, preferring the isolation of the High Tower far removed from such encounters.

That had been the typical behavior of victims until now, and Sibylla had been no exception.

“Your Highness, might I intrude upon this conversation between royals?”

“Proceed.”

“Very well.”

To elucidate the Crown Prince’s puzzlement in lieu of the reticent Sibylla, the chamberlain interjected:

“The previous assassins were of a caliber easily repelled by Princess Sibylla’s maid, Miss Dorothy Gale.”

Quite renowned assassins, yet mere ordinary people before Dorothy’s prowess.

“However, the one who assailed the Princess this time is different. There is a strong possibility he possesses abilities on par with, or even exceeding, Miss Gale’s.”

But Ruslan – the Slave Prince – was another matter entirely. Though they had both emerged battered, in the end it was Dorothy who had fallen, appearing overwhelmed from the chamberlain’s uninformed perspective.

Thus, it was only natural for the chamberlain to assess Ruslan as a formidable adversary beyond Dorothy’s ability to handle, for he wasn’t entirely mistaken in that evaluation.

“With even a single assassin of such caliber targeting her, ensuring the Princess’s safety becomes exceedingly difficult.”

Moreover, if not just one but multiple assassins of equal or greater skill than Ruslan were to pursue Sibylla, the chamberlain judged that Dorothy alone would be unable to fend them off.

“Hence, the Princess asserts that the royal palace under the watchful eyes and protective reach of the royal guards and servants may prove safer.”

“…I see…”

Nodding as if finally comprehending Sibylla’s intentions, the Crown Prince conceded to the chamberlain’s words.

“Your reasoning is not entirely unfounded. Do as you wish, though I can’t guarantee the palace will be safer than the High Tower.”

Yet he ultimately failed to grasp his younger sister’s true motives, for how could he have foreseen the bond transcending friendship that had formed between Princess and maid, master and servant?

“…Dorothy…”

Those devoid of emotion can’t comprehend those swayed by it.

Just as the sighted can’t truly empathize with the suffering of the blind.

* * *

“Now that I think about it… there was something I wished to ask.”

After a long, restful slumber, Dorothy addressed the witch who had remained by her side.

“I had intended to seek you out directly when I had the chance to inquire in person. But since you’ve come all this way, may I ask now?”

“Speak, and I’ll answer  with all my sincerity.”

“I need another hint to break Princess Sibylla’s curse.”

A hint to break Sibylla’s curse.

The previous ‘fairy tale’ hint alone had been insufficient for Dorothy or Sibylla to deduce the answer to lift the curse.

Fairy tales were infinite in number, and curses were among their most common motifs. Even the fairy tale inspiring Dorothy’s own alias featured a cursed Princess.

“Did I not provide a hint already?”

“It’s not enough.”

While it might seem like begging, Dorothy required more explicit guidance, for her notoriously oblivious and insensitive nature was better suited to direct hints than vague ones.

“I would rather not simply give it outright.”

“No need to be so stingy between us.”

“Just what sort of relationship do we even have, foolish child?”

Yet the witch remained reluctant despite Dorothy’s pleas, as if orally divulging the hint would spoil the fun.

“Well, if you were to prostrate yourself and kiss the soles of my feet, I might be inclined to oblige… Just kidding, you dimwit, truly rising at such an absurd suggestion.”

However, upon seeing Dorothy genuinely attempt to comply with her facetious remark by struggling to rise from her sickbed, the witch sighed deeply in exasperation.

“Must you be so utterly devoid of pride as a man?”

“I’m not a man anymore, currently.”

“Tsk, you simply refuse to concede a single point.”

Clicking her tongue, the witch inquired:

“Just what compels you to such lengths to break a royal family’s curse? Is that wretched wench truly worth so much to you?”

The witch wondered just what foolish antics this errant child of hers had been up to out in the world to become so ardently invested in resolving her master’s plight.

Like some lovestruck romantic when she could scarcely comprehend the very concept of love itself – certainly not a passion befitting a Prince’s rescuer.

“I’m not sure myself.”

Her response was thoroughly dissatisfying in its inadequacy.

“But if I leave Princess Sibylla be, I fear her fixation may only intensify.”

The nature of Dorothy’s feelings toward Sibylla remained uncertain, unable to discern Sibylla’s significance to her.

“The Princess’s reliance upon me has already surpassed mere dependence, which can’t be considered a positive direction.”

An amicable yet appropriate distance – that was the ideal relationship Dorothy envisioned with Sibylla, akin to family or the closest of friends.

“I sincerely wish for the Princess’s happiness.”

Yet Dorothy’s desire for Sibylla’s happiness was undoubtedly genuine, stemming not from self-interest or monetary gain, but sincere goodwill.

Even Dorothy herself couldn’t fully explain why she harbored such hopes for one who had initially been a client. Had she simply grown fond of her during their brief time together? Or did she pity Sibylla’s pitiful circumstances?

Perhaps it was merely because she found Sibylla’s eyes beautiful, such an utterly insignificant and shallow reason.

“For that, I can’t remain by her side.”

At any rate, to ensure Sibylla’s true happiness, her excessive fixation needed to be curbed – or the root cause eliminated entirely.

“If the Princess’s curse is broken, I can leave her side.”

If the curse were lifted, Sibylla would no longer need to rely on or become fixated with Dorothy. And if her fixation persisted even after the curse’s removal, then the only recourse would be for Dorothy to leave, or so she believed.

“Foolish child. Lacking thought as always, now you overthink to an absurd degree – you problematic brat.”

Clicking her tongue in displeasure at Dorothy’s words, the witch regarded her with a disgruntled expression.

“Just how oblivious must you be to be so utterly unable to gauge your own feelings?”

“…Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes, you did.”

The witch’s expression was conflicted, debating whether to indulge this fool with another hint or not.

“Yet your sincere if misguided efforts to aid others still merit a degree of recognition.”

Thus, resigning herself with faux reluctance, the witch ultimately provided:

“The second hint is: the Prince and Princess.”

Chapter 37: Promise

“Yet another vague hint.”

“Is it not more entertaining this way? Simply divulging the answer outright would be terribly dull for this old witch who lives for amusement. Nothing is as unpleasant as boredom.”

The new hint was again difficult to decipher.

However, Dorothy the fairy tale enthusiast surmised it must be related to fairy tales like the previous one. The witch had likely provided an obscure hint considering Dorothy’s propensity, meant to be challenging to immediately comprehend.

“Are you leaving?”

Pondering the clue to break the curse, Dorothy inquired of the witch packing her belongings to depart.

“Unlike some, I lead quite a busy life ordinarily, so I can’t remain here forever. Dawdling here any longer and I’ll be unable to manage the mountain of work piling up.”

Dorothy was well aware that the witch maintained a busier routine than the languid persona she portrayed, for while lazy at times, she absolutely abhorred falling behind on tasks.

Moreover, the witch’s duties largely involved disreputable matters unbecoming to openly discuss, befitting her slum origins – and such unsavory work invariably entailed risks. 

Even prioritizing safety, the witch had no choice but to strictly adhere to schedules, though she hardly feared such hazards herself. It was simply more convenient to avoid unnecessary unpleasantness when punctuality could ensure matters proceeded smoothly.

“It feels like we only just reunited, yet you’re leaving so soon.”

“Does that disappoint you?”

“A bit.”

Though their bond could be considered a bitter enmity that had nearly claimed each other’s lives, Dorothy still regarded the witch with a degree of fondness – one of her few remaining connections, having grown accustomed to her company.

“How disgusting. But I suppose once the work is complete, you will return in due time… successful completion would ensure a hefty payday, after all…”

Playfully mocking Dorothy’s sentimentality, the witch graced her with a rare, genuinely warm smile devoid of her usual derision or condescension.

“We could travel somewhere when you return.”

“Money would be wasted.”

“…I never expected to hear you bemoan wasted funds, you gambling-addicted drunkard lout.”

Though her expression soon reverted to familiar contemptuous disdain.

“You had the perfect opportunity to end on a tender note, yet squandered it with your repugnant remark at the last moment…”

“Take care, Éclair.”

Just as the witch reached for the door handle to storm out grumbling, those words gave her pause.

“You still recall that nonsensical fake name, do you?”

“It’s a rather unforgettable name.”

When they had first met and Dorothy – or rather, the nameless boy she had once been – lacked even a name, the witch had whimsically dubbed him after the pastry she had been eating.

“Éclair au chocolat. I found it a rather fitting moniker for you.”

Though the pseudonym had quickly become an open secret and even the witch herself had forgotten it soon after, Dorothy still remembered the name of the one who had extended a hand to her.

“…I can’t tell if it was meant as praise or insult. You remain as indecipherably enigmatic as ever.”

Yet her face shone with unambiguous delight despite her words.

With a remarkably serene expression, the witch opened the door.

“Take care, my son.”

She must be in an unusually pleasant mood today.

“♩~”

Humming a merry tune, the witch departed.

* * *

Once the witch had left, the room fell markedly silent.

For sound to occur, opposing forces must clash – and with her sole conversational partner gone, leaving Dorothy alone, the absence of noise was only natural.

Moreover, had she been in peak condition it might have been another matter, but not a single part of Dorothy’s body had emerged unscathed from the Slave Prince’s onslaught, rendering even simple movements difficult.

“…Thirsty.”

The problem was that Dorothy’s throat, parched from her prolonged slumber without proper hydration, was screaming for moisture.

One could endure hunger for around a week if need be, but thirst became unbearable after just a single day without water.

“…Water…”

Dorothy surveyed her surroundings, but not even a pitcher or empty cup was in sight, let alone drinkable water.

She should have asked for a cup before the witch left. Only now did Dorothy appreciate the importance of a caregiver.

She had two options: endure the agony and rise to venture outside for water, or remain obediently in bed awaiting someone’s arrival.

“…Ughh…”

Dorothy chose the former, for her overpowering thirst felt so severe that failing to rehydrate immediately might prove fatal, mustering enough willpower to force her creaking body upright.

“…Hurts…”

Dragging her faltering steps, barely containing agonized shudders wracking her battered frame, Dorothy slowly made her way toward the door.

It was daytime, so servants or palace guards would likely be patrolling outside. If she pleaded desperately for just a cup of water, even the most callous soul would surely extend that small kindness, or so she hoped.

But the very moment she grasped the door handle to open it:

“Gahh!?”

The door flung inward, causing Dorothy to pitch forward with an undignified yelp of surprise.

“Ow… Owww…”

Groaning in anguish at the excruciating jolt, just who was the rude individual barging into others’ rooms without permission?

“…While I had hoped for a more auspicious reunion, you certainly have a knack for shattering atmospheres.”

“…P-Princess…?”

Fortunate she hadn’t vocalized her uncharitable thoughts aloud, Dorothy forced her gaze upward to meet Sibylla’s legs.

“Enter. We have matters to discuss.”

“But… water…”

Without another word, Dorothy was ushered inside by Sibylla’s grip.

She needed to drink water.

* * *

“Phah…”

Thankfully, Sibylla wasn’t so callous a mistress as to deny her parched maid even a simple cup of water.

“If you were thirsty, you should have requested water from the servants beforehand.”

“I only just awoke…”

Reclining once more upon the bed, Dorothy regarded Sibylla’s back as the Princess seated herself beside her.

“To have awoken so soon, did that witch treat your injuries?”

“…I am uncertain.”

Dorothy inwardly pondered if she should admit to having regained consciousness once before, lest she invite a scolding.

“And you, Princess? You were unharmed?”

“I am well. The chamberlain neutralized the assassin.”

“I am relieved.”

Yet Dorothy couldn’t feel entirely at ease, for strictly speaking she had failed in her mission.

Protecting the Princess. That had been the nature of her commission, her primary objective. Anything involving the curse had always been secondary.

However, in her battle against Ruslan, Dorothy had been defeated. With the battered Dorothy unable to intervene further, Ruslan had sought to slay Sibylla – had the chamberlain not arrived, both would have perished on that very spot.

If Ruslan sought Sibylla’s life again, could she thwart him? Victory or defeat – it was impossible to declare with certainty which scenario awaited.

“I’m sorry, Princess.”

Dorothy apologized to Sibylla, for how many times had she assured the Princess, urging her to have faith and rely solely upon her?

Having fostered that trust only to betray it – rebuilding broken trust was never easy.

“…Why do you apologize to me?”

Yet Dorothy didn’t expect this.

“You are the one who suffered injury, who nearly died. Why apologize to me?”

That her apology would only further torment Sibylla’s heart.

“…Princess?”

“Don’t apologize. Don’t bow your head to me. I am unworthy of such words from you.”

Sibylla’s heart had long since reached its limit, having witnessed with her own eyes Dorothy continuously rising despite sustaining grievous injuries for her sake.

Had Sibylla been a touch more selfish, a touch more wicked, she might have felt disappointment upon seeing Dorothy’s state, fleeing to preserve her own life alone.

“How can I reproach you for the harm you endured protecting my life?”

Yet Sibylla couldn’t, for she knew full well what compelled Dorothy’s unrelenting struggle.

“But Princess, it was my duty…”

“Enough!!!”

Sibylla’s anguished cry echoed through the room.

“Is this commission truly so paramount to you? More precious than your life…?”

Fearing not death, cherishing not her own life.

Sibylla despised that aspect of Dorothy, prioritizing something else over herself. It sickened her.

“Do you know the thoughts that crossed my mind every time I saw you rise again?”

Clutching the blankets with trembling hands, Sibylla continued in a quavering voice:

“I wished you would stop getting up, that you would either abandon me or lose consciousness instead.”

Yet ultimately, all her resentment and revulsion had merely been directed inward.

“I wished for you to live, to remain unharmed, even if it meant forsaking me.”

Watching Dorothy’s suffering yet being powerless to aid her had pierced Sibylla’s heart like a guilt-tipped lance.

“The sight of you being savagely beaten by the assassin, your blood spilled across the mud and washed away by the relentless downpour… do you know the anguish I felt…?”

The hesitation she had thought utterly banished after the ball came crashing back, that weighty anchor of guilt bearing down upon her once more.

“…I am a cursed being.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, dampening the back of her hand.

“A calamity who invites only misfortune wherever I tread…”

Having confronted the truth she had desperately sought to avoid by the cruelest possible means, how could her heart emerge unshattered?

“…Truly, you were far too good for someone like me…”

The words Sibylla never wished to utter were upon her lips.

The command to depart from her side, to free Dorothy from the misfortune she wrought.

“So stop now…”

But the very moment she forced her reluctant tongue to give voice:

“Stay away from… me…?”

A tender warmth gently enveloped Sibylla from behind.

“…Princess.”

Embracing Sibylla affectionately, Dorothy softly whispered:

“I love you.”

“…!!!???”

The gentle confession Sibylla had yearned to hear above all else.

Chapter 38: Make Me Fall For You

Rapturous.

A bewitching whisper so intoxicatingly rapturous that it compelled to tightly shut her eyes.

“…No.”

But clenching her jaw, Sibylla confronted reality.

“Telling a lie to your master…”

Not a shred of sincerity resided in Dorothy’s words. Without any intention to veil her true feelings with hypocrisy, her voice was cold and dispassionate.

A loveless confession devoid of even perfunctory effort to sound convincing – a disingenuous response.

“Do you mean to scorn your master as her servant…?!”

From the beginning, Sibylla hadn’t expected Dorothy to reciprocate love, for she knew her own unlovable flaws better than anyone.

A frail, withering body cursed to waste away. Who could love such an unsightly visage?

Nor did she possess any remarkable talents, wealth, or redeeming social status.

Having spent her formative years receiving little education before being exiled to the High Tower, she lacked knowledge or personal assets like other royals. Her status as an Orléans Princess? The cursed daughter of a mad King – such a pedigree invited only mockery.

She had nothing, save for her useless husk of a body. Who could sincerely whisper love to such a woman? Who could truly love someone like her?

“…Yes, it was a lie.”

Readily admitting her wrongdoing in response to Sibylla’s rebuke, Dorothy showed no intention to deceive.

“I had no plans to deceive you. I merely wished to shock you out of your melancholic mood that seemed to be spiraling into an abyss, to clear the air.”

She had no reason to deny it, for she had never intended to lie in the first place.

“My declaration of love was indeed false, for I don’t love you, Princess.”

From the start, Dorothy’s intent had been to pull Sibylla from the quagmire of guilt.

For one consumed by any extreme emotion, whether joy or sorrow, inevitably becomes deaf to external voices. Had Dorothy not resorted to that shock tactic, her voice wouldn’t have reached Sibylla drowning in despair.

“However, that doesn’t mean I despise you.”

Just what were Dorothy’s feelings toward Sibylla?

Neither Sibylla nor even Dorothy herself could discern if it was blind loyalty to a client, or something else entirely.

“Princess, you instructed me to free you from the curse, to bring you happiness.”

As a person, Dorothy Gale was more accustomed to simply following others’ orders verbatim rather than formulating her own thoughts.

Thus, she clung to those commands, her master’s instructions, like a compass allowing her to navigate the uncharted seas instead of drifting aimlessly.

“The order to break your curse, I shall fulfill by any means necessary. But the order to bring you happiness is a far more daunting riddle to me than any theorem posed by the greatest mathematicians.”

So it was only natural for Dorothy to falter when tasked with matters requiring autonomy and creativity.

Having lived her entire life relying solely on others without any willpower or conviction of her own, what could be more challenging for her than independent thinking and judgment?

“Princess, is my presence required for your happiness?”

Dorothy inquired of Sibylla whether her existence, Dorothy Gale herself, was an essential component of that objective called ‘happiness.’

“I wish to ask if I, this person named Dorothy Gale, am truly necessary for your happiness.”

Should she depart or remain? Which path would truly benefit Princess Sibylla?

No matter how many times she agonized over it alone, Dorothy couldn’t find an answer, for either option seemed equally problematic. Leaving would create issues, but so would staying.

Thus, she decided to defer the choice, for if both paths led to difficulties, it would be better to let the person involved decide.

“If I’m not needed-“

“You are needed.”

But before Dorothy could finish voicing her dilemma, Sibylla resolutely cut her off without hesitation:

“Without you, I can never be happy.”

The one who had awoken the long-forgotten emotion of happiness within her.

Dorothy had become an indispensable presence in Sibylla’s life, the only one in all of Orléans who could interact with her cursed form without the slightest reservation.

“It’s also true that I desire your affection.”

Yet Sibylla yearned for more than a mere master-servant dynamic, bound not by contractual obligation but a deeper bond surpassing social boundaries.

She knew such prospects were implausible – that Dorothy, unconcerned by her curse, a person – had already fulfilled half her original hopes was miracle enough.

Sibylla vividly recalled the countless servants who had fled within a fortnight, often less than a week on average. So Dorothy’s mere existence was already a blessing, a marvel.

Yet human greed knows no bounds, like one who demands a whole bundle after being fished from drowning.

“However… I don’t want to force you.”

Even so, Sibylla ultimately couldn’t bring herself to command Dorothy’s love.

“An insincere confession devoid of true feeling would bring me no joy.”

She wished to avoid earning Dorothy’s resentment, having striven to avoid incurring her dislike ever since becoming aware of her.

Whether during the initial period when she had tried to deny and reject her repulsive desires, or after resolving to confront them honestly. Sibylla had consistently avoided anything that might make Dorothy despise her.

To flaunt their differences in status and rank, to demand love as if owed obeisance – such ugly actions would only reveal her own unsightly interior, undoubtedly stripping away what little regard Dorothy might harbor.

Sibylla had thought it would only undermine what little goodwill she might possess in Dorothy’s eyes.

“…I understand what you desire, Princess.”

Silently listening to Sibylla’s words, Dorothy nodded as she took the Princess’s hand in her own.

“You wish for me to genuinely love you.”

“…”

Rendered speechless as Dorothy verbalized the feelings she couldn’t bring herself to voice aloud through such casual physical intimacy, Sibylla could only bow her head in a mixture of embarrassment at having her vulnerability exposed, and resignation that her unattainable hopes would never be realized.

“I don’t yet love you, Princess.”

“…I am aware. So let’s end this discussion here…”

“Will you hear me out to the end, Princess?”

However, Dorothy’s subsequent words caused Sibylla’s eyes to gradually widen.

“It would have been the same with anyone else, not just you. For this person named Dorothy Gale has only experienced loving someone that one time since birth.”

A child who had never learned love couldn’t understand how to love others. A heart that had lost the capacity for empathy couldn’t become attached to anything.

In other words, Sibylla’s starting point was no different from anyone else’s.

“So Princess, if you truly wish for me to wholeheartedly love you, then first…”

What Dorothy required now was:

“Won’t you teach me what love is?”

A definition of the concept called ‘love.’

Just what was this ‘love’ that could render people so utterly blind?

Just what was this ‘love’ that could make people so desperately yearn?

“As your servant, it may be presumptuous of me to make such a request of you, my master.”

If she could comprehend this ‘love,’ could she understand this young Princess?

If she could comprehend this ‘love,’ could she soothe the aching in her chest that flared whenever recalling that girl from beyond her memories?

If she could comprehend this ‘love’-

“Make me fall for you, Princess.”

Could she too come to wholly love someone?

“Let lies become truth.”

Setting those questions aside as she gently caressed Sibylla’s trembling, elated hands, Dorothy had once again unconsciously ensnared the Princess like a serpent.

“Because I so adore such fairy tale-like stories.”

“…”

Just what manner of sorcery had this woman learned?

Or was she simply too susceptible to such wiles? Sibylla wondered amidst her turmoil.

“…You possess a truly bewitching tongue. Though perhaps my own ears are simply too vulnerable.”

But soon clenching her fists as she turned to face Dorothy directly, Sibylla declared.

“You asked me to teach you love. Very well, I will teach you.”

Taking Dorothy’s hand and placing it upon her chest, Sibylla proclaimed:

“I shall make your heart beat as mine does, make you yearn for love as you gaze upon me with affectionate eyes.”

A vow akin to a declaration of war from a master to her servant.

“I hereby proclaim, as one person to another, that I, Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans, shall make Dorothy Gale fall for me.”

Witnessing Sibylla’s unusually impassioned pronouncement akin to a rustic stage play-

“I will make you fall for me.”

“…As you command.”

Dorothy couldn’t help but let a faint smile grace her lips.

Chapter 39: The Black Veil

[I give my all no matter the opponent, even if they are mere children.]

This line from a cartoonist contributing to the Hyperion Daily News immediately sparked considerable controversy upon its publication.

Reactions ranged from questioning if giving one’s full effort against children could be considered ‘adult’ behavior, to assertions that exerting one’s utmost regardless of the opponent’s age or gender was the most mature stance a gentleman could take – a statement the cartoonist had likely penned thoughtlessly for amusement, yet it unexpectedly became a popular catchphrase.

Second Prince Louis leaned closer to the former view, though his stance was nuanced.

While still relatively youthful, the compassionate Prince regarded children as precious seedlings to be protected and cherished above all others.

Yet regardless of his personal inclinations, he always gave his full effort when engaged with children.

Was this a hypocritical contradiction? A facade of insincerity? Not at all.

“…You kids are being rather merciless today, aren’t you?”

It was simply because the Prince was so dreadfully inept at games that he ended up trying his hardest, only for impoverished orphans to utterly trounce him.

“We’re always like this though.”

“Yeah, Your Highness is just playing worse than usual. And you were already terrible to begin with.”

“Your words cut deep…”

Their innocent yet brutally honest critiques brought a tear to the Prince’s eye.

He was already disheartened by his lack of skill, only to have his character insulted as well with no recourse to refute them.

Was such behavior befitting of a Prince, disgracing the royal family like this?

“I did injure my arm though…”

To be fair, the Prince did have an excuse. Having sustained an injury to his right arm from the assassin’s assault that rendered it unusable for some time, how could he properly enjoy games?

“But you still lost even with both arms, so why mention it now?”

“Oooh, how unsightly~”

“…Ugh…”

Although having both arms intact wouldn’t have necessarily granted him victory either.

“…Let us call it a day. If the mockery continues, I fear my heart may not withstand it.”

“…”

“…”

As the Prince ruefully smiled while conceding the match, his defeated mental state apparent, the twins gazed at him with sparkling, expectant eyes.

“…Very well, I understand. Caramels will suffice?”

“Yaaay~”

“Caramels! Caramels!”

As if they were chicks begging for feed, the children gaped and frolicked about. Sighing despite himself, the Prince placed a basket brimming with pastries and candies he had prepared into their hands.

“Thank you~”

“Thank you!”

Beaming with childlike delight, the twins expressed their gratitude before scampering out of the villa grounds like startled rabbits.

“…I wish they could be so well-behaved and courteous more often.”

Extending him Princely treatment only when receiving gifts – were they rather sly beneath that innocent facade?

“Your Highness, we shall tidy up. With your arm…”

“No need, I have always handled it myself. Just because I can’t use one arm doesn’t erase ingrained habits…”

Brushing aside his servants’ protests that they would clean up, the Prince stubbornly fumbled with the game pieces one-handed in a labored manner.

Witnessing their master’s pitiful state, the servants couldn’t help but feel a sense of inexplicable guilt. Was it truly proper for an Orléans Prince to present such an undignified spectacle? To allow their lord to demean himself so?

“If you insist on concerning yourselves… I have yet to dine, so perhaps prepare a meal first?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

For simply observing his plight had become a form of torment unto them. Thus, upon receiving his command, the servants swiftly and obediently withdrew.

“They are rather kind souls, aren’t they?”

Well aware of his servants’ distress, the Prince had provided a pretext to dismiss them under the guise of mealtime preparations.

But there was another reason as well.

The Prince’s gaze fell upon a woman present:

“…Slave Prince.”

The red-haired, golden-eyed assassin.

“…Shall we move to another room?”

* * *

“So, what brings you here?”

After ushering Ruslan into a private room and locking the door, the Prince briefly examined his arm before inquiring.

“The client sent me to apologize directly for the failure.”

“…Ah… the Marquis Vallière, I take it. Typical of him.”

Was he still fuming over the failure despite spending a fortune hiring assassins from Königsberg? Or perhaps he had dreaded facing the Prince in person after masterminding the plot that had injured his arm, without even informing the intended victim.

The Prince surmised it was likely the latter, for the Marquis Vallière was a rather timorous man beneath his bravado.

“By the way… you are in quite the state, I see. It is such fine weather too.”

Physically assaulted in addition to the verbal tongue-lashing, Ruslan’s appearance was rather bedraggled – disheveled hair damp as if splashed with water, flushed cheeks bearing reddened marks. The circumstances weren’t difficult to deduce.

“At least take a seat first. Some tea, perhaps? Pastries might be… ill-advised, given your current state for presenting before others…”

“Not required.”

Taking a seat as the Prince spoke, Ruslan regarded him and his injured arm with a perplexed expression.

“…You will not rebuke me?”

While the Prince had refrained from physical retaliation unlike other nobles, Ruslan had expected at least verbal admonishment or resentful condemnation from the man whose arm he had crippled. Yet the victim only smiled amiably without the slightest hint of malice.

“Dwelling on the past serves no purpose. What matters is the present, and the future.”

Responding to Ruslan’s query, the Prince gazed out the window.

A bird’s nest occupied one of the trees in the villa’s garden – that of a tiny sparrow.

Yet the mother bird, who should have tended to her hatchlings, instead promptly ejected one from the nest upon seeing it. Culling the weakest to ensure the survival of the rest.

“…Will you be able to kill her next time? Sibylla.”

Yes, this was all.

“Undoubtedly.”

For the sake of the future.

* * *

Ever since the Heroes’ Festival’s abrupt conclusion, the Tripartite Assembly had always erupted into raucous shouting matches.

With the successive unsavory incidents that had led to the festival’s hurried closure, it was hardly surprising for accusatory squabbles to erupt as each side desperately sought to shift blame onto the others.

“Then are you claiming this entire debacle is the fault of His Highness the Crown Prince? Should we have detained our guests in Hyperion even after the Prince and Princess were assailed by assassins? That would have been a far greater disgrace, besmirching our national honor!!”

“Even so, to hastily conclude a Heroes’ Festival held once a decade in such a slapdash manner was hardly appropriate either! Sacrilegious as it may sound, I believe the royal family bears a degree of responsibility in this matter.”

The utterly tiresome bickering continued as always.

Observing their pathetic display, the Crown Prince rose from his seat and ascended the central dais of the assembly hall.

“How sacrilegious indeed…”

“Orléans has long-standing traditions and proprieties that must be upheld…”

The assembly members who had fervently engaged in thinly-veiled partisan attacks under the guise of ‘debate’ gradually lowered their voices upon the Crown Prince’s arrival on the dais.

No matter their political clout, but in the absolute monarchy of Orléans, only the King’s voice could supersede the future monarch’s. And the current King had long since descended into madness.

“Why not continue as you were? You had the floor, Baron Clermont.”

Regarding the assembly with a cynical expression, particularly the most vociferous noble Baron Clermont, the Crown Prince stated:

“If you have nothing further to add, then might I be permitted to address these esteemed members of the Tripartite Assembly? Five minutes should suffice, give or take.”

“…As you wish, Your Highness.”

None dared defy the Crown Prince’s thinly-veiled compulsion, whether his capitalist supporters, the clergy, or even the nobles.

“I have an announcement to make, which compels me to take the floor despite my reluctance.”

Surveying the hushed chamber, the Crown Prince began:

“You are all no doubt aware that in the aftermath of recent events, my sister Princess Sibylla has remained in Orléans.”

Sibylla hadn’t yet returned to the High Tower, under the pretext that she could be endangered by further assassins if she departed, though her true reason was to oversee Dorothy’s treatment.

“Though cursed, Sibylla is undeniably a member of the royal lineage, a daughter of His Majesty King of Orléans. Given the repeated assassination attempts against her life, I can’t in good conscience send Sibylla back to the High Tower.”

In truth, this had been Sibylla’s own idea alongside the chamberlain’s, though the Crown Prince didn’t disclose that detail.

“Thus, until we can apprehend the assassins and uncover their backers, I intend to permit Sibylla’s continued residence in Orléans for the time being. What say you all?”

“I wholeheartedly agree!!”

Unsurprisingly, it was the Crown Prince’s capitalist supporters who responded first in approval.

“And the rest of you? If there are no objections, I shall take your silence as consent?”

Not a single noble dared voice any dissent, for openly defying the Crown Prince’s wishes could jeopardize their futures. It was only prudent to remain silent.

“If there are no objections-“

“That can’t be permitted, Your Highness.”

The objection came from an entirely unexpected quarter:

“How can you allow a cursed being to reside within the capital?”

The clergy, who had until now either sided with the nobles or maintained neutral silence.

“While the Lord watches over us all.”

For the first time, they spoke before the nobles could react.

Chapter 40: Just A Little Step Forward

This wasn’t the clergy’s first attempt to nitpick the actions of the Orléans royals.

Ever since Jason proclaimed himself a descendant of the Sun and his descendants began to revere the Sun as a deity, the relationship between Orléans and the Judgment Church had been strained.

It began when King Clovis I, recognizing the usefulness of the doctrine of the Judgment Church proliferating across the continent during Orléans’s days as a mere petty Kingdom confined to Hyperion and its environs, willingly converted and pledged allegiance.

Clovis had required a pretext to subjugate rival claimants and expand his territories, while the doctrinally sound yet militarily weak Judgment Church and the Lateran Papacy desired martial might – a mutually beneficial arrangement, at least initially.

However, as time passed and Orléans ascended to great power while the Papacy solidified its footing to declare the sovereign Lateran Theocracy, the story changed.

Orléans had grown too vast and mighty to require justification for territorial expansion, while Lateran no longer needed to borrow Orléans’s strength, having become a nation in its own right.

After halting outward expansion during Charles II’s reign to focus on consolidating internal affairs, the Orléans royals fostered nationalism and disseminated the previously obscure ancestral Sun-worship to bolster the monarchy’s authority and centralize power.

Inevitably, this strained relations with their once staunchest allies, for Orléans resented Lateran’s attempts to interfere in state affairs under religious pretexts, while Lateran took umbrage at Orléans venerating the Sun instead of their professed God.

It was around then that the clergy summoned to the Tripartite Assembly began habitually antagonizing the monarchy’s actions, for most Orléans-born clergymen more fervently upheld Judgment Church and Lateran doctrines, naturally aligning with Lateran’s agenda.

“That clergyman’s words carry an especially grating tone today.”

“When have they not spoken so brazenly, Your Highness?”

The clergy had long asserted that the royals’ curse was divine punishment, advocating against allowing the cursed to mingle freely with the populace.

Strictly speaking, that clergyman’s statement could be seen as voicing the Judgment Church’s prevailing stance regarding the royal curse.

“Though admittedly, they have never been so overt in reproaching royals to their faces.”

“Perhaps it is merely the impetuous outburst of an oblivious clergyman.”

Yet such brazen condemnation of a royal’s cursed state was unprecedented, even for the clergy.

“While the clergy do tend to act in concert, I doubt Lateran would recklessly take sides in this situation. What is your view?”

“I concur. Those pious folk do have rather itchy backsides, after all.”

The Crown Prince judged that Lateran would merely observe Orléans’s circumstances.

For neither the Crown Prince nor the Second Prince harbored particularly warm feelings toward the Judgment Church, nor did their respective supporters.

The capitalists resented the clergy as a fellow privileged class, while the nobles disliked how the clergy undermined the foundational Sun-worship that formed the basis of their power and the established order.

Lateran was undoubtedly aware of this dynamic. Rather than recklessly taking sides only to diminish their influence within Orléans if the defeated faction fell, the Crown Prince surmised they would watchfully mediate before aligning with the victors to reap appropriate concessions.

“Vexing, but what can those ingrates truly accomplish…”

Yet such impudent open ridicule from the clergy ultimately stemmed from the monarchy’s diminished authority.

The tumult surrounding the current King’s ascension, the purge of collateral branches, compounded by the subsequent war before that could even be resolved.

Orléans had endured a litany of calamities that, while leaving the nation intact, had gravely undermined the royal family’s esteem. Coupled with the King’s descent into insanity, their authority paled compared to past eras.

“The name of that clergyman was Claude Frollo, was it not?”

“Indeed, Your Highness.”

A name to commit to memory.

Another had been inscribed upon the Crown Prince’s death list.

* * *

“…Tsk. No, did I say something wrong?”

Clicking his tongue in vexed frustration, the clergyman emerged from the cathedral after enduring a harsh rebuke from the bishop for instigating a disruption at the Tripartite Assembly, needlessly incurring the Crown Prince’s ire.

“This is why Orléans remains in such a sorry state, forever kowtowing to those damned royals. Pah.”

Claude Frollo, the youngest Archdeacon of Notre-Dame renowned for his devout faith and comprehensive theological knowledge, couldn’t comprehend the clergy’s conduct.

Had the royals not renounced the Lord despite being baptized, blatantly worshipping idols instead? How could such heretics be tolerated?

“One day, I will escape from this land of heresy.”

Indoctrinated into religious doctrine from childhood, the Archdeacon’s beliefs verged on fanatical zealotry. Suppressing the surging resentment toward the royal family and Orléans’s clergymen, he vigorously shook his head as if to purge their faces from his mind.

“Haaah…”

Yet as soon as he calmed his wrath and cleared his thoughts, another face surfaced.

“Come to think of it, just who was that woman?”

The Archdeacon recalled the copper-haired Countess he had witnessed at the recent ball.

In fact, anyone present that night would have difficulty forgetting her audacious conduct 

Extending her hand to the cursed Princess whom none dared approach, let alone address, and proceeding to dance a splendid waltz together.

It would be stranger not to be haunted by the memory of one who had sent such ripples through the entire ballroom.

“…And yet I know neither name nor face.”

Yet even that Countess could scarcely have fathomed how her perfect, breathtaking visage would ignite an unsavory flame within one clergyman’s heart.

“All I know are her copper tresses and crimson eyes like fresh blood…”

While she had spoken fluent Orléans’ language, that alone didn’t necessarily indicate Orléan origins, for many foreign dignitaries were conversant in the language.

Thus, the only distinguishing features the Archdeacon possessed were her stature, build, hair, and eyes.

It would be best to begin his search in Hyperion first.

With that thought, the Archdeacon started toward the cathedral’s bell tower.

“Quasimodo!!!!”

Calling out to his adoptive son and capable errand boy-

That unsightly yet unwaveringly loyal bell-ringer of Notre-Dame.

* * *

“…What an ominous feeling.”

Shuddering inexplicably, Dorothy regarded her mistress with a perplexed expression as Sibylla sat fixated before the vanity mirror, staring intently into the glass.

Someone who usually avoided or outright tried to shatter mirrors she despised was now openly gazing into one – what could have prompted this?

“Princess, why are you so captivated by the mirror? Is there some issue with it…?”

Unable to make sense of it, Dorothy voiced her confusion.

“…There is no issue with the mirror itself. The person reflected within it is the one grappling with a certain dilemma.”

“What sort of dilemma…?”

What could be so serious as to compel someone who previously avoided mirrors to obsessively study her own reflection?

A self-portrait? An exercise in introspection? Dorothy felt the Princess hardly needed to engage in such self-flagellating behavior. She was neither wicked nor guilty of any transgression, so why subject herself to self-reflection?

As Dorothy’s imagination ran wild, Sibylla lowered the hood concealing her platinum tresses, fully revealing her hair.

“…Do you think it better for me to conceal my hair, or leave it uncovered?”

“You refer to your hair, Princess?”

Until now, Sibylla had always worn her cloak’s hood whenever venturing outside, completely obscuring not just her face but every strand of hair.

Yet now she intended to go about openly displaying it? What change of heart had prompted this?

“I believe leaving it uncovered is better.”

Regardless of her master’s inner thoughts, Dorothy responded candidly with her opinion:

“I find your hair quite beautiful, Princess. At least, I do.”

“Is that so.”

As if steeling her resolve in response to Dorothy’s words, Sibylla rose without replacing her hood.

“You told me to make you fall for me, did you not?”

“…I did… say that, yes.”

Dorothy had indeed requested that Sibylla make her fall in love, because she didn’t yet love the Princess.

“After much contemplation on how to accomplish that, I became convinced that if I remain stagnant as I am, the opportunity may never arise.”

Sibylla had seriously reflected and realized that in her current pitiful state, she could never earn Dorothy’s love.

“Thus, I wish to change, if only slightly.”

Despite her trepidation, Sibylla chose to step forward.

“To become a little bolder, a little more proactive.”

Just a little, the smallest step forward.

“…I see.”

It was undoubtedly an admirable change, though others might not even notice the subtle shift.

“I will await it, Princess.”

“Yes.”

It was certainly a monumental transformation. At least for Princess Sibylla herself.

Perhaps one day, Dorothy might truly come to love the Princess?

That didn’t seem like such an unpleasant prospect, Dorothy thought.

…

She would surely be put to death if she admitted her thoughtless ramblings had betrayed her innermost sentiments that day.

Burying those unvoiceable feelings deep within her heart as her own secret.

Chapter 41: Unchanging Despite Attempts to Change

“…Yes, there’s nothing more to see here. You’ve made a full recovery. Quite a clean one at that.”

In merely five days, less than half the two-week period the physician had initially estimated, Dorothy Gale had healed sufficiently to resume normal activities without hindrance.

“I’m grateful for your care.”

“No need for gratitude, it’s not like you’re some sort of monster. You healed and regrew new flesh all on your own.”

The physician felt the term ‘treatment’ didn’t quite apply, for all he had done was monitor her condition.

Without so much as applying a single ointment, he had witnessed the phenomena of her bleeding ceasing and wounds mending of their own accord day by day, leaving him utterly demoralized.

Unlike belligerent patients who refused to follow instructions, Dorothy was an exemplary patient, consistently compliant and in excellent physical condition.

Typically, physicians prefer hands-off patients, and Dorothy could be considered among the most beloved of such patients, perhaps excessively so to the point of rendering him redundant.

“Will you be returning to your duties right away? How diligent. You could afford to rest a while longer since you were injured.”

Being able to resume normal activities didn’t necessarily equate to a complete recovery. While her accelerated healing suggested new flesh would regenerate soon enough, Dorothy undoubtedly still had valid grounds to take time off to recuperate fully.

“The Princess is waiting for me.”

Yet Dorothy couldn’t rest, for she had duties to attend to.

“Ah yes, you are indeed the only one to look after the Princess.”

Having encountered Sibylla repeatedly under the pretense of visiting the bedridden Dorothy, the physician had come to realize their bond extended well beyond the typical master-servant dynamic, though he could scarcely fathom a Princess harboring romantic affections for her female subordinate.

“Take it easy now. I must return to my own duties as well.”

Waving farewell to the departing physician, Dorothy promptly gathered the maid uniform she hadn’t worn for some time and rose to dress.

“…Something feels a bit different, though perhaps it’s just my mood.”

Her blood-soaked, tattered maid attire had understandably been discarded, while her other uniforms remained in the High Tower.

No matter how identical the appearance and material, a new outfit would invariably feel unfamiliar at first.

“Hmm…”

After a moment’s contemplation, the redressed Dorothy stepped before a full-length mirror to examine her appearance from various angles.

For one who had initially struggled considerably to don this very uniform, the ease with which her hands moved without conscious effort felt rather novel. Truly, humans were creatures of adaptation.

The reflection revealed the perfect image of an immaculate maid, without a single flaw to be found.

“I really must improve my hair-styling skills though… they simply refuse to improve.”

Well, there was that one shortcoming. But no matter.

“…Time to go.”

Her brief medical leave had concluded.

It was time for the loyal maid Dorothy Gale to return to her master’s side.

* * *

An uncomfortable atmosphere during the royal family’s meals was nothing new, lingering ever since the Princess had borne the curse, driving the King insane and sowing tension between the Crown Prince and Second Prince due to their vastly divergent political leanings.

Compounding matters was the Princess who had been the catalyst for the King’s descent into madness, rendering the gathering more akin to a grim portrait than a familial meal. Far too somber for such an occasion.

“…”

Moreover, the typically reticent Crown Prince had become even more taciturn due to overwork, while the more loquacious Second Prince could only fumble clumsily with his meal due to his injured arm, rendering him unusually quiet as well.

Kill me. The single thought crossing the minds of every servant forced to witness this miserable spectacle was unanimous.

Just how long must they endure such an unpleasant scene? Someone, anyone should say something to alleviate the stifling mood.

Yet the more seasoned servants knew that no matter who spoke up, the situation would hardly improve. The Prince’s repeated attempts to engage his family and lighten the atmosphere had consistently fallen flat.

There seemed no recourse to dispel this familial miasma.

“How is your arm, Brother Louis?”

Thus, when the characteristically vivacious Princess Sibylla unexpectedly broke the silence first, the servants collectively reacted with silent astonishment.

“…Huh? Oh, uhh, well… it still hurts.”

The Prince too hadn’t anticipated his sister initiating conversation, for the Sibylla he knew would have been among the first to abruptly depart after a few bites.

He had heard Sibylla would be remaining in Hyperion during his convalescence at the villa, yet he wondered what could have prompted such a change in her demeanor. Had she undergone some fundamental shift?

“I pray for your swift recovery.”

“Thank you. Although I heard you too were assailed by assassins…”

“My life was saved thanks to my loyal maid and the chamberlain.”

To those aware of the full story, Sibylla’s nonchalant attitude toward the Second Prince could appear almost comically brazen.

“You speak of Miss Gale, I take it. I was told she suffered grave injuries. I hope she rises again unscathed.”

Yet to Sibylla unaware of the circumstances, the Prince’s manner was merely his customary kindness toward her ever since before the curse had manifested. An unwavering courtesy of an elder brother.

“So in the end, you were permitted to remain in Hyperion? I heard the clergy objected during the Tripartite Assembly…”

“As if those pious bastards could defy the will of the royal family.”

It wasn’t Sibylla but the Crown Prince who responded to the Prince’s query.

For even if it had been the collective will of all clergymen, only one had directly voiced dissent in the end.

Amidst the overwhelming wave of approval from nobles and capitalists alike, coupled with the clergy’s abstentions, that sole voice of opposition had been instantly drowned out.

“The royal family gave permission, and the Tripartite Assembly agreed. It is only proper for Sibylla to reside in Hyperion.”

Though he had mentioned her returning to the High Tower eventually, none could pinpoint precisely when that ‘eventually’ would be. For all intents and purposes, she could remain indefinitely.

“…I shall take my leave.”

Whether her days in Hyperion would prove joyous or agonizing, only Sibylla herself could determine.

* * *

If even an outside observer found the gathering nauseating in its discomfort, how much more so for those involved?

“…This is unbearable.”

Understandably far more distressing, though the degree had been anticipated, not the sheer anguish.

Her deranged father and the mother who had disowned her children. The eldest brother who treated her as less than human, and the second who had grown uncharacteristically reticent due to his injured arm.

Fearing she might not even be able to swallow a single piece of bread, let alone keep it down, Sibylla hastily excused herself.

The Orléans royals hadn’t always been so estranged. In Sibylla’s youth, the family had been quite close-knit.

The King had always been affectionate and devoted, the Queen stern yet loving. While the Crown Prince rarely made appearances and maintained a brusque manner even then, he had at least fulfilled his familial obligations. As for Second Prince Louis, his amiability was self-evident.

The issue was the curse – that damned curse had shattered the royal family’s formerly harmonious bonds.

Since being exiled to the High Tower, the affection Sibylla had once felt for her parents and brothers, whose faces she could scarcely remember, had long since faded. Especially toward the Crown Prince.

More than a blood relative, he felt akin to her future sovereign as the heir to Orléans’s throne. Not an inaccurate perception from either perspective, but the truth remained that any sense of familial intimacy had dissipated long ago.

“Haah…”

Coupled with his prickly demeanor, was he even human or a mere statue?

“…Still, I should at least try to dine with them occasionally…”

The sole reason Sibylla had forced herself to endure dining among those uncomfortable presences was due entirely to the proclamation she had made to Dorothy.

That she would make Dorothy fall for her, a statement that still made her flush with embarrassment.

To accomplish that, Sibylla had determined she must first change herself.

She could no longer remain the reclusive, cynically negative misanthrope of the past. Who could love someone like that?

Enduring the pain, overcoming her fears, and stepping forward.

While Dorothy had been incapacitated, Sibylla had striven ceaselessly to shed her former self that had relied and depended entirely upon Dorothy, all in her efforts to become a better person.

It had been an unrelenting series of mental and physical torments, yet Sibylla had undoubtedly sensed the previously suffocating atmosphere gradually lightening, if only slightly.

There was no need to rush.

Slowly but surely, one step at a time, she would keep moving forward.

“Eventually, surely…?”

Yet the moment Sibylla opened her chamber door, her steps faltered.

“Oh, Princess.”

Because Dorothy, who had been bedridden until the previous day, now stood before her fully dressed in pristine attire, whole and hale.

“…”

“…”

Was she well enough to be up and about? Had her injuries truly healed?

A litany of questions clamored to be voiced, yet her mouth refused to open.

“…Come.”

Instead, Sibylla found herself instinctively stepping into Dorothy’s outstretched embrace.

For no matter how much she strove to change, there were some things that would never change.

“…Welcome back, Dorothy.”

Such as the undeniable fact that Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans loved Dorothy Gale.

Chapter 42: The Fruits Of Her Efforts

Dorothy’s reason for extending her arms had been quite simple.

As she had risen intending to at least greet Sibylla, the Princess had entered, prompting Dorothy to embrace her in an attempt to naturally dissipate the unexpected awkwardness permeating the atmosphere.

Seeing as it had achieved the intended effect, it could be considered a sound judgment.

“…Won’t you release me now, Princess?”

“Just a bit longer…”

While it had inadvertently unleashed the unrestrained enthusiasm Sibylla had been suppressing, such a minor side effect was negligible.

“Well, my injuries have yet to fully heal, you see.”

“…!!”

As if suddenly realizing she had been embracing Dorothy, Sibylla promptly released her and stepped back in a fluster.

“My, are you alright? Shouldn’t you rest further…”

“It won’t hinder my daily activities. In fact, I have been able to walk unhindered since the day before yesterday.”

Her wounds would heal of their own accord, the pain gradually fading. While an ordinary person might suffer psychological aftereffects from such a near-death experience, who would consider Dorothy Gale ordinary?

“How have you been, Princess? Though I suspect I can already surmise…”

In truth, it hadn’t been that long since their previous conversation, for Dorothy had regularly visited Sibylla even before leaving her sickbed.

Had they not unexpectedly encountered each other in private quarters, there would have been no awkwardness, Dorothy having grown quite accustomed to their mutual company.

“It was… arduous. Exceedingly so, attempting feats I had avoided for over half my life.”

Even obscured by her mask, Sibylla’s weariness had been palpable each time they met, her exhaustion mounting day by day. This had prompted Dorothy’s decision to resume her duties swiftly, driven by the desire to support her master before her mental fortitude reached its limits.

“Initiating conversation, inquiring after others, attempting to engage them… they all reacted with utter dismay. Not unexpected, for the cursed Princess they so feared was the one approaching, after all.”

Sibylla’s deteriorating condition had been an entirely self-inflicted consequence of her efforts and the backlash they had provoked.

Having had all human connections forcibly severed and been betrayed by her loved ones after the curse manifested, locking away her heart, it wasn’t simple task for Sibylla to forcibly reopen that shuttered door.

Compounding matters, society’s perceptions of the curse hadn’t improved during her tower confinement, so Sibylla’s attempts to engage despite the already unfavorable scrutiny amounted to self-imposed torment. What greater penance could there be?

“Still… by persevering and gradually acclimatizing, it became slightly, ever so slightly more bearable.”

Yet her efforts hadn’t been entirely in vain, for while the servants around Sibylla still regarded her with trepidation, they had at least begun responding to simple conversation.

Ultimately, the issue was the curse itself – the calamity stemming from figures centuries past like Jason and Medea. Sibylla was merely an unfortunate victim unjustly bearing Jason’s bloodline.

None were unaware of this truth. It was simply that the curse’s physiological and psychological toll naturally distanced people from its cursed bearer.

Inspired by the ball incident and Sibylla’s comparatively amicable demeanor, the servants’ pity for the pitiful Princess had surpassed their fear of the curse, leading them to no longer outright ignore her as before.

“Not an unpleasant development… though the road ahead remains long.”

For one whose expectations of others had plunged to the abysmal depths, this alone had provided Sibylla a measure of consolation. She was well aware that in displaying such ordinary courage, they too were rather extraordinary compared to Dorothy’s indifference toward the curse.

“You have endured much.”

Reaching out to affectionately ruffle Sibylla’s hair, Dorothy praised her efforts.

For an introverted soul harboring deep-rooted trauma regarding human connections to have progressed to this extent, she knew it could only have been achieved through grueling, bone-carving persistence.

Compared to Dorothy’s own dismal interpersonal situation where the witch was practically her sole acquaintance, Sibylla’s efforts and their fruits were truly commendable.

“I don’t expect everyone to be like you, nor even to reach the chamberlain’s level. Yet to no longer be utterly disregarded like air itself is consoling enough.”

“The situation will only continue improving the longer you remain in Hyperion, Princess. The more your innate human charm obscured by the curse is revealed to those around you.”

Dorothy judged that by expanding her social circle and accumulating connections, Sibylla’s emotional dependency would gradually diminish. Then perhaps one day, her only lingering sentiment upon Dorothy’s departure would be a tinge of remorse.

“…♪”

Though such a prospect remained distant, for life seldom unfolded so smoothly.

Moreover, was it even appropriate to treat a Princess in such an infantile manner by ruffling her hair, Dorothy wondered briefly. Regardless of her own perspective, it would hardly present a dignified spectacle to others if a mere maid behaved so brazenly toward royalty.

“…Wouldn’t you continue?”

“…I was merely contemplating for a moment…”

Well, what did it matter in the end?

Was it not a maid’s duty to fulfill her mistress’s desires?

“…Ah, now that you have woken up, there was something I wanted for us to experience together.”

After closing her eyes to bask in Dorothy’s ministrations for a spell, Sibylla suddenly opened them as if recalling something.

“What did you have in mind, Princess?”

“It was…”

* * *

“Umm…”

When Sibylla had first mentioned wishing to experience something together, Dorothy had inwardly fretted, recalling the previous incident where an enraptured Sibylla had pounced upon her.

Sibylla’s obsession had been utterly terrifying, leaving bite marks that had taken quite some time to fade. Though Dorothy had ultimately subdued her with relative ease, narrowly averting any untoward escalation.

Yet no matter the disparity in their respective strength, no matter how effortlessly Dorothy could render Sibylla unconscious, she had no desire to re-experience such an event. Regulating her force to incapacitate the frail Princess without lasting harm or aftereffects would be a chore in itself.

For Dorothy simply didn’t relish the prospect of laying hands upon Sibylla in any capacity.

“A stroll… rather more normal than I had anticipated.”

Contrary to Dorothy’s concerns, however, Sibylla’s desired shared experience was an innocuous, wholesome suggestion. A simple stroll through the gardens like her childhood at the Soleil Palace.

Try as she might to avoid showing it, memories of Sibylla’s youth had yet to depart her mind.

“…You don’t like it?”

“No, that is not the case. I too enjoy strolls, and flowers as well.”

A lie . Dorothy neither enjoyed strolls nor flowers, only three things: alcohol, tobacco, and gambling.

In fact, she hadn’t indulged in even those modest vices since becoming a maid, so perhaps it could be said she no longer truly enjoyed anything.

At any rate, it was certain that strolls and flowers weren’t activities or objects capable of providing Dorothy any solace.

“I am relieved. I had worried you might not find it appealing, for the inner courtyard of Soleil Palace is rather cramped.”

“…Excuse me, what?”

To Dorothy, who had never seen any palace besides Soleil, its gardens felt akin to a lush forest teeming with verdant flora. Yet Sibylla considered such gardens cramped?

“There is another palace completed during the reign of my great-grandfather Henry III, located in the southern city of Nantes. Its gardens are at least ten times more expansive than these.”

But to Sibylla, more accustomed to palatial architecture and scale, Soleil paled in comparison.

“While we can’t visit due to the fire damage during my grandfather’s reign requiring ongoing renovations… I hope we can travel to Nantes together someday.”

Sibylla wished to show Dorothy the gardens of Nantes, just as he had shown her breathtaking vistas of beautiful lakes and sprawling fields of vibrant blossoms.

“There is no need for Nantes specifically. To me, you are far more precious than any scenic wonder, Princess.”

Yet for Dorothy, the location mattered far less than the shared experience of traversing it together.

Whether Nantes or not, garden or not, even an overgrown meadow abandoned by human footsteps would suffice.

“…I see.”

Replying thus, Sibylla graced Dorothy with a smile concealed from others’ view.

Truly, masks were such convenient artifacts.

“And when this curse is broken, we could venture beyond the palace grounds as well… Hmm?”

As they strolled through the gardens, a sudden raucous commotion reached their ears from somewhere.

“It seems to be coming from the main gate.”

“…Shall we investigate?”

Following the source of the disturbance toward the main entrance, Dorothy and Sibylla soon bore witness to a peculiar sight.

“State your business!!!!”

Palace guards barring an unwelcome visitor, bellowing furiously, confronted by:

“I, I, I have b-business here. From Notre-Dame, b-business…”

A hunched figure futilely pleading to be admitted, seemingly unable to comprehend the guards’ demands.

The man’s appearance was nothing short of grotesque – a hunched back, squinting eyes, legs disproportionately short even for his stunted height and contorted into bizarre angles, his unkempt crimson hair a tangled, straw-like thicket.

As if a giant had crushed him before a clumsy child had crudely reassembled the remains. An utterly unpleasant visage, until-

“I ask you, good sirs, grant me entry. It won’t take long…”

The man’s solitary functioning eye met Dorothy’s gaze mid-tumble.

“…Ah, n-nay, I shall withdraw forthwith.”

Abruptly altering his demeanor, the strange man swiftly retreated while profusely apologizing to the guards, scurrying away with astonishing swiftness for one of his misshapen stature before vanishing from sight.

“…”

Just what was this ominous feeling?

A foreboding premonition had flashed through Dorothy’s mind, fleeting yet disquieting.

Chapter 43: Quasimodo

With his red hair, squinting eyes, hunched back and emaciated frame, the haphazardly reassembled giant.

The man named Quasimodo for being born on the Sunday after Easter was widely regarded as an utterly grotesque sight.

What grievous sin had his parents committed for God to burden this child, whose very existence seemed to condemn him to ceaseless torment, with such a multitude of debilitating deformities?

That mystery would forever remain unsolved, for Quasimodo’s parents had abandoned him at the cathedral’s steps, leaving no means to divine the transgression that had incurred divine wrath.

All that remained was a misshapen young man doomed to endure a lifetime of ostracization for his grotesque appearance and crippled physique. It could be said Quasimodo’s life had begun under a cruel curse.

His deformities and repulsive visage led people to treat Quasimodo with utter contempt, shaping him into an equally misanthropic soul raised amidst hellish circumstance.

The sole person Quasimodo trusted and loved was his adoptive father, Archdeacon Claude Frollo, who had taken him in.

Even if Frollo’s affections had been a self-imposed penance to accrue virtue rather than genuine care, Quasimodo devoted himself wholeheartedly to his adoptive father’s commands without question.

-Brown hair, crimson eyes, about a hand-span taller than myself…

Diligently seeking the tall, beautiful woman with copper tresses and ruby eyes as instructed by the Archdeacon, Quasimodo scoured every corner of Hyperion.

Despite only receiving those vague descriptors without any additional identifying details, hampering his efforts considerably, Quasimodo persevered tirelessly in fulfilling his father’s orders without complaint.

“That woman, without a doubt.”

Thus, Quasimodo eventually located the woman the Archdeacon had described. Copper Hair, blood-red irises, a remarkably statuesque frame, and above all, breathtaking beauty.

Of all the women he had catalogued during his search across Hyperion, she most closely matched the stipulated criteria. Quasimodo was therefore convinced she was the one his father sought.

Certainly, he couldn’t be absolutely certain, but the maid was undoubtedly the closest match to the woman the Archdeacon was looking for based on Quasimodo’s observations.

Hence, Quasimodo hurried to promptly report his findings lest his father grow impatient. Despite his deformed physique, Quasimodo’s powerful stride evoked the thunderous gait of a giant or rumbling chariot.

“Kugh-!!”

“…!?”

Thus, so singlemindedly focused on delivering the joyous news that he failed to watch where he was going, it was inevitable for the oblivious Quasimodo to collide with a passerby. Except-

“What is this? Did you just crash into a carriage? To dare knock over an Orléans’ royal guard…”

That the unfortunate person happened to be a palace guard of lofty status, someone the lowborn, deformed Quasimodo could scarcely fathom defying.

“What vile creature is this? A demon? For such an abomination to freely roam these streets…”

Quasimodo couldn’t comprehend the fallen guardsman’s outraged rant, for he was deaf.

Yet even without hearing, he could discern the man’s fury from his contorted expression and the motion of reaching for his sidearm.

“I, I ap-ap-pologize, s-sir. This l-lowly one has been imp-impudent, ghkk-!!”

But his hurried prostrations for forgiveness only earned him a savage kick to the head from the enraged guard.

“A demon that speaks like a human? Just what foulness roams the streets of Hyperion?”

This grotesque giant who had humiliated him wouldn’t be forgiven. Born into one of the highest noble houses and having achieved meteoric success, the guard’s arrogance brooked no indignity.

“P-p-please, f-forgive me, I beg y-you… Forgive-“

“Silence, you hideous monster!!”

Raining kicks upon the fallen Quasimodo, the guard swatted away his grasping hands clutching at his boots.

“What is your name, wretch? Some slum urchin? Or a deformed freak who escaped the circus?”

“N-n-no more, I b-beg you, this l-lowly one has err-erred, aghh-!!! Aaghhh!!!”

“Did I not demand your name?! Speak, so I may haul you before a magistrate to determine your fate!!!”

None sought to intervene and halt the guard’s assault, partly because the attacker Phoebus de Châteaupers hailed from a renowned noble lineage, but more so because the citizens of Hyperion wished only for the grotesque Quasimodo to vanish from their sight, whether by death or flight.

Some even cheered and applauded the dashing Phoebus, jeering at the fallen Quasimodo. Not a single soul moved to shield him from the guard’s brutality.

“Enough.”

Until that moment.

Quasimodo raised his head as the savage kicking abruptly ceased, witnessing Phoebus’s booted foot suspended mid-stomp, utterly immobilized in midair.

“Wh-What is this?!”

“I hardly consider wantonly assaulting a person obstructing public thoroughfares among the virtues expected of Orléans’s royal guards.”

Click-clack, a woman in a maid’s uniform emerged from the gathered crowd.

“You wench, do you know who I am… oh…”

Yet Phoebus’s brazen words faltered upon glimpsing the woman’s face.

“…Ahem, a servant girl? Whom do you serve?”

Her tresses shone like burnished copper in the sunlight, her crimson-eyed gaze at once unsettling yet alluring.

Her appearance so perfectly aligned with Phoebus’s predilections that his fury toward the grotesque Quasimodo was instantly extinguished.

“I attend to Her Highness Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans.”

“The Princess? Then…”

Quasimodo’s deformed assailant was the furthest thing from Phoebus’s mind.

“Forgive my unsightly conduct, my lady.”

For retainers and ladies-in-waiting attending royalty were predominantly drawn from respected nobility. Hence, Phoebus’s demeanor grew increasingly deferential.

“It shall be 2 o’clock presently, but might I inquire if you can linger?”

“2 o’clock, you say? Good heavens!!”

Checking his timepiece at the maid’s words, Phoebus realized 2 o’clock – when he was due to return – was rapidly approaching, much to his horror.

“I shall be severely reprimanded again. Thank you, milady, though I wish I could offer some recompense, I am dreadfully rushed…!!”

The royal guards adhered to a strict punctuality, any guard even five seconds tardy would earn punitive drills for their entire unit.

As Phoebus hurriedly dashed toward the palace, the maid turned her gaze upon the prone Quasimodo.

“…”

Had he got caught? Quasimodo wondered with dread.

The Archdeacon had sternly cautioned him to avoid drawing any attention, and if compromised, never to divulge his name under any circumstances.

If he had indeed been exposed, what should he do? Flee? Or attempt to feign ignorance?

“Are you alright?”

Yet contrary to Quasimodo’s apprehensions, the maid’s words held no accusation demanding explanations for his earlier retreat, nor any contempt for his deformities. Only an innocuous expression of concern.

“…”

Unsurprisingly, her words fell upon deaf ears, for Quasimodo couldn’t hear.

He had been equally unable to overhear the exchange between the maid and Phoebus.

Still, Quasimodo stared blankly at the maid’s proffered hand. Though feigning nonchalance would better avoid rousing suspicion, his crooked legs refused to move.

“…Yes?”

This pure, unadulterated goodwill was an entirely novel experience.

Even his adoptive father Frollo had never regarded Quasimodo with such unconditional benevolence, motivated instead by deeply personal desires while failing to conceal his repulsed disdain.

Yet Quasimodo had loved his father nonetheless, for even feigned affection was preferable to having none at all. Without that fabricated love, his life would have ended in the basket before Notre-Dame’s steps.

But this… just what was this?

A purity Quasimodo had never once felt in his wretched existence.

From his manipulative father to those who had scorned and mocked him without such pretense-

Was naked contempt not the very norm, the essence of human nature? Then what manner of being was this woman?

“…Y-Your name, please…”

The words that slipped from Quasimodo’s stunned lips were a plea.

“…H-Here, on my p-palm, write your n-name…”

Lifting his bloodied hand like a wretched beggar desperately seeking alms, Quasimodo implored her.

“…?”

Momentarily taken aback by his uncharacteristic demeanor, the maid ultimately acquiesced, using her index finger to scrawl her name in his blood-smeared palm.

“E…s…”

Esmeralda.

“Es…meralda…”

So that is your name.

Quasimodo rose to his feet unaided, without grasping the maid’s hand.

“…Th-Thank you.”

Then, slowly backing away step by step, he promptly turned and fled the scene.

“…Hmm…”

Watching Quasimodo’s receding thumps fade into the distance, the maid Dorothy was left pondering.

“How odd, to so insistently demand my name…”

While she had provided a cursory alias on the spur of the moment due to his suspicious behavior, had it merely been an innocent misunderstanding?

If so, why had he fled in such haste?

“…He didn’t seem…”

Like a bad person.

Chapter 44: The Good, The Bad, The Slug

No one welcomed the return of the bloodied Quasimodo.

Even without the blood, the reception would have been the same, for in the Lord’s own house, none greeted this grotesquely deformed wretch.

To the devout clergy, being likened to a demon was an unutterable insult. Yet they had repeatedly hurled that very slur at Quasimodo, so their treatment of him was hardly surprising.

Thus, when Quasimodo dragged his weary, battered frame back to the cathedral, the clergymen merely assumed he had once again provoked some unsavory incident elsewhere, not a single soul approaching him or even expressing concern.

“…”

Quasimodo was accustomed to such treatment. What was the point of taking offense now?

From childhood until the present, people had scorned and mocked Quasimodo’s deformities. It was the very reason he had grown into such a misanthrope.

Ignoring the familiar looks of contempt, Quasimodo ascended the stairs toward the bell tower – the sole space where this bell-ringer could find sanctuary.

“Quasimodo.”

It was also where he always met his beloved adoptive father.

“Yes, Father.”

Being deaf, Quasimodo couldn’t comprehend the Archdeacon’s words. Yet Frollo had never bothered teaching him sign language or writing from a young age, leaving Quasimodo to adapt as he could.

While Quasimodo hadn’t been born deaf but had lost his hearing later due to his bell-ringing duties, retaining the ability to perceive loud noises and read lips to a degree, it was far from a comfortable means of communication.

Still, Frollo made no accommodations for Quasimodo’s deafness, and Quasimodo was inured to such disregard. Thus, he strained to read the Archdeacon’s lips while faintly making out his voice.

“What of the task I commanded you?”

“The… task… you spoke of?”

The Archdeacon’s order to locate a certain woman – following those instructions, Quasimodo had meticulously scoured Hyperion, narrowing down the candidates.

No, candidates was inaccurate. Had he not identified the woman precisely matching Frollo’s description?

Though a possibility remained that he was mistaken, Quasimodo was convinced the woman the Archdeacon sought was the maid Esmeralda.

“…”

Quasimodo had always eagerly undertaken any task that might please his adoptive father, no matter how unpalatable or scorned by others. His father’s contentment was all that mattered.

The woman he sought resided at the palace. Her name was Esmeralda. Merely reporting those facts would undoubtedly delight the Archdeacon. If it brought his father joy, Quasimodo would divulge the truth unhesitatingly.

“Alas, I couldn’t…”

Yet:

“The woman you described… was nowhere to be found.”

For the first time, Quasimodo defied his father’s wishes.

* * *

“You seemed in quite a hurry fleeing earlier, only to return sooner than expected.”

“That hunched man appeared suspicious, so I chased him for a while.”

Soothing the visibly disgruntled Sibylla whose stroll had been interrupted, Dorothy contemplated the fleeing stranger.

A pitiful, wretched sight deserving of sympathy with his grotesque deformities and myriad compounded disabilities.

Yet Dorothy had sensed no outright malice in his eyes.

Flashes of hatred and resentment had flickered across them, but felt more akin to aimless diatribes than directed toward any specific target. And for one born bearing such afflictions, was it so strange to harbor resentment toward God and the world?

“So, what did you make of him?”

“I discerned nothing particularly suspicious or malicious about him.”

At the very least, his emerald eyes lacked the telltale unctuous malevolence and selfishness that Dorothy had witnessed in true villains. Rather, she had glimpsed a nobility rarely seen in the wicked.

“It seems you possess an innate ability to instantly discern one’s true nature upon meeting them, based on your assessments.”

“To a certain degree, yes. Though it’s not a magical ability.”

Dorothy did indeed possess a sort of intuitive perceptiveness – not sorcery learned from the witch, but a knack for reading people naturally developed through life experience.

“I gaze into one’s eyes. For me, at least, there exists no surer window into a person’s emotions than their eyes.”

One could perhaps call it an aesthetic fixation, or even a peculiar fetish of sorts.

Eyes held profound significance to Dorothy, the first feature she would instinctively study when appraising someone.

“Was your impression of Prince Louis based solely on his eyes?”

“Not solely, we did converse briefly, but they did inform my initial assessment to an extent.”

It hadn’t been eyes alone, but their brief exchange had enabled Dorothy to fully grasp the Prince’s character, having already formed a preliminary judgment from his gaze.

“How did his eyes strike you, in your view?”

“Like that fountain.”

Scanning their surroundings, Dorothy indicated the central garden fountain as she responded to Sibylla’s query.

“Its waters are pristinely clear, yet utterly shallow and the surface is constantly rippling.”

The fountain continuously replenished its waters every 24 hours, ensuring cleaner quality than most wells. Yet that constant disturbance inevitably created a perpetually undulating surface.

“Prince Louis’s eyes are the same – beautiful, yet never tranquil. A kind-hearted man, yet no spiritual paragon. Human, yet easily swayed.”

In truth, few possessed unwavering moral fortitude, striving unerringly toward righteousness. The philosopher from Lombardy who coined the term ‘Übermensch’ described such idealized individuals as possessing an upright spirit and indomitable will surpassing mere goodness. Those who overcame suffering through self-discipline to elevate themselves.

While Prince Louis was benevolent, he was no such paragon. If anything, he epitomized spiritual frailty and moral weakness.

“I believe the Second Prince’s familial affection and guilt toward you are genuine. However, I can’t guarantee he would never bring you harm.”

Too many accounts in Orléans’s history recounted the tragic downfalls of overly virtuous souls. Prince Louis was one such tragic figure – a quintessential, well-meaning commoner.

“And Brother Charles?”

“…”

Dorothy hesitated momentarily before replying to Sibylla’s subsequent query. Should she speak candidly?

“He is… the abyss itself.”

Ultimately, she opted for honesty, judging the Crown Prince unlikely to take personal umbrage at an unflattering assessment.

“Just as tsunamis upon the ocean’s surface, even the motions of behemoth whales, can’t perturb the abyssal depths’ stillness, his eyes remain ever tranquil. Tranquil, yet fathomless darkness.”

If asked which brother more closely embodied the Übermensch ideal, Dorothy would unhesitatingly choose the Crown Prince.

“None can truly fathom His Highness’s innermost thoughts and intentions. Has there ever been one who could?”

“No, even my Father the King and Mother the Queen frequently remarked how impenetrable my brother Charls’s thoughts were.”

Not his parents, siblings, spouse or children.

The Crown Prince’s mind was a mystery unto himself alone, so utterly imperturbable were his emotions. Or perhaps he simply lacked the capacity for emotional fluctuations altogether.

“If he believes something to be right, he will pursue it by any means necessary, unhesitatingly sacrificing you, the Prince, perhaps even himself for that conviction.”

A sage devoid of humanity. Such was the Crown Prince in Dorothy’s eyes.

“In that regard, he may well be the most ideal monarch, working solely for the nation’s interests without being swayed by personal sentiments. His Highness’s eyes…”

Dorothy knew him better than anyone, yet understood him least of all. Though he eerily mirrored his ancestor Jason’s loss of human essence, at least in that aspect:

“…would likely taste of rusted iron.”

They wouldn’t be entirely flavorless.

“…A rather unique yet unsettling impression, comparing it to a flavor so abruptly.”

Peering intently into the slit eyes concealed behind Sibylla’s dubious mask, Dorothy continued:

“At any rate, His Royal Highness is unlikely to willfully harm you, Princess. At least while he deems your continued existence preferable.”

But should that judgment ever change, he would become a terrifying adversary unmatched by any other.

“I have heard your assessment. Quite intriguing on multiple levels.”

Seeming to appreciate Dorothy’s candid observations, Sibylla rose with a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Then let us return for now. This stroll has been sufficiently…”

“Princess Sibylla.”

An unfamiliar voice halted Sibylla’s steps-

A voice not belonging to Dorothy.

“You…”

Dorothy recognized the elderly lady, having encountered her a few times before acquiring her current feminine form and name while undertaking tasks as a client’s errand boy.

“Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess has invited you to a soirée.”

Yet despite their previous meetings predating her bodily transformation-

The moment their eyes met, Dorothy sensed the elderly lady had recognized him.

Chapter 45: A Certain Family’s Soirée

The Crown Princess, Adelaide.

Her full name was Adelaide Maria Clotilde, or in Orléans style, Adelaide Marie Clotilde.

However, she was simply referred to as Adele or the Crown Princess by most, for she was the wife of Crown Prince Charls and Sibylla’s sister-in-law.

Sibylla had never actually conversed with the Crown Princess before.

Charls had only formally taken his bride after the war ended, by which time Sibylla had already been confined to the High Tower due to the curse’s manifestation.

“♩~”

Thus, this tea party felt exceptionally awkward for Sibylla as her first meeting with the Crown Princess.

They had never even exchanged casual greetings, so wouldn’t it be stranger if there were no awkwardness between complete strangers?

“Have you ever tried black tea, Princess?”

“No, I have never tasted it before…”

As if aware of Sibylla’s unease, the Crown Princess smiled faintly as she personally poured and offered her a cup of black tea.

“In my homeland, black tea is quite popular compared to coffee. Do give it a try.”

Most people of Orléans, and indeed the majority across the continent, preferred coffee over tea. The propagation of tea and its associated culture had lagged behind coffee’s spread, failing to gain widespread acceptance amidst cultures already steeped in the coffee tradition. The higher cost of tea leaves had also been a deterrent, of course.

However, the Crown Princess’s homeland had a different history in this regard. After her foreign Princess grandmother had included tea leaves among her dowry, the aristocracy had adopted the tea-drinking custom.

“…Hmm…”

Scrutinizing the reddish-brown tea intently, Sibylla hesitated. Was it truly alright to consume this unfamiliar beverage?

“The aroma is… not unpleasant, at least.”

Well, it was unlikely to be poisoned.

Resolving her uncertainty, Sibylla took a tentative sip before immediately contorting her face in displeasure.

“The flavor is… rather peculiar.”

Even with her face concealed, Sibylla’s disgruntled tone made her distaste unmistakable as she set down the teacup.

To describe it as ‘peculiar’ was an understatement – her reaction clearly indicated the tea wasn’t to her liking at all. Unlike the familiar coffee she had grown accustomed to, black tea’s flavor was disconcertingly alien to Sibylla.

“Oh dear, it seems black tea doesn’t agree with your palate, Princess. Shall I have coffee brought instead?”

“There is no need, please don’t trouble yourself…”

An uncomfortable flavor. An uncomfortable aroma. An uncomfortable setting. An uncomfortable person.

Sibylla wished this tea party would conclude as swiftly as possible.

“Well then… shall we proceed to the main matter at hand?”

Yet the atmosphere hardly suggested it would end anytime soon. If anything, it had only grown more uncomfortable.

“First, I must inquire… are you satisfied with the maid I have appointed to your service?”

“…?”

For a moment, Sibylla couldn’t comprehend the Crown Princess’s subsequent remark.

“Ah, I hadn’t mentioned it.”

The Crown Princess’s gaze wasn’t directed toward the seated Sibylla, but rather at her maid Dorothy standing nearby.

“I employed her – Miss Gale, or rather… Arachne, as they say.”

“…Ah…”

Only then did Sibylla realize the ‘maid’ in question was Dorothy.

And simultaneously, she felt a twinge of doubt.

“…You did, Your Highness?”

Sibylla knew virtually nothing about the Crown Princess. She could scarcely discern even her own eldest brother’s inner thoughts, let alone those of someone she had no prior connection with.

Thus, she couldn’t fathom why the Crown Princess, rather than the Crown Prince himself, would have handpicked and assigned someone to attend her.

“…If I may speak somewhat indelicately, I am aware that Arachne had quite the infamous reputation in high society.”

Even the socially isolated Sibylla had overheard the widespread infamy of Arachne from her rapidly rotating cast of maids.

Give or take a month’s time, the cumulative gossip among some 30 maids who had either fled or newly arrived had invariably centered around those stories, the subject never changing despite the revolving faces. As an unwitting bystander, Sibylla couldn’t help finding the tales rather bemusing.

“Though I suspect Your Highness would know far better than I…”

As one residing at the heart of Orléans high society, the Crown Princess would undoubtedly have been more intimately acquainted with Arachne’s notorious reputation compared to the sheltered Sibylla.

So why had she assigned that infamous slum assassin, rather than a loyal servant like the chamberlain, to attend the cursed Princess whose life absolutely couldn’t be jeopardized?

“Well, as someone on the outside looking in, perhaps I should share an old tale…”

Brushing aside Sibylla’s probing with a playful deflection, the Crown Princess redirected the conversation.

“This may be an indelicate topic, but… you are aware the royal staff was reluctant to serve you directly, are you not, Princess?”

“…Yes.”

The destination for the newest, greenest recruits among novices – particularly those of meager pedigree from lower nobility or merchant households lacking illustrious backing.

Sibylla’s High Tower had been such an undesirable post – akin to a remote military outpost that none wished to be stationed at, if one were to use an analogy.

“With none willing to attend you, the opportunity ultimately fell to a slum assassin instead… not to mention certain rumors had reached me of threats against your life as well, Princess.”

Hence the pragmatic decision to entrust Arachne, whose deadly reputation was mitigated by her diligence in upholding contracts and ability to provide capable protection, with Sibylla’s safety as an auxiliary rationale…

“…Or so the official reasoning would suggest.”

At least, the publicly stated justification.

“The true reason I assigned Arachne to your service, Princess…”

After letting the suspense linger over her tea, the Crown Princess abruptly:

“…Hmm, I believe I shall end my tale there.”

“…Huh?”

Concluding with a smile, as if the matter were settled.

“What is the meaning of this…?”

One of the two surefire methods to infuriate someone – leaving them hanging midway through a conversation.

“Even to you, Princess, I can’t so freely divulge matters of grave national importance.”

“You can’t be serious…!!”

Unable to contain her indignation at the Crown Princess’s insouciant grin, Sibylla could only rise abruptly and storm off.

Yet despite Sibylla’s vehement protests, the Crown Princess remained unfazed, still smiling as she replied:

“Well, if we set aside the convoluted political circumstances and speak solely on a personal level… I do have faith in her.”

“In that infamous assassin?”

“No.”

Without warning, she placed an ashen cat with golden eyes wearing a tiny witch’s hat upon the table. A feline visage holding an uncannily familiar quality for both Sibylla and Dorothy.

“I’m sure you can discern whom I refer to. Ah, but this is no magical transformation – merely an ordinary cat styled in her semblance.”

Even unspoken, they could deduce whom the Crown Princess alluded to.

“The one Orléans call the Witch, that mischievous soul.”

Glinda to some. Éclair to others. And to the general Orléans populace, the Witch. And to some:

“She does possess a rather lovely name – Medea, is it not?”

Medea, to a certain few.

“…”

Silence enveloped the room for quite some time.

“…W-Wait, wait just a moment, did you just utter…”

Sibylla’s mind had momentarily blanked from the sheer shock of that name being invoked without any preamble. A name that should never be uttered in such a place.

No, a name that should never pass one’s lips anywhere within the borders of Orléans. That name was:

“S-Say that again. Say it again, I implore you.”

Praying she had merely misheard, anything but that cursed name having been spoken aloud.

Struggling to suppress the tremor in her voice, Sibylla beseeched the puzzlingly blinking Crown Princess to deny it, to refute having uttered that name.

“Medea.”

But Sibylla’s hopes were crushed, for her ears hadn’t deceived her.

“…Ah.”

The name that had passed the Crown Princess’s lips was indeed:

“Was I not meant to say that?”

The same as the witch who had inflicted the curse upon the royal bloodline.

* * *

“…”

Deep, pounding head pain – not quite a severe migraine, yet hardly ignorable discomfort.

That was how the witch awoke from her slumber, as if someone were rhythmically squeezing her temples.

“…Tsk, broad daylight.”

An utterly unpleasant sensation, she assessed. Like nails being driven into her skull.

Already suffering from sleep deprivation, being roused during the daytime hours when she would ordinarily still be sound asleep only compounded her foul mood.

“…No doubt some wench is slandering me behind my back again.”

Or perhaps some flapping jaw was carelessly gossiping about matters that didn’t concern them.

That was how her self-proclaimed friends and comrades typically behaved – motivated solely by amusement, forever ravenous for entertainment.

“Haah…”

Not that the witch couldn’t empathize with their mindset. Was she not forever chasing fleeting pleasures and delights herself, in an endless pursuit of indulgence?

It was an inevitability for those who had lived far beyond a normal human’s lifespan. Having experienced events that most would be fortunate to witness even once, over dozens or hundreds of repetitions, they gradually became desensitized – perpetually seeking more potent thrills to sate their ennui.

The witch was marginally better off in that regard, having managed to foster genuine attachment to someone, or rather something.

She had never anticipated developing such profound affections for a whimsical adoptive child, not even her own flesh and blood. Yet it was undoubtedly a far healthier circumstance than her supposed friends whose only remarkable trait was sheer longevity akin to tortoises.

“…Perhaps I should write a letter.”

To her adoptive son – no, daughter given his current form.

Entirely unaware of any occurrences at the palace, the witch had reached for a pen before pausing in contemplation, ultimately reclining once more.

“How dreadful, resorting to letters.”

The witch murmured, donning the faded golden pelt that had once shone with dazzling radiance as a shawl.

Chapter 46: How Should I Proceed? (illustration)

It hardly seemed an atmosphere conducive to continuing the tea party any further.

The soirée had concluded abruptly with the Crown Princess’s unilateral pronouncement and dismissal.

Yet Sibylla couldn’t even muster indignation at her arrogant demeanor, for her parting words hadn’t even registered as a proper farewell.

Without any prompting, Sibylla rose from her seat and fled the scene as if in retreat.

“Will you not attend her? It would be unwise to let the child you are meant to safeguard out of your sight.”

“…”

Nevertheless, Dorothy remained behind, silently regarding the Crown Princess with an owlish, penetrating stare.

“You are the Witch, are you not?”

“I don’t know what you speak.”

Undeterred by the Crown Princess’s feigned nonchalance, Dorothy’s unblinking gaze bored into her relentlessly.

“…I must say, Medea certainly doted upon you excessively for you to so brazenly invoke the name ‘Witch’ upon merely discerning it, with nary a shred of tact nor discretion.”

Unable to withstand that persistent scrutiny, the Crown Princess – no, the Witch – sighed as she donned the ivory witch’s hat that had been tucked beneath the table.

“Unfailingly addressing commoners like the Princess and chamberlain with honorifics, yet resorting to such discourteous informality with an elder many times your senior…”

“You have long since surpassed the age to concern yourselves with such trivialities, have you not? Both you and Éclair.”

With her signature peaked hat resembling Éclair’s (or her mother’s), coupled with her characteristic aura, the inscrutable ‘Crown Princess’ had reverted to her true, unvarnished self as the unremarkable, cantankerous Witch in the blink of an eye.

“So tell me, how did you see through my guise so swiftly?”

“Your eyes held the same sensation as Éclair’s.”

The jaded gaze of a world-weary, long-lived soul.

Beings so oversaturated by stimuli that they wander endlessly in pursuit of novel thrills to slake their parched yearning.

That was Éclair. That was the Witch.

“Your eyes were utterly vacant. Like a desiccated well, just as Éclair’s had been.”

Though she had changed somewhat since their first meeting, when Dorothy had encountered her, Éclair had been a hollowed husk ever chasing fleeting amusement, her very soul seeming thoroughly corrupted.

“Oho, I see why Medea took a liking to you. There’s something rather vexingly entertaining about that undercurrent that appeals to her, isn’t there?”

Chuckling merrily at Dorothy’s assessment, the Witch rose and approached her from across the table.

“You’re quite right, amusement is ultimately my sole driving force. Unlike that childish Medea who can be so easily charmed… I have an exceedingly high boiling point, so finding ways to stoke those simmering embers is quite the arduous affair, you see.”

The Witch’s amethyst eyes met Dorothy’s crimson ones – one pair glistening like the night sky yet utterly hollow within, the other obscured behind an impenetrable veil, appearing equally vacant.

“Every so often, embers that still smolder would emerge amidst human society and catch my intrigue. Even the person who became my husband was one such soul.”

“The Crown Prince hardly seems an amusing sort.”

“You would be correct, he is quite dreary. So dreadfully dull for a human that he paradoxically becomes entertaining.”

Crown Prince Charls’s demeanor had been utterly inhumane – it was uncertain if he even possessed the capacity for emotional sensations, his mechanistic coldness more akin to soulless machinery.

Yet that very aspect had piqued the Witch’s interest.

“Of all those I have borne witness to, that man most closely resembled Jason, that philandering so-called hero – save for his lack of promiscuity and ascetic lifestyle, along with an inability to conceal his true self from others.”

The era when Jason had lived was akin to myth, when myriad heroes had each woven their own epic saga. Thus the Witch, then called Aquileia but now Adelaide, had endlessly assumed new guises and identities seeking to recreate that same sense of awe.

“And Prince Louis, so diametrically opposed to his brother in every conceivable manner, proves equally entertaining in his own right.”

While not precisely as she had anticipated, the political strife within Orléans had provided sufficient spectacle, witnessing brothers pitted against one another in pursuit of their desires despite their ostensibly cordial ties having not completely deteriorated.

“But now… it has all become rather immaterial.”

Yet even that was inevitably bound to grow stale with repetition.

“For I have discovered far greater amusement.”

The Witch’s fingertips grazed Dorothy’s jawline.

“Even among witches, few spurn fables and tales of love as Medea did. Especially whimsical love stories akin to fairy tales.”

A seemingly perilous intimacy, yet Dorothy felt no seduction nor was swayed by the charged atmosphere.

It wasn’t for any disinterest or naivete regarding romance, but rather because the Witch’s eyes sparkled with the gleeful wonderment of a child discovering a new plaything.

“No matter how many times one indulges, such fanciful yarns never seem to lose their enchantment, do they?”

The target of her amorous allusions was unmistakable, even to the socially oblivious Dorothy.

“Thus I have decided to intervene, rather than dangle hints while feigning powerlessness like that coy Medea.”

“…It seems more an attempt to meddle than assist, from where I stand.”

“Does it, now?”

Withdrawing her hand from Dorothy’s jaw, the Witch returned to the table and deposited the feline that had been sitting there back onto the floor.

“I consider anchoring those who deny their own hearts and seek to flee a form of aid in its own right.”

“…Nonsense.”

The fairy tale romances witches coveted would likely never come to pass.

At least, that was Dorothy’s assessment, for no matter how fervently the witches might pray for it, daunting pragmatic obstacles loomed like an impregnable barrier.

“Come again.”

“I have no intentions of doing so unless the Princess graces this place once more.”

From the curt parting remark as the maid departed, the Witch discerned the unspoken meaning – ‘I don’t love her.’

Just when would that pathetic qualifier ‘not yet’ finally be appended to their bond?

Slowly or swiftly, it was inevitable that it would eventually.

“…Perhaps tormenting him directly might have held some amusement as well?”

Harrassing and taunting the one still retaining memories and vestiges of masculine identity from his former male self until he lost them entirely – that could have proven entertaining in its own right. And yet:

“No, no, that’s not it…”

Such paltry decadent indulgences were hardly necessary.

“For I believe you will undoubtedly…”

Provide far greater delight by unfolding a tale bound for a happy ending.

* * *

Locating Sibylla after her abrupt departure hadn’t been difficult, for her range of movement within the palace grounds was rather limited as of late.

While she had gradually increased her outdoor activities recently, the chamber she shared with Dorothy remained the locale where Sibylla spent most of her time confined within Hyperion’s palace walls.

“…Princess.”

As Dorothy had anticipated, Sibylla lay curled upon the bed in an armadillo-like ball, her body hunched inward.

“Princess, I have returned.”

“…”

Under normal circumstances, Sibylla would have promptly responded to Dorothy’s address unless she genuinely couldn’t hear.

Yet currently, Sibylla remained unresponsive, feigning slumber or unconsciousness.

“…I am well aware you are merely pretending to sleep, Princess. Have you forgotten who commanded me to share her bedchamber in Hyperion, and with whom?”

But such transparent ruses couldn’t deceive Dorothy, who had become intimately acquainted with Sibylla’s sleeping habits from lying beside her night after night.

“…Did you know? About her true identity?”

Ultimately abandoning her futile dissembling, Sibylla posed the question to Dorothy without even turning her head from where it lay buried in the pillow.

“No, I didn’t.”

Dorothy had been unaware of the Witch’s former name or the extent of her longevity.

The Witch’s tendency for spontaneously inventing new aliases on a whim, dismissing names as meaningless trivialities, had shaped Dorothy into someone utterly indifferent toward people’s names. Who could have anticipated that among her myriad appellations was one tantamount to anathema for the Orléans royals?

Her age was much the same – while Dorothy had sensed the Witch was considerably older than any ordinary human based on her childlike yet ageless appearance and mannerisms, she could never have foreseen it reaching back to the Kingdom’s foundational myths.

“…Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Sibylla accepted Dorothy’s explanation with a somber tone, for even if one was a parent’s child, it was unreasonable to expect a mere human unbounded by blood relation to comprehend the true nature and lifespan of an entity defying conventional wisdom.

“And yet… hatred doesn’t diminish so easily.”

Yet for Sibylla, whose life had been utterly ruined by the Witch Medea’s curse, she could never regard her or her adoptive child Dorothy with anything but revulsion.

Was she not the one responsible for this withered, cursed form, for inflicting such unspeakable torment upon her?

…And yet.

“…Even so, I can’t bring myself to hate you.”

Sibylla’s heart, already harboring love for Dorothy, found itself caught between two diametrically opposed sentiments. Unable to reconcile love and hatred, her emotions had ground to a halt like a rudderless ship adrift upon the open sea.

“If only, if only…”

If only she could have utterly forsaken that fleeting joy to embrace pure hatred, or conversely bury the past to fully embrace love.

How much simpler that would have been.

“…Give me time.”

Sibylla required time. Time to collect her thoughts and sort through her turbulent emotions.

“…Yes, I understand.”

Perceiving Sibylla’s intentions, Dorothy exited the chamber of her own volition, not at her master’s command.

Chapter 47: The Wolf (illustration)

Since developing affections for her, Sibylla had never once doubted Dorothy Gale’s innocence.

She could attest to it – even during that period when she had striven to deny and disregard her burgeoning feelings, Dorothy’s purity itself had been unquestionable.

A blindly devoted, simpleminded maid who tended to Sibylla more diligently than anyone solely due to her assignment.

Her manner had been too sincere to chalk up as mere monetary motivation, and she lacked any ulterior motives that would indicate duplicity.

No matter how lucrative the payment, no matter what hidden agendas existed, those could hardly outweigh one’s life, could they?

Thus, Sibylla believed Dorothy’s words – that she truly had been unaware of the Witch’s former name and true identity.

It was hardly a subject she would take interest in, and their bond, intimate yet lacking complete mutual understanding akin to family, reinforced her belief.

Moreover, Dorothy’s inability to deceive had already been amply demonstrated. If her words had been lies, she would have surely betrayed some telling sign.

An uninvolved adoptee ignorant of her benefactress’s identity, bound only by her commission yet devoted to safeguarding her master with her very life.

“…And yet I vowed to change…”

Despite knowing this, Sibylla found herself unable to wholly love Dorothy any longer.

“Medea, Medea, Medea…”

The root cause who had sent Sibylla’s life plummeting into the abyss, one she could never mete out sufficient vengeance upon no matter how savagely she retaliated.

How could she unreservedly love the adoptive child of that bitter enemy?

The virulent hatred Sibylla had harbored toward that unseen centuries-old adversary remained undiminished even after glimpsing her face. Even after receiving her aid.

No, that very aid had only amplified Sibylla’s resentment toward the Witch.

How utterly ridiculous it must have been when the cursed victim whom she had afflicted came seeking her assistance. How amusing to dangle vague hints through obfuscating wordplay while reveling in her desperation.

She had likely known everything from the start as the curse’s perpetrator. Perhaps those ‘hints’ had been mere meaningless word salads all along. Could Dorothy have been unaware, given how unlikely it was for one the Witch so despised – a descendant of the royal lineage she had doomed – to gain her favor?

And it was only natural for Sibylla’s hatred and resentment toward the Witch to taint her feelings toward the intimately associated Dorothy.

While a parent’s sins couldn’t automatically be ascribed to their child, especially an adopted rather than biological one, human emotions were seldom so resolute nor rational.

Despite understanding it was unjustified, seeds of doubt began sprouting within Sibylla’s heart, corroding the trust in Dorothy she had once deemed immutable.

“…No.”

No matter how fervently she attempted to purge those insidious misgivings infiltrating her thoughts, once tainted, her heart couldn’t be easily cleansed a second time.

“…”

Unable to withstand the surging deluge of negative emotions any longer, Sibylla rose, hoping the outside air might provide a calming reprieve from her turbulent inner turmoil.

* * *

What should she do?

How could she untangle the knots binding her master’s heart?

Leaning against the chamber door with her head bowed, Dorothy pondered their increasingly complex predicament.

The painstakingly accumulated foundation of trust between them had been thoroughly shattered. The bridge connecting them obliterated without a trace by the abrupt tempest.

Dorothy understood the profound implications better than anyone, for what manner of master-servant dynamic could function without mutual trust? It would be an exceedingly fragile, ephemeral bond prone to shattering at any moment.

A servant who didn’t trust their master could betray them at any moment. Conversely, a master who didn’t trust their servant could discard them on a whim.

Dorothy harbored no particular ill will toward Sibylla, for she was undeniably the victim in this matter. But what of Sibylla’s perspective?

“An untrustworthy servant…”

The master held dominance while the servant remained subservient – an intrinsically imbalanced power dynamic where Sibylla and the royal lineage indisputably held the advantage over Dorothy.

If dissatisfied with her servant’s conduct or capabilities, the mistress possessed the unilateral authority to terminate their contract. Should Sibylla nurture negative sentiments toward Dorothy, she could dismiss her at any moment.

While such an extreme outcome seemed unlikely, if that worst-case scenario did transpire, Dorothy would have no recourse but to silently depart with her belongings.

“…I can’t allow that.”

It was a future Dorothy fervently wished to avoid.

Would it not be unjust to be expelled despite having committed no wrongdoing?

Yet the royal family possessed that prerogative. No, they could even put her to death without it being considered overstepping bounds. More versed in fables and lore than most, Dorothy understood the grave implications the name ‘Medea’ held within Orléans better than anyone.

What could she do to regain Sibylla’s trust? Grappling fruitlessly with that unanswerable quandary-

“Miss Gale?”

A familiar voice reached Dorothy’s ears.

“…Prince Louis?”

Raising her head in response to the voice, Dorothy’s eyes indeed fell upon the Prince himself.

“Why are you lingering out here? Will you not enter…?”

“…It is nothing, Your Highness.”

Deeming there no reason to divulge the situation’s intricacies to a third party, Dorothy fell silent.

“…You quarreled with Sibylla, didn’t you?”

Yet even Dorothy’s exercise of discretion couldn’t conceal the truth from the discerning Prince, though he hardly required her admission.

“Mmm… might I have a word, Miss Gale?”

Extending his hand toward the sullen, morose Dorothy exuding a palpably gloomy aura, the Prince remarked:

“You wish to reconcile with her, don’t you? Allow me to enlighten you on how to achieve that.”

Dangling an irresistible lure before Dorothy’s very eyes.

* * *

“…”

Ultimately, Sibylla had ventured outside once more, this time alone in the gardens.

It was the gloaming hour when the sun’s last vestiges tinged the horizon in fiery red hues. Bathed in that blazing amber glow, the gardens seemed unusually desolate compared to their typical splendor.

“Haah…”

Heaving a weary sigh, Sibylla sought a relatively secluded spot away from prying eyes, for lingering in plain view would only invite unpleasant scrutiny – something she could ill afford at present.

To be sure, ‘relatively secluded’ was a relative term, for palace security had been drastically tightened following the recent incident. Royal guards patrolled the palace grounds and gardens in groups, while servants diligently monitored even areas they rarely frequented, vigilantly watching for any suspicious individuals.

“…”

Their heightened precautions were understandable, for after not one but two members of the royal family had narrowly escaped assassination attempts, lax security could prove catastrophic.

Yet their presence did little to soothe Sibylla’s turbulent mindset. If anything, it only served as an unwanted distraction hampering her attempts to regain her composure.

Unable to dismiss them outright yet unwilling to completely tune out their activities, Sibylla crouched before a flowerbed, studying the delicate new blooms just beginning to unfurl their fragile petals.

How recently had they been planted for these budding flowers to appear so minuscule and frail? One careless touch could easily snap their tender stems.

“…?”

Unconsciously reaching toward the stems, Sibylla froze mid-motion.

Why had she instinctively moved to pluck these fledgling blossoms?

“…What appalling lack of compassion.”

Dismayed at her own reflexive cruelty toward such defenseless new life, Sibylla chided herself wryly.

“Have you truly deteriorated to envying flowers before they can fully bloom, Sibylla Thérèse?”

Like an unsightly entity begrudging beauty, she had nearly severed those pristine flowers in their infancy out of sheer spite.

Expressing a derisive, hollow laugh at her own deplorable pettiness surpassing even that of flora, Sibylla wondered. Had her turmoil inadvertently manifested such violent impulses, or had the shocking revelation merely catalyzed her long-simmering resentment toward the world into erupting with greater virulence?

As Sibylla wallowed in self-loathing over her pitiful circumstances, the tell-tale clanking of approaching footsteps announced another’s arrival.

“Princess Sibylla.”

“…What is it? Guards.”

Recognizing the unmistakable sounds without needing to turn, Sibylla addressed the newcomers as royal guards.

“Is it not time you returned indoors? The sun shall set presently.”

“…I am well aware.”

Indeed, the waning sun had nearly vanished beyond the horizon, the previously blazing crimson sky steadily fading into dusklight.

While Orléans’s climate was relatively warm and currently amidst summer, night temperatures could plummet drastically enough to risk catching chills – not an unlikely prospect for Sibylla in her current vulnerable state.

“I shall retire of my own accord, so attend to your duties.”

Sibylla had intended to return to her chambers before much longer regardless, even if it meant potentially encountering Dorothy again. It was hardly as if she could simply spend the night on a bench to avoid her.

“…?”

Yet the lingering shadows and sounds despite her dismissal roused Sibylla’s suspicions.

“Did I not instruct you to withdraw, guar-“

The words died on Sibylla’s lips as she turned, cut off by-

“-!!”

A dull thud as a jarring impact struck her head.

“Tsk, was aiming to knock you out in one blow… Hey there, sis’.”

Leveling a cudgel at the dazed Sibylla, the rogue guard addressed some unseen figure while Sibylla’s head swam from the vicious blow.

“Shall we flee for now? This uniform is far too stifling.”

Following his line of sight as she struggled to remain conscious, Sibylla’s blurring vision beheld:

A crimson-haired reaper from the depths of hell itself.

“…!!!”

Before the terror-stricken Sibylla could even think to cry for aid, the Slave Prince’s savage kick crashed against her skull, the world fading to black.

Chapter 48: Sincerity

“Do you enjoy coffee?”

“…No, not particularly.”

Having been rather hastily led to the Prince’s chambers, Dorothy wore a perplexed frown.

While she had ended up following him here, was this truly appropriate? Perhaps it would be better to depart now…

“Then what about wine?”

“…I do enjoy it, but…”

Before her eyes glistened an alluringly crimson vintage.

Noting Dorothy’s instantaneous shift in expression at the mere sight of the wine, the Prince let slip a wry smile.

“…Would it not be unbecoming for a man and woman to imbibe alcohol privately? Surely unsavory rumors would spread.”

Yet after narrowly suppressing the temptation evoked by the long-unseen libation, Dorothy swiftly explained why partaking would be inadvisable.

For a member of the royal family and a mere maidservant to share drinks in private quarters would undoubtedly breed scandal. Potentially escalating into a grave controversy.

“I suppose you are correct. Then we shall postpone sampling any wine until another occasion.”

Smiling sheepishly at Dorothy’s prudent admonition, the Prince reclined and popped a grape from the basket upon his desk into his mouth.

“Then… might I inquire what had left you appearing so forlorn earlier?”

“…”

Dorothy hesitated. Could she trust this man?

If one were to dichotomize matters into good and evil categories, the Prince would undoubtedly be among the righteous. Both subjectively and objectively.

Yet virtuous individuals didn’t necessarily abstain from wrongdoing. Dorothy had witnessed parents who doted upon their children even while starving ultimately succumb and sell them off, or witnessed the impoverished selflessly aiding others abruptly transform into vicious usurers.

Would this man truly prove any different?

One who possessed everything. One renowned for his philanthropic generosity. One whom any observer would deem thoroughly benevolent.

Even such an individual – could he truly be trusted?

“If you would prefer not to speak of it, you need not force yourself. As I mentioned, I have no intentions of coercing you.”

Seeming to discern Dorothy’s reservations, the Prince made a dismissive gesture as he settled into a more relaxed posture.

“Then shall I simply assume some manner of disagreement arose between you and Princess Sibylla, and proffer my advice based on that premise?”

“…As you wish, Your Highness.”

“Hmm… now what would be best… what counsel might enable you and Sibylla to reconcile amicably…”

Closing his eyes in contemplation, the Prince muttered beneath his breath as he grappled with the conundrum.

“…I apologize, but no decisive solution comes to mind. As an outsider attempting to mediate a dispute… well, one could argue I too am embroiled in a ‘disagreement’ of sorts with my own brother…”

Offering Dorothy a rueful smile alongside his apology for his inability to provide a clear resolution.

“A ‘disagreement’…”

“Yes, a power struggle. Deploying words, wealth and every manner of underhanded tactic to gain an advantage over the other instead of crossing blades.”

Dorothy was well aware of the overt tensions between the Crown Prince’s supporters and the Second Prince’s adherents.

The guards and servants alike constantly discussed the two brothers, so no matter where one wandered within the palace, those exchanges permeated every corner.

“Indeed, I am aware their rift has grown quite pronounced.”

Few could claim true neutrality, save for the chamberlain.

While the chamberlain’s unquestioning fealty to the monarchy excused his impartiality, convention dictated that all palace staff, whether servants or guards, were to maintain strict neutrality. Though even the chamberlain had overtly supported the current King in his youth, rendering that protocol effectively moot.

“It has widened considerably… yes, for my supporters couldn’t be more diametrically opposed to my brother’s in every conceivable manner.”

Those backing the Crown Prince were the capitalists, the military, and by extension the regional nobility who controlled the bulk of the armed forces. The emerging new powers seeking to overthrow the establishment and seize their entrenched privileges.

Conversely, the Prince’s adherents were the central nobility who had long served under and indulged in the monarchy’s wealth and prestige – the quintessential privileged class.

“Not that I particularly wished to endear myself to them, but…”

In fact, the Prince was among those who held the central nobility in disfavor. Perhaps even more so than the Crown Prince.

Those aware of the Prince’s exceedingly liberal leanings and unparalleled concern for the underprivileged found the central nobility’s allegiance to him puzzling.

“Well… I suppose my brother is simply that abhorrent to them.”

The central nobility’s motivations for siding with the Second Prince were quite simple. While he wouldn’t actively turn his blade against them, the Crown Prince most assuredly wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

The current King had ascended amidst turbulent unrest, the preceding political upheaval and bloodshed essentially devastating the collateral royal lineages that had served as the traditional praetorian guard.

Bereft of that core support base, the King had opted for the central nobility as a stopgap substitute, their influence swelling over his reign.

The Crown Prince sought to curb the nobility’s resurgent power and reclaim their privileges, wielding the capitalists and military as his new sword and shield in place of the collateral royals.

Conversely, the nobility coveted retaining the authority they had accrued following the King’s descent into insanity, gravitating toward cultivating ties with the more affable Second Prince less likely to bear arms against them.

“Truthfully, I hold little interest in the throne myself. Even as a famed war hero whose claim supersedes my own, I doubt my ability to best him.”

His sincerity was palpable.

“If anything, my brother is far more suited to rule. He is one who could unhesitatingly draw his blade against even his own kin…”

And this too was undoubtedly sincere.

“…Then why does Your Highness oppose the Crown Prince?”

Gazing into his utterly guileless eyes, Dorothy inadvertently voiced the obvious question – if his words were entirely truthful, why did he challenge his brother’s claim?

“…Because I love my family.”

And the response to her query was equally sincere.

“…”

Having encountered all manner of eccentric individuals throughout her life, Dorothy couldn’t recall anyone more perplexing than this man.

Watching the Prince, she wondered. If everything he said was truly heartfelt, then were his actions not utterly self-contradictory?

Harboring no ambitions for the throne yet acknowledging his brother as the worthier sovereign, loving his family yet pitting himself against the Crown Prince and aligning with the ill-suited central nobility.

Could a more paradoxical individual even exist?

“…Ah, and here I was supposed to be lending you counsel, only to burden you with my own lamentations instead. My apologies for wasting your time.”

“…No, it’s alright. Then I shall take my leave.”

“Very well.”

No sooner than receiving the Prince’s assent did Dorothy swiftly rise and stride toward the exit, for any further contemplation of this enigmatic man would surely induce only worsening migraines.

“As I mentioned before… I entrust Sibylla’s wellbeing to your care.”

The Prince’s parting remark fell upon deaf ears, for:

“…??”

The moment Dorothy exited the Prince’s quarters, a cacophony of commotion assailed her senses.

“What is this uproar? Why is everyone in such a frenzy…”

“You haven’t heard? Well…”

Hurried footsteps and voices melded into a dissonant roar that Dorothy instinctively homed in on.

“The royal guards were found stripped down to their undergarments with their necks snapped. Even the captain of the guards was slain, or so they say?”

“You mean Captain Phoebus? But who could have…?”

At last, the source of the tumult became evident.

“Does it truly matter what became of those paltry guards? The Princess has vanished!”

A decidedly unpleasant revelation.

* * *

“…”

“…”

A skull-splitting migraine.

Amidst the pounding agony, Sibylla’s ears strained to pick up the muffled voices gradually resolving into audible clarity as she regained consciousness.

“So then… the ransom…”

“No matter… how much…”

As the sounds crystallized, Sibylla forced her heavy eyelids apart through sheer willpower.

Her blurry, fog-shrouded vision steadily sharpened into focus, her fingertips regaining sensation, until:

“Oh, she’s awake?”

Accompanied by an unfamiliar voice, Sibylla’s prone body was abruptly flipped over.

“Got yer wits about ya now, Princess? Now then… what was yer name again?”

“Ain’t it some kinda bitch or whore or sumthin’?”

“A bitch is yer sister, ya daft c**t. What kinda sick f**k names their own daughter ‘Bitch’?”

Their derisive tones and contemptuous conduct were utterly unbefitting when addressing a Princess of the realm.

To Sibylla’s clearing eyes, their slovenly appearances were indistinguishable from mere beggars.

“Heard our King went plumb crazy, didn’t I?”

“If his daughter was cursed mad, he’d’ve named ‘er before gettin’ that way. Ain’t no ‘Bitch’, more like Sib… Siby… sumthin’ like that, I reckon…”

Utterly disregarding their captive, the filthy vagrants mocked Sibylla’s name.

“…!”

As she strained to protest their effrontery despite her voiceless state, a remarkably cultured voice cut through the raucous jeers – one strikingly out of place in these squalid environs.

“Her name is Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans. Not ‘Bitch’ or any such vulgarities.”

“Treat her with respect befitting an esteemed guest.”

“Well I’ll be, if it ain’t our lord ‘imself.”

The owner of that refined tone who entered Sibylla’s field of vision seemed no less slovenly than the others at first glance.

Yet despite his bedraggled guise, an unmistakable aura precluded Sibylla from dismissing him as some random beggar. He exuded a distinct presence that defied his unsightly countenance.

“A pleasure to meet you, Princess Sibylla.”

Extending his hand with a courteous smile, the man introduced himself:

“I am Clopân Trouillefou, the King of the Court of Miracles.”

Chapter 49: The Court of Miracles (illustration)

The Court of Miracles.

A manor of considerable size for the slums, located in the southwestern district of Hyperion’s impoverished quarters.

Once a royal villa that had fallen into abandonment for unknown reasons, this estate had been occupied by the most destitute and powerless dregs languishing at the very bottom of society’s food chain.

Why had the lowliest of the slum’s downtrodden claimed one of the better-situated and more spacious facilities in the area?

Because its owner had willed it so.

The eccentric Clopân Trouillefou.

Having seized the vacant manor he christened the Court of Miracles, he transformed it into a sanctuary for the ailing and enfeebled.

None dared defy his decision, for the monarchy that held the estate’s legal ownership had long since relinquished any stake in the Court of Miracles.

Where laws held no sway, strength became the only law that mattered – and the Court of Miracles’s mandate had been established solely through Clopân’s personal dominion.

Few knew the true nature of this individual called Clopân Trouillefou, for how could one discern the identity of one who constantly shifted their age, appearance and even gender?

Manifesting as an elderly crone one moment, a young child the next. A strapping man, then a delicate maiden.

Whether a slovenly beggar or regal matron, all claimed the same name when presenting themselves, leaving onlookers utterly bewildered as to who or what the sovereign of the Court of Miracles truly was.

Was it a single prodigy displaying myriad talents, or numerous individuals alternating usage of the same moniker?

Either possibility existed, yet the truth mattered little – male or female, old or young, Clopân was Clopân.

And the Clopân currently before Sibylla was but one of the myriad guises this sovereign of the Court of Miracles had assumed.

“…You are… no, were a man…”

Only after fully appraising this form and hearing that voice did Sibylla realize the strapping physique was merely an ensemble of cloak, mask and padded garments concealing a woman’s svelte frame.

“Oh dear, it seems I have been found out. My humble guise must seem rather shoddy to outside eyes.”

Momentarily pausing at Sibylla’s observation, Clopân swiftly shed the unconvincing masculine affectations with a perfunctory flick of her left arm.

“Well then, Princess? Am I more presentable in this form?”

Like a butterfly emerging from its pupal casing, Sibylla mused.

For the beauty unveiled after discarding that outlandish, nigh-comical disguise was so resplendent that the butterfly analogy seemed inadequate.

“…Is your right arm like that naturally…?”

“Ah, this?”

The sole flaw marring her appearance was her right arm bent at an unnatural angle.

“I lost my original arm long ago and have no choice but to use this prosthetic in its stead. Though I fear this low-quality model tends to malfunction and contort rather frequently.”

Offering Sibylla an abashed smile, Clopân deftly removed and reattached the wayward prosthetic limb.

“But enough about that. Given our fortuitous reunion, might I propose we engage in some pleasant conversation? It’s not often even I have the chance to converse with an Orléans Princess, after all.”

“…What is your aim?”

Despite Clopân’s amicable manner, Sibylla held no inclination to engage her in dialogue.

“Oh dear, it seems you have formed rather an unfavorable impression of me.”

“I asked what your intention is.”

An understandable reaction, for Sibylla had been abducted.

Having been ambushed and rendered unconscious within the palace grounds she had assumed were secure, only to awaken in this strange locale. No wonder her guard was raised to its utmost.

Moreover, her abductor was none other than the Slave Prince, an assassin who had previously made attempts on her life. Under such circumstances, her wariness was only natural.

“I have no particular intentions of my own. If anyone harbors ulterior motives, it would be the one who brought you here.”

Clopân gestured toward a familiar crimson-haired figure.

“You were delivered to this place by that woman over there. Apparently her original intention was to slay you outright, but she recently received new instructions from her master to refrain from thoughtlessly ending your life for the time being.”

Disregarding Sibylla’s trembling lips as she recoiled in terror, Clopân continued her explanation.

“For whatever reason, I have received an advance payment to ensure your cooperation as well.”

Separate from the purely altruistic motives that had driven Clopân to establish the Court of Miracles as a haven for the meek, she harbored an innate fondness for money.

Not out of greed or self-interest, but because maintaining the Court of Miracles’s operations required funding.

“If word spread that I was holding a member of the royal family for ransom, it would undoubtedly bode ill for us all.”

“When have relations between us and the monarchy ever boded well?”

Clopân’s demeanor remained nonchalant, as if utterly unconcerned about potential repercussions should the truth come to light.

Within the Court of Miracles, status, honor and all such distinctions held no meaning. Whether a diseased outcast or the youngest Princess of Orléans, all were treated as equals expected to conduct themselves accordingly.

“But fret not, I shall ensure no undue harm befalls you. In fact, I vow that none within these walls shall lay a hand upon the Princess.”

“…And how can I believe that?”

“Then let me pose this question instead: so what if you don’t believe me?”

“…”

She was rendered speechless, for having set foot within the Court of Miracles, Sibylla could exert no leverage over Clopân through argument or force.

“Rest assured, inflicting harm upon others is strictly prohibited within the Court of Miracles.”

“…And you expect that assassin to uphold such rules?”

“Well, we’ll have to see about that.”

And the same held true for Ruslan as well.

* * *

The sudden disappearance of Princess Sibylla had sown chaos extending well beyond the palace’s walls.

“You can’t be serious. Are you claiming the Princess’s abductor is that assassin from Lombardy?”

“Indeed, that is what has been confirmed.”

Even the central nobility supporting Prince Louis had been caught off-guard by Ruslan’s unilateral actions undertaken without any prior consultation or notification.

“If she had the opportunity, she should have slain the Princess outright – what is the meaning of this abduction nonsense?”

“The reason is detailed in this letter here. Read it yourselves.”

With an expression far more sour than usual, his already heavily lined face contorted into a pronounced scowl, Marquis Vallière tossed a letter onto the center of the table.

“A letter, you say…”

“One from Königsberg. Or put more plainly, a missive from the assassin’s own master.”

Even before reading its contents, the Marquis’s flagrantly negative demeanor – an amalgam of rage and despondency – indicated the letter boded nothing positive for those present.

“…’Listen up, you Lombardian savage wench, and pass this on to those Orléans pigs. If you dare ignore the contract again, plotting schemes on your own, or showing disrespect to my beloved Prince, it won’t be the Princess whose head will roll, but yours’… The insolent wretch.”

Upon reading the letter aloud, the gathered nobles’ expressions gradually mirrored the Marquis’s own distressed visage, each reacting with their own uniquely indignant variations.

“Th-This audacity, this is why those Lombardian savages…!!!!”

As Orléans central nobles hailing from illustrious aristocratic lineages, these men possessed lofty pride in both their own personas and dynastic pedigrees.

For such arrogant individuals to receive a letter laced with vulgar expletives from those they had looked down upon as Lombardian barbarians was an utterly unacceptable affront.

“That wretched, crimson-haired bitch should be apprehended and executed forthwith!”

“Restrain yourselves, our objective remains paramount.”

“You would simply overlook this intolerable insult? I can’t, I absolutely can’t abide such indignity!!!”

“These matters can be addressed once our endeavor concludes…!!”

Marquis Vallière felt like weeping. What transgression had he committed to warrant such torment?

He had faithfully upheld his end of the contract by entrusting all matters to the Slave Prince. It had been the other nobles, not him, who had grown impatient and schemed separate contingencies due to their distrust.

True, he had hurled insults and even doused the Slave Prince with wine after their initial failure, venting his frustrations. But was it not his prerogative as an employer to voice some dissent after compensating the assassin?

Moreover, the complaint from Königsberg had been addressed solely to Marquis Vallière, the one who had scrupulously honored the contract’s terms aside from that singular outburst.

Thus, Marquis Vallière resented his ranting compatriots whose unruly conduct had subjected him to such demeaning abuse. If anyone deserved to vent their ire, it should have been him who had been labeled a ‘pig’ – why were they the ones raving?

“Marquis Vallière, since you engaged her services, the responsibility falls upon you. You understand, don’t you?”

“…”

Yet the reality was that by commissioning the assassin’s employ, the ensuing liability naturally fell upon the instigator as well.

Having sacrificed his wealth, honor and everything in pursuit of this endeavor, Marquis Vallière felt an overwhelming sense of bitterness toward the world’s cruel injustice.

As raucous shouts continued echoing through the nobles’ clandestine meeting chamber:

“…Princess.”

A single maid desperately scoured the streets in search of her missing mistress.

Tl/note: Oh my, so many references, and so many genderbent characters, it becomes increasingly difficult to translate and keep in mind as well as on screen who is what gender with their male names ughh. Therefore, if you find mistakes or inconsistencies, please indicate them, thank you!

Chapter 50: The Obedient One

Tl/note: 

I want to mention a few things about the difficulties of translating this novel, especially when it comes to the gender-bender elements (particularly when Ruslan is mentioned – he’s my nightmare). It’s not a simple task because of the different perceptions of Ruslan’s gender by various characters: when Dorothy talks about him; others who don’t know his circumstances and perceive him as a woman; and the author’s narration.

To handle this, I’ll be using the following approach:

In the author’s narration and Dorothy’s thoughts and dialogues, I’ll refer to Ruslan as a man using masculine pronouns (he/him/his) because Dorothy knows his true identity, and the author uses masculine pronouns too;

In the dialogues of other characters who perceive Ruslan as a woman, I’ll use gender-neutral pronouns (they/them/their) to maintain the ambiguity of Ruslan’s gender from their perspective while avoiding misgendering.

I hope it won’t be confusing, but if there are parts you don’t understand, please let me know, and I’ll do my best to clarify and retranslate them.

She shouldn’t have averted her gaze. No matter what orders she had received, she should have stubbornly remained by her side.

Without a moment’s hesitation to bemoan her own complacency which had invited this calamity, Dorothy burst out of the palace grounds in blind panic.

Ever since Prince Louis’s previous ambush, palace security had been drastically tightened – royal guards patrolled the vicinity in groups ranging from three to seven, their frequency incomparable to the previous lax rotations.

If Sibylla had been abducted by clandestinely overpowering such heightened security measures, it implied the perpetrators either outnumbered the guards, outmatched them in strength, or had an inside accomplice within the palace itself.

One of those three scenarios, or perhaps even all three working in conjunction, Dorothy surmised. What was certain was that if the royal guards had failed to prevent this, it was undoubtedly a daunting crisis.

“…The Slave Prince…”

Dorothy concluded the Slave Prince was definitely involved, for among the individuals she recognized, he was the sole confirmed threat to Sibylla’s life who also possessed exceptional combat prowess exceeding most skilled combatants.

As for his motive in abducting rather than outright slaying her, she could only speculate – perhaps he had received conflicting instructions from his master, or a dispute had arisen with his clients. Given the Slave Prince’s unflinching obedience to orders, it seemed unlikely he would instigate such friction of his own volition, but the same couldn’t be said of his master’s intentions.

Yet Dorothy could hardly remain idle spectating, for who knew when the Slave Prince might change his mind and execute Sibylla? To simply dawdle while that looming threat persisted would constitute an unconscionable dereliction of her duties as Sibylla’s maid and protector.

By any means necessary, she had to recover Sibylla as swiftly as possible. Her sense of urgency propelled Dorothy’s restless steps ever onward.

“Has anyone seen a woman with crimson hair… hah…”

But her efforts proved fruitless, for women with reddish tresses weren’t uncommon sights, and an assassin of the Slave Prince’s caliber would undoubtedly avoid drawing undue attention while on an assignment.

“…Damn it.”

Gnawing her lower lip until it bled while venting her frustrations by aimlessly kicking a nearby wall, Dorothy finally sensed the lingering gaze that had persisted for some time and whirled to address its source.

“Y-You there, are you p-perhaps searching for Princess Sibylla as well?”

Yet her wariness promptly dissipated upon recognizing the eerily familiar face that materialized from the shadowed alley.

“You… Esmeralda.”

“…That giant from before…?”

The grotesquely deformed hunchback Quasimodo approached with heavy, lumbering footfalls befitting his massive stature, calling out to Dorothy with an urgent expression.

“Ah, I, I am rather h-hard of hearing, so c-conversation may be difficult. Th-Therefore, please keep your w-words brief and concise.”

Words he absolutely had to convey, words he couldn’t refrain from imparting.

“I, I saw Princess Sibylla.”

“!?”

An abrupt, unexpected ally barging onto the stage like a clown.

“Is, is that true?”

Though Dorothy’s own voice didn’t reach Quasimodo’s ears, her intent resonated with him nonetheless.

“F-Follow me.”

Thus, he readily offered his assistance to Dorothy’s plight.

“…”

And the lingering gaze observing their exchange swiftly vanished into the night once more.

* * *

“…”

“…”

This, some might call an intimate encounter with the enemy.

Under Ruslan’s relentless, unblinking glare from where she crouched opposite, Sibylla felt an immense burden weighing upon her.

“…Is there something you wish to say?”

“…”

Attempting to ignore him only drew more overt fixation, yet engaging him in conversation seemed equally futile given their dearth of common interests coupled with Ruslan’s taciturn nature.

A conversational partner offering neither satisfaction nor incentive to interact.

Moreover, the lingering negative sentiments and trepidation from their previous clashes shackled Sibylla’s resolve.

“If you have nothing to say, then why do you continue staring at me unceasingly?”

“Surveillance.”

The first word Ruslan uttered was curt yet resolute.

“…Haah…”

Though she hadn’t expected any meaningful discourse, this woman’s thought process truly remained impenetrable.

With the atmosphere growing increasingly strained, Sibylla shifted her seating posture while furrowing her brow in discomfort.

“Oh, and where might your cohorts be?”

Then, recalling the man who had aided Ruslan, Sibylla posed another question.

The one who had either stolen or plundered royal guard uniforms to mislead her into the ambush.

Yet that man was nowhere to be seen within the Court of Miracles’s confines. Even scrutinizing her unfamiliar surroundings, his face remained absent.

“…Cohorts? …Ah.”

After initially lowering his head in contemplation at Sibylla’s query, Ruslan eventually nodded with a curt utterance, seeming to comprehend whom Sibylla referred to as his ‘cohorts.’

“They are…”

* * *

“Just what in the world is this…?”

Following Quasimodo’s guidance, the harrowing sight Dorothy beheld upon arriving was one of utter carnage.

“Th-Those are c-companions of the crimson-haired woman, who abducted the Princess…”

“He certainly didn’t treat his associates gently. The Slave Prince, I take it…”

Sprawled amid the desolate back alley were the bloodied corpses of men clad in royal guard uniforms.

The grisly scene of mangled bodies strewn about the bloodstained narrow lane was utterly macabre.

“I, I don’t know w-why the woman slew them. I merely h-happened to witness it from the b-bell tower by chance.”

The Slave Prince had likely anticipated no witnesses in this secluded locale when disposing of his cohorts. Indeed, the area where the bodies had been discovered was sparsely populated and concealed from prying eyes.

Yet that very location happened to be near the cathedral where, by happenstance, Quasimodo had been perched atop the bell tower at that very moment. A convergence of factors the Slave Prince could scarcely have foreseen.

However, Quasimodo couldn’t discern why the conflict had erupted or the Slave Prince’s reasons for slaying her erstwhile companions, for even if he had been on the ground rather than the tower, his deafness would have precluded comprehending the circumstances.

“Th-Then they promptly fled toward the s-slums. That woman, d-definitely the slums.”

“…”

Carefully examining and rifling through the corpses, Dorothy lapsed into contemplation.

“…These men are not from Orléans.”

A letter discovered clutched in one man’s hand, penned in a foreign language distinctly not Orléans.

“They are from Lombardy.”

Dorothy could decipher the letter’s contents, instantly recognizing the vernacular as Lombardian.

“Was the Slave Prince not the one who hired these assassins, but their mutual client…? If so, why would he then eliminate them…”

Dorothy deduced this couldn’t have been a mere emotional clash, for the Slave Prince she knew was virtually devoid of volatile temperaments or turbulent mood swings surpassing any ordinary person.

Which only left the conclusion that his actions had been undertaken on his master’s orders.

For some unspecified reason, the Slave Prince’s employer had fallen into conflict with whomever had hired this assassination unit from Lombardy, prompting him to faithfully carry out his master’s directives by purging the other assassins.

Or alternatively, following Sibylla’s abduction, the Slave Prince had diverged significantly in his approach, deeming these other assassins as hindrances to his own objectives and subsequently eliminating them all.

Either possibility seemed plausible, separate from the question of whether such conduct could even be considered justifiable.

“…Thank you for your help.”

And if the Slave Prince’s intentions did indeed lean toward preserving Sibylla’s life, then Dorothy still harbored a glimmer of hope.

“O-Over there!!”

As Dorothy bowed her head to take her leave, Quasimodo called out to halt her departure.

“L-Let me accompany you as well. Though I may n-not appear so, I can still c-contribute in my own way…”

His plea to allow him to provide further aid.

“…”

Dorothy hesitated. Was it wise to bring someone so physically impaired into the impoverished slums where perilous situations could erupt at any moment?

Certainly, Quasimodo’s massive frame rivaled that of a veritable giant, a daunting enough presence to deter any reckless troublemakers.

Yet he undeniably bore crippling disabilities that severely hampered his mobility, rendering him vulnerable despite his imposing stature.

Moreover, no matter how desperate the circumstances, was it not inappropriate to solicit further favors from one who had already provided invaluable testimony purely out of compassion?

“…Very well, in this dire situation I will shamelessly accept your hand.”

But in her current straits, Dorothy felt compelled to grasp any available straw, no matter how tenuous.

Whether a benefactor or a disabled individual mattered not – she required every possible aid if she hoped to prevent Sibylla from meeting a grisly demise.

“I implore you.”

As Dorothy nodded solemnly.

“…!!”

Quasimodo interpreted that gesture as her assent to his request.

* * *

“…So you are saying they were killed simply due to a difference of opinions?”

Listening to the Slave Prince’s explanation, Sibylla wondered.

No matter how ruthless an assassin, was it permissible to so recklessly create new enemies?

“It was thanks to that you survived, Princess Sibylla.”

“That may be… but still…”

The other assassins had favored immediately terminating Sibylla, while Ruslan had opted to temporarily spare her life.

Ruslan had struck first against his opposition, emerging victorious in the ensuing conflict.

“Undoubtedly there will be retaliation…”

Yet Sibylla suspected the slain assassins weren’t the only ones who had targeted her life.

If any among their ranks had maintained close ties to those Ruslan had killed, then—

Bang!!

As if giving credence to Sibylla’s apprehensions, a raucous group barged through the Court of Miracles’s entrance with thunderous force.

“Any crimson-haired, yellow-eyed whores in here? I’ve got questions about my brother’s whereabouts.”

The irate group’s evident leader oozed palpable fury.

“I would advise you to hide for now, Princess Sibylla.”

Observing the intrusive arrivals, Ruslan rose and advanced slowly forward to confront them.

The slave obeys his master’s dictates without question.

If his master desired Sibylla’s life be spared for the present, then he would exert every effort to uphold that decree.

Regardless of any personal reservations.

Chapter 51: Lapdog

While assembled in Lombardy, not all were native Lombardians – a motley band of vagrants hailing from disparate homelands and tongues.

In Lombardy, especially the crime-ridden city of Königsberg, they were derisively termed Bastards.

The defining characteristic of these Bastards was that as an organization, they were an utter shambles to an almost impressive degree in terms of how they managed to persist.

Unlike other organizations that enforced strict disciplinary codes upon their members, the Bastards could be said to lack any semblance of order or hierarchy, with wildly varying individual capabilities among their ranks.

Lacking clearly delineated ranks or even nominal titles, only the law of the jungle reigned where sheer personal might determined one’s standing – the quintessential embodiment of survival of the fittest.

Naturally, any notion of organizational allegiance or camaraderie was equally absent among these ragtag bunch of thugs.

The sole reason this barely-cohering non-organization hadn’t crumbled ages ago stemmed entirely from their ludicrously simplistic enlistment criteria.

While most organizations imposed at least some degree of screening or vetting process for admission, the bar varied considerably between them.

Yet the Bastards maintained no such minimum standards whatsoever, indiscriminately accepting any able-bodied drunkard or addict, regardless of background or personal merits.

Thus, two immediately associated connotations arose for Lombardians upon mention of the Bastards.

Firstly, their notoriously shoddy, improvised armaments.

“Wh… What’s with all these people…”

And secondly, their sheer numerical profusion.

“Well now, esteemed guests gathered here, I’ll ask you but once, so do listen carefully.”

Beholding the teeming throngs densely packed into the Court of Miracles’s courtyard, its denizens recoiled in horror.

“I’ve received testimony that the crimson-haired whore who abducted this nation’s Princess alongside my brother arrived here drenched in blood.”

Just what unholy numbers had converged upon this place? A conservative estimate surpassed fifty individuals at the very least.

“So why has my brother not returned, while that bitch rampages independently? As someone who cherishes my younger brother dearly, I can’t help but be extremely curious…”

The speaker at the vanguard twisted his features into a grotesque snarl, emphasizing each word by pounding some form of iron pipe or rod against the ground.

“Now then, my dear friends… no, should I call you elders? You all seem to be quite old. In any case, if that bitch is here, I’d appreciate it if you could bring them before me right now. We don’t want to cause trouble in someone else’s capital city for no reason. It’s unmannerly.”

“W-We know nothing, nothing at all! There’s no such person here-“

Thwack!! The elderly man who had falteringly stepped forward to placate them, unable to conceal his fear, crumpled lifelessly after a vicious strike from the thug’s improvised weapon.

“Well, unfortunately, that’s not the answer we’re looking for. Take a long nap and think about it again, old man. If you can wake up, that is.”

The sole reason these slum ruffians dared not encroach upon the Court of Miracles was entirely due to Clopân.

In other words, to these Lombardy’s Bastards unfamiliar with Clopân, the Court of Miracles seemed little more than a hovel for diseased beggars.

“Right then, who’s next… oh?”

Scanning his surroundings while grasping the bloodied pipe, the man soon noticed the crimson-haired woman descending the staircase.

“Just in time. I knew we couldn’t trust the elders’ words. Their brains are old, and their memories are unreliable.”

The circumstances favored the intruders – they held overwhelming numerical superiority, and the Court of Miracles’s layout offered scant defensible positions to counterbalance their disadvantage.

Yet there was one crucial factor these invaders had sorely underestimated:

“What’s this, where’d she go-“

The leashed Prince of a ruined nation standing before them-

“Gah-“

“…”

Even among Königsberg’s mongrel Bastards, his fangs and claws remained uniquely razor-sharp.

Within the mere instant required for a blink, Ruslan had closed the distance from the staircase, impaling the thug’s jaw with his dagger.

“B-brother?!”

“!-“

Having been instantly skewered through the crown of his skull, the man could only flop lifelessly to the ground like the elder he had slain, gushing blood as Ruslan wrenched the dagger free.

As Ruslan raised his head from examining the bloodied blade, the crowd steadily backpedaled one faltering step at a time.

“…What, are you guys scared of a single girl?”

Shoving through the throng, another man emerged.

“The Princess is bound to be here if that scrag is. Ain’t about to pass up a hefty ransom over some squeamishness, are we?”

Broken glasses. A shabby shirt. Crumpled pants. Distinctly more suited to clerical duties than combat.

“Push through. No matter how good they are at using people, in the end, they only have one body.”

“Ye-yes?”

“Are you scared? If you’re scared, you can back off. But you’ll have to be prepared to lose your head.”

Clang!

Deflecting the dagger Ruslan hurled at him with his cane, the man commanded his wavering subordinates:

“Either we thoroughly tear this dump apart, or we get torn apart ourselves.”

“…”

Observing the Bastards’ renewed resolve, Ruslan tightened his grip upon the dagger’s hilt.

* * *

“…”

Having somehow been thrust into the ironic position of protecting the very Princess he had initially meant to slay, Ruslan nevertheless committed his utmost efforts toward that task.

Regrettably, his dedication did little to improve their rapidly deteriorating circumstances.

“Guh, p-pierced, ghkk-“

“…”

Surveying the steadily accumulating mounds of corpses at the staircase’s base while his slick, bloodied dagger nearly slipped from his grasp, Ruslan re-gripped the blade more tightly.

His arsenal consisted of two daggers – a set of throwing knives he had depleted, and a slightly larger combat dagger whose mate had been lost buried in the corpse.

Though he had yet to sustain any major injuries or fatigue, his stamina was undoubtedly waning.

“Say, ain’t that thing more wraith than woman?”

“Why don’t we just cut our losses? This paltry profit ain’t worth such tribulations…”

When would Clopân, the King of the Court of Miracles, return?

Of all inopportune times, this chaos had erupted during her absence while procuring provisions alongside a contingent of the Court’s more ablebodied denizens.

“Tch, these imbeciles. Seems I must intervene directly… Hmm?”

The man who had been preparing to step in after observing his subordinates’ massacre with disdain paused upon noticing a peculiar piece of paper fluttering unnaturally down from above to land at his feet.

“…Hey now, redhead This letter seems addressed to you.”

“..?”

He then, like a messenger, unfolded and displayed its contents where elevated Ruslan could discern them.

“…”

For a prolonged interval, Ruslan silently regarded the letter, his demeanor suggesting either stunned comprehension of its message or feigning perusal of indecipherable contents with impassive detachment.

“…”

“That a ‘stand down’ order or something?”

Yet Ruslan ultimately stepped aside, acquiescing that the contents be heeded without hindrance.

“…You certain we should let them pass? After that whore just butchered our lads like that…”

“Wetting your breeches already? Can you beat them? If not, just shut up.”

Unconcernedly trampling the corpses underfoot, the man ascended the steps with his hesitant subordinates trailing behind.

Throughout their passage, Ruslan didn’t make the slightest hostile motion, remaining as motionless as a statue observing their ingress.

“Just what the hell did that paper say?”

“Hmm…”

Scratching his head contemplatively at his underling’s query, the man recounted the letter’s contents:

“Just ‘Stop, be good,’ or some such drivel more suited for a mutt than a person.”

Recalling the inexplicably patronizing tone of text more befitting a domesticated pet’s reprimand.

“Who knows, maybe that’s their proclivities if they’re leashed like a bitch in heat. Who cares.”

Upon reaching the second floor, the scene that greeted the man’s eyes was one of cowering, trembling souls paralyzed by abject terror.

“All geezers, sick folk and cripples by the look of it. Some sorta charity case?”

“Should we search for where they’re hiding, or grab one and beat them until they confess?”

“Knock it off. What’s so fun about harassing the disabled?”

The man leveled his gaze upon the nearest quivering elder crouched on the floor, frozen in dread.

“Now then, old man, I’m looking for someone.”

“I, I don’t know. Truly, I know nothing… I have never even laid eyes upon the Princess, let alone know her appearance. Why would someone like her be in a place like…?”

“Now now, when did I ever mention seeking someone like a Princess? The one we hunt is a woman swathed entirely in bandages, standing approximately… this tall, perhaps?”

Adopting a courteous demeanor while gesturing a rough approximation of height using his cane, the man inquired politely as he alternated his gaze between the implement and the terrified elder.

“B-But I am telling you, I truly don’t know where the Princess might be…!”

The elder didn’t disclose Sibylla’s presence within the Court of Miracles, even though he was aware of it.

For the Court of Miracles welcomed all, regardless of any cursed afflictions or whether their intended stay was permanent or merely transient in nature.

Don’t betray the Court’s denizens for your own self-interests. That had been one of the few tenets Clopân had instituted. And this elder who owed his very life to Clopân’s benevolence couldn’t bring himself to violate that sanctity even under threat of death.

“…I’ve never said that what I’m looking for is the Princess, have I?”

“..!!”

It was a meaningless struggle, but still.

“Smoke her out.”

“N-No, you mustn’t…!! Nnghh!!”

Trampling the elder who had attempted to grab his ankle, the man’s subordinates began ransacking the Court of Miracles with reckless abandon.

“Aaaah!!”

“Get out of the way!!!”

“What crime have we committed..!!”

Chaos, screams and shouts echoed throughout.

“Sir, you may wish to see this for yourself.”

“What is it?”

Amidst the cacophony he had been leisurely observing, the man followed his subordinate into one of the chambers.

“Behold, the window is open, and the curtains have been…”

“Oh ho, now this is rather unexpected…”

They had acquired a lead regarding their quarry’s whereabouts.

“She tore down the curtains, tied them into a makeshift rope, and attempted to climb down from this window.”

“Yes, it seems she must have fallen partway when the curtain proved too short or the knots came undone.”

Who could have anticipated a pampered Princess resorting to such desperate, inelegant measures?

“Well, she ain’t among the stiffs down below, so she must still be kicking.”

“Should we pursue?”

“After coming this far? Obviously.”

Yet the Princess’s survival hardly guaranteed her safety.

“She couldn’t have gone far. Broken leg or twisted ankle at the very least. Find her.”

For where crippled prey floundered helplessly, a hyena’s keen senses seldom failed to hone in on its next meal.

Chapter 52: Trauma Switch (illustration)

She had known it was utter madness.

One misstep could potentially lead to headlines blazing across newspaper frontpages: [Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans Found Slain Hours After Abduction].

Yet Sibylla chose to take that risk and flee the Court of Miracles, for she could place her trust neither in its denizens nor, crucially, in Ruslan.

He had only recently been her would-be assassin, then the very perpetrator who had infiltrated the palace and abducted her.

To unhesitatingly entrust one’s wellbeing to such an individual would have been far more astonishing – no, outright foolish naivete.

The Court of Miracles’s inhabitants were equally undeserving of Sibylla’s faith, for had they not ultimately facilitated her kidnapping?

Moreover, with Clopân’s absence, Sibylla had abandoned any expectation of the Court’s downtrodden safeguarding her. It would have been patently absurd to seek protection from those struggling to preserve their own existence.

Sibylla’s judgment had ultimately proven sound, for Ruslan had indeed abandoned his intent to spare her life, while the Court of Miracles lacked the means to shield her.

“Ahh…!!”

Yet every choice invariably carried consequences.

Tying curtains or bedsheets into makeshift ropes to descend from a window might have appeared deceptively simple.

However, for someone lacking prior experience, flawlessly knotting unintended textile scraps into weight-bearing lines sturdy enough to support a human weight was no trivial feat.

“Hah… hah…”

Partway through her descent, the improvised bindings unraveled, sending Sibylla plummeting into the courtyard’s grassy lawn.

While her light stature and the minimal cushioning provided by the lawn’s greenery had spared her life, an uninjured landing was still impossible.

“Nnghh…!!!”

Gritting her teeth against the throbbing agony radiating from her swollen, discolored ankle, Sibylla dragged herself along while leaning against the outer wall for support.

She couldn’t seek aid. While an ordinary soul unafflicted by curses might have garnered sympathy elsewhere within Hyperion’s confines, Sibylla appeared as nothing more than a diseased outcast swathed in bandages within this impoverished slum devoid of human compassion.

Thus, the only recourse available was to grit her teeth and persevere through the anguish threatening to drive tears from her eyes, somehow striving to escape these wretched environs where none would heed her plight.

If she couldn’t leave the slums, she couldn’t seek the police’s assistance – the authorities didn’t dare to tread within these lawless warrens.

Yet if she could somehow break free and ask for help…

“…”

When had the world ever shown her such beauty and benevolence?

Slumping to the rain-drenched street, Sibylla slowly shook her head.

With her legs too severely injured to walk, let alone flee these slums, it had been sheer fortune that she had managed to escape the Court of Miracles at all.

When had her shoes been discarded – during the initial abduction, upon arrival at the Court, or during her escape attempt? She couldn’t recall, only the vivid sensation of the cold, unyielding pavement beneath her bandage-wrapped soles persisting.

“…”

Perhaps she should resign herself to oblivion.

For what purpose did she still struggle so vainly onward, Sibylla Thérèse?

What would change even if she pathetically clung to life, only to eke out a wretched existence wracked by constant pain and hardship?

“Silence…!!”

Rebuking that despairing inner voice urging capitulation, Sibylla forcibly hauled her leaden frame upright through sheer willpower.

For what purpose did she struggle? For what purpose did she tenaciously grasp at life? Was that not self-evident?

“Dorothy…”

She still harbored lingering attachments, reasons to live.

Though raised by her sworn enemy, Dorothy’s existence held profound, unshakable significance for Sibylla that transcended blood relations.

A bond suspended between reconciliation and irrevocable severance, frozen in ambiguous stasis before reaching its inevitable conclusion.

To end that unfinished tale, she couldn’t simply perish here in such ignominious fashion. She must not surrender.

“I shall… go to you…”

Bang-!!

Yet Sibylla’s steps faltered before she could proceed further.

“You’ve come further than I thought. I believed the people of Orléans had no tenacity.”

Because her pursuers had at last caught up.

“Phew… I should get rid of this cane soon.”

The man casually twirled some form of smoldering rod or cane, smoke trailing from its tip.

“Shall we take care of her right away?”

“Hey, hey, people are watching. Let’s go somewhere secluded and take care of it. I’m about to get neurosis from smelling too much blood, so strangle or break her neck clean without any unseemly spillage.”

“Aye, I could do without whiffing any more of that cloying stink for a good while myself.”

The searing agony of the gunshot piercing her side, trauma her psyche could scarcely process.

“But were you not already out the moment you fired? With a hole blown clean through…”

“Oh, geez, look at my state of mind.”

Her body reflexively keeling over, the men’s voices resounding in her ears as a scorching metallic object pressed against the base of her skull.

“Could just off her right quick if you’re that squeamish. Only gonna draw more heat the longer we linger.”

She had to go, had to reach-

Dorothy, she had to go to-

“Well, don’t hold too much of a grudge. Weren’t our intention to slay a Princess, truth be told.”

Unable to discern whether the man’s parting remark was mocking or sincere, Sibylla closed her eyes in resignation tinged with regret that she hadn’t listened more intently when given the chance.

Clang!!

Yet no matter how much time elapsed, the anticipated shattering of her skull never manifested.

“…?”

That distinctly grating screech of friction – Sibylla belatedly realized it was utterly unlike the report of gunfire.

However, before she could ponder the anomaly’s source, a sensation of weightless buoyancy enveloped her accompanied by wafting warmth and a gentle zephyr.

“What… happened…?”

Upon opening her eyes, her vision was consumed by a drearily overcast sky weeping intermittent drizzles.

A world drained of color, rendering everything in monochrome shades of black and white.

An obedient child.

The boy had frequently received such praise since his earliest recollections.

From family, neighbors and friends alike.

Most, particularly adults, had viewed the boy’s deferential conduct favorably – for a polite, well-mannered child was a rarity amid the harsh environments of the slums. Even without considering such mitigating circumstances, a naturally courteous and compliant child tended to be praised anywhere.

Yet there had been one sole exception. The boy’s only friend who hadn’t appreciated his subdued, acquiescent demeanor.

That friend had implored the boy not to mindlessly defer to others, but to forge his own narrative and experiences.

So what had been the outcome when the boy had endeavored to rebel against obedience, to blaze his own trail?

Kill me.

The adult had trampled upon the child.

Kill me.

The downtrodden child had lost his dreams.

Kill me kill me kill me

The child had borrowed his friend’s help, and:

Kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me 

The two hands became the Evans knot that tightened around the child’s neck.

Killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmewnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnj

Once again, the child lying face down.

Once again, confronting death’s door.

Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

“E-Esmeralda…!!!”

“Cough-“

It was Quasimodo’s frantic shaking and grasping of her shoulders that enabled Dorothy to narrowly break free from her trauma-induced panic attack.

“Cough…  hah… hah… where is…”

“A-Are you alright? Y-Your face just now…”

“…I’m fine.”

Accompanying that reply destined to fall upon deaf ears, Dorothy cradled the unconscious Sibylla.

“E-Esmeralda!?”

She then transferred Sibylla into Quasimodo’s arms while scrawling an address upon his palm:

[11 Sangsong Street, right now.]

“S-Surely you don’t intend to, to go alone, do you…?”

Quasimodo had sought to dissuade her upon comprehending her intentions, yet the instant their eyes met, he realized:

“…I understand. S-Sangsong Street, Sangsong…”

Those weren’t the eyes of one seeking to protect someone, but of one intent on inflicting harm.

“I will definitely, e-even at the cost of my life, attend to, the Princess…!!”

“…”

With a solemn nod acknowledging Quasimodo’s hurried departure resonating with heavy footfalls, Dorothy turned to face the gawking Bastards.

“…You all have poor eyesight.”

No, Arachne blankly faced the mongrels staring dumbly in her direction.

“…Truth be told, humans and weeds seem scarcely distinguishable upon closer inspection.”

Resilient blights sprouting anew with each futile trampling.

“…Annoying.”

Their presence is inevitable without stringent countermeasures.

Thus, the spider could only unfurl her silken strands once more.

Chapter 53: The Third Hint (illustration)

Tl/note:

For those who had read the previous chapter almost immediately after its release. I edited the part with Dorothy’s panic attack – rather then ‘kill them’ it would be more accurately to translate as ‘kill me’. It’s confusing right now, without any clues what that means, but after few chapters of Dorothy’s past it will becem clear.

I forgot to edit it right after I was sure of the meaning myself, but this was a time when the site worked bad, that’s why I’m saying it now. It’s a small detail but it’s really worthy mentioning – because… <no spoilers> You’ll know.

Many presume an assassin must derive pleasure from the act of killing itself.

But does such a person truly exist – one who genuinely revels in bloodshed and slaughter?

Perhaps somewhere in this world dwells an individual possessing such violently sadistic proclivities, savoring brutality and deriving glee from gore.

Yet at the very least, the Dorothy before-

No, Arachne hadn’t been that sort of person.

“…Hadn’t seen him around lately, thought he might’ve vanished or something…”

The person recalled Dorothy – the Orléans Spider who had massacred half of Königsberg.

An assassin who had perpetrated wanton slaughter with a dry, mechanical indifference, uttering that trademark ‘How annoying’ refrain.

His demeanor had resembled a disgruntled clerk suffering from workplace ennui far more than that of a killer.

“And now he’s turned into a woman maid.”

Yet no matter how dramatically one’s outward guise might shift, deeply ingrained habits, mannerisms and speech patterns seldom changed.

The sort who viewed every aspect of this world as an irritating inconvenience, regarding pebbles and people alike with the same apathetic indifference.

That had been Arachne, the individual ‘Dorothy Gale’ had once been.

“…”

Dorothy offered no response to the person’s words.

Whether she had been a stray she had overlooked or merely a bystander watching from the sidelines was ultimately irrelevant.

For what purpose was there in committing the faces of those she killed to memory? Such knowledge served no practical application.

“Stop now, Spider.”

The one impeding Dorothy’s path was an unfamiliar voice.

“…Clopân.”

“You certainly cut a most unseemly figure in more ways than one.”

Clopân had recognized Arachne despite his altered appearance, for his very aura remained unchanged.

The copper tresses, crimson irises, even his favored choice of wire as a weapon.

“You managed to recognize me.”

“For none but you would flay humans with such silken wires. Though your skills do seem… a bit rusty.”

Disregarding differing attire, physique and gender, everything else matched Clopân’s recollections of Arachne to the letter.

“So this current iteration is you, Clopân?”

“Indeed, for the regrettable demise of my predecessors has necessitated my reemergence, tragic as that may be.”

Clopân Trouillefou was well-acquainted with Dorothy – not just her present self, but her origins preceding even Arachne’s existence.

“Yet it seems you have undergone quite the transformation yourself… though I have many queries regarding your unorthodox guise and vestments…”

“I am serving the Princess of Orléans.”

“…Ah.”

With that explanation, Clopân immediately comprehended the reason behind Dorothy’s extended absence culminating in this garish return to the slums amidst such gratuitous violence.

The Witch undoubtedly lurked behind the scenes, having enacted some manner of mystical intervention to facilitate Dorothy’s current undertaking regarding Princess Sibylla’s abduction.

And if safeguarding the abducted Princess had indeed been her objective, then Dorothy’s frenzied rampage was hardly unfathomable.

“It would seem I owe you an apology.”

Observing Dorothy’s bloodstained ivory gloves, Clopân bowed her head contritely.

“The Slave Prince was the one who abducted Princess Sibylla. I permitted him sanctuary within the Court of Miracles.”

“…I see.”

Fwish!

Accompanied by the whisper of severed air, a crimson wire grazed Clopân’s cheek.

“I have no intention of making excuses, especially having accepted compensation. However, I would advise against slaying the man if I may.”

“…Why is that?”

“Would it not be more prudent to deliver him alive to the police? To root out whoever employed these rogues and bring them to justice?”

Although they can’t be said to be on good terms, Clopân held the capabilities of Hyperion’s police force in rather high esteem when it came to extracting confessions, albeit through somewhat unsavory methods.

“No need for such elaborate arrangements… or perhaps there is, given how laden with valuables these Lombardian vagabonds seem.”

Observing the hyena-like scavengers gradually converging upon the fresh corpses, Clopân remarked:

“And… shouldn’t you return to your master’s side?”

“…”

Her master.

Her ailing, injured master.

“…See you next time.”

The taut wires criss-crossing every possible vector steadily slackened as they retracted, one strand at a time.

“Take care.”

The spider descended from her web’s embrace.

* * *

Ordinarily, Hyperion’s police seldom ventured into the slums. Not only due to the nation’s tumultuous political climate stemming from recent upheavals, but because the impoverished district itself was regarded as a proverbial hornet’s nest of potential hazards.

Neglecting it invariably bred myriad issues, yet disturbing that beehive risked provoking utter catastrophe. Thus, the police had historically avoided treading within those lawless badlands.

Yet the current circumstances differed drastically, for in the face of the unprecedented crisis of Princess Sibylla’s abduction, what did a mere hornet’s nest signify?

The police had scoured every inch of the capital including the slums, eventually uncovering one man who had confessed to attempting to assassinate the Princess himself.

Thanks to his inexplicably cooperative demeanor, the authorities soon identified the true mastermind who had commissioned her murder.

As Hyperion braced for a turbulent night erupting with pandemonium on numerous fronts:

“…What’s with that appearance, worse than a rain-soaked mouse?”

“…Hello.”

An unexpected, bedraggled vagabond had arrived at 11 Sansong Street – the Witch’s workshop, in other words.

“You’re really stabbing the heart of the person who raised you, huh?”

Surveying Dorothy’s haggard, battered appearance slouching on her doorstep, the Witch sighed in exasperation.

“I took the time to teach you how to style your hair properly and all, only for you to return looking like some mangy mutt fresh from the gutter. Then again, I suppose one can’t even feign knowledge without first being taught.”

Much like scolding a child returning home in disheveled disarray after playing outside, the Witch gently rapped Dorothy with a small wooden stick while stepping aside to permit her entry.

“Well, are you going to stand there gawking? You should bathe at the very least, shouldn’t you?”

“…I’ve returned.”

“…Yes, welcome back, My son.”

The prodigal child’s arduous journey had finally concluded, returning to that familiar, comforting homestead. Neither spacious nor extravagant, yet undeniably a sanctuary.

* * *

“…It hurts.”

“Endure it. You never so much as flinched when stabbed, yet some paltry scratches have you whinging?”

After applying ointment and wrapping her wounds with bandages, Dorothy silently studied the outfit she used to wear.

“…Aren’t these the clothes from my old room? Why are they here?”

“I brought them over while cleaning house. Rather than rot away in that pigsty you called a room paying exorbitant rent, you’ll be staying here in your old quarters upstairs.”

“…”

First kicking her out in the name of independence, now this apparent change of heart?

Tuning out the Witch’s increasingly strident nagging with one ear while lending the other, Dorothy put on clothes that didn’t fit her size.

“You’ve grown quite scrawny.”

“…”

“Even so, you’re still rather tall for a woman.”

Her diminutive height and frame, her physique conforming to the differing anatomies between male and female.

Of course her former outfits couldn’t accommodate her current proportions.

Dorothy was keenly reacquainted with the full extent of her metamorphosis, both outward and inward.

“…Is the Princess here?”

“Why would your mistress be in this place…? Ah, the circumstances do seem rather dire, now that I recollect. She came in the arms of some deaf-mute hunchback.”

Fortunately, Quasimodo had successfully fulfilled Dorothy’s request.

“The Princess received preliminary treatment before being put to rest, as did that overly bulky lout – kept blathering ‘Esmeralda’ this and that until the very end. Just what the hell is this Esmeralda?”

“It’s nothing important.”

Only after confirming Sibylla’s safety could Dorothy finally catch her breath and regain her composure.

“…Medea.”

And the moment tranquility returned, Dorothy at last voiced the question that had lingered ever since that unfortunate soirée, the identity she had longed to inquire about:

“I’ve heard that name before…”

“…Tsk, seeing that name coming out of your mouth, I guess some wench went flapping her gums, huh?”

A response effectively affirming Dorothy’s query.

“Yes, that was one of the names I went by long ago during my human days before becoming a full-fledged witch.”

A survivor from an era bordering on myth itself, a living witness to history.

“The curse afflicting the Orléans royals was indeed one of my handiworks as well.”

Simultaneously, the perpetrator who had birthed that terrible blight upon the Kingdom’s lineage.

“…Why?”

“Are you not well-versed in the dreary ancient folklore yourself?”

The Witch Medea.

“Then… you also know how to lift that curse…”

“Do you truly believe I would be unaware of how to undo a curse of my own making?”

A complicated blend of indiscernible emotions contorted her expression into a tangled knot.

“However, I can’t dispel that curse. No, to be more precise… it’s you who must lift it.”

“…?”

The one who had inflicted the curse couldn’t undo it, while Dorothy inexplicably held the power to break its shackles.

“Curses aren’t so simple as mere spellcasting where they manifest if you chant one phrase and disperse if you utter another enchantment to countermand them.”

Just as curses required specific conditions to be laid, certain prerequisites and proceedings were mandatory to nullify them. A form of ritual or invocation.

“Yes, I had hoped it might be undone eventually. We witches do so adore fanciful fairy tale-like stories.”

Scowling in displeasure while clutching her brow, the Witch exhaled a weary sigh.

“Yet never could I have foreseen that arduous path would lead to you of all souls. Never could I have anticipated such an outcome. Never…”

A side of candid sincerity that even Dorothy, who had dwelled by her side for so long, had never glimpsed.

“Listen carefully, Dorothy Gale. I’ll give you the final hint.”

Yet having seemingly reached some manner of resolution, the Witch contorted her features once more as she parted her firmly sealed lips, straining her constricted throat to force out each word.

Chapter 54: I Have A Request, Could You Draw Me A Sheep?

Fairy tales, Princes and Princesses, and love.

“…That hint is far too blatant.”

Dorothy thought that if one couldn’t discern the answer from such an overt hint, they must either have never experienced fairy tales or simply be a fool.

“Not that I am particularly smart myself…”

Yet for Dorothy, who adored fairy tales, the Witch’s hint pointed in an exceedingly unambiguous direction. And:

“…Must it be that way? No, must I be the one to do it?”

For Dorothy, that course of action was something she would prefer to avoid if at all possible.

“Why, do you not like it after all? Does the notion of being intimate with a disfigured wench displease you?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I…”

It wasn’t Sibylla’s unsightly, repulsive appearance that gave Dorothy pause. She had never truly placed much weight on outward appearances to begin with.

Her unhesitating acceptance of serving as the scorned Sibylla’s maid, her nonchalant kindness toward the reviled Quasimodo – those traits stemmed from Dorothy’s intrinsic character of prioritizing one’s soul over superficial exteriors.

“…I’m uncertain if it is appropriate when I don’t love her.”

Yet Dorothy didn’t love Sibylla. Contrary to Sibylla’s own brazen proclamations, Dorothy’s feelings toward her remained unchanged…

Or so Dorothy herself had believed, at least.

“I am incapable of loving anyone, you see… Oww.”

“Hmph.”

Scoffing derisively at Dorothy’s claim, the Witch flicked her squarely between the eyes.

“Only scoundrels like Jason are truly incapable of love, not you.”

To the Witch who had indeed witnessed individuals wholly unable to nurture affection, Dorothy’s words rang as nothing more than a child’s petulant grumblings born of ignorance.

“You are merely a fledgling unversed in the ways of love. Or perhaps you have simply forgotten how to love.”

“What… does that even mean?”

“Do you truly expect me not to know the reason you were abandoned like some pitiful stray pup that fateful day?”

The Witch was privy to the misfortunes that had befallen Dorothy’s childhood through her unintentional mumblings, cognizant of what had caused her to forget the concept of love itself.

“Well, those are matters your beloved mistress should enlighten you about, not I.”

Yet would it be appropriate for an outsider to intermeddle in such whimsical romantic affairs?

Reconciling the slightly askew affections between two naive youths was an issue only they could resolve themselves.

“…Honestly, a witless wench preaching about wooing maidens…”

If only she had foreseen this, she might have imparted Dorothy with greater discretion.

Regretting her oversight from the past, the Witch clicked her tongue in vexation.

“Well, are you going to stand there gawking or proceed upstairs already?”

Yet what purpose did belated regrets serve now? The die had long since been cast, choices made that couldn’t be unmade.

All she could do as an adult was offer her encouragement.

“…But the Princess is a woman, and I too am female now…”

“Either go up there or I’ll send you up the hard way. Your choice.”

Urging the dithering Dorothy onward despite her incessant stalling, the Witch mused to herself:

Indeed, my son is quite the oblivious fool, isn’t he?

* * *

Even after the Witch’s insistent prodding had compelled her to ascend to the upper floor, Dorothy found herself unable to readily open the door to Sibylla’s chamber, pacing restlessly like an anxious dog.

What insecurity shackled her hand from grasping that doorknob? What trepidation induced such profound hesitation?

This was an unprecedented experience. For Dorothy who had lived life rather impulsively and whimsically, it was virtually unheard of for her to agonize over any decision for such an inordinate duration.

“Kkhhrrnngghh, kkhhrrmmphh…”

“…So noisy.”

The resonant, guttural snores rumbling like a slumbering giant’s bellow.

Quasimodo, who had proven so invaluable if only briefly, could offer no further counsel even if conscious – for a deaf-mute, the result would have been no different regardless.

“…Alright.”

Even so, she ought to at least confirm Sibylla’s condition.

Somehow mustering her resolve, Dorothy forced her unwilling feet forward to grasp and turn the doorknob.

“…Nothing has changed at all.”

A hauntingly familiar setting, exactly as her memories had etched into her psyche.

This room had once been Dorothy’s – no, the boy’s room. One of the more spacious, well-maintained rooms compared to the others.

The Witch must have tended to its upkeep even after Dorothy’s departure, for not a speck of dust marred its pristine interior. An unsettling, frozen temporal capsule utterly unchanged, not an iota deviating from when she had last resided here prior to her self-imposed independence.

There upon the bed lay Sibylla, the faint rise and fall of her chest providing the sole indication that she still drew breath.

“…Princess.”

Dorothy found herself musing: Truly, this person’s life has been no less arduous than my own – perhaps even more unfortunate.

To have been born under such inauspicious stars, afflicted by a horrific curse despite being the daughter of royalty rather than some destitute slum urchin.

Having intimately experienced the agonizing depths of descending from felicity to abject misery herself, Dorothy couldn’t begrudge Sibylla as anything less than her equal in suffering’s cruelties.

“…”

So did this hesitation stem from mere pity toward Sibylla’s plight?

No, that couldn’t be it. If Dorothy had been one to waver under such sentimental compunctions, how could she have survived those unforgiving slums?

“I… am uncertain what feelings I harbor for the Princess.”

Clasping Sibylla’s hand, Dorothy murmured in hushed tones.

“I can’t discern how she differs from others, nor why my heart ached so upon witnessing her collapse.”

Like a penitent sinner confessing their transgressions to a priest, an unfortunate lamb baring their soul.

“Am I… the one in the wrong? Or is the Princess truly special?”

For the first time, she had divulged these innermost ruminations destined to fall upon deaf ears.

“…And why do you pose such queries to me, I wonder?”

“!!!???”

Utterly oblivious that her unspoken musings had been overheard in their entirety.

“S-Since when…?”

“Ever since you entered this room…”

Only then did Dorothy perceive Sibylla’s azure, luminous gaze regarding her intently.

“P-Princess, th-that is…”

“It doesn’t matter. I have already heard everything, so…”

A faint rasp laced her words.

“…Some water, if you would?”

“Y-Yes, of course.”

Hastily pouring a cup while shielding her flushed face with her free hand, Dorothy silently berated herself.

“…You grow more peculiar with each new facet unveiled. One moment a ruthless assassin, the next a bumbling, inept maidservant. An emotionless doll, then an bashful, overawed child in the next breath.”

“…”

Whether intended as mockery, rebuke or some indiscernible nuance, Dorothy couldn’t bring herself to refute Sibylla’s commentary, unable to even raise her averted gaze.

“Which of those personas represents your true self? I… still don’t know the real you.”

Which was the mask, the facade, and which was her real side?

Dorothy couldn’t provide an answer, because she didn’t know herself.

“However… there is one aspect I am certain of. The you who came to save me, cradling me with such frantic desperation…”

-You weren’t looking at me.

“…?”

Inadvertently meeting Sibylla’s gaze as she raised her head in puzzlement, their contrasting crimson and blue irises mirrored one another.

“Tell me, what did you see in that moment?”

“…”

What had Dorothy truly beheld overlapping the collapsed Princess and her ethereal, exquisite eyes?

“…Was that an order?”

With a trembling voice, Dorothy asked. Had that been a command issued by her master that she must obey as a servant?

“No, this is… a request. This is…”

Regarding the visibly trembling Dorothy with a serene, tender tone, Sibylla replied:

“The beseeching plea of a lovesick maiden blinded by unrequited love.”

“…”

Not an order, but a request.

Something she could choose to divulge or rebuff if she so desired, not an obligatory directive.

“I…”

Opening and closing her mouth repeatedly like a gasping fish, Dorothy…

“…It may not be a particularly amusing tale, nor much of a fairy story… but still, will you listen?”

At last parted her lips to recount her tale.

* * *

Many children born into the slums never receive names.

Their parents deem it unnecessary, for what purpose would naming a child serve? One destined to perish in infancy, abandon them through runaways, or inevitably depart by some means regardless.

Of course, one could argue it stems from parental negligence and abuse – a reprehensible, appalling excuse unworthy of justification.

Yet is’t not said that the essence of human nature shines most vibrantly in times of crisis, when staring death’s door in the face?

A den of beasts that are too busy just trying to make ends meet day by day, surviving instinctively without any purpose.

The slums are such a place. The eternal shadow where the sun’s radiance never reaches, the dark side of the moon obscuring its brighter facade.

And yet even in such dismal straits, glimmers of hope persevere. Because some children nurture diminutive dreams while surrounded by that cannibalistic abyss of violence and depravity, sipping those fleeting raindrops in an oasis-bereft desert.

Enduring the scouring sandstorms, they await the day their vibrant blossoms will finally unfurl in breathtaking splendor.

“S’il vous plaît, I have a request…”

One day, a whimsical reverie found its way to one such nameless youth.

With neither omen nor portent, deposited haphazardly into that barren wasteland devoid of prospective shade or shelter.

“Dessine-moi un mouton! Could you draw me a sheep?”

The dream of the little prince with beautiful emerald light, holding a sparkling jewel.

This is the tale of stardust and withered roses.

Chapter 55: All Grown-ups Were Once Children. But Few Of Them Remember It

A good beggar is a dead beggar.

Such self-deprecating dark humor often circulates among the denizens of Hyperion’s slums.

Is a pauper’s greatest adversary the wealthy?

While the rich could certainly be considered foes, the opponents most frequently faced and clashed with by the impoverished are their very neighbors – their fellow paupers themselves.

The beggars of the slums understand better than anyone just how vicious and cruel the utterly destitute can become when stripped of all possessions.

The benevolent can’t survive. No pious soul turning the other cheek would remain anything more than shattered bones in the wake of these rapacious wolves.

The slums are a realm where even the advent of a messiah destined to redeem the world would be met with sneers branding it a demon’s den.

Thus, a good beggar is a dead beggar. Because good people cannot survive.

It is said one’s experiences, particularly during childhood, hold profound influences in shaping an individual’s character.

The inherently twisted and warped demeanors prevalent among slum dwellers likely stem from that cruel, unforgiving environment.

When one must become a hellion just to secure a single meal, developing such distorted mentalities is only natural.

Observing such unruly youths, adults often lament ‘What impudence’ or ‘They were never properly disciplined.’

Fair assessments, but then from whom did they learn such conduct?

Are the adults truly qualified to cast such judgments, as if their own childhoods had been so vastly divergent?

All grown-ups were once children. But few of them remember it. (Toutes les grandes personnes ont d’abord été des enfants. Mais peu d’entre elles s’en souviennent.)

“These days, my son doesn’t listen to a damn thing I say.”

This particular man exemplified such childish origins that so many adults seemed to have forgotten.

With a weather-beaten physique cloaked in wiry musculature crisscrossed by innumerable scars.

A thug whose fists had proven slightly swifter than most, thus far enabling him to scrape by without frequently missing meals. No better descriptor could encapsulate this individual.

“You have a son?”

Roused from his mumbled grumblings by the nude woman sharing his bedraggled cot.

An ordinary brown tresses framing exotic crimson eyes. A beauty’s porcelain complexion.

“Yeah, didn’t I mention before? Little shit’s been gallivanting hither and yon. Should be eighteen now, I reckon.”

Yet despite their intimate relations as they conversed about the child, these two weren’t a married couple.

“Perhaps you should introduce him to a woman? Might settle the lad down if he had a singular fixation.”

“Sounds like you’re saying it for someone to hear.”

“Bingo. You’ve a point – the brat must’ve learned it from somewhere.”

Among the myriad descriptors associated with the slums was ‘debauchery.’

The underlying impetus that even nobility and affluent magnates who scarcely deigned to tread within those slums would frequent under utmost secrecy.

“Says the whore.”

“Oh my, have I touched a nerve?”

The woman was a prostitute – one who traded flesh for coin.

“Most men cower and kowtow in my presence, yet before you I seem but a mere child.”

“Men never truly grow past being petulant brats, no matter their age. I know well how to appease a child. Because I’m a mother.”

“Hah.”

The man scoffed derisively at her self-proclaimed ‘maternal’ assertion, yet even courtesans could nurture genuine affection toward their children.

Still, the dynamic he recalled between this woman and her son had seemed distinctly… unorthodox, her sentiments toward him ambiguous as to whether they constituted true maternal love.

“Yeah, you had a lad too, didn’t you? How nice it’d be if my boy was as well-behaved and obedient as that kid.”

“You ask for far too much – a gentle soul like our darling is a rarity…” 

The woman, smiling and sitting up, exclaimed as if she had belatedly remembered something she had forgotten.

“I didn’t feed him. Since yesterday.”

“…Isn’t that starving him for too long?

Had the man not been a slum native himself, he might have reacted with greater shock – or indignation – upon learning she had deprived her own child of sustenance for over a day without justifiable cause.

Yet this was the slums, and he recognized the woman’s self-absorbed proclivities of drifting whimsically in pursuit of transient pleasures akin to her equally destitute peers, viewing her son as little more than a novelty or adorable pet at most.

“Well, it’s fine. He’ll probably find food to eat well from somewhere, I’m sure.”

For he was an obedient child.

“…Well, if that’s how you see it. Although…” 

A mischievous glint flickered across her features.

“It would be a bit of a shame to finish like this.”

“Don’t forget the extra fee.”

Their voices intermingled, their breaths and corporeal intimacies soon entangling into one.

What neither realized, particularly the woman-

“…It’s a man again today.”

Was that her son had been eavesdropping on their entire exchange from just beyond that flimsy partition.

For an indeterminate period, the boy remained listlessly sprawled there beyond the rickety door, his mind numb to the audible depravities assailing his ears.

“…”

Until finally rising and silently departing without uttering a sound.

* * *

When had he last eaten a homecooked meal?

His mother had claimed he hadn’t dined there since the previous day, but the boy could scarcely recall the last time he had partaken of sustenance under that dilapidated roof.

Whatever scraps his mother had carelessly abandoned – failing that, he would be compelled to simply endure the hunger pangs unfed.

The boy existed in a perpetual state of starvation, to the point where he harbored lingering doubts whether the fabled sensation of satiety even truly existed.

Thus, the boy had ventured outdoors once more today, because remaining indoors offered no prospects of subsistence.

Fortunately, he knew of one reliable corner. The bakery on 9 Curie Street.

The boy was acquainted with the owner, having cultivated a rapport in exchange for assisting the aged baker with menial chores and being compensated with bread scraps from time to time.

Though the bread’s quality couldn’t be considered remotely palatable, such pedantic concerns mattered little to the impoverished youth.

What difference did a few insect infestations make? If anything, it enabled supplementing his protein intake, akin to a proverbial two birds with one stone.

Well-cooked cockroaches were far more palatable than one might imagine, with the matured boy later assessing their flavor as remarkably reminiscent of shrimp once he had sampled actual seafood.

Of course, the boy of that era had never even seen a live shrimp before, let alone eaten one. But the important distinction was that their taste hadn’t proven altogether revolting.

Hoping to receive a slightly more generous portion this visit, the boy headed toward the bakery with brimming anticipation.

“…Closed… until July 14th…”

Yet he soon encountered a difficult situation.

Not due to any vermin infestations, but because the bakery’s doors remained firmly shuttered.

“The 14th… next Friday?”

Not a mere day or two, but over a week from now.

Given that the current day was Tuesday, realistically the bakery wouldn’t reopen for over a week at minimum.

In other words, the boy would be compelled to ration whatever meager sustenance he could scavenge for well over a week’s duration until then.

“Ah…”

The boy’s sole remaining solace crumbled in an instant.

If sandcastles could exhibit such fragility, did nurturing any hopes while dwelling in the slums not epitomize wistful extravagance?

The boy at that age lacked the maturity to contemplate such intricate philosophical conundrums – that primal, visceral dread had extinguished his very breath alone.

“…I’m hungry…”

That instinctive compulsion recognized no rationale beyond its name alone.

Gurrrgggle. As soon as his head realized the reality, his hollow stomach rebuked their negligent master.

He didn’t ask for excellent quality. Abundant portions were an outlandish fantasy. Even the most meager morsels to merely abate the gnawing pangs would suffice, yet this incompetent owner denied even such paltry solicitations?

Certainly, the boy harbored his own justifications, but his starving stomach had no intention of sympathizing with that. When he’s hungry right now, what is reality and what is reason?

“…”

As the boy forlornly scanned their desolate surroundings for any potential food, an appetizing aroma wafted into his nose.

Under normal circumstances, had the bakery been accessible to at least procure their stale, tooth-shattering leftover crusts, he wouldn’t have been so thoroughly entranced and compelled to slavishly track that mouthwatering scent like a stray dog.

Yet the bakery had cruelly closed its doors, and his violently protesting gut demanded immediate appeasement through any means necessary lest its clamorous riots escalated further.

His brain, having lost the power to make rational judgments, surrendered to primal impulses as his legs instinctively propelled him toward that irresistible beckoning fragrance.

“…Oh…”

Yet upon arriving at the source, the briefest flicker of lucidity reasserted itself within the entranced boy.

“…But I can’t… this place is…”

For the trail had led him to a tavern – one of the greatest vices conceived by the God to further corrupt the already lawless denizens of these unforgiving slums into even more unscrupulous dregs.

If already violent people consumed alcohol, just how exponentially more vicious might their demeanors become? A pattern substantiated by the raucous shouting, shattered glass and periodic unconscious victims or corpses routinely evacuated from these dens of inequity.

In other words, it was ill-advised for the boy to set foot within such place. While procuring sustenance was ultimately an act of survival, willingly entering a place where sacrificing one’s life could be the cost of a mere meal seemed downright foolish, didn’t it?

In the end, the boy, having regained his reason, retraced his steps. No matter how wretched life could become, he harbored no inclinations toward his demise quite yet.

“…Hungry…”

Hunching over to cradle his agonized, protesting stomach.

“Hungry, you say?”

Those plaintive words reached the boy’s ears in an inexplicably childlike, innocent timbre.

Raising his head toward that disarmingly naive voice, the boy’s gaze settled upon an outstretched hand cradling a piece of bread, generously offering it toward him.

“Would you like some?”

On that day, the boy encountered an angel.

Chapter 56: You Will Be Unique In The World For Me, And I Will Be Unique In The World For You

It didn’t take an inordinate amount of time for the boy to thoroughly devour every last morsel filling the basket the girl had proffered.

The boy’s stomach had long since relinquished any semblance of restraint amid his prolonged starvation, while the aroma wafting from the freshly baked, crusty bread proved utterly irresistible.

“…Ah.”

Only after completely emptying the basket and licking away any residual crumbs did the boy finally regain his senses.

“…!!”

“Ahaha! You certainly have quite the voracious appetite!”

Yet the realization of his unseemly conduct instantly struck, prompting the mortified boy to step back in horror.

“There’s no need to be so abashed! It’s only natural for a hungry person to become weak in front of food. I guess even our King would do the same!”

“…”

The boy shielding his flushed face with both hands, the girl regarding his demeanor with an effervescent smile.

“Though you startled me with how swiftly you pounced upon that bread.”

“S-Sorry…”

Only after sating his ravenous hunger and allowing the searing flush in his cheeks to subside could the boy bring himself to properly face the girl.

To put it bluntly, her appearance wasn’t particularly extraordinary or remarkable in any sense.

That didn’t imply she was unsightly or unappealing – her features lacked any notable flaws or blemishes.

Lustrous tangerine tresses, emerald irises twinkling like gemstones, a light dusting of freckles and dimples adorning her radiant countenance, her sunshine-yellow raincoat contrasting starkly against the slums’ dreary backdrop.

An altogether cute impression one might readily encounter amid any idyllic rural hamlet, the sort of cherubic innocence destined to captivate the affections of an entire village populace.

In other words, her appearance exemplified the very archetype of commonplace, ordinary prettiness encountered anywhere without distinction. Nothing overtly remarkable about the girl’s looks.

“And… thank you. Thanks to you, I live.”

The boy averted his gaze, suddenly bashful.

“I, I can’t repay you right now, but…”

Yet to the long-famished boy:

An angelic benefactor who had unhesitatingly surrendered a basket’s ration ample enough to sustain even a grown man for several days if prudently rationed.

He couldn’t simply depart without offering some recompense, however modest, in gratitude for her munificence.

Thus, the boy steeled himself to oblige any reasonable entreaty the girl might request, only for her subsequent words to render him utterly dumbstruck:

“I have a request… could you draw me a sheep?”

“…A sheep?”

The boy could only gape in bewilderment at the girl’s inexplicable query.

“Heeheehee!”

Eliciting an effervescent giggle as she basked in his stunned reaction.

* * *

It seemed he had gravely misjudged the situation.

The precise timeframe from when the boy had regarded the girl as a benevolent savior to reassessing her as an utter eccentric – 30 minutes and 12 seconds, to be precise.

“You see, I once witnessed a desert fox before – they were ever so adorable! With their big ears yet small head, more agile compared to other foxes, yet…”

“…Enough about foxes already…”

Should one consider the astounding loquaciousness required to prattle on uninterrupted about mere desert foxes for nearly half an hour a laudable proficiency in oratory?

Yet to the boy, her incessant rambling constituted little more than unintelligible white noise, for her childlike vocabulary inevitably collided with his equally infantile comprehension – rendering any productive discourse nigh impossible.

“Hmm? Am I boring you?”

“Well of course you are. Who just launches straight into babbling about desert foxes immediately after meeting a total stranger? We don’t even know each other’s names.”

The boy and the girl were utter strangers who had never previously crossed paths.

Thus, the boy gently scolded the girl for behaving so overly familiar as if they were  old friends rather than having just encountered one another moments prior.

“So what is your name, then?”

“…Well…”

Yet the girl’s reciprocal inquiry rendered the boy momentarily tongue-tied, for:

“I… don’t have one.”

He couldn’t tell a name he didn’t possess. How could one proffer something they lacked?

The boy had never received a name, his mother having forgotten bestowing one out of sheer indolence.

Nor was he alone in that regard, for most slum children were born nameless due to their parents’ apathy.

“Really? Same here, I don’t have one either.”

The girl was nameless as well. Another child rendered identity-less through societal negligence, her parents having followed the boy’s mother’s example.

Upon hearing they shared that condition in common, the boy merely nodded in silent acknowledgment.

This girl is just like me. A bit of an eccentric, a bit of a chatterbox perhaps, but ultimately fellow victims of the same circumstances.

As his wariness dissipated and the boy prepared to fully let his guard down-

“Why don’t we give each other names, then?”

The girl’s proposal caused him to involuntarily stiffen once more.

“…Names…?”

The implications of bestowing names held profound connotations within the slums.

Technically, the act of naming itself held little inherent significance, for nameless children would spontaneously dub themselves during their formative years when the occasion demanded.

However, the notion of an outsider christening someone else carried far graver nuances beyond such casual self-designations.

Naming was considered the sole inalienable privilege and obligation reserved for parents alone. Slum children only nomenclated themselves because their progenitors had derelicted that fundamental duty. So could an unrelated stranger truly claim that right, let alone a peer of the same tender age?

“Don’t dwell on it so deeply. A name is a precious thing, yet one you can readily discard and replace with your own volition if you so choose.”

As if perceiving the boy’s misgivings, the girl smiled disarmingly as she explained: To be treasured, yet malleable according to one’s personal agency.

“The names we bestow shall be our childish monikers – nothing more than bittersweet mementos to be entombed within the dusty diaries of nostalgic reminiscences once we have matured into adulthood.”

“Our… childish names…”

Following the girl’s wistful gaze toward the heavens as she reclined beside him, the boy mirrored her upturned stance.

The drearily overcast skies could hardly be considered picturesque vistas, yet.

“…I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

What better time to indulge such fanciful whimsies than amidst their current straits?

“But we can’t simply slap together any half-baked appellations, mind you – I refuse to sully my tongue by addressing you as something asinine like ‘Dingbat’ or ‘Numbskull.’”

“…I have already decided upon your name.”

“Oh? You have already? Then, what is it?”

Even before the girl’s proposal, the boy had already firmly imprinted his impression of her indelibly – an incessantly chirping little songbird.

“…Robin. That is what they call the rossignol in other lands.”

And of those fledgling chicks, the rossignol – the nightingale – had been his selection for her moniker.

“Mmm… I love it! Robin, Robin…” 

She beamed radiantly, as if savoring the sound.

“Why, it even sounds like a name befitting a skilled archer!”

Her approbation evident, the girl’s smile blossomed into unrestrained rapture.

“As for myself… hmm, I wonder… do you happen to have any particular talents? If you were adept at, say, leapfrog or somersaults, ‘Grenouille’ could be rather apt…”

A fitting title for some obsessively fragrant assassin, perhaps.

The boy wished to eschew such monikers redolent of malicious connotations.

Thus, while wrinkling his nose in distaste, he nevertheless contemplated – what particular skills or proficiencies did he possess?

“…Needlework and embroidery?”

“Needlework? Embroidery? In that case…”

Tapping her lower lip pensively at the boy’s suggestion, the girl’s brow furrowed in intense concentration until her features lit up, their gazes locking intently.

“How about… Araignée!”

“…Araignée?”

Araignée – the ‘spider’ in the Orléans language.

Strictly speaking, the creativity and thoughtfulness suffusing that designation seemed negligibly different from rejected proposition of ‘Grenouille’ – leapfrog equals frog, needlework equals spider, underscoring her capricious whimsy.

“…I suppose it’s a good choice.”

Yet the boy readily accepted the hastily improvised moniker without further demurral. Not only because his own christening of her had required comparably minimal deliberation, but because ‘Araignée’ resonated as a marginally more elegant appellation than ‘Grenouille.’

“Then it is decided – I shall be Robin, and you Araignée!”

“…It feels as if we have swapped roles, somehow.”

For while ‘Robin’ conveyed a relatively masculine aura, ‘Araignée’ exuded a distinctly more feminine ambiance compared to its complement.

“Would you prefer a different name instead? If so, then ‘Grenouille’ might be-“

“No, Araignée is fine.”

Not his first choice, nor an outright favorite, but certainly preferable to the alternative. Especially when they were naught but transient monikers destined for eventual discard once they reached adulthood regardless.

“I will be Araignée, then.”

Thus, the boy ultimately acquiesced to that appellation.

“Araignée, Araignée… Arahnyé. It does have an amusing little ring when you say it.”

“…Such mocking tones are hardly appreciated.”

Araignée and Robin.

“Hehe, so does this mean we can become friends now?”

“…Friends?”

The abrupt query from the newly christened Robin prompted a perplexed reverberation from Araignée.

“Yes, now that we know each other’s names, we have grounds to be acquainted. So the next logical step is becoming friends, isn’t it?”

“…”

Did the dynamics of human relationships and bonds truly progress along such simplistically linear escalations? Could the mere exchange of idle conversation catalyze an instantaneous transition into friendship?

Araignée hesitated, for the concept of ‘friendship’ remained something he had never properly learned or cultivated in any meaningful capacity throughout his childhood.

“Let’s become friends. Best friends!”

Yet heedless of Araignée’s reservations, Robin extended her pinky finger with an impish grin, undeterred.

“…”

That mischievously childlike smile gradually melted away the boy’s apprehensions.

“You will be unique in the world for me, and I will be unique in the world for you. (Tu seras pour moi unique au monde. Je serai pour toi unique au monde!)”

“Unique in the world… to each other…”

Though Araignée himself remained oblivious to the weight of those words:

“…Very well.”

Their pinky fingers intertwined in a solemn pact, sealing that whimsical promise.

The two children who had encountered one another amid that arid desert wasteland became friends on that day.

Chapter 57: If You Come At Four In The Afternoon, I’ll Begin Being Happy By Three

Friend.

That single word held immense significance for the boy.

Prior to their encounter, the chances of the timid, introverted boy forging any amicable bonds amid the harsh slums had been exceedingly bleak.

Yet the girl had approached this reclusive boy, extending her hand with a radiant, sunshine-warmth of a smile.

-Let’s become friends. Best friends!

The boy recalled the girl’s emerald irises, unable to banish them from his ruminations.

Why did those ordinary eyes persistently linger, eyes one could encounter anywhere?

The boy couldn’t comprehend the peculiar allure this ostensibly unremarkable girl exuded.

“Hello, Araignée!”

“…Hello, Robin.”

Thus, the boy-

No, Araignée, had sought out the girl Robin once more.

“…I can’t believe you managed to uncover such a place.”

“What, you mean this spot? Even adults seldom venture here.”

The secluded rendezvous point where the two children convened was a quaint, miniature parkland ill-befitting its squalid slum environs. And a solitary tree shading lush blossoms birthing amidst the surrounding desolation.

“Who could have imagined such a place would be hidden amidst the sewers?”

An undiscovered offshoot passage accessed by ascending a particular sewage access stairwell.

What Robin had christened their ‘Oasis’, this diminutive oasis the pair had claimed as their clandestine haven and bastion.

“Not even a whiff of sewage, how amazing…”

“That’s right, I sense a rather pleasant fragrance instead!”

Enraptured by the idyllic perfection of their oasis, neither Robin nor Araignée could conceal their exhilarated elation.

“You seem to like it here as well, Araignée? I can see you smiling!”

“…Me?”

Only after reflexively raising his hand to his lips did the boy realize his features had unconsciously softened into a tender smile, so utterly entranced by their oasis’s splendors.

“Yeah! Why don’t we endeavor to make it feel even more like our own clandestine haven?”

Robin proclaimed, putting her hands on the hips.

“Not that it needs much altering… someone has clearly already been quite industrious here.”

“Hehe☆”

For the oasis already bore traces of diligent efforts throughout its nooks and crannies – the unmistakable hallmarks of some unseen female resident’s dedicated handiwork.

“Speaking of which… you’re still wearing that raincoat today, I see.”

Reclining against the tree’s shade, Araignée scrutinized Robin’s familiar ensemble inquisitively.

While lacking multiple outfits was an understandable predicament among the destitute slums, why would she insist on wearing a conspicuous raincoat – and such a vibrant sunshine-yellow one at that – on fair-weathered days?

“Well if I traipsed around those dreary surroundings in this cheery yellow raincoat, everyone would surely recognize me, wouldn’t they?”

“…I suppose…”

And just who did she aspire to gain such recognition from within these unforgiving slums?

Likely no one, Araignée thought, for it was hardly a locale where notoriety garnered anything desirable. Yet Robin’s perspective seemed to differ.

“And if I don’t incorporate some semblance of color amidst all that dreariness, the world would become far too dismal. Especially the Court of Miracles.”

“So you’re staying at the Court of Miracles now…”

He had heard the current King of the Court of Miracles, Clopân Trouillefou, treated children with benevolence – for that very moniker was only bestowed upon those renowned for extending compassion toward the meek.

Yet each Clopân’s specific inclinations varied, and this current incarnation seemed particularly doting toward underprivileged youths, albeit advanced in years and afflicted with some manner of infirmity that might limit their tenure’s duration.

“Did the Court of Miracles’s ruler provide you with that raincoat as well, then?”

“No, this… you see, I have owned this raincoat since before taking up residence there.”

“…It doesn’t look that old, though.”

Robin’s raincoat remained vibrant and radiant, its pristine hues showing no signs of fading.

Regarding its unnaturally vivid, eye-catchingly bright coloration so starkly contrasting the drab slum environs, Araignée instinctively furrowed his brow in discomfort.

“Just looking at it pains my eyes… how can you wear something so garish?”

“Really? I haven’t found it particularly straining myself. Perhaps I have simply grown accustomed to it through extended wear? Mmm… in any case, enough about raincoats!”

Thump! Accompanied by an emphatic thud, Robin retrieved and deposited a bundled rectangular parcel before them.

“A new riddle for you! Can you discern the contents within this bundle?”

“How should I know… some kind of box, perhaps?”

“Heeheehee, the guessing noises you’re making are adorable… but the answer is~!”

Swiftly unveiling the bundle’s contents with a theatrical flourish:

“A storybook!”

“…A storybook?”

This marked Araignée’s inaugural encounter with the concept of fairy tales.

“Araignée, do you… enjoy fairy tales?”

“…No.”

Araignée was certainly familiar with the notion of fairy tales, or at least the term itself.

But he had neither experienced reading one firsthand, nor had any parental figure ever recounted such whimsical narratives to him.

“They’re childish trifles solely for kids.”

Thus, Araignée instinctively deflected based on the scant snippets he had overheard regarding fairy tales’ target demographics.

“And are we not children ourselves?”

“…”

As always, his feeble rebuttal swiftly crumbled under the most rudimentary scrutiny, yet:

“So what if they are childish? Just because adults disdain them doesn’t obligate children to share their contempt. And besides…” 

Thrusting the open tome toward him with an impish grin. 

“Even you won’t be able to resist their enchantment once you have sampled them for yourself.”

Araignée could only avert his gaze toward the proffered book – <The Wonderful Wizard of Oz>, its title proclaimed – regarding its cover illustration’s almost garishly juvenile aesthetic with furrowed skepticism.

“It’s going to be really interesting, you know? Much more than you can imagine.”

“…”

Just how engrossing could a tale featuring such patently puerile imagery possibly be?

Well, he had ample enough time to indulge this lark, he supposed. What was the harm in humoring her whimsical request, even if he harbored scant expectations?

And so, after completing that initial volume without further preamble, Araignée ultimately uttered in a hushed murmur:

“…The next one.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t you have the next book?”

Bring me more.

No, bring me everything you have.

* * *

Only after devouring the entirety of the original’s considerable girth alongside its equally hefty sequels comprising three tomes in total did Araignée’s rapturous literary binge finally abate.

“Well? Did you enjoy them? Didn’t I tell you?”

Beholding Araignée’s enraptured obliviousness to the passage of time as he had become utterly enthralled, Robin regarded him with an unmistakably smug, self-satisfied countenance.

That elicited an impulse to playfully punch her – an urge Araignée ultimately suppressed.

“…Yes, they were fun.”

Undoubtedly so, to have so thoroughly captivated him that he had lost all awareness of his surroundings. Eeven forgetting his own dismissive remarks.

“For a child to relish fairy tales is neither childish nor peculiar, because such fairy tales possess a unique enchantment all their own.”

“A unique… enchantment?”

Araignée couldn’t comprehend Robin’s words, for having scarcely experienced reading beyond these introductory fairy tales, how could he discern their nuanced distinctions compared to other literary mediums?

“Every fairy tale, every story harbors its own distinct significance and meaning to impart. And I imagine that singular essence resonating with the reader is what kindles such joy and rapture within them.”

“Is that so…?”

“Yes, I am quite certain of it!”

Yet despite his lingering inability to fully grasp her reasoning, Araignée instinctively nodded along with Robin’s assertions. Perhaps simply desiring to voice his accord despite his imperfect comprehension.

An inherently ludicrous paradox, signifying agreement while lacking true understanding, yet such simplistic mentalities epitomized the nature of childish innocence, didn’t they?

To acquiesce to the declarations of one who had imparted such euphoria held a certain effortless intuition to their unvarnished mindsets.

“Before I knew it, the entire day has slipped away engrossed in fairy tales alone. I should go for now!”

“Ah, wait a moment!”

As Robin made to rise, casting a wistful gaze toward the twilit, crimson-tinted heavens signaling dusk’s imminent onset, Araignée inadvertently clutched her hand to forestall her departure.

“Yes?”

“That is… um…”

Yet even Araignée himself couldn’t pinpoint the compulsion that had prompted grasping Robin’s hand. Was it an aversion to concluding this joyous reverie prematurely? Or did he harbor some unspoken sentiment he yearned to impart?

“Do… Do you have any other fairy tale books? I would like to read… more…”

Whichever impulse it had been, Araignée lacked the courage to be honest.

“Of course! I’ll bring another collection tomorrow!”

Thus, Araignée could only meekly release Robin to take her leave, resigning himself to reverting to his usual self once more.

With Robin’s absence, the rose-tinted ephemera faded as the boy reemerged from the fairy tale’s transient splendors.

“…Still.”

Still, it would be alright.

They’ll be able to meet again tomorrow.

Banishing his encroaching melancholy by nurturing those burgeoning expectations, the boy rose and retraced Robin’s departing footsteps as dusk’s crimson hues faded to inky black.

* * *

“I’m home…”

Murmuring that perfunctory salutation more from instinctive habit than any anticipation of acknowledgment, for none would heed nor remark upon the boy’s homecoming regardless.

“Where the devil have you been gallivanting until this ungodly hour, you little shit?”

“…!?”

Yet an utterly unwelcome voice did accost the boy upon his return.

“Your wretched mother begged me to save you some scraps, yet here you come scurrying back only once the sun’s long set like some filthy sewer rat.”

“…”

The individual addressing the boy was substantially older and imposingly larger – the aged son of his mother’s current intimate, apparently affluent enough amid the squalor to have been bestowed a legitimate name, though the boy could no longer recall what that appellation had been.

Thus, he shall henceforth be referred to as the ‘Ruffian’ for expediency’s sake, as his conduct amply exemplified such boorish demeanors.

“I’m leaving. If you missed your meal, that’s on you – not my blasted concern, you hear?”

“…”

“Did you hear me, you little bastard?”

“Ugh…!”

Punctuating his diatribe with a vicious kick that sent the boy crumpling to the floor.

“Tsk, gods be damned imbecile.”

Spitting a final insult and gob of phlegm upon the prostrate boy’s buckled form, the Ruffian promptly took his leave without further incident.

“…”

Not that the outcome would have differed regardless of his punctuality – he wouldn’t have received so much as a scrap of bread in either case.

As indignation welled within him, the boy ultimately suppressed those impulses, for he stood no chance at effectively retaliating against the Ruffian’s overwhelming physical superiority.

In truth, under normal circumstances such mistreatment would have elicited little more than resignation from one so thoroughly inured to such commonplace abuses.

“…Hic…”

Yet some unfathomable anguish weighed particularly heavily upon the boy’s heart this day, inducing muffled sobs as he huddled his knees tightly and sobbed.

Don’t be so pathetic. You should have long since become accustomed to such dispassionate cruelty.

To become so elated over savoring a fleeting glimpse of happiness, a solitary soul who didn’t outright scorn or ridicule your existence?

How utterly pitiful, how disgracefully pathetic – the nameless get of some whore daring to nurture such starry-eyed naivete.

Did he truly believe the world harbored more than a handful who might harbor any empathy for some slum urchin?

He should have known better, he did know better, yet still:

“…Robin.”

That radiant child’s sunshine warmth beckoned tantalizing in his recollections.

Her tangerine hair, emerald irises, sunshine-yellow raincoat – and most of all:

-…Let’s meet again, tomorrow.

That luminous, resplendent smile seared into his memories, yearning to bask in its incandescent glow once more.

Chapter 58: What Is Essential Is Invisible To The Eye

The intimacy between Araignée and Robin, the boy and the girl who had become singular existences unto each other, deepened with each passing day.

More accurately, it was Araignée’s demeanor toward Robin that gradually thawed over time, for Robin had maintained an unwavering warmth from their very first encounter.

Unlike Robin who had treated Araignée as a friend from the outset with utmost familiarity, Araignée had initially been unable to fully trust her.

Yet ere long, Araignée’s heart had flung its doors open wide – a tacit acceptance that he too now regarded Robin as a friend, even if outward appearances suggested he remained reluctant to admit it.

The craving for affection is innate to human nature, yet Araignée had been deprived of that nurturing warmth dubbed ‘maternal love’ even from his own mother throughout his formative years.

It wasn’t that his mother lacked any love for Araignée per se, but her affections extended no further than the possessive adulation one might harbor toward a favored belonging or chattel.

Having been birthed into callous indifference, it was only natural for the affection-starved Araignée to regard the tenderhearted Robin who assuaged those pangs of loneliness as someone extraordinarily special.

“Needle and… thread…”

Gathering sewing implements as the boy mentally deliberated which shade would minimize any tell-tale stitching.

Since the girl’s raincoat concealed a tear in her undergarments that required mending.

Granted, the exceedingly vibrant opacity of her conspicuous yellow raincoat would likely obscure any internal mishaps regardless. Yet if repairing it, would it not be prudent to endeavor matching the stitching as seamlessly as feasible?

“You’re off to meet your friend again?”

“Hiiick!?”

As the boy made his final preparatory adjustments before departing for their oasis rendezvous, his mother’s voice startled him into nearly dropping everything with a mortified yelp.

“There is no need to be so surprised. Is it so strange for a mother to inquire after her son’s activities?”

Strange, if their bond could even be considered a conventionally maternal rapport.

The boy’s mother had never initiated any conversation with him. All their prior interactions had consisted solely of the boy addressing her first, then her responding accordingly.

“W-Well, that is…”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed. I am already aware you have been spending time with some young girl, though I know not her identity… yet to see my habitually timid son keeping such amicable company, she must be a delightful child indeed.”

Thus, an exchange that should have seemed innocuous between any ordinary parent and child instead filled the boy with unease and trepidation simply by dint of its unprecedented intimacy from his mother.

“Perhaps you could introduce her sometime…”

“I, I’d rather not…”

And so the boy reflexively rebuffed his mother’s request – or command, rather.

“…Eh? Wh-What do you…?”

“…?”

This marked the first occasion the boy had ever defied his mother’s directives.

That instinctive rebuttal had simply slipped out unbidden, startling the boy himself even more than his mother with this 180-degree divergence from his typical obedient conduct.

“Hmm… well, if you are so averse to the notion, I won’t insist.”

Fortunately, the mother didn’t seem perturbed by her son’s uncharacteristic insubordination, merely offering a disarming nod and dismissive wave.

“Do enjoy yourself, I suppose.”

“…Yes.”

Yet a lingering disquiet persisted that the boy couldn’t easily dispel.

Thus, he ultimately scurried away as if fleeing from home itself.

* * *

“Hmm? Why was that?”

At their oasis sanctum, Araignée recounted every detail leading up to his departure to Robin.

“…I’m not certain. Something about it simply felt… not right…”

Though resigning himself to his mother’s indifference had long become normalized, Araignée still harbored a semblance of filial affection. Otherwise he would have severed ties sooner than meekly acquiescing to her perpetual emotional neglect.

Yet for the first time, an inexplicable trepidation had compelled Araignée to defy her, however tepidly.

“I see no issue? I have met Carmen on numerous occasions myself.”

“Carmen…? Wait, how do you know my mother’s name? No, before that – how did you discern I was her son in the first place…?”

A revelation that should have shocked Araignée, yet one Robin had casually confessed.

“Well, Carmen does visit the Court of Miracles rather frequently. And Araignée, you resemble her so much. The semblance between mother and son is unmistakable to any observer.”

Araignée had remained oblivious to his mother’s societal interactions and relationships beyond their dilapidated homestead until now.

“She seems perpetually intoxicated in some manner, but I still think she’s a decent sort compared to many adults. She even shares sweets with the children on occasion.”

“…Sweets…”

A fleeting pang of resentment that this woman who had never provided him, her own child, with so much as a morsel would dote treats upon other children in their stead.

Yet Araignée ultimately chose to dismiss any excessive rumination regarding an absentee he could hardly consider a true ‘mother’ figure – for this oasis belonged solely to him and Robin.

“Should I perhaps invite her to join us sometime as well?”

“…”

Thus, the notion of introducing any third party to desecrate their private sanctum had never even occurred to Araignée.

“No.”

Though he knew precisely whom Robin referred to:

“You mean that one-armed girl, don’t you?”

“Yes. She resides within the Court of Miracles too, so why not…?”

“No, never.”

That raven-haired girl whose perpetually fluttering empty right sleeve had been such a distinctive trait.

Araignée had frequently witnessed Robin conversing with that seemingly juvenile denizen of the Court of Miracles in what had appeared an even more intimate rapport than the one they shared.

Of course, Robin’s affable disposition precluded deliberately favoring any particular individual over others. And residing together within the Court of Miracles ensured their history understandably exceeded Araignée’s own burgeoning connection.

Yet whenever he had observed Robin in that girl’s company, Araignée couldn’t repress an indistinct sense of discomfiting unease.

“Mmm… well then, if you insist.”

Mercifully, Robin didn’t belabor the issue further, sparing Araignée from needing to confront the unsightly motives fueling his reluctance.

“In that case… you had mentioned your clothes being torn last time, didn’t you?”

“Oh, that? Grandma Rosetta has already mended them for me!”

Robin lifted her raincoat to display the fresh stitching, eliciting another pang of unsavory emotions that Araignée swiftly suppressed.

“…I could have done a better job of it.”

“But Araignée, you pricked your finger so badly the last time you attempted needlework on that canvas tarp.”

Recalling the previous incident where his careless embroidery had resulted in a bloodied fingertip.

“Th-That was just a fluke mistake, normally I…”

“You were injured, Araignée.”

“…”

Unable to meet Robin’s plaintive gaze as she softly reiterated that undeniable fact.

“While my skills… may be a bit lacking, I…”

Ultimately, Araignée could only avert his downcast eyes as he trailed off into halfhearted, murmured protests.

“…Eeep!”

“Hieek!?”

Startled into an undignified yelp as Robin’s hands abruptly cupped his cheeks, nearly causing Araignée to topple over backwards.

“I have complete faith in Araignée’s abilities – you are the best seamster in all the world!”

“…N-Not to that extent… now please, release my face…!!”

“But I don’t want Araignée to injure himself again.”

An uncharacteristically solemn demeanor stilled Araignée into silence.

Her ever-upturned lips flattening, those perpetually twinkling irises dimming into pensive calm.

“Who could bear to see their precious friend getting hurt?”

Not her usual vivacious lilt, but a lower, gravely sincere timbre.

“Precious… friend…”

“Yes, that is what you are to me.”

My one and only irreplaceable friend.

“…!!”

A fleeting yet potent electric jolt that caused Araignée’s eyes to widen more expansively than ever before.

“Heeheehee, you look utterly ridiculous right now, Araignée!”

And just like that, Robin’s infectious buoyancy reasserted itself. Her familiar lilting tones, impish smile and effervescent demeanor all resurfacing as if they had never waned.

Yet those crystalline words etched themselves into Araignée’s psyche with the indelibility of a freshly seared brand.

“…”

Thump.

His heart began pulsing with a fevered cadence audible even to his own ears, having previously remained as still and silent as the grave prior to those words’ catalyzing detonation.

Eyes tightly screwed shut, Araignée surreptitiously inhaled a steadying breath to rein in his pounding heart.

“What if we too could live happily ever after someday, just like in the fairy tales?”

“Happily… ever after?”

“Yes, isn’t that the quintessential ending befitting any Prince and Princess?”

The prototypical fairy tale denouement culminating the romantic leads’ courtship – a happily ever after finale.

Granted, some tales diverged from such saccharine resolutions. The mermaid dissolving into sea-foam having failed to attain her Prince’s reciprocation, the fairy rendered a mere echoing whisper upon the wind.

“You know, I want to become like those storybook royals someday, united with my Prince. And if that Prince were to be Araignée, wouldn’t it be better?” 

Robin’s ever-radiant smile shone incandescently. 

“…Are you truly serious?”

“Of course!”

Whether her yearning stemmed from a sincere quest for eternal bliss or a fanciful infatuation with mythical archetypes couldn’t be readily discerned.

Or if her aspirations bore the weight of something far more profound – genuine romantic affections, the truth remained elusive.

“Now then, I’ll be the Prince, and Araignée the Princess!”

“…Why must I be the Princess? I am male, while you are female.”

“Well, a Prince doesn’t have to exude such melancholy as Araignée often does.”

A playful tease, perhaps even a subtly wounding barb from another’s perspective.

Yet Araignée felt no offense. Quite the contrary.

“So, no matter what happens, don’t worry! This Prince will resolve all the problems!”

Because Robin epitomized the quintessential Prince charming more befitting than anyone Araignée could envision.

And to bask in the radiance of such an incandescent presence, he could readily embrace the role of Princess without hesitation.

If it meant he could perpetually savor that dazzling sunshine smile, gaze eternally into those sparkling gemstone irises-

Then Araignée’s was just happy with that.

A dimly glimmering starlight amidst the gloaming skies, the breathtaking rose in full bloom.

The desert fox could only surrender utterly to the little Prince’s enchantment.

Thus-

* * *

“…Robin?”

“…Araig…née…”

Their annihilation had been an inevitability all along.

Because this had never been a fairy tale from the start.

Chapter 59: To Be Tamed by Someone may Also Signify the Necessity of Shedding Tears

That day, the rain poured with particular intensity.

While the rainy season did ensure frequent showers, even in the perpetually gloomy, dreary slums, rainfalls invariably cloaked the atmosphere with an oppressive pall.

“…My body feels unbearably heavy…”

Yet the boy sensed an especially ominous ambiance today, a foreboding premonition that some calamity loomed.

“Perhaps Robin won’t come…”

Huddled by the sewer entrance, the boy awaited the girl’s arrival with unwavering vigil.

The reason he kept his vigil by the sewer rather than their oasis stemmed from the latter’s only accessible route lying through that very underground passage.

Venturing into the sewers during rainfall essentially tempted fate itself, yet he could hardly neglect their customary rendezvous. Thus, braving the inclement downpour, he had dutifully reported to the entrance intent on intercepting her arrival.

“Should I keep waiting…?”

Perhaps the girl might not appear given the heavy precipitation, yet the boy didn’t even consider that assumption.

Previously, the girl had always arrived at their oasis first regardless of rain or shine, unfailingly awaiting him without exception. Of course, the previous showers hadn’t approached today’s torrential intensity, but her indifference toward rains remained unambiguous.

That was precisely why the boy couldn’t readily abandon his current position, for if he returned home or attempted locating her at the Court of Miracles, their paths might diverge – potentially missing her altogether.

“Achoo!”

Yet as chills wracked his drenched, shivering form inducing sneezing fits, the boy ultimately gave up on his fruitless vigil.

“…I should go to the Court of Miracles.”

Not to relinquish their reunion entirely. It would be utterly unfair to trudge home in such a sodden state having failed to meet her. Or so the boy rationalized his decision to finally set foot within the normally avoided Court of Miracles.

The boy knew the Court of Miracles’s location well enough, because that edifice’s sheer enormity rendered it an unmistakable landmark besides being one of the scant few local charitable organizations that actually extended aid to the denizens of the destitute slums.

Within those unforgiving badlands more bereft of human compassion than anywhere else, any organization operating under stated philanthropic objectives undoubtedly harbored ulterior motives. Or outright malicious agendas, more often than not. Only the Court of Miracles itself alongside the local cathedral enacted true selfless charity lacking any covert incentives.

And even then, the cathedral lay beyond the slums’ borders while its alms carried an implicit evangelistic mandate, rendering the Court of Miracles as the sole entity bestowing aid without any intrinsic underlying conditions.

Thus, the boy knew enough about the place to recognize its distinctiveness, if not its inner workings. His aversion to socializing has dissuaded him from ever venturing within that crowded place until now.

To the misanthropic boy, the Court of Miracles represented a veritable labyrinth of formidable, nigh-insurmountable challenges.

“This is… the Court of Miracles…”

Yet today, he had arrived upon its doorstep of his own volition, driven by his conviction that the girl could be nowhere else.

“…What should I say? Um… ‘Excuse me?’ Yes, that should suffice…”

Brushing the raindrops from his sodden visage, the boy grasped the door handle – only for it to abruptly fling open accompanied by a bloodcurdling shriek the instant before he could announce his presence.

“I told you, she’ll be back soon… Kyaaaahh!?”

“Hieeck!?”

Startled into nearly stumbling backwards by that piercing, anguished wail erupting from within.

“Wh-Who goes there!? Without even an umbrella in this weather…”

The shriek’s source recoiled in equal shock upon glimpsing the boy’s sudden materialization.

“You are…”

Jet black tresses framing obsidian irises, relatively well-dressed compared to typical slum attire aside from a conspicuously loose, unoccupied right sleeve.

“Could you be that person…? No, surely not…”

The one-armed girl often kept company with Robin recognized the boy in the same instant he discerned her identity as that very acquaintance.

“…That daft one-armed twit?”

“That brooding, ill-mannered boy…”

While their mutual first impressions were hardly flattering:

“D-Daft… ahem, wh-what’s the m-matter…?”

It was the one-armed girl who initiated dialogue first, her quavering stammer finally formulating an inquiry despite her apprehension.

“I came seeking Robin.”

“R-Robin? Robin… the one I know? The name her friend bestowed upon her…? Surely you can’t be referring to that very friend…?”

“…Yes. We were supposed to meet today, but she didn’t arrive. Is she perhaps here?”

Though momentarily discomfited to learn a third party was privy to the intimate monikers they had christened each other with, the boy suppressed that fleeting possessive disquietude to probe the girl for Robin’s whereabouts.

Surely in this relentless tempest, even that vivaciously carefree girl would have little inclination to venture outdoors? She must be sequestered here, within the Court of Miracles’s halls.

“Oh… no…?”

Yet contrary to the boy’s presumptions, his deepest yearnings-

“She went out a while ago… adamantly insisting on going out to meet a friend despite my protests…”

The girl wasn’t present within the Court of Miracles’s confines. The boy had missed her entirely.

“Carmen then… escorted her out to meet that friend…”

“…What?”

In the most dire, horrifically conceivable scenario the boy could never have envisioned.

“But why, why would Robin become separated from… Kyaaahh!?”

Before the one-armed girl could voice her ominous epiphany or pose any further inquiries, the boy had already sprinting with every last ounce of his shivering might.

His legs blurring until rendered invisible, his desperation fueled by a delirious sensation of his very musculature rending apart, bones snapping, lungs constricting from some unseen assailant’s stranglehold.

“Gghhhkk…!!”

Perhaps this frantic haste was unnecessary after all.

His mother and the girl were acquainted, potentially even more intimately familiar than the boy himself could fathom. His aversion toward venturing outdoors, particularly in the Court of Miracles’s direction, conflicted with his mother’s tendencies to indulge in frequent public sauntering.

No, the odds favored the mother having cultivated her rapport with the girl before her own son, would they not?

Realistically speaking, their relationship dynamic as the respective ‘mother’s friend’ and ‘friend’s son’ while not particularly close should at least preclude overt hostilities unless one party egregiously overstepped certain boundaries through insensitive meddling or unforgivable slights.

Neither of their temperaments suggested that plausible likelihood.

So why, why did this overwhelming sense of trepidation persist?

Grating his teeth against the relentless downpour, the boy soldiered onward toward their decrepit hovel, fervently praying that this disquieting apprehension was nothing more than a horrendous unfounded delusion.

“Hhah… kkhhah…”

By the time he could no longer distinguish whether the moisture trailing across his flesh stemmed from perspiration or rainwater, at last the dilapidated shack’s exterior loomed into view – its facade wholly unremarkable.

Yet the boy flung the front door open with such unrestrained force that it crashed against the opposite wall with a resounding thud.

“…Well now.”

The one greeting his frantic disruption was his mother calmly ensconced in a reclining chair, unhurried puffs of smoke from her cigarette dissipating languidly.

“Whatever is the matter? That was rather unbefitting even for your boorish conduct.”

Her demeanor exuded her typical unruffled aloofness, retaining that ever-impassive placidity the boy had seldom witnessed waver.

“Did something happen out there…?”

“…Robin.”

But the boy couldn’t extend his mother the same dispassionate courtesy. Not if the one-armed girl’s testimony proved truthful and the girl currently accompanied his mother, as his intuition insisted was undoubtedly the case.

“Where is Robin?”

“Robin? Ah… that girl, you mean.”

Momentarily perplexed by the unfamiliar appellation before recollecting its subject, his mother wordlessly gestured toward the bedroom door with her cigarette.

“…”

Droplets trailed in the boy’s wake as he made his way across the room.

His solitary focus remained riveted upon that sole inviolable destination. And upon opening that door-

“What’s this?”

He bore witness to an abhorrent reality.

“You just up and turned into some miserable drowned rat?”

The Ruffian puts on his clothes and puffs of smoke trailing from where he nonchalantly grasps a lit cigarette between his lips.

“…”

And sprawled lifelessly across that rumpled bedding – the girl.

“Since you’ve arrived, do some cleaning while you’re at it. What were you thinking, bringing some brat here…”

The boy had no time to pay attention to the Ruffian who brushed past him.

His previously bold demeanor now gone, the boy dragged his feet that seemed unwilling to move as he approached the girl.

“…Robin?”

Only then did the harrowing truth shatter the veils obscuring his perceptions.

“…Arai… gnée…”

The atrocities the girl had suffered at their hands.

“…”

Snap.

He felt as if something had broken inside his mind.

…

“Hah… hah…”

When the boy regained consciousness, he felt a burning heat in his hands.

His hands were stained bright red, with broken needle fragments between his fingers and a bloodied hammer in his other hand.

Only upon seeing the Ruffian’s mutilated corpse did the boy realize the red liquid coating his hands was human blood.

He must have used every means at his disposal – stabbing eyes with needles, smashing the skull with the hammer, or wildly attacking in a frenzy. For a small, weak boy to overcome a much stronger opponent, he would have had to use any method available.

“My son, you have more impressive qualities than I thought.”

The boy then turned his gaze to his mother pinned beneath him, barely suppressing the urge to smash her head with the hammer.

“Why did you do it?”

He wanted to ask.

“Why… to Robin?”

Why had she committed such a horrific act?

“Well…”

His mother answered:

“You have become quite disobedient lately, my son.”

Her tone was calm, as if listening to a child’s complaints.

“…What…?”

So many emotions contained in just one word.

“It seemed to be because you made a bad friend, so I called that friend over to discipline her too.”

Utterly disregarding the boy’s retorts, his mother continued violating every remaining semblance of his heart’s integrity.

“Just because of that?”

Simply for his recent insubordination? Merely for daring to crave affection and withhold the abject submission she had indoctrinated into him since birth?

“What… am I… to you…?”

What, exactly?

“What does the word ‘son’ even signify… to someone like you…?”

Words quavering as if choking back sobs or visceral terror.

“My…”

Yet his mother’s reply resonated with unsettlingly tranquil, doting fondness utterly dissonant from his plaintive anguish:

“Possession.”

The boy could no longer hold back.

Chapter 60: [Who Killed Cock Robin?]

Where did everything go so terribly wrong?

What is bothering me so much?

The boy posed these questions to none other than himself.

Could this have been averted had I not cowered from the rain?

No, if only I had been more obedient from the start.

Instead of acting based on my own judgments and decisions, if I had simply followed orders as I had always done previously.

Then this tragedy might never have transpired.

“…Robin.”

Drenched in crimson, the boy returned to the bedroom, to the girl’s side.

“Robin, I…”

And he beheld those eyes that had once twinkled with such incandescent radiance-

Now extinguished into empty, hollow emerald voids bereft of all light.

“I… I was the one who…”

Tremulously uttering the girl’s name as he grasped her arm, the boy found himself at an utter loss.

What could he possibly say to her? What words could offer any solace?

I’m sorry? It was my fault? It will be alright?

What consolations could ameliorate such harrowing torment…? What should he say?

“…Araignée.”

Clinging to the motionless girl while floundering in indecision, a hoarse, ragged whisper reached the boy’s ears – the girl’s voice, yet tinged with an unfamiliar, spent rasp.

“…Robin…?”

Not the vivacious lilt he had grown so accustomed to, but a voice drained of all vitality.

Instinctively raising his gaze toward that feeble utterance, Araignée’s eyes met Robin’s ashen countenance twisted into a ghastly rictus – a perverse mockery of a smile.

No, could that wretched contortion even be considered a smile?

Gone was that radiant, sunshine-warm beam that had once dazzled him.

This haggard, pained grimace seemed an unstable, almost bestial baring of teeth more than any true semblance of mirth.

“I followed her… because she said she could reunite us…”

From that vacant, hollow smile, Araignée sensed an overwhelming dread more viscerally potent than any he had ever experienced – an existential terror transcending his comprehension.

“Since Carmen was someone I knew… I trusted her…”

The barren oasis, the starless night sky concealing its luminous pinpricks.

The withered, desiccated rose, the serpent rendered impotent to swallow its intended pachyderm prey.

“…I’m sorry, Araignée.”

The Robin Araignée had cherished, the Little Prince traversing that hallowed desert, was no longer there.

“I should never… have believed… in fairy tales…”

Only a pitiful child remained, abandoned with shattered limbs amidst that arid wasteland’s desolation.

“…Don’t say such things…”

Why would you apologize to me?

“Robin did nothing wrong…”

You are but an innocent child, deceived by the machinations of adults.

“The ones who were wrong… were the adults…”

They are the ones who committed unforgivable sin, the malicious adults who inflicted these agonies upon a helpless child.

“I should be the one to… instead…”

Curse me instead.

Me, the wretched spawn of that vile creature, powerless and incompetent to prevent any of this.

Me, the imbecile fool who dared defy her only to meet such ruinous consequences.

“…Araignée.”

Yet Robin didn’t condemn Araignée, merely tenderly caressing his cheek with a mournful, bittersweet gaze.

“…I have a request.”

“…A request…?”

And in that instant, Araignée comprehended the implication behind Robin’s remorseful apology.

“…Robin…? What are you doing…?”

For Robin had grasped Araignée’s hands, guiding them toward her own throat.

“…No.”

No.

“This, this can’t be. Not this, anything but this.”

Araignée wasn’t a fool. He understood full well the profoundly disturbing significance behind Robin’s gesture.

“No, please don’t do this. Don’t ask this of me. I am the one at fault, so…!!”

And so he instinctively attempted to wrench his hands from that fatal stranglehold poised against her neck, thrashing in desperation.

“…Araignée.”

Yet he found himself powerless to resist.

Those once lustrous, celestial irises that Araignée had so adored – now drained of all starry incandescence, overflowing with utter, all-consuming desolation instead.

“…Nngghh…!?”

Thus rendering them all the more breathtakingly beautiful in their infinite, profound sorrow.

“Araignée, help me.”

Only then did Araignée comprehend the full extent of Robin’s shattered condition:

Robin could no longer dream.

Not now, perhaps not ever again.

Her palette of whimsical reveries had been irreparably shredded, the canvas of that once vibrant imagination now rendered a tattered, mutilated obscenity.

For the Little Prince was a child first and foremost before any exalted fairy tale royalty.

Small, delicate, fragile – a mere child stripped of her innocence’s sanctuary.

“…Don’t… Robin…”

Tears – rivulets of liquid anguish mingling raindrops and perspiration yet slightly warmer, streaking down Araignée’s pallid cheeks.

“Araignée, let me-“

Yet heedless of those plaintive droplets, Robin voiced the edict Araignée had desperately yearned to defy with every last fiber of his being:

“…Let me sleep.”

If Robin had sought vengeance against Araignée, no retribution could have been more utterly devastating in its genius.

“…Okay…”

For Araignée had already been thoroughly and irrevocably tamed by her – he could never disobey his master’s commands, not even this one.

“…Goodbye… Robin…”

No matter how abhorrent the directive.

Who killed c**k Robin?

I, said the Sparrow,

With my bow and arrow, I killed C**k Robin.

Who saw him die?

I, said the Fly,

With my little eye, I saw him die.

Who caught his blood?

I, said the Fish,

With my little dish, I caught his blood.

Who’ll make his shroud?

I, said the Beetle,

With my little needle, I’ll make the shroud.

Who’ll dig his grave?

I, said the Owl,

With my pick and shovel, I’ll dig his grave.

Who’ll be chief mourner?

I, said the Dove,

I mourn for my love, I’ll be chief mourner.

Who’ll carry the coffin?

I, said the Kite,

If it’s not through the night, I’ll carry the coffin.

Who’ll sing a psalm?

I, said the Thrush,

As she sat on a bush, I’ll sing a psalm.

Who killed C**k Robin?

Who killed C**k Robin?

Who killed Robin?

Who Robin killed?

Who C**k Robin killed?

Who

Who Who

Who killed

C**k Robin

Who

Who Who

Who Who Who Who Who Who Who Who

Who Who Who Who Who Who Who Who Who Who

Who Who Who Who Who Who Who Who Who Who Who Who

WhoWhoWhoWhoWhoWhoWhoWhoWhoWhoWhoWhoWhoWhoWho

Who killed C**k Robin? Who killed? Who killed who? Who killed who killed who killed who killed?

Who killed who killed who killed who killed who killed who killed who killed who killed who killed?

Who killed who killed who killed who killed who killed who killed who killed who killed who killed?

Who killed C**k Robin who killed C**k Robin who who who who who who who who who who who who?

Who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who?

Who killed C**k Robin who killed who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who?

Who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who who?

…Who killed C**k Robin?

I, said the Spider,

With my two hands, I killed him.

The one who saw him die, the one who caught his blood, the one who made his shroud.

The one who dug his grave, the one who became chief mourner.

The one who carried the coffin, the one who sang the psalm.

They were all me, it was all me.

All the birds of the air

Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,

When they heard the bell toll

For poor C**k Robin.

Yet the Spider couldn’t bring himself to shed a single tear, for his decimated heart could weep no more.

Shattered beyond the capacity for mourning the Nightingale’s demise.

Chapter 61: May I Allow Myself to Fall for You? (illustration)

Whenever I close my eyes, I see that child’s irises.

Whether accusatory, admonishing, or utterly devoid of emotion, merely observing impassively.

Even now, having cultivated the ability to discern one’s character and heart through their eyes alone, those particular irises remained utterly inscrutable – an indecipherable void despite their vivid hues, as impenetrably dark as the blackest oblivion.

The beautiful starlight that had once illuminated the night sky was no more.

Perhaps it was nothing but the hallucination of a desert fox who had lost its master, eyelids scrunched tightly shut.

“Robin’s remains were brought to the Court of Miracles. Most likely interred in an anonymous pauper’s grave.”

Though he had heard a modest funeral had been held for Robin at the Court of Miracles, the boy didn’t attend. Because he couldn’t envision shedding tears on her behalf.

Whether Robin’s death saddened him or not, his eyes remained bereft of any moistening sorrow.

The desiccated oasis, the arid desert aridity drying his tear ducts. That parched heart had scattered its reservoir of potential grief with each bitter, briny drop squandered amidst that deluge until not a single droplet remained to be cried.

* * *

“…After that, I was taken in by Éclair. I don’t know why someone who lived with nothing lacking would pick up a child dirtier and more ragged than a stray dog.”

Having relinquished his will to live, wandering those rain-drenched streets until collapsing upon death’s doorstep. That was where the boy had encountered the Witch, and been subsequently sheltered under her wing.

Out of boredom or loneliness, the boy surmised – likely both, for Éclair au Chocolat, the Witch of myriad sobriquets, harbored surprisingly magnanimous facets beneath her gruff exterior if one considered the full breadth of her extraordinary longevity.

“From then until now, I grew up by her side – until eventually I received a commission, and became the Dorothy Gale Your Highness knows.”

Slaying his enemies, his mother, his friend.

The unanticipated talents Dorothy had unearthed amidst those decidedly unpleasant circumstances, she had assiduously honed and wielded with unparalleled finesse.

“To me, Princess, you were merely my charge, the one I had been contracted to safeguard.”

Dorothy divulged her candid perspective regarding her view of Sibylla without embellishment.

“Any devoted conduct or sugared words on my part were solely necessitated by that objective – nothing more than requisite necessities.”

Her princely gallantries, her ardent whispers of devotion – all mere falsities enacted as part of her commission.

“…At first, that’s how it was.”

…It should have been.

“My frantic determination to locate you should have stemmed solely from that request.”

Dorothy recalled her desperation in her search for Sibylla’s whereabouts.

“Frantic indeed, for had you perished, I would have failed my charge. But when I discovered Your Highness in the throes of those men’s brutalities, something… was different.”

A momentary lapse, as if she had briefly lost her senses.

Like that day, the day she had lost Robin.

“…I wonder why that was.”

Had that lingering trauma caused her to unconsciously superimpose Robin’s image upon Princess Sibylla?

Dorothy looked into Sibylla’s eyes. Those beautifully serene, deep azure pools.

Her tone remained impassive, retaining an almost detached neutrality whether recounting her dismal past or baring his innermost ruminations – as if reciting mere anecdotes or poetry, Dorothy’s demeanor exuded an unsettlingly placid tranquility.

“…You are truly a pitiful soul.”

Yet Sibylla perceived the sorrow seeping through, despite Dorothy’s outward composure.

“A deeply unfortunate person, you are.”

The anguish emanating from that heart entombed beneath fathomless, suffocating depths – bound and submerged.

“Now I finally understand you.”

Extending her arms toward Dorothy, Sibylla proclaimed.

“The root of your beguiling, mercurial aspects has become clear to me at last.”

She had ultimately pierced the quintessential essence underlying this paradoxical being’s exterior facades.

“You were terribly difficult to understand. Serene yet volatile, lascivious yet innocent, brilliant yet obtuse, affectionate yet indifferent.”

The myriad personae Dorothy had exhibited before Sibylla rendered her true nature virtually indiscernible as a singular, cohesive individual.

The utterly inept maid devoid of domesticated graces. The eccentric unfazed by curses. The cold-blooded killer slitting throats without batting an eye.

Fixer, the peerless problem-solver capable of granting any entreaty. The simpleton bereft of emotional intelligence. The shameless philanderer seducing both genders with nary a care.

“I continuously wavered between perceiving you as either the most intricate deceiver or the most naive fool in the world.”

So what was the conclusion?

“You are both, and neither simultaneously.”

Neither cunning nor ignorant.

“Because you have simply been unknowingly telling lies without any true comprehension.”

Never consciously deceiving, for you lacked even that awareness of your own lies.

“Unto your very self.”

A naive liar.

“Now I can finally perceive you. The diminutive, childlike you obscured behind those once-inscrutable eyes has become visible.”

With a melancholic timbre, Sibylla told Dorothy what she saw of Dorothy in her own eyes.

“The anguish of loss, the desolation of that day robbed you of your full emotive capacities.”

Like the Snow Queen stealing Kai’s emotional spectrums, that overwhelming grief in the wake of Robin’s death had stripped that little boy of everything.

“Joy, anger, pleasure. All became overshadowed, undetectable amidst the encompassing sorrow.”

Dorothy’s heart impaled by those mirror shards rendered him incapable of genuine sentiments, every utterance emerging hollow rather than heartfelt.

“You, the sincere liar consigned to falsehoods.”

Enduring evident pain from the exertion, Sibylla raised her torso as she continued:

“It is those mirror shards embedded within your heart that I aim to melt away.”

And she placed her palm directly over Dorothy’s chest.

“It might sound a bit funny, yet I want to… make you cry.”

The hand that had sensed Dorothy’s heartbeat trailing upward until grazing the area beneath her eyes.

“I’m not your departed friend. Whatever you may envision me as, I can never become Robin.”

Descending in a caress along her lower lip before falling away.

“For you see, I – Sibylla Thérèse, want to become someone you could love.”

The pledge or declaration she made last time.

But this time, it stemmed from understanding – not the blind declarations of one oblivious to Dorothy Gale’s true essence.

“Whether you are the adopted child of my sworn enemy, a remorseless murderer, an emotionally barren husk, or a child still clinging to his first love. None of that matters to me now. There is but one thing I want to ask.”

Now Sibylla had realized everything about her.

“This is not an order from your master, merely an inquiry.”

In a tone far more composed yet brimming with sincerity than any of her prior overtures, Sibylla posed the question:

“Has Sibylla Thérèse managed to stir your heart even slightly, Dorothy Gale?”

“…”

For an extended interval, no response materialized in the wake of that question.

But Sibylla recognized this silence didn’t simply mean denial.

“…I…”

Repeatedly stammering with trembling lips, fidgeting restlessly.

Eyes flickering erratically, fingers twitching without cessation.

Dorothy was visibly unraveling in agitation – undeniably disquieted by Sibylla’s words.

Had she truly harbored no semblance of consideration whatsoever, such overt signs of indecision would not have manifested so palpably.

“I… that is…”

A demeanor starkly divergent from any repertoire Sibylla had witnessed so far.

“…Truly, you grow only more colorful with each new glimpse I am afforded.”

Surely that signified the boy was undergoing an authentic metamorphosis of sorts, didn’t it?

“I don’t demand an immediate reply. If my question proves too difficult, you don’t have to answer at all.”

Offering a mollifying smile, Sibylla was about to lie down again.

“…W-Wait, just a moment…”

Until Dorothy abruptly clutched her hand with palpable desperation, preventing her from reclining.

* * *

“Will you… will you listen… Your Highness..”

My head feels utterly discombobulated.

Assailed by a throbbing migraine akin to the most virulent strains of influenza, an incessant ringing reverberating through her skull – Dorothy exhaled in haggard, labored pants.

The mouth refused to properly articulate, the voice remaining obstructed like some unseen lump lodged in her throat.

The tongue that felt like it would curl up at any moment didn’t obey, as if paralyzed.

Yet Dorothy yearned to speak. Had to speak.

To unveil that deepest wellspring of sincerity.

“Not… Not yet…”

The agonizing throes of transformation.

Akin to the feverish pain of healing wounds, Dorothy grated her teeth with the sensation of blood about to erupt from her very innards.

“I can’t… give you an answer just yet.”

Has Sibylla Thérèse de Orléans managed to stir Dorothy Gale’s heart to any extent?

Undoubtedly, she had. Right now Dorothy’s demeanor toward her alone differed drastically from her interactions with any other.

“Because I can’t be certain. Whether these feelings are truly directed toward you, Princess, or if my perceptions are merely projecting misplaced impressions…”

Yet was that attachment attributable solely to Sibylla herself? Dorothy couldn’t be certain.

Perhaps she had simply superimposed lingering vestiges from the past upon her current impressions in a delusional trance.

…

“…However.”

However.

“If, I say if…”

If this metamorphosis could be definitively affirmed as authentic, not simply derivative echoes of cherished memories.

“…If, someday, I can say it with certainty.”

The day when Dorothy could unhesitatingly perceive Sybilla solely for her own unblemished existence rather than any phantasmal overlay.

“Then, Your Highness…”

Not Robin nor any previous infatuation, but you – Sibylla Thérèse, in your unvarnished singularity.

“…May I allow myself to fall for you?”

Chapter 62: The Introduction

[Thank you sincerely for your assistance.]

As Quasimodo prepared to depart for the cathedral, Dorothy deeply bowed at a 90-degree angle to express her gratitude.

“Ah, n-no need, r-really…”

Flustered by Dorothy’s reverential conduct, Quasimodo frantically waved her off while perspiring profusely.

“F-For a wretch like m-me to have b-been granted the honor of a-aiding this country’s P-Princess is the t-true privilege here. Heheh.”

[No, you are deserving of such gratitude.]

Dorothy was entirely sincere, because she believed any unbiased observer would deem Quasimodo’s contributions worthy of profound appreciation.

His assistance had proven invaluable – not only had he witnessed Ruslan and Sibylla, thus alerting Dorothy to their whereabouts, but he had also safely escorted Sibylla back to the Witch’s dwelling.

Without him, Dorothy might never have located Sibylla in time, or even if she had, would have struggled to safeguard her. Because Dorothy’s own ruthless proclivities rendered her distinctly ill-suited for guarding duties.

[I’m truly grateful.]

Thus, Dorothy bowed her head once more toward Quasimodo in sincere recognition of his pivotal role enabling her to fulfill her oath of protecting her master.

“A-Anytime, if there’s anything I can h-help with, I’ll h-help. W-Well then, f-farewell!”

Beaming radiantly at Dorothy’s gratitude, Quasimodo took his leave with those parting words.

“So what was that ungainly lout’s deal, anyhow? Kept blathering about some ‘Esmeralda’ person while carrying the Princess around, so I humored the fool for the time being.”

Observing their interaction, the Witch abruptly asked Dorothy. In her eyes, Quasimodo had seemed an utterly unremarkable brute lacking any ostensible status.

Just what circumstances could have prompted such a disconcertingly wretched specimen to arrive hauling the kingdom’s Princess along in his brutish clutches, even if she occupied an outcast’s position?

“I don’t know.”

“Huh?”

“I have no idea who that person is.”

Despite benefiting from his aid, Dorothy could offer no further insights regarding Quasimodo’s identity or background.

“How could I possibly know someone whose name I don’t even ask?”

Dorothy didn’t know his name, having only crossed paths twice without any proper introductions – hardly sufficient intimacy to deduce a complete stranger’s identity through hearsay alone. If anything, such extrasensory abilities seemed exceedingly rare.

All Dorothy knew about Quasimodo amounted to his unconventional physique and the vaguely suspicious air with which he had initially regarded her.

“Though he didn’t seem a bad person, I suppose.”

The sole justification for entrusting Sibylla’s safety to him had stemmed from Dorothy’s inherent intuition detecting a glimmer of profound grace. An aura seldom glimpsed amidst their woefully barren existences, let alone in one so disfigured.

“So you’re saying you entrusted the Princess to some utter stranger you haven’t exchanged a single word with beforehand? And this cretin simply accepted that arrangement?”

“Yes.”

“While I don’t doubt your judge of character, you do seem to adopt an…overly simplistic approach to life at times. Ah.”

Having regarded Dorothy with a bemused scowl, the Witch seemed to reconsider with an addendum:

“Then again, you do possess an uncanny knack for attracting all manner of unsavory dregs.”

“That’s not a compliment, is it?”

“Of course not. Whether it’s a groom or a bride, you should bring someone a bit more decent.”

A one-eyed hunchback giant and a leper. Why do only these types flock around this mongrel with a man’s head and a woman’s body?

“…”

Whether knowing the Witch’s unvoiced thoughts or not, Dorothy silently observed Quasimodo’s departure until he disappeared from view before attempting to close the door once more.

“Excuse me for a moment.”

…Attempting being the operative term, as someone had grabbed the door to prevent Dorothy from shuttering it fully.

“…?”

When Dorothy regarded the Witch with a quizzical gaze, the latter shook her head – evidently this unexpected visitor wasn’t an expected client.

“I had planned on keeping the shop closed for today, so who might you be?”

“Hardly as vacant as rumor would suggest for such a reclusive establishment. I had been led to believe the Witch’s dwelling prided itself on its exclusivity and aversion to visitors.”

Yet upon catching that voice’s distinctive timbre and perceiving the eyes behind that declaration, Dorothy immediately discerned this unannounced guest’s identity.

The low-pulled hat brim, myriad scars and creases cragging that withered countenance.

The wizard-like scraggly beard swathing his jaw accompanied by a refined, gentlemanly demeanor in stark contrast.

But the moment she caught a glimpse of his eyes in the shadows, Dorothy realized that all of this was a disguise.

“…Your Highness the Crown Prince?”

There was only one person Dorothy knew who had such unfathomably deep, dark blue irises.

“I am not the Crown Prince, though I shan’t object if you perceive me as such.”

To Dorothy’s instinctive assumption, the stranger neither outright confirmed nor vehemently denied the appellation, merely indifferently acquiescing to being addressed as the Crown Prince if she so wished.

“A bit too shabby a guise for one of the Crown Prince of Orléans, wouldn’t you agree? Unnecessarily flashy too.”

“I had simply thought to construct a convincing enough disguise to avert unwanted attention, shall we say… masquerading as the Count Villefort.”

“Villefort…”

Dorothy recalled that aristocratic alias, for it was the very same identity her client had initially operated under and commissioned her services through.

Whether referring to an actual personage or purely fictitious construct, Dorothy deemed such distinctions ultimately immaterial. To her, the client embodied the Count Villefort, and the figure before her had employed that same appellative camouflage.

“Dorothy Gale, or should I address you as Arachne? As your client, I would assign you additional tasks to fulfill.”

“…I’m but an unexceptional soul already overburdened attending to the Princess. I’m not capable enough to meet your esteemed expectations, Count.”

Having already suffered a humiliating defeat at the Slave Prince’s hands coupled with nearly losing Sibylla, Dorothy had viscerally gauged the limitations of her capabilities. How could she take on more work when she was already feeling overwhelmed?

“In return, if you complete this task admirably, I’ll grant whatever you desire. In the name of the Orléans royal family. I swear by the sun.”

“…Anything I desire, you say?”

“Any singular wish, anything.”

But the Crown Prince’s offer was sweet enough to make her momentarily forget those practical difficulties.

“If that is the case-“

Once more, the Spider rose to the occasion.

* * *

“Have you gone utterly mad?”

The instant the Crown Prince had departed, the Witch assailed Dorothy with a blistering rebuke.

“Staking everything upon a mere promise he may not even keep? To embark upon such perilous folly based solely on that wretched oath?”

Her demeanor exuded a scathing animosity more acrimonious than Dorothy had ever witnessed.

“He swore upon the sun itself. Surely you understand the gravity such a vow entails, do you not, Éclair?”

“That ludicrous ‘sun oath’ is little more than a parlor trick they can recite innumerable times. It means it’s just as easy to flip as turning over your palm, you fool.”

While any citizen of Orléans, especially one of royal lineage, could never underestimate the profound symbolic significance the sun embodied within their culture…

But to the Witch, keenly aware of that celestial icon’s origins and the individuals responsible for orchestrating its reverence, such oaths amounted to farcical self-parodies at best.

“That wretched Crown Prince takes after his ancestor a bit too uncannily for my liking.”

“You refer to Jason?”

“Yes, Jason. Or should I call him by his birth name, Iason, from an era when I wasn’t a witch.”

Jason, the primogenitor of Orléans – the legendary hero whose remarkable deeds had cast an equally formidable pall of infamy despite his lauded accomplishments.

“That scoundrel resembles Jason far too immaculately.”

“I’ve certainly never heard tales depicting Jason as some bearded old codger.”

“I refer not to his outward appearance, but to the unmistakable aura resonating from his very essence.”

An expression of sheer revulsion marring her features – a severe contempt seldom glimpsed from the typically sardonic Witch.

“While my own intuitions may pale compared to your magically acute perceptions, even I could detect an unsettling malignance emanating from that wretch’s presence.”

Charles Théodone François d’Orléans, the Crown Prince of this nation, was the very reincarnation of the man the Witch so utterly despised. An uncanny doppelganger, as if that odious soul had transmigrated verbatim into a new vessel.

“And you would place your trust in such a scoundrel’s words?”

“It’s hard to believe.”

Those who wielded authority were the world’s most prodigious weavers of deception.

What greater folly could there be than entrusting the paramount ruler of an entire Kingdom?

“And yet… I must place my faith in him.”

But Dorothy chose to believe the Crown Prince’s promises – she had no other recourse.

“Because there’s no other way but to believe.”

From their very inception, Dorothy and the Crown Prince had never been equals negotiating on even footing.

“I am but a chicken confined in a cage, awaiting whatever scraps its master deigns to provide while enduring an eternity of starvation.”

The Crown Prince occupied the inviolable upper hand as her superior, while Dorothy remained the subservient subordinate. He could renege without suffering much, yet Dorothy couldn’t afford that.

“You’re willingly putting your head in the crocodile’s mouth… Is it something you want that badly?”

The witch asked Dorothy in a voice filled with complicated emotions.

“I can’t say for certain, not yet.”

Whether she yearned for it or not, Dorothy couldn’t provide a definitive answer.

“But  this may be an opportunity I can’t afford to let slip through my grasp.”

Because she felt that if she were to let it go, she might spend the rest of her days consumed by profound regret.

The safety of Her Highness Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans – entrust her into my custody once more.

Dorothy decided to reach out her hand.

Chapter 63: Preparations

“You have returned.”

Upon the Crown Prince’s belated homecoming from his nightly ‘stroll’, a sole woman greeted him. A viridian-tressed beauty who, had her countenance not been marred by extensive burn scars, would have unequivocally garnered admiration.

“How went my impersonation of Count Villefort? Convincing, I trust?”

“Regrettably, as one who has never once laid eyes upon the esteemed Count Villefort in the flesh, I can’t readily give you a good or bad answer.”

“Ah, just the answer I anticipated from you.”

Conversing with the woman in an amicable rapport more befitting long-acquainted confidantes than mere subordinates, the Crown Prince reclined upon a divan in his study’s alcove.

“Is the Princess still alive?”

“Given that I haven’t heard news of my son’s skin being flayed yet, I suppose she’s still alive.”

The Crown Prince hadn’t directly confirmed his younger sister Sibylla’s continued survival himself.

“Judging by that person’s brazen yet poised demeanor, she likely remains under their custody for the time being.”

He had merely deduced Sibylla’s status based upon Dorothy’s audacious insistence they relinquish her into their care once more.

“You seem rather certain?”

“Certainty remains utterly elusive in any regard, just like on the battlefield. You know that.”

The Crown Prince chose to temporarily table any concerns regarding Sibylla’s welfare, for far larger, more tumultuous tidal waves loomed ever closer toward the shore of Hyperion.

“What news from our investigations?”

“The prime suspect – though he could scarcely be considered more than a material witness at this juncture – has been quite accommodating in his cooperation thus far. He readily spilled Baron Clermont’s name without any special measures being taken.”

“There’s nothing more foolish than expecting loyalty from Lombard barbarians. Any other names of note?”

“Excluding Marquis Vallière, approximately half of the central nobility have testified to contributing to their employment.”

The deposition from that cane-bearing Lombardian insurgent had proven remarkably lucid and detailed. Enough to implicate a significant number of the Crown Prince’s political opponents.

“I must admit, Marquis Vallière’s absence from that listing strikes me as rather unexpected. Have we initiated any arrests?”

“We’re finding and transporting all those whose names come up.”

“If the police prove insufficient to handle the demands, feel free to mobilize the gendarmerie as well.”

While their disturbingly cordial compliance certainly seemed suspicious on the surface, the Crown Prince saw no reason to spurn this fortuitous opportunity. He couldn’t not use it when he had such an excellent justification to break their power.

“Considerable backlash is expected, of course.”

“Then let them resist. If that bomb was inevitably fated to detonate sooner or later, we might as well provide the spark to light the fuse ourselves.”

The Crown Prince fully expected the nobility’s resistance wouldn’t conclude with mere grandstanding legislative obstructionism. With tangible evidence now in hand, far more drastic countermeasures would undoubtedly follow.

“And the capital’s military strength?”

“The central royal armies have essentially been co-opted and commandeered by the nobility factions. While the police and gendarmerie are likely to be on Your Highness’s side, they’re inferior both quantitatively and qualitatively compared to the central army.”

Realistically, expecting the standard police to match the central armies’ capabilities would have been a tall order even for the gendarmerie. The quantity and quality of armaments differed from the start.

“As for the royal guard, their discipline has become utterly lax over these past years as you well know. Since the majority are from central noble families, the likelihood of widespread defections or betrayals remains exceptionally high.”

“In other words, we’re surrounded on all sides.”

Or to put it another way, Hyperion itself could be considered a tiger’s den.

“Which will no doubt only embolden their arrogance further, fostering delusions that unleashing their blades guarantees an inevitable victory.”

An inadequately armed police force. An undermanned gendarmerie. A royal guard of dubious allegiances poised to potentially betray at any moment.

It’s like being told to fight a bear with a gun with a bent barrel and damp gunpowder. A scenario that must seem the quintessential shooting-fish-in-a-barrel harvest from the tiger’s ravenous perspective.

“And that is precisely what we’ll aim for.”

“You intend to bait them into overextending their reach by presenting an irresistible lure, Your Highness?”

What the Crown Prince was aiming for was for that bear to finally bare its teeth, unable to resist its appetite upon glimpsing that tantalizing, helpless prey before its very jaws.

“What about the letters to my old friends?”

“The couriers have already dispersed in every direction.”

[The commander awaits his soldiers.]

The content of the letter the Crown Prince wrote himself was very concise. But the brevity of the content doesn’t mean its significance is light.

“Those who haven’t enjoyed the glory they should have rightfully enjoyed must be longing to tread the land of Orléans proudly this time. The pigs in the capital will realize that what they’ve let loose in the meadow isn’t sheep.”

Those brothers in martial fraternity who had splintered from Hyperion’s heart under the central nobility’s unremitting suppression – the Crown Prince understood their festering discontents and simmering ambitions better than anyone else.

“But… do we really have to bring that man too?”

“I know you’re not on good terms with him, Bertier. Truth be told, pinpointing a single general officer who does enjoy an amicable history with that man might be harder.”

Eloise Bertier. The man his longtime comrade and capable chief of staff was wary of, and the reason for that wariness.

He couldn’t not understand the reason. Especially as the Crown Prince who had been the supreme commander of the war.

“And yet we need his presence for the moment. No, I should say even if others don’t come, he must come.”

For now was the time to prioritize that man’s proficiencies over his inherent shortcomings and defects of character.

“Only once his steed’s hooves have trodden the cobblestones of Hyperion’s very streets can our victory become assured.”

“..I understand Your Highness’s will.”

Regarding the unequivocally assenting Bertier, the Crown Prince redirected his gaze toward the nocturnal moon overhead.

This country’s fated trajectory would soon be determined.

“I can’t help but wonder which of us will be the first to embrace the hangman’s noose.”

The die had been cast.

At about the same time the Crown Prince was talking with his confidant.

“…How is the situation?”

“It seems difficult to say it’s good.”

Prince Louis deliberated alongside Viscount Lusignan regarding their prospective courses of action.

“Baron Clermont and numerous central aristocracy have already been arrested, evidently those who collaborated funding those mongrel rabbles. I dare to predict that His Highness the Crown Prince must have caught onto something.”

“Yes, that was my assumption as well.”

It wasn’t just randomly arresting central nobles, but excluding those non-collaborators, like Marquis Vallière, in employing the mongrel gang and only arresting and transporting those who did cooperate.

This signified their unmitigated failure, their hastily improvised scheme having collapsed in utter catastrophe.

“As my lady instructed me to convey you, ‘You should have listened to me from the start.’”

“….As I felt before, it’s not a very pleasing tone.”

Yet the Prince and Viscount Lusignan weren’t the sole individuals present within that chamber.

“Had the Slave Prince not violated our initial contract and kidnapped Princess Sibylla, none of this would have occurred in the first place. Isn’t that right?”

“…”

Ruslan, completely unresponsive as if utterly catatonic, accompanied by the gentleman with a monocle beside him.

“The lady was angered by the nobles clandestinely hiring separate assassins without her consultation, interpreting their actions as a profound lack of faith in our capabilities.”

“Was that insulting enough to violate the original contract? Is this how you usually handle business?”

“I merely convey my lady’s intentions.”

The atmosphere grew increasingly hostile with the Prince’s reproach and the gentleman’s sophistry.

“Let’s all take a moment to calm down. Shouldn’t we decide how to resolve the situation going forward?”

Attempting to mediate between the two, Viscount Lusignan clapped his hands together to reestablish focus.

“It’s not a problem that Baron Clermont and others have failed. But their status as your allies, Prince, now languishing under arrest does represent a considerable setback.”

Roughly half, half of the central faction disappeared, and not arbitrarily – clearly facilitated by some decisive material evidence.

The existence of evidence means that they won’t be able to get out easily, and in the worst case, they could even be executed. Could any political faction truly function cohesively after losing nearly half its membership under such ignominious circumstances, their reputations indelibly tarnished?

Impossible. The world isn’t so lenient. Viscount Lusignan was more sensitive to politics than anyone.

“In this situation, there’s only one option left. We must seize our blades before they raise their cudgels to bludgeon us into submission.”

“..That sounds like a very irreverent statement. It’s not just my imagination, is it, Viscount Lusignan?”

Strike before being struck. Bare one’s fangs and unleash one’s throat upon the enemy.

“We must turn against His Highness the Crown Prince.”

An open declaration advocating outright rebellion.

“Wait, just a moment now! I can’t possibly agree to any notion of bringing harm to my own brother, under any circumstances whatsoever…!!”

“Your Highness.”

In stark contrast to the Prince’s agitated vehemence, the Viscount’s tone projected an unsettlingly placid timbre:

“There is one matter that I’ve been curious about for a while.”

“What nonsense all of a sudden…?”

“Your motivation for aligning yourself alongside our cause – was it truly for the sake of any grand ideal?”

Intoning those chillingly composed words laced with latent menace:

“Or was it for the sake of a child?”

“….What did you say?”

“Prince Louis Ferdinand d’Orléans, the bastard offspring born from a relationship with some common wench, even though you’re not yet married.”

What he had wanted to hide to the end beneath layers of subterfuge.

“The unborn child you forsook.”

That ignominious primordial sin.

Chapter 64: The Prince from the Fairy Tale (illustration)

“How… did you…?”

The flaw he had tried so desperately to hide was now exposed.

The Prince’s expression, shocked by the fact that others knew this flaw, bore a look he had never shown to others in his life.

“You… how did you…?”

“It hasn’t been that long in truth. Who could have foreseen that one of the Orléans royalty – a Prince capable of readily claiming any foreign Princess for a consort if he so desired – would instead fall for a mere common woman?”

An allegation so irreverent it was blasphemous to even utter. Who would dare say that a Prince of Orléans had dallied with a commoner?

From his earliest years, Second Prince Louis had been an enviable matrimonial prospect coveted by aristocratic social circles across nations. Not only because of his noble lineage as a direct descendant of the Orléans royal family, but also because of his excellent appearance and character, it was natural that eyes would turn to him.

That’s why even when people saw the Prince rejecting marriage proposals every time, they didn’t find it suspicious. They only speculated that it might be because his standards had become too high due to his artistic temperament, or that he might prefer a marriage that resulted from falling in love and deepening that love to become a couple, rather than an arranged, obligation-born match.

Whether born of genuine affection or more prurient proclivities proved immaterial to Viscount Lusignan’s assessments. Even if he could know, he didn’t particularly want to.

“I always wondered. Why did you, who had been so averse to fratricide, suddenly lend us your strength and become so obsessed with Princess Sibylla’s well-being?”

Ultimately, only the end results mattered. Trivial things like intentions and processes have no effect on evaluating the result. Prince Louis had a relationship with a commoner, and an illegitimate child with royal blood was conceived.

Albeit as yet unborn and of undetermined gender, this child’s very existence propagated the sun’s dynastic lineage.

“Were you afraid of the curse?”

The royal curse befalling  the youngest child among those bearing their bloodline.

In other words, should Princess Sibylla perish following this unborn child’s birth, that primordial bane would then transfer from the Crown Prince’s child onto Prince Louis’s illicit offspring instead.

“Indeed, you must have feared your own flesh and blood succumbing to that wasting malediction. A fate akin to your sister’s appalling condition, with the body rotting away.”

Only now did Viscount Lusignan comprehend the seemingly incongruous motivations fueling the Prince’s abrupt metamorphosis and overt solicitousness toward Sibylla over his elder brother:

“Perhaps Your Highness’s purpose in joining hands with us, being closer to the commoners than even His Highness the Crown Prince, was about the curse from the beginning, not the throne.”

“…”

The Prince’s resounding silence constituted his sole acknowledgment.

“What do you think will happen if such salacious revelations become widespread public knowledge?”

A Prince siring children out of wedlock with some lowborn wretch.

If it ended as just a scandal, if it ended with just the Prince and the royal family’s authority being tarnished, that would be fortunate.

“A most fitting sacrificial vessel upon which to divert that curse has now appeared.”

“…!!”

The possibility the Prince dreaded and strived to circumvent above all others.

An illegitimate child with mixed commoner blood. What greater ideal scapegoat could be conceived?

“So stay quietly in your mansion like a dead mouse, Your Highness.”

Rising from his seat, Lusignan leaned in to murmur into the Prince’s frozen, puppet-like visage:

“Until we place the crown on that head.”

In Orléans, where royal authority was held in high esteem, a noble threatening a royal occurred.

In essence, an unappealable sentence – for the Prince could offer no substantive resistance, only unbidden acquiescence.

“Then… I’d like to ask for your cooperation again, gentleman from Königsberg.”

“The lady said she’s willing to send not only the Slave Prince but also other assassins as long as it’s not hiring other mercenaries without consultation like last time.”

“Understood. In that case…”

Inclining his head with a wordless, inward slump, Louis’s gaze abruptly refocused upon Ruslan’s lurking presence as if noticing him there for the first time.

That professional assassin who couldn’t repress his full-body tremors whenever the gentleman referred to his elusive mistress as ‘my lady.’

“…”

Yet rather than the uncompromising demeanor of a ruthless killer devoid of compunction, Ruslan’s mannerisms instead exuded an unmistakable aura of timorous, cowering terror more befitting a whipped puppy than any hardened murderer.

* * *

Extending one’s hand to assist someone who has fallen.

For most ordinary people, such mundane acts of kindness seldom linger as memorable occurrences worth recollecting beyond that fleeting moment.

Yet for Quasimodo, it had been different.

Burdened by a physical deformity rendering even the most routine daily functions profoundly laborious – ostracized and branded as a cursed pariah forced to trudge onward lugging that unsightly frame.

To him, that simple courtesy could never dissipate from his consciousness as some ephemeral irrelevance to be discarded alongside countless other insignificant minutiae.

Thus, Quasimodo resolved he would unequivocally repay that debt of kindness the maid who had identified herself as ‘Esmeralda’ had extended him, no matter how infinitesimal it may have seemed. And that opportunity had arisen far sooner than anticipated.

Was he helpful? Quasimodo wondered. Was the result of his series of actions, his efforts to help Esmeralda, indeed positive? Was it of practical help?

Despite harboring exceedingly low self-esteem, Quasimodo could state with conviction this time. Quasimodo was helpful to Esmeralda.

He found the Princess and moved her to a safe place. Quasimodo had faithfully carried out Esmeralda’s request, ensuring the Princess’s survival in the process.

“Heh… heheh… heheheheh…”

Because he could pride himself on being helpful, on contributing to saving the Princess, Quasimodo was able to smile a genuine smile born of satisfaction, not a servile smile, for the first time in a very long time.

He repaid a kindness, not an enmity. For the first time, he reciprocated the goodwill bestowed by another.

“…Heheh… heh…”

Yet simultaneously, Quasimodo comprehended he could never convey the affections blossoming within his heart.

Not due to his impoverished orphan upbringing, unsightly countenance or malformed physique rendering him so despised.

If it were such things, Quasimodo would have never conveyed his feelings, but he also wouldn’t have been able to easily let go of his lingering attachment to Esmerald

“Th-The Princess, was it…?”

Rather, Esmeralda’s heart had already become devoted to another.

Quasimodo, though uneducated, was not stupid and was quite perceptive. He could understand her feelings even faster than she herself did.

The desperation, the visceral terror contorting her features while enlisting his assistance to locate the missing Princess – as if her very heart were being wrenched and squeezed within an inescapable vise.

It was clearly romantic love. The same as what Quasimodo had felt.

Because he could empathize with those feelings, because he knew anguish flowered from the toxically addictive poison known as love.

“…Heh… heheh.”

And so Quasimodo could relinquish his unrequited yearnings with a sense of bittersweet catharsis.

“Heh… oh, F-Father?”

“…Quasimodo.”

But there were those who couldn’t.

* * *

The moon steadily ascends into the nocturnal skies.

Filtered through the bedroom window, those lunar rays cast their melancholic silver luminescence into the darkened interior – an ominously somber vista traditionally associated with squalid destitution throughout the slums.

“Are you awake, Princess?”

Silhouetted against that moonlight while perched upon the window’s sill, a woman sat huddled in pensive contemplation with her chin resting atop her knees.

“…Come to think of it… did you discard the maid’s attire?”

“It became unusable due to being soaked in too much blood. So I had to change clothes.”

While Dorothy frequently alternated her guises depending on the scenario, her maidservant clothes had always constituted her signature constant until this anomaly.

A white shirt and black pants. Dorothy’s appearance with her hair down in such ordinary attire felt a bit unfamiliar to Sibylla.

“It rather suits you in an unexpected way. Perhaps even more than the maid uniform.”

Not that such an appearance didn’t suit her or detracted from her looks.

“Pardon my digression, Princess, but for the foreseeable future I’ll quit my duties as your personal maid.”

“…?”

Regarding Dorothy’s abrupt announcement with a bemused gaze of confusion and disbelief.

“Do you mean you’re going to leave me?”

“No, I don’t intend to leave your side entirely, Princess.”

Abandoning Sibylla was never even a consideration – not after investing so much effort into this endeavor thus far. She couldn’t simply turn her back on Sibylla as if nothing had happened.

Above all, because she felt she would forever groan in inexplicable regret if she lost Sibylla, Dorothy remained steadfastly resolved to protect Sibylla unto the bitter end.

“Do you recall the vow I once swore unto you, Princess?”

“…There were more than one or two, so I don’t remember them all…”

Since Dorothy Gale met Sibylla Thérèse, how many oaths had she promised before her master?

More than could be recounted from memory, Dorothy surmised. Most were words she had uttered to reassure Sibylla, and further to induce her to open her heart.

Not that those vows constituted lies, but.

“I swore to protect, swore not to abandon, swore not to leave until the curse was lifted. I probably swore even more than I can currently recollect.”

For Dorothy herself couldn’t accurately remember each individualized instance either, her own mindset during those initial overtures differ drastically from her current one.

Still, because she couldn’t break an oath made with her master.

“To fulfill my totality of oaths sworn before you, Princess, I have come to realize I shouldn’t serve Your Highness as I have been.”

Dorothy judged that the position of a maid didn’t seem particularly convenient for protecting Sibylla.

“So… for the foreseeable future, I’ll be resigning from my maid’s duties. Or rather than a resignation… it’s more like a vacation. Paid leave.”

“Then what will you be from now on…”

“I think I’ll try being a Prince.”

Unbidden, an image of Robin unexpectedly resurfaced within Dorothy’s mind.

The Little Prince traversing that hallowed desert who had once embodied her entire world.

“…A Prince?”

“Yes, a Prince.”

I wonder, was this the sort of ‘Prince’ you often envisioned?

Probably he was a bit more dependable, handsome, and kind than this.

I’m sorry to disappoint you, Robin.

But still, I’ll try my best.

Chapter 65: The Ones You Could Trust

Immediately after the perpetrators behind the Princess’s abduction surfaced, the nobles who had commissioned her assassination were swiftly apprehended all at once before they could attempt fleeing or resistance.

These masterminds, including Baron Clermont, hailed from the central aristocracy’s ranks – more specifically, the central faction who had consistently opposed the Crown Prince at every turn.

Naturally, the central faction took a heavy blow. With a considerable portion of their parliamentarians who held Trimuvirate assembly seats now eliminated, their legitimacy had been irreparably undermined alongside a substantive depletion of their actual influence.

Had the nobility ever confronted such a existential crisis on this scale before?

In past eras, the Trimuvirate’s authority paled into utter irrelevance compared to the monarch’s absolute personal sovereignty. The current King’s reign had even fostered relatively amicable relations with the aristocracy after the initial turmoil and purges left the royal bloodline nearly extinct, necessitating the nobles to fill those vacant positions.

Yet the nobility clung tenaciously to that power the current King had bestowed, while the Crown Prince endeavored to reclaim those previously surrendered reins of governance. That’s why political strife occurred, and this situation broke out.

“This madness never ends…”

Having already endured one such monumental political convulsion during his youth, the chamberlain sighed heavily while gripping his brow in exasperation. Because it was crystal clear what would happen next.

No war could ever conclude through mere words. Factional strife is also a kind of war, and in the end, one side will eventually draw their sword.

Whether catalyzed by the Crown Prince’s faction striking preclusively to decapitate these newly apprehended co-conspirators alongside any remnant sympathizers, or these cornered nobles desperately unsheathing their blades toward the throne itself, bloodshed appeared imminently inevitable from any of the rapidly narrowing trajectories. Perhaps both sides would end up bloodied.

“Haah…”

His worries only deepened. The climax of this play called political strife, reeking of blood, was too burdensome for the old Chamberlain.

However, there was a separate reason that worried him and deepened his concerns more than anything else.

“..I shouldn’t just be sighing like this.”

Lighting his cigarette, the chamberlain’s ruminations inevitably gravitated toward the Princess’s present welfare.

Had she emerged unscathed amid this sequence of tumultuous events?

The culprits who caused this series of disturbances, the nobles who instigated the Princess’s assassination, were captivated, but Princess Sibylla hadn’t returned to the royal palace.

Or was it more accurate to say she couldn’t return, the chamberlain cautiously entertained that most abhorrent possibility he dared not envision too vividly. For if that worst-case scenario among all imaginable contingencies had indeed transpired…

“No, anything but that…”

Anything except that under no circumstances could be tolerated.

Steeling his resolve, the chamberlain rose from his seat. Instead of idling while sitting, shouldn’t he lend even a little strength to finding the Princess?

“Ch-Chamberlain? May I enter? A letter has arrived addressed to you…”

“Hmm?”

As the chamberlain prepared to depart, a maid inquired through the door:

“Enter, Miss Perche. Who is the sender?”

“Unknown. I heard a commotion and upon investigating, discovered only this letter bearing your name without any visible bearer…”

“…I see…”

Scrutinizing the unassuming envelope extended by the maid, the chamberlain discerned nothing overtly suspicious at first glance.

“Did you read the contents?”

“Oh, heavens no! I thought it would be impolite to read someone else’s letter… Did I do something unnecessary? Maybe I should have just burned it instead of bringing it…”

“Not at all, Miss Perche has simply fulfilled her duties admirably. You may take your leave.”

“Y-Yes, sir…”

Only once the timid maid had departed did the chamberlain unseal that envelope and unfurl the enclosed letter’s contents.

“…!”

And a moment later, the sight that greeted a servant who came to report recent trends to the chamberlain’s office was an empty office with its owner gone.

* * *

In the southeastern district of Hyperion, a gently sloping verdant hillock rested amid the urban landscape.

Long ago, it was used as a sacrificial ground, but now it has become a park, enriching the leisure life of Orléans citizens.

The chamberlain occupied a bench beside that knoll’s central bell tower, indulging in a pensive smoke. For this was the meeting place written in the letter.

Was that letter really true? Could it be a lie from some juvenile prankster?

Rife with trepidations yet unable to disregard its tantalizing implications regarding Princess Sibylla’s fate, the chamberlain felt compelled to honor the directives. Because there was no more tempting bait for him now than Princess Sibylla’s survival and whereabouts.

Please, may this not be a mere child’s prank. Or if that proved the case, at least may the Princess still remain unharmed…

Closing his eyes, the chamberlain’s tremulous fingers ignited a cigarette. And at that precise moment:

“Might you spare one for me as well?”

Beside him materialized a strikingly beautiful brunette woman and sat down at that very same bench.

“…Miss Gale…?”

While an undeniably familiar visage to the chamberlain, it had also been conspicuously absent since the incident involving Princess Sibylla’s kidnapping ordeal.

“You had presumed me deceased, hadn’t you? Or at the very least, you might have thought I ran away.”

“Your clothes have become quite tidy…”

“I’m thinking of taking a leave of absence soon.”

Dorothy’s appearance, calmly putting a cigarette in her mouth only to drop it, just crossing her legs and looking at the sky, felt quite unfamiliar to the chamberlain who had only seen her relatively stiff appearance.

But that wasn’t the important thing at present:

“Is the Princess… unharmed?”

“Yes, she is safe and sound.”

“…Whew…”

Only then could the chamberlain finally exhale that sigh of utter relief he had unknowingly suppressed until this moment.

In truth, Dorothy’s mere presence alone had indirectly intimated Sibylla’s continued survival the moment the chamberlain had seen her. If the Princess’s shield still persisted, then Sibylla must necessarily remain intact as well.

Of course, he couldn’t be absolutely certain, yet the chamberlain at least believed so. Wanted to believe so.

“Where, then, is Her Highness cur-“

“Before that,  there’s something I’d like to ask.”

Without directly facing one another, the two carried on their discourse from opposing ends of that very same wooden bench:

“Is the royal palace… secure?”

“…”

At Dorothy’s inquiry, the chamberlain pondered. Is the palace safe, for Sibylla to reside within comfortably?

“No. It can’t be considered secure.”

If the political situation hadn’t been chaotic, he could have confidently said it was safe to rest assured, but not now, the chamberlain judged.

Many of the palace’s servants and Imperial Guards hailed from central aristocratic lineages themselves. With the tinderbox seemingly poised to ignite into all-out armed conflict any day now, how could they send Sibylla into a vipers’ nest?

“A great upheaval may soon break out in the royal family. At least until the situation is resolved, I believe it would be far more advisable for the Princess to remain elsewhere secure for now.”

It might be a bit cruel to Sibylla herself, but this method was the best for her safety.

“‘Secure’, you say…”

Trailing off contemplatively following the chamberlain’s counsel, Dorothy fell into a momentary silence before resuming:

“In that case, will you help me, Chamberlain?”

She explained the plan to the chamberlain. A plan for the Princess’s safety.

“….Is it alright to tell me all of this plan? For by background alone, I too hail from central aristocratic lineages…”

After listening to the entire plan, the chamberlain suddenly asked her. He was curious about why she trusted him so much.

The Fontaine family had served as the closest vassals attending to Orléans’s sovereigns for generations. Yet simultaneously, they embodied one of the paramount central noble houses whose cumulative influence couldn’t be so readily discounted or disregarded.

What was the basis for treating him, the head of the Fontaine family, so kindly?

“….That’s.”

* * *

“Because you are the only one I can rely upon.”

“…Hmm…”

Pondering Dorothy’s response, Clopân Trouillefou tilted her head.

“It’s quite embarrassing for me to say this myself, but am I really a trustworthy person to you? As you know, I turned a blind eye to the Princess and the Slave Prince staying at the Court of Miracles.”

Strictly speaking, Dorothy had no reason to trust Clopân. They hadn’t been particularly close before, and just recently, they were essentially in opposition even if they hadn’t directly clashed.

“Still, I trust you.”

Yet Dorothy’s conviction remained unwavering.

“I trust you just like I trust the chamberlain.”

If the chamberlain represented the sole trustworthy individual among the royal household, then Clopân was the only trustworthy person in the slums.

Dorothy had always thought so. On one side, a person who sincerely worries about Sibylla and can sacrifice for her. On the other side, a person who willingly extends a hand to the weak with a pure heart.

“So to make my shallow and sloppy plan succeed, I need the full cooperation of you both.”

They constituted the only two individuals Dorothy could realistically entrust with such an endeavor.

The Witch undoubtedly wouldn’t want to get involved in such matters without being asked, and Dorothy wanted to avoid putting her adoptive mother in danger if possible – leaving Clopân and the chamberlain as her sole remaining prospective collaborators.

“To you, I may be the very bastard responsible for Robin’s death, but…”

“…”

Reiterating their fraught history bordered on sheer understatement, to the extent Dorothy even hesitated whether to involve Clopân before making the plan.

Yet she had ultimately chosen to place her faith in those same intuitions that had never once led her astray before.

“…May I slap you once?”

“…You’re not going to use your right hand, are you? I think my molars might break if you hit me with that side.”

Slap-!

Accompanied by that crisp sound resonating against her right cheek.

“Alright, I’ll cooperate.”

Dorothy had successfully secured Clopân Trouillefou’s cooperation.

Chapter 66: Mother-in-law and Daughter-in-law Conflict: The Beginning

After Dorothy’s departure to enlist additional allies for the scheme to safeguard Sibylla, a minor predicament manifested within the Witch’s sanctum.

“…”

“…”

In particular, the frequency with which Sibylla – who had reclaimed a measure of mobility – and the Witch’s paths intersected had markedly increased. 

The two, who customarily eschewed superfluous interaction or discourse by communicating solely through Dorothy as an intermediary, now found themselves inadvertently startling one another whenever their trajectories converged within the confines of the cramped domicile during Dorothy’s absence. An unmistakable discomfiture permeated these chance encounters without Dorothy’s presence to serve as a buffer.

“…Haah, it appears one of you harbors something that yearns to be expressed – why not simply give voice to it rather than allowing it to fester any longer?”

Feeling increasingly neurotic in this predicament, the Witch ultimately shattered the impasse by initiating dialogue.

To her, remaining in solitude alongside Sibylla under these present circumstances engendered profound unease. Nay, merely confronting Sibylla at all had metamorphosed into an immensely uncomfortable ordeal.

In times past, when Sibylla remained ignorant of her role as the architect of the curse, the Witch might have engaged in casual banter. However, now that the truth had been unveiled, the Witch found herself disquieted by Sibylla’s hostile gaze.

Had it been pure animosity, a straightforward resentment toward an adversary, that would have been one matter. But the Witch recoiled from confronting that gaze, laden with a myriad of petty emotions intermingled with hostility, perhaps owing to her son’s involvement.

“So, are you truly that ‘Medea’ of legend?”

“You’ve already been apprised of as much, so why trouble yourself with such an inquiry?”

The Witch retorted irritably to Sibylla’s question, which was imbued with those varied, conflicting emotions.

“I am indeed Medea. The witch who has endured through an interminably protracted existence that would have witnessed a mortal born and perish dozens of times over. The very Medea who sowed the seeds of the curse upon your progenitor.”

The Witch harbored no inclination to obfuscate her true identity – or rather, no compulsion to do so, considering herself blameless in the matter.

“What, then? Do you intend to strike me now that you stand face-to-face with your sworn nemesis? By all means, make the attempt. The culprit who caused your body to decay like a corpse interred in the earth stands before you.”

Advancing with purposeful strides and thrusting her visage forward, the Witch goaded Sibylla, as if yearning to be struck.

“…For what purpose?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake…”

Yet Sibylla refused to succumb to the Witch’s provocative overtures.

“Just strike me cleanly, I implore you. Seize my tresses, deliver a stinging blow to my cheek, encircle my neck with your hands – go forth and vent your frustrations to your heart’s content.”

“…”

Though her hand trembled at the Witch’s goading, Sibylla merely shook her head repeatedly, as if some weighty matter burdened her thoughts.

“…Tsk, what a vexatious woman.”

Clicking her tongue at Sibylla’s refusal to heed her baiting provocations, the Witch instead reclined upon a dust-laden armchair.

“Do you yearn to know? The impetus behind my curse upon the House of Orléans?”

“…Indeed, I would.”

“If that be your desire, then allow me to indulge you… hold a moment.”

As if struck by a sudden realization, the Witch’s nascent irritation subsided into contemplative recollection:

“Surely you must be cognizant? Being of Orléans lineage, you must be familiar with the legend of Jason.”

The Epic of Jason, meticulously compiled by an author who had woven myriad historical sources into a singular, definitive narrative, had become a literary sensation of unparalleled renown. Concurrently, it stood as a tale that, quite uniquely for a founding myth, laid bare the personal failings and flaws of its protagonist, Jason.

Whether due to the author’s own position as a priest of the Lateran Papal State, neither the Orléans royal family nor its citizens paid much heed to their founder’s shortcomings. As such, Jason’s founding myth bore the distinctive aspect of being both an origin story and an epic of a hero with multifaceted complexity.

“You cannot possibly be ignorant of his reputation as a womanizer, nor the tribulations he endured as a consequence. Unless, perchance, you have not perused that epic.”

“…I have indeed read the epic.”

Within its narrative structure, Medea emerges as a character who falls deeply in love with Jason, employing her arcane arts to support him through various trials. 

However, she also reveals a profoundly cruel facet, such as dismembering her own brother and casting his remains into the sea to confound pursuers. She could also be deemed Jason’s ultimate adversary, leaving a curse to be perpetuated through generations when he turned his back on her, repulsed by her ruthlessness.

“So tell me, then – can every word inscribed within that epic truly be accepted as incontrovertible fact?”

“In all honesty, there’s more than one or two points I’d be inclined to contest, but it’s far simpler to accept it at face value.”

Medea made no attempt to exculpate herself from the atrocious deeds ascribed within that mythic epic’s verses – neither did she affirm them.

“Ah, but there is one specific detail I would like to elucidate. What reason does it proffer for Jason’s abandonment of me? Was it, perchance, due to my purported cruelty?”

“…That is correct.”

“That is erroneous. I never possessed a sibling to begin with.”

“…?”

Perplexed by Medea’s assertion of being an only child, despite the epic hinging upon her committing fratricide, Sibylla found herself utterly bewildered. If there was no sibling whose demise catalyzed Jason’s rejection of Medea, if it wasn’t rooted in his disillusionment with Medea’s cruelty, then what earthly reason could have precipitated his abandonment?

“Would you care to learn the genuine impetus behind his desertion?”

“…”

As Sibylla nodded, the Witch’s lips parted in a mischievous smile reminiscent of her usual demeanor.

“That lout simply harbored a preference for a more… ‘mature’ feminine physique, shall we say.”

“…I beg your pardon?”

“Shall I elucidate in more candid terms for your comprehension? In essence-“

It means your ancestor had a predilection for ample bosoms and curvaceous hips.

“…”

“Kuhkuhkuh, why such shock and consternation? Is it so unfathomable for a red-blooded male to harbor aesthetic predilections toward comely women with generous endowments?”

Visibly taken aback by this utterly primal, basal revelation far exceeding any anticipations, Sibylla goggled wordlessly at the Witch.

He abandoned the woman who had aided him in every conceivable manner for such a reason? Merely because she failed to align with his corporeal preferences?

At this shocking claim, Sibylla inadvertently surveyed the Witch… her diminutive and meager form in many respects.

“…It was meant in jest, yet you regard it with such gravity. Might you avert your gaze at present?”

The Witch’s sneer, which she had just affected, swiftly vanished beneath Sibylla’s somewhat pitying gaze directed at her physique.

“…Was that intended as a jest, then?”

“Yes, merely a feeble jest, nothing more. While Glauce was indeed a statuesque woman with generous proportions, Jason did not forsake me solely due to those corporeal endowments.”

Unable to endure how her attempt at levity had strangely engendered such misery, the Witch finally recanted her earlier utterance.

“Indeed, that is what is inscribed in the epic. That my cruel actions precipitated Jason’s abandonment.”

The cruelly spurned Medea inflicting a curse upon her disdainful lover – certainly a tale as old as time, if not older.

“Then perhaps it is best to accept that version of events.”

The Witch elected not to refute that narrative.

“Yet you just proclaimed with your own lips that you had no sibling.”

“Perchance I had a sibling of whose existence I was unaware. Or mayhap it was an elder brother. Does the distinction truly matter?”

Jason is undoubtedly criticized for his colorful womanizing and rather petty aspects unbefitting a hero, yet he remains a beloved figure.

Particularly among his direct descendants who had inherited those signature golden tresses and azure irises radiating with solar resplendence, their admiration toward that ancestor would logically intensify commensurately.

“There’s no one left to bear witness, regardless.”

An expression suffused with regret and bitterness.

That was the final consideration the Witch could extend to the man she once despised, and loved even more profoundly.

“…Though it hardly matters voicing this admission so belatedly, I never envisioned that curse would endure for such a protracted period.”

Shading her expression beneath the brim of her oversized hat as if unable to directly confront her own transgression’s sacrificial victim, the Witch continued with apparent shame:

“When I laid the curse, I also divulged to him the key to its dissolution. Even if Jason himself proved incapable of lifting it, I believed future generations would succeed.”

Yet that solution toward unraveling the curse’s stranglehold wasn’t transmitted through the ages. It wasn’t forgotten as time marched inexorably onward, but Jason himself never deigned to speak of it…

…Yet what relevance did any of that hold now? In the final analysis, the one who laid the curse is someone else entirely.

“…I’m sorry.”

In a voice far more sincere and slightly tremulous than her usual demeanor, the Witch finally offered her apology.

To the innocent victims who had fallen prey to her blind vengeance.

“…”

Indeed, should this contrition be accepted?

Sibylla remained silent. She answered with her taciturnity.

Perhaps the hammer of judgment over the Witch had been placed in her hands. Such was Sibylla’s contemplation.

If her life had been irrevocably obliterated, destined only to wallow in perpetual anguish awaiting death’s sweet release prior to Dorothy’s intervention, did she not possess justifiable grounds to wield this hammer?

“…I cannot accept your apology, for you are not the sole entity in need of atonement.”

But in the end, Sibylla refrained from swinging the hammer. Nor did she extend forgiveness to the Witch.

“Until an eternity of time washes away your transgression, live your life in constant penitence.”

Sibylla deemed this the most fitting punishment she could administer.

“…Very well.”

As the Witch rose to depart in resigned acceptance of that decreed sentence, the front door abruptly burst open at that very moment:

“I’m a trifle late… what is this tense atmosphere I find myself interrupting?”

Dorothy had finally returned. The buffer to prevent their clash.

“Princess, though it may seem excessively harsh for one who has just risen from their sickbed, I implore you to prepare for departure.”

Adopting a far more resolute attitude than usual, Dorothy announced:

“Tonight, we will commence the plan.”

Chapter 67: The Night of Swords

It had become increasingly commonplace for commoners of sufficient wealth and influence to ascend to the position of chief of police in Orléans.

Particularly after the bourgeois capitalists began to wield greater sway, the nobility’s presence in the role of Police Chief had waned considerably.

Rather than being forcibly ousted, it was as though the nobility had conceded the position with an air of ‘here, take this and leave us be’. Consequently, the capital’s constabulary found themselves in closer alignment with the capitalist faction.

“You’ve prepared a gift for me? All of you?”

“Indeed, Chief.”

Thus, when Baron Auguste de Montferrand, a noble and central aristocrat no less, assumed the mantle of Police Chief, reactions proved quite diverse.

Certain capitalists raised a clamor, decrying the nobility’s apparent attempt to reclaim their dominion, while others voiced more muted apprehensions.

Yet their concerns ultimately failed to materialize into any substantive grievances.

“Rather than squandering your generosity on one such as myself, already blessed with both wealth and title, you ought to bestow gifts upon your own kith and kin. Why this unnecessary…”

“Don’t say such things, Chief. Is not your son’s natal day fast approaching? We’ve included some playthings that the youth of today favor.”

“My son has seen fifteen summers, wait, I say, you lot, cease this pushing! I shall manage it myself!”

Baron Montferrand was not a typical noble who discriminated based on social standing.

He was a man who neither looked down upon nor disregarded his subordinates, but rather attended to and cared for each with kindness and benevolence.

There existed no officer of the law who did not hold such an ideal superior in high regard. Even if he stood as part of the establishment they sought to overthrow.

Furthermore, while his central leanings indeed aligned with that faction’s platforms, he fundamentally remained a royalist stalwart, steadfastly devoted to the crown.

Unable to fully endorse the capitalists’ reformist demands, yet unwavering in his loyalty toward the Crown Prince spearheading those bourgeois reformist interests.

It was this multifaceted character that allowed the Baron to garner such profound trust and respect.

“Well… Hm?”

And at the same moment.

“Why did my back suddenly give out? Someone, could you illuminate the… Mmph!?”

It was also the reason his name was inscribed upon the centralists’ death list.

“Mmph!! Mmmmph!!!”

“Chief!? Chief—”

A grisly spectacle unfolded in the encompassing darkness.

“…”

Soon the commotion subsided, and the sole actor who emerged from the shadowy stage locked eyes with a colleague who materialized before him like a spectre, without emitting even the faintest sound.

“I came to rendezvous with you, Ruslan. The Chief?”

“Handled.”

With blood-drenched fingertips, Ruslan methodically struck through a name inscribed upon that fateful notepad.

“The other targets?”

“Our confederates have departed to dispatch them. Once their designated quarry are eliminated, they shall converge upon either the Crown Prince or Princess next.”

“I see.”

The name etched at the very apex of the death list, and the name scrawled at its very nadir.

“Are you bound for the Court of Miracles, or the Fontaine family villa?”

“The Court of Miracles.”

“…Are you certain?”

Intelligence had been received of a carriage arriving before the Fontaine family mansion, and a figure swathed in bandages from crown to sole emerging from the dwelling to board said conveyance.

It was unanticipated that the Princess would manifest from the Fontaine abode rather than the Court of Miracles where they had presumed her to be residing, yet it was not beyond the realm of plausibility. The Fontaine family, after all, was a noble house intimately connected to the royal lineage, the Head Chamberlain especially so.

“One of our own bore witness to the chamberlain fleeing the palace grounds with a figure bearing striking resemblance to the Princess in tow. Yet you insist upon scouring the Court of Miracles instead?”

“…”

Ruslan responded with a resolute nod, unwavering in his convictions despite his compatriot’s palpable skepticism.

“…If the mistress’s designs are thwarted this time, she’ll doubtless confine you to the bedchamber for no less than a month… Nay. You must possess knowledge beyond my ken.”

“…!”

“See? Your body trembles at the mere mention of the mistress.”

Witnessing Ruslan’s instinctive visceral terror at the mere mention of his mistress’s designation, that assassin could only shake his head with a weary sigh.

“Don’t worry, I won’t report about your solo action.”

“…Thank you.”

That dreaded household he wished never to return to, that terrifying mistress awaiting his homecoming.

If only he could never return.

“…”

Ruslan, who had been staring at the dagger in his hand, put it back inside his coat.

Because the life of the Slave Prince who had been robbed even of the courage to die was not his own.

* * *

Guillaume de Lusignan.

More commonly addressed as Viscount Lusignan, he hadn’t originated from central factional affiliations since birth.

Rather, in times past, he stood as a royalist of unparalleled loyalty among the central nobility. Surpassing even the chamberlain himself in uncompromising fealty toward the crown.

Not only that, but the entire Lusignan family was once zealously royalist. His sire had served as Minister of Finance under the current King, and even after the current King’s descent into madness and the Crown Prince’s ascension to power, relations between the Lusignan family and the royal family remained unscathed.

How did the paths of the Lusignan family and the royal family diverge so dramatically?

The backstory proved too labyrinthine to elucidate in but a few words, and mere contemplation of it engendered a throbbing ache in his temples.

Who betrayed first? The Viscount deemed there was little merit in scrutinizing the circumstances.

In the end, the Viscount and the Crown Prince, once steadfast comrades, had become irreparably estranged from one another, and now they found themselves with sword tips poised at each other’s throats.

“The central armies?”

“We can mobilize between 7,000 and 11,000 troops. If it were during the zenith of the war, we could have easily conscripted about 30,000…”

“That should suffice.”

The quantity of troops wasn’t entirely satisfactory, but the centralists were in no position to voice complaints. Rather, it was nothing short of miraculous that they had managed to amass such a force.

“And the police alongside the gendarmerie?”

“The capital’s constabulary amounts to around 3,500 men at most. As for the gendarmerie, their ranks cannot exceed 300.”

Originally, the gendarmerie existed as a rural law enforcement entity, charged with maintaining local order in lieu of the police. Had the issue of Hyperion’s public security vacuum not arisen, even those 300 or so would not have been present.

“Our chances?”

“Quite favorable. At least until we eliminate the Crown Prince. After that… in all honesty, it’s arduous to claim our prospects appear particularly auspicious.”

Subduing the poorly armed police and gendarmerie, as well as the royal guards who are little more than a ragtag assemblage, and aiming for the Crown Prince’s neck itself isn’t an insurmountable task. The quandary lies in what follows.

“…Can we even harbor hope of survival?”

“I can offer no such assurances.”

Can we endure in the face of the army that traversed the continent with the Crown Prince and the wrathful masses?

The Viscount deemed it improbable. Whether their heads are severed by the guillotine or their bodies rent asunder, preservation of life seemed an unlikely outcome.

“Yet we cannot simply expire in silence, can we?”

Despite comprehending this stark reality, the nobles had resolved to unsheathe their blades nevertheless.

Whether they perish slowly suffocating or torn to pieces, in the end, death remains constant.

“Comrades, we must draw our swords.”

In Orléans, which had only recently washed away the vestiges of war.

“For tonight shall become the Night of Swords.”

The time had arrived to bathe these shores in fresh blood once more.

* * *

“Father.”

Sprawled limply upon his bedchambers, the current King blankly stared into the void.

Next to the King’s bed, the Crown Prince held his father’s hand tightly with both of his own, gazing intently at his countenance.

“It’s Charles, your eldest son.”

How long had it been since he had engaged in a tête-à-tête with the current King, with his father?

Since he descended into madness, nay, even before his mental faculties waned, the Crown Prince hadn’t been able to conduct a proper discourse with his father.

Unlike his other siblings, the eldest son destined to inherit the throne was raised with stern discipline by his father, and as the firstborn, he was dispatched to the battlefield as soon as he came of age.

They had conversed many times. As King and Crown Prince. As monarch and subject. As teacher and student.

But dialogues as father and son were scarce, occurring only when the Crown Prince was of tender years, and even those could be enumerated on a single hand.

“…Father.”

Had there ever been a moment when he felt so bereft of words?

The Crown Prince found himself at a loss, his tongue conspicuously leaden before his absent-minded father, despite never having faltered when confronting cunning nobles.

“…You cherished Louis and Sibylla immensely, didn’t you, Father?”

Two younger siblings, with but a slight age difference. Two siblings who grew up basking in the adoration of all Orléans, unlike himself who was raised under austere conditions.

“Perhaps you may soon lose both those cherished jewels you so adored, Father.”

Despite realizing his voice could never penetrate the miasma clouding his father’s consciousness, the Crown Prince spoke to the current King in hushed tones, as if confessing a transgression.

“For one of them…”

The Crown Prince couldn’t bring himself to add ‘might be shattered by my own hands.’

“…I only hope it doesn’t come to that.”

What is it that renders him so vulnerable?

Is it the familial affection he thought had long since withered, or is it self-loathing for being unable to form attachments to anything?

“..Still, there is one piece of heartening news.”

Even though he knew it would fall on deaf ears, the Crown Prince added, as if tendering an excuse:

“There is someone who desires Sibylla.”

Recalling the maid with crimson eyes, who had boldly requested Sibylla’s custody before him, the Crown Prince said:

“Although, this person would hardly meet Father’s approval…”

A pauper, an orphan, a murderer… and a woman no less. Someone with myriad flaws as a prospective son-in-law, but.

“Yet the only person who can accept Sibylla as she is now without any hesitation.”

Simultaneously, the sole individual capable of embracing his sister’s curse.

“Your Highness, a rebellion has erupted.”

“…I shall take my leave for now, Father.”

Bertier’s urgent summons prompted the Crown Prince to rise, concluding his soliloquy that wavered between confession and justification.

And as the Crown Prince departed those tenebrous chambers engulfed in somber silence-

“…S…l…a…”

The old King’s fingers began to twitch, ever so slightly.

Chapter 68: The OO Coup

“What are the current circumstances?”

“Riots are erupting across Hyperion. Reports indicate the insurgents have seized prisons and armories.”

“An unfavorable development indeed.”

As Bertier delivered her report, the Crown Prince deftly redressed himself without any attendant’s assistance.

For a royal, accustomed to relying on servants’ ministrations, especially the Crown Prince who held the highest standing after the King and Queen, to attire himself signified that the situation was far from ordinary. Yet the Crown Prince himself remained utterly unperturbed.

When one has rolled in the mud with soldiers on the battlefield, one naturally learns to perform tasks without relying on others’ hands – had he been incapable of such self-sufficiency, the current Crown Prince, the illustrious hero Charles, would not exist.

“Have all the servants been dispatched?”

“Half had already fled long before we could even broach the subject, and we sent away as many of the remaining half as possible. The servants who insisted on serving the King and the royal family until the bitter end…”

“Leave them be. They must have steeled themselves for death. What of the royal guards?”

“See for yourself – I cannot profess that the outlook appears particularly auspicious.”

Aside from exceptional paragons like the chief chamberlain himself, it would be a luxury to expect much from servants who have never wielded a blade other than kitchen knives or dinner cutlery in their lives.

Of course, some might have cultivated skills like swordsmanship or marksmanship as personal pursuits, but the Crown Prince judged that abilities honed for duels or hunting would prove ineffectual in the crucible of live combat amidst traded gunfire and bloodshed.

The royal guards, ostensibly the elite of the elite among Orléans’ forces, had long since grown lax in their discipline.

Moreover, since most hailed from central nobility families, it would be unsurprising if they betrayed their posts or fled.

“Are elements of the gendarmerie stationed nearby as well?”

“They all await at the palace, poised to follow Your Highness’s directives.”

The only forces he could trust were the roughly 300 gendarmes.

“I find myself longing for Lannes. Were Lannes here, even with just 300 men, he could have safeguarded my life.”

Remembering the subordinate who surpassed all others in excellence and the close comrade who lost his life on the battlefield, the Crown Prince fell into contemplative silence.

“Even if Lannes were here, he wouldn’t have lingered in Hyperion as I have, would he?”

“…Indeed, that’s correct. Were he not serving as my adjutant and slightly more adept at political maneuverings, Lannes would have met the same exiled fates as Suchet, Masséna, Davout, or Bessières.”

The heroes who led the Grande Armée, the glorious army that planted flags of victory across the continent under the Crown Prince’s command, did not bask in glory befitting their achievements.

Despite accomplishing feats that merited all of Orléans’ adoration and grand victory celebrations in rapid succession, they had been driven to the frontier with mere formal medals dangling upon their chests. Pushed out by the pressure of the nobility.

The reason Berthier was able to remain in the capital was because his talent for commanding troops wasn’t as outstanding as his ability as a staff officer, and because he always fulfilled his role as Chief of Staff by the Crown Prince’s side, his military achievements themselves were not conspicuous.

If Lannes, the most capable among the Crown Prince’s many generals, had survived, he would surely have been driven out like the others.

“How does it appear? Have I donned it properly? I fear I may have forgotten how to wear this uniform.”

“You’ve attired yourself impeccably, Your Highness, without a single flaw.”

I still harbor fondness for this uniform.

Caressing the collar of the plain military garb that clung to his form like a second skin despite years of disuse, the Crown Prince mused.

The uniform that had shared in all the tribulations and agonies, victories and glories of the Crown Prince and the Orléans soldiers.

Thus, there existed no more fitting attire for the Crown Prince facing this imminent crisis anew than this unadorned military uniform.

“Has everyone assembled?”

Before proceeding to his father’s bedchambers, the Crown Prince instructed Bertier to muster the remaining royal guards and gendarmerie officers.

“Indeed, they’ve all gathered in the garden. Everyone awaits Your Highness’s directives.”

“Let us proceed.”

Too few compared to the enemy, soldiers likely ill-equipped for the task at hand.

Nevertheless, the Crown Prince strode purposefully towards where these men, now his sole lifeline, had assembled.

“Should we not flee now? In all honesty, whichever side emerges victorious, we…”

“Surely they wouldn’t dare harm His Highness or His Majesty? No matter the extent of discontent with the royal family… Ah..!!”

An atmosphere palpably unsettled and disorganized.

Perhaps a ragtag assemblage weaker than any army the Crown Prince had ever commanded.

“154 royal guards remain.”

“More than I had anticipated – I envisioned most would simply scatter and flee outright.”

But it mattered not. At least not to the Crown Prince.

For one who had managed to effect a safe retreat leading only wounded soldiers, handling able-bodied men posed no challenge whatsoever.

“Pierre Cambronne.”

“Yes! Your Highness!!”

The Crown Prince quietly regarded the guard at the forefront who answered with spirited countenance unlike the others, then turned his gaze aside.

“Georges de Fontaine.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Gaspard Burot.”

“Yes, Your Highness!”

No grandiose exhortations imploring their steadfastness or vowing to lead them to triumph.

No dire threats discouraging any potential deserters whatsoever.

“Robert de Bournonville. Archange Pommereul. Arnaud Bertrand. Gilbert Motier de la Fayette…”

The Crown Prince simply proceeded to call out their names one by one, meeting each man’s eyes in turn as the commotion beyond the palace walls escalated and that insurrectionary conflagration drew ever nearer.

Continuing undeterred past the royal guards to finally address even the last gendarmerie officer present as well.

“…Nicolas Gamelin.”

And upon vocalizing that final name on his roll, the Crown Prince briefly shut his eyes before reopening them as he resolutely proclaimed:

“I shall commit every single one of your names unto my memory.”

A solemn vow – that Orléans’s Crown Prince would enshrine each of their identities into his eternal recollections without fail.

“Orléans will commit each of you unto her unending memory.”

Not a false promise merely to bolster morale, but a true pledge to remember their names and ensure that wealth and honor would follow for all.

“There are weapons in the warehouse adjacent to you. Soldiers – take up arms!”

Gesturing toward the neighboring storehouse containing those pre-positioned martial provisions, the Crown Prince declared.

“If you wish to tread the path of glory with me.”

The path he was about to embark upon. The thorny road where everything awaited.

“Long live the Crown Prince! Viva la Dauphin!!!”

A ferocious bellow erupting like some primordial beast’s earthshaking roar.

“””Long live the Crown Prince! Viva la Dauphin!! Long live the Crown Prince! Viva la Dauphin!!”””

First Pierre Cambronne leading the royal guards he had been the first to address by name, then all ranks joining that thunderous refrain reverberating throughout the palace halls.

“Long live Orléans! Viva la Orléans!!!”

“””Long live Orléans! Viva la Orléans!!! Long live Orléans! Viva la Orléans!!!”””

Long live Orléans indeed.

* * *

The Fontaine family’s villa in the suburbs was modest and unassuming compared to the wealth and prestige of the Fontaine lineage.

Of course, it was only humble in relation to the Fontaine family’s status; it still rivaled the abode of a prosperous farmer in size.

“Princess, is there anything that discomforts you..?”

For the estate currently housed a rather unexpected, if not exactly unwelcome, guest under its roof – Princess Sibylla herself.

“…”

“I hope you’re not ill at ease…”

Madame Fontaine wasn’t particularly pleased with this unannounced guest. To be more precise, it wasn’t so much displeasure as it was awkwardness and discomfort in dealing with the situation.

Who could unconditionally welcome an entirely bandage-swaddled figure under such unorthodox circumstances? If it hadn’t been a guest her husband had brought personally, and if that guest hadn’t been the Princess of this realm, Madame Fontaine might have expressed her displeasure more openly at such a visit.

“Then I shall take my leave…”

“…”

Whether the curse had worsened and she had lost her voice, or whether she simply disliked conversing with servants, Madame Fontaine departed the room almost in flight, leaving behind the Princess who only moved her head this way and that without uttering a word.

“I truly cannot fathom what she’s thinking… Oh, heavens above!!”

“…There’s no need for such alarm, Madame.”

And as soon as she emerged, she collided with the source of all this turmoil, namely, her husband, and found herself unceremoniously seated upon the floor.

“Pray, make some noise when you ambulate. You’re as vast as a mountain, yet your footfalls are as silent as a feline’s…!!”

There exists no greater troublemaker than this man.

Madame Fontaine, rising with the assistance of the chamberlain’s hand, cast a reproachful glare at her husband. The meaning behind that gaze would be clear to any observer.

“…My sincerest apologies. For acting thus without prior consultation. The situation was most urgent…”

“I’ve no desire to hear excuses. It’s not as if this is the first instance of your reckless behavior. I truly… I wonder what compelled me to wed such a man.”

Is this the reason other noble ladies had so vehemently cautioned against matrimony? Madame Fontaine suppressed her ire as she regarded her husband, who resembled a bull in both physique and temperament.

“I comprehend that the Princess’s presence here is discomfiting. The curse that’s consuming her body…”

“That’s not my meaning at all. Who claimed I was displeased with the Princess’s sojourn here?”

The object of Madame Fontaine’s ire was not the Princess. While the curse is indeed frightening, how could she harbor ill will toward the Princess who was afflicted solely for being of royal blood, without having committed any transgression?

“It’s merely… could you not have apprised me of this beforehand? As partners in matrimony, discussing such matters in advance.”

What incensed her was purely this bull-headed, single-minded man.

“…I was indeed short-sighted, Madame. I beseech your forgiveness for my thoughtlessness.”

“Haah… very well then. If not now, ensure you divulge the situation in its entirety later, understood?”

“Of course.”

Just as Madame Fontaine was about to retire to her chambers, heaving deep sighs:

“…What was that, I wonder?”

An uneasy sensation prompted her to inadvertently survey her surroundings.

“…Is it merely my imagination?”

A creeping feeling, as if sensing an unseen presence.

Chapter 69: Fishing

A slave is not human.

The youth who had once been a Prince learned that immutable truth while confined within dank underground cells, whipped mercilessly, and licking bread crumbs mixed with dust off the floor.

Not a person, but a mere commodity to be bought and sold on a whim – a tool obligated to obey its master’s every word.

Fidgeting with the dog collar cinched around his throat, Ruslan reminded himself of this truth.

“…”

The reason Ruslan decided to return to the Court of Miracles despite hearing his colleagues’ eyewitness accounts was disarmingly simple.

Intuition. A flash of premonition that illuminated his mind when faced with danger.

Ruslan is not one to place much stock in intuition. Unless blessed with the keen instincts of a beast, his intuition was average, perhaps even duller than that of ordinary folk.

Yet sometimes there comes a moment when he yearns to entrust himself to such intuition. For instance, at this very juncture.

And usually, his intuition that normally only made useless flails would particularly work well at those times and save his life…

“…”

…But that was merely a pretext.

There existed a genuine reason. Though Ruslan himself would likely never realize it in his lifetime.

“You… bastards…!! You think you’ll escape retribution for this…!!!”

“If Hyperion hadn’t transformed into a sea of flames, we might have been apprehended. But what can we do? It’s become a situation where anyone’s demise wouldn’t be out of place.”

The scene of the slums revisited was truly hell incarnate.

For the maggots of the mud pit, long despised and scorned, began to shed their last shred of humanity along with the burning city and burst forth with their pent-up desires.

Brawling, plundering, murdering without compunction.

As if liberated from some unseen shackle, everyone was reveling in madness.

“…The Court of Miracles.”

Ruslan traversed this inferno and approached a building slightly removed from the all-consuming flames.

It seemed that Clopân Trouillefou’s reputation hadn’t been forgotten even in this state of affairs, as the Court of Miracles stood inviolate under the strict guard of sturdy men.

Of course, no matter how vigilant their guard, infiltrating without detection was child’s play for Ruslan.

“What’s transpiring outside? It seems more tumultuous than usual…”

“Judging by the brightness beyond, I wonder if a conflagration has erupted somewhere?”

Listening to the conversations of ailing elders, Ruslan thoroughly searched the interior of the Court of Miracles, concealing himself amidst the shadows.

He occasionally made eye contact with denizens, but whether they were out of their minds or because they had fought against the mongrels who had invaded the Court of Miracles before, most feigned blindness to his presence.

Thanks to this, Ruslan was able to complete his search with ease.

“…She’s not here.”

And at the same time, he could realize that he had failed.

Princess Sibylla wasn’t present anywhere within the Court of Miracles – his comrade’s statements couldn’t be attributed to mere delusion after all.

Which meant she must indeed be secreted away at the Fontaine villa his compatriots had relocated toward instead. All the credit for completing the mission given by the mistress would go to them.

“…”

While Ruslan himself awaited only his mistress’s punishment – the terrifying, soul-rending, maddening torments.

Her touch, her long nails on his neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, and below—

“…?”

Ruslan, who had been unconsciously grasping at the dog collar that felt particularly suffocating, suddenly sensed something amiss.

He had searched every nook and cranny of the Court of Miracles. There wasn’t a single door he hadn’t opened or room he hadn’t entered.

“…Where’s Clopân?”

Where is the King of the Court of Miracles?

* * *

By the time the assassins had traced the carriage’s trail leading to the Fontaine villa, it was already well past the hour when most people would have retired to their beds.

Especially for elderly individuals who are more susceptible to slumber. So, to prepare for any potential inconvenience, the assassins bided their time until the chief chamberlain and Madame Fontaine succumbed to sleep.

Moreover, while Madame Fontaine might be just an ordinary person, if the chamberlain who had bested Ruslan before remained wide awake, it was evident that assassinating the Princess would be significantly impeded.

Only once verifying both their targets had withdrawn into their personal chambers did the assassins commence their thorough search of the entire domicile for the Princess.

The villa wasn’t particularly expansive for an Orléans noble’s abode. For the assassins, accustomed to the bleak landscape of Königsberg and the cramped interiors of densely packed edifices due to uncontrolled development, even this seemed capacious.

These were individuals capable of unearthing every secret without missing even a single rodent in 20 minutes alone in a grand mansion. With not just one, but eight people, searching such a modest villa was child’s play.

Thus, after about 5 minutes of scrutinizing every corner that even the villa’s owners or managing servants would rarely frequent, the assassins communicated through hand signals and reached the same conclusion.

Princess Sibylla wasn’t present anywhere on these villa grounds.

Had the eyewitness reports provided inaccurate intelligence after all? Was the information that the Princess had headed to the Fontaine family villa in the suburbs by carriage not certain?

Everyone’s gaze turned to one place, the person who had brought that eyewitness account, and the assassin desperately shook his head, claiming innocence.

He insisted that the person was definitely Princess Sibylla, and he had heard the chamberlain and his family addressing her as ‘Princess’.

He also clearly heard the chamberlain’s words about going to the Fontaine family villa, the assassin explained.

If all those observations were accurate, then where precisely was the Princess’s current location?

As the assassin was about to turn his head to avoid the sharp gazes and questioning of his colleagues, his eyes suddenly caught sight of something beyond the window.

[Over there – look over there!]

The assassins simultaneously looked in the direction their colleague was pointing, and they could see a person wrapped in bandages from head to toe, wearing a shabby robe, walking in the backyard with their back to the moonlight.

Seeing this, the assassins, as if by some unspoken agreement, silently headed to the backyard.

Was there any possibility that it might not be Princess Sibylla?

There was no such possibility. The assassins thought simultaneously.

The robe bearing the mark of the family of Orléans and the bandages covering the entire body. Who else in Orléans would be dressed like that other than the Princess?

Which only left one remaining question – who among them would personally deliver the fatal stroke?

The assassins looked at each other. Usually, they carried out missions alone, so there had never been a situation where so many people aimed for the neck of a single target at the same time.

Should I step forward? Or should I hold back? Because there was no particular hierarchy and everyone was treated equally, the assassins conversely couldn’t easily step forward.

Of course, such hesitation was only momentary. They were assassins, not novices who couldn’t do anything without detailed orders.

The assassin who stepped forward first approached the Princess slowly, just as they had always done. So that she wouldn’t hear even the faintest sound, let alone sense their presence.

Slowly, carefully. Finally, the back of the Princess walking in the backyard grew closer and closer.

Just as the Princess seemed to sense something and was about to turn around, the assassin grabbed her body and stabbed a dagger into her chest.

Clang—!!

…

“…???”

An utterly inexplicable sound followed, the assassins felt perplexed.

Was that… the noise typically accompanying the act of stabbing someone with a knife?

For veteran assassins with extensive experience in killing people, they all knew what sound it makes when a dagger tears through human flesh.

The sound of flesh tearing, the sound of blood oozing out, the sound of the victim’s breath escaping like a punctured balloon without even being able to scream.

Yet not a single one of those sickeningly familiar sounds had manifested – at least, that inorganic metallic clang shouldn’t have been made.

“…!!??”

And the one who tried to stab the Princess with the dagger, the assassin who aimed precisely for the heart and thrust the weapon, was even more astonished than his colleagues.

For the sharp dagger had mercilessly shattered into pieces. And by the Princess’s supposedly unprotected bare hand, at that.

Can an ordinary person break a dagger with their bare hands alone? No, even someone with strong grip strength and thick skin, could they grasp a dagger with their hand, shatter it to pieces, and remain unwounded?

At least under the common sense he knew, it was impossible. Even Ruslan couldn’t show off such a feat with his bare hands.

Suddenly, a question flashed through the assassin’s mind.

Was Princess Sibylla truly… someone like that?

Of course, the world is wide and there are many eccentrics, so somewhere in the world there might be someone who could break a dagger with their bare hands without shedding a drop of blood.

But the assassin could assert that at least it wouldn’t be Princess Sibylla. How could a royal woman, already sickly and curse-ravaged, perform like that?

And the logically stemming question that followed.

If Princess Sibylla wasn’t such an eccentric, how could she perform such a feat?

Rather – was she even the real Princess to begin with…?

Thunk.

“Gkkkhh—-“

The assassin’s revelations couldn’t continue beyond that.

Because an elongated staff, no, a sword stick that had appeared from who knows where, accurately pierced through his brainstem.

“I suppose even Königsberg’s vaunted murder machines harbor a surprisingly naive side.”

Nonchalantly throwing aside the assassin’s corpse, the woman they thought was the Princess took off her mask and tore off the bandages on her face as if ripping them off.

“Swallowing such transparent bait hook, line, and sinker.”

Revealing a short raven hair, rather than any semblance of Orléans’s royal family.

“Isn’t that right, Lord Chamberlain?”

“I can’t help but agree.”

The King of the Court of Miracles disguised as the Princess. And the chief chamberlain who emerged from their collective blindspots simultaneously.

“In that case…”

Only then did the remaining assassins comprehend the inescapable reality.

“Let’s partake in this dance under the moonlight’s soft caress together, shall we?”

They had been utterly deceived – ensnared by the most artfully fabricated lure.

Chapter 70: La Marseillaise

“Shall we entice the Slave Prince towards the city’s fringes?”

“Yes. I’d like you to portray the Princess.”

For the grand design to safeguard the Princess, Dorothy had anointed the chamberlain and Clopân Trouillefou as her chosen confidants.

“The assassins of Königsberg will undoubtedly surmise that the Princess seeks sanctuary within the Court of Miracles. Had she sought refuge elsewhere – be it the royal palace or some other haven – whispers would have surely rippled through the realm like wildfire.”

In the rarefied air of high society, secrets are but fleeting wisps. The silver tongues of nobles never cease their relentless pursuit of the latest morsel of gossip.

Furthermore, while Dorothy’s knowledge of their identities remained incomplete, she comprehended that the central nobility stood as the puppet masters behind the nefarious plot against Sibylla’s life. Their desperation to unearth Sibylla’s whereabouts might have reached a fever pitch.

“You, like I, are well aware that none surpass the central aristocracy’s voracious appetite for even the faintest whisper within Orléans.”

Not deceased. Not returned to the hallowed halls of the palace. Yet neither ensconced in a place of obvious refuge.

In the end, what remained were the slums – those shadowy corners of the city that elude the gaze of the privileged and prove treacherous for nobles to tread. Among these squalid sanctuaries, the Court of Miracles stood as the most impregnable fortress. Moreover, it had been confirmed that she had dwelt there for a time, albeit against her will. Thus, Dorothy deduced that the Slave Prince would inevitably be drawn to the Court of Miracles.

“I suspect you’d be loath to engage in combat within the Court of Miracles. The confines would severely restrict your freedom of movement.”

“A sage observation.”

Within the labyrinthine passages of the Court of Miracles, teeming with the infirm and the aged of limited mobility, Clopân would find himself hamstrung. Particularly when faced with multiple adversaries rather than a solitary foe.

“Yet a question gnaws at me. Having never crossed blades with the assassins of Königsberg, can I truly hope to match the Slave Prince’s prowess?”

If there existed a single flaw in their stratagem, it lay in the impossibility of gauging which of the two – Clopân or the Slave Prince – held the upper hand.

“While I harbor no doubts about my martial skills, I am not a human weapon honed solely for the art of assassination throughout my entire existence.”

“Cast aside your trepidation, for the chamberlain shall stand as your steadfast ally in this dance of blades.”

With Clopân and the chamberlain united in combat, Dorothy calculated, they could subdue even the formidable Slave Prince.

“Well, if that be the case…”

…

“…Ha! Curse the fates!”

If only they had exercised greater caution in their deliberations.

The one crucial factor that had eluded both Clopân and Dorothy’s consideration was the possibility of the Slave Prince summoning reinforcements.

What materialized before Clopân’s eyes, who had steeled himself for a duel with the Slave Prince alone, were eight assassins. Or more precisely, seven remaining after one had already been dispatched to the realm beyond.

Moreover, the Slave Prince they had so eagerly anticipated was conspicuously absent from this deadly assemblage. It could be said that their carefully laid plans had unraveled with devastating thoroughness.

“Haah!!”

With no time to wipe away the beads of sweat or the crimson rivulets flowing from his cheek, a testament to a dagger’s caress, Clopân channeled every ounce of his being into evading and deflecting the relentless onslaught of the assassins’ attacks.

Clopân’s once-ashen attire had long since been christened in a baptism of blood. He stood drenched in crimson to such an extent that it became impossible to discern whether the life essence coating him originated from his own veins or those of his enemies. Immersed in the chaotic ballet of battle, Clopân pressed on.

“Kuhkuh…”

The chamberlain fared no better. Just as in days long past, when he stood taller and unlined by the ravages of time, serving the current King amidst the tumultuous tides of political intrigue – where nary a day passed without fresh blood staining the resplendent palace floors – his pristine white shirt now bore a macabre Jackson Pollock of scarlet splatters.

“Ho there, chamberlain!! How… fare… you… in… this… maelstrom?”

“Cease… your… prattle… when… breath… comes… so… dear…oh!!”

Yet, despite the dire circumstances, neither warrior yielded to despair.

“Haahh!!”

Be they the anointed King of the Court of Miracles or the esteemed chamberlain of the Orléans royal family, neither could suffer the ignominy of falling to mere assassins’ blades.

* * *

The insurgents swept through Hyperion with an ease.

Bereft of their command structure, the demoralized constabulary either took flight or perished without mustering even a semblance of meaningful resistance. The armory, a critical linchpin in any military endeavor, had already fallen under the iron grip of the central army from the outset.

Thus, the initial stages of their insurrection unfolded with remarkable fluidity. In less time than it takes for the sun to climb a finger’s width in the sky, they had completed their armament, secured their rear flank, and established a formidable encampment before the very gates of the royal palace.

It was in the aftermath of these initial triumphs that complications began to rise.

“The resistance we face is nothing short of ferocious. Already, the cold embrace of death has claimed over 500 of our brave soldiers.”

“…This defies all expectations.”

Contrary to the central faction’s presumptions, which had dismissed the royal guard as a spent force, the truth proved far more resilient.

Certainly, more had fled or pledged allegiance to the rebel army than remained steadfast. Yet a small cadre of royal guards, their hearts burning with unwavering loyalty, refused to abandon their sworn duty to the royal family.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the gendarmes who had cast their lot with the loyalists, these indomitable few, armed with firearms presumed to have been sequestered away in anticipation of this very day, had forged an impenetrable bulwark of steel and resolve. The palace itself had metamorphosed into an unassailable fortress.

Moreover, the rebel army found itself in a predicament far less favorable than initially anticipated.

The decision to dispatch approximately 6,000 men to secure the rear echelons was, in principle, sound strategy. Even with this allocation, they still boasted an eight-fold numerical superiority over the palace defenders.

“Um, is this… really okay? If by any chance His Majesty gets hit by a stray bullet…”

The true cancer gnawing at the heart of the rebel forces was the rapidly eroding morale of their soldiers.

The central army, more accustomed to the pomp and ceremony of peacetime than the brutal realities of combat, found themselves ill-prepared for the psychological toll of their actions. Worse still, the very act of turning their weapons upon the royal palace, the sanctum of their rightful sovereign, was an inescapable act of high treason. Such was the burden borne by those born under the banner of Orléans.

Compounding this already precarious state of affairs, a grim discovery awaited them at the armory. Though they had successfully seized control of this vital installation, they found the implements most crucial for siege warfare, the artillery, disassembled and damaged beyond hope of swift repair. It was as if some prescient hand had anticipated their designs and moved to thwart them. Thus, the rebel army found itself stymied in its efforts to breach the palace defenses.

“We must steel ourselves and maintain our resolve…”

Yet even in the face of these setbacks, Viscount Lusignan refused to allow despair to cloud his judgment. He reasoned that no matter how extensive their preparations, there must surely be a limit to the supplies that could be stockpiled within the confines of the palace – a structure not built with prolonged siege in mind – in so brief a span.

If they could but maintain steady pressure, the Crown Prince’s forces, bereft of both provisions and manpower, would inevitably find themselves driven to the brink.

“Viscount! Viscount Lusignan!!”

But when a comrade, one who should have been steadfastly guarding their rear, materialized before him, his visage a mask of abject terror.

“Catastrophe has befallen us!!”

Faced with such a piteous sight, even Lusignan’s iron composure began to crack.

* * *

Initially, those rebels assigned to safeguard the rear, particularly those stationed near the city gates, had secretly rejoiced in their fortune.

They had been spared the moral quagmire of training their weapons upon the royal palace, their hearts heavy with the weight of their actions. Moreover, they could harbor hopes of emerging from this tumultuous affair with their lives intact.

“…By all that’s holy, what… what’s all that…?”

“…Gulp…”

Their complacency was shattered as they beheld five armies marching inexorably towards them. These forces swept over forest and ridge, pouring into the fields that lay before the city. Each contingent bore aloft pure white banners, emblazoned with names that struck terror into the hearts of all who gazed upon them.

“Merciful heavens…”

A collective shudder of dread rippled through their ranks.

<Louis-Gabriel Suchet> <Louis-Nicolas Davout> <Bon-Adrien Jeannot de Moncey> <Michel Ney>

“Ahem… uhhmm…”

And there, at the vanguard of this formidable host, astride a magnificent steed at the very fore of the cavalry, rode a man adorned in a uniform so resplendent it dazzled the eye:

Allons enfants de la Patrie!!!

(Arise, children of the Fatherland!!!)

His voice, like a thunderous dragon’s roar, rang out across the battlefield.

Le jour de gloire est arrivé!!!

(The day of glory has arrived!!!)

As one, the massed cavalry arrayed behind him took up the chorus of their general’s impassioned recitation.

Contre nous de la tyrannie

L’étendard sanglant est levé.

(Against us, tyranny’s bloodstained banner is raised.)

L’étendard sanglant est levé!!

(The bloodstained banner is raised indeed!!!)

The content of their song was nothing short of seditious – a battle cry more befitting revolutionaries than the sworn protectors of a nation.

Yet unlike the central army, paralyzed by doubt and fear, the force that now stood beyond the city walls knew this audacious anthem by heart.

Entendez-vous dans les campagnes

Mugir ces féroces soldats?

(Do you hear in the countryside

Those ferocious soldiers bellowing rage?)

Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras

Égorger vos fils, vos compagnes!

(They come right to your arms

To slit the throats of your sons and women!)

For this was the martial hymn they had bellowed until their throats were raw on countless blood-soaked battlefields across the continent.

Aux armes, citoyens!!!

(To arms, citizens!!!)

Formez vos bataillons!!!

(Form your battalions!!!)

Marchez, marchez!!

(March on, march ever onward!!!)

Qu’un sang impur

(Let an impure blood)

Abreuve nos sillons!!!

(Drench and saturate our furrows!!!)

Following the lead of the man at their fore, who conducted their chorus with sweeping gestures as if possessed by the very spirit of war itself, the soldiers roared their defiance to the heavens.

Aux armes, citoyens!!!

(To arms, citizens!!!)

Formez nos bataillons!!!

(Form our battalions!!!)

Marchons, marchons!!

(Let’s march, let’s march!!)

Qu’un sang impur

(Let an impure blood)

Abreuve nos sillons!!

(Water our furrows!!)

This passionate battle cry, a song of revolution and righteous fury, would surely resonate through every stone and timber of Hyperion.

The man, his arms outstretched as if to embrace the very heat of battle, soon opened his eyes. His gaze, sharp as a rapier’s point, fixed upon the castle gate with unwavering intensity.

“Children of Orléans! Veterans whose cavalry has scourged every last battlefield across the continent – undefeated and forged in the most unforgiving crucibles of warfare!!”

Just as he had done countless times before, rallying his troops against all who dared stand against Orléans, from every corner of the continent.

“Our beloved liege, the sole individual to whom we owe our eternal fidelities, now finds himself surrounded by those treacherous reprobates beyond these very gates!!!”

The man, his voice a tempest that seemed to emanate from the very depths of his soul, drew forth his sword. With a gesture both dramatic and decisive, he leveled the blade at the castle gate and bellowed:

“We shall go forth and liberate our one true master on this day!! Viva la Orléans!!!”

The standard bearer raised high their battle flag, its fabric snapping in the wind like the wings of an avenging angel.

His name, writ large in letters that blazed brighter than those of all other foes, stood out even when viewed from afar.

<Joachim Murat>

“””Viva la Orléans!!!”””

And with that battle cry ringing in their ears, the Crown Prince’s soldiers charged forth, their hearts aflame with the desire to save their former lord from the jaws of treachery.

Chapter 71: The Hanging Bridge

In the twilight of an Empire’s reign, a silent war of shadows and steel unfolded between the gilded legions of the capital and their battle-hardened brethren from the provinces. This unspoken rivalry, known to some and whispered by others, had its roots in the very soil from which these warriors sprang.

From the outset, their paths diverged. The central army, basking in the glow of Hyperion’s splendor, enjoyed the fruits of civilization. In stark contrast, their provincial counterparts honed their skills in the unforgiving crucible of untamed lands. Yet, it was the crucible of war itself that forged the bitter divide between these brothers-in-arms.

As the provincial forces spilled their blood across the continent, locked in mortal combat with foes unnumbered, the central army remained ensconced within Hyperion’s walls, their blades unbloodied under the guise of safeguarding hearth and home.

This disparity birthed a venomous resentment; the provincial soldiers cursed their central counterparts as gluttons feasting on the spoils of peace, while the latter sneered at the former as brutish barbarians, barely more civilized than the enemies they faced.

Yet, beneath the veneer of contempt and willful ignorance, the soldiers of the central army harbored a secret knowledge. They knew of the legendary feats accomplished by those uncouth beasts who laughed in the face of death, sustained by nothing more than courage and fried onions – the army of the Crown Prince.

In the annals of the great continental war, the Orléans army etched their names in glory. 

They annihilated the invaders who dared cross their borders, then pressed onward, forcing mighty kings to bend the knee. 

The invincible Grande Armée, a golden tide that swept all before it, brought the entire continent to heel beneath the Orléans standard.

Among this illustrious host, none were more audacious or savage than Murat’s cavalry. 

Joaceon Murat, or Joachim Murat – the name mattered little, for what significance could the moniker of a mere innkeeper’s son hold?

Yet this commoner, risen to the exalted rank of marshal, now led over ten thousand horsemen, his name and the reputation of his cavalry echoing across the continent.

Though unschooled, lacking in profound insight, and woefully inept with finances, Murat possessed extraordinary strengths that few could rival. 

They say ignorance breeds courage? In Murat’s case, it seemed the Divine had bestowed upon him an abundance of valor and audacity in lieu of intellect, coupled with formidable physical prowess and an unparalleled mastery of cavalry. These gifts alone sufficed to elevate a humble innkeeper’s son to the lofty heights of marshal, commanding vast armies.

Certain enemy commanders, in their hubris, sneered at his humble origins. But what of it? Among the marshals of his ilk were sons of tanners and coachmen alike. 

Moreover, those very commanders who dared look down upon Murat soon found themselves trampled beneath the hooves of his cavalry, their forces decimated and their persons imprisoned. Never again would they have cause to mock the innkeeper’s son.

The Crown Prince’s lance, a piercing spear that sundered enemy ranks.

The frenzied cavalry of the unlettered marshal who had carved a bloody swath across the continent, sword in hand.

“…”

And now, these legendary terrors set their sights upon the very gates before them.

Who could stand unmoved in the face of such berserkers, those who had unfurled the Orléans standard in every conceivable corner of the continent?

“Steel yourselves! They are naught but cavalry, bereft of proper artillery!”

Bellowed the centralist general, striving to rally his troops whose terror was so palpable that their weaponry quivered in their grasp.  He gestured emphatically towards the approaching horde. 

“Observe! How can they hope to scale these walls and breach our gates armed with naught but blade and steed?”

True, the thunderous approach of the cavalry sent tremors through the earth, and clouds of dust billowed ominously. Yet fundamentally, they remained cavalry – each a fearsome weapon on open ground, but ill-suited to siege warfare. The rebel army, entrenched behind their fortifications, held the advantage against this seemingly reckless charge.

Certainly, the possibility loomed that the armies of the other four marshals, advancing in the cavalry’s wake, had brought artillery. But if they could decimate this vanguard, charging headlong without apparent concern for supporting fire, it would bolster their flagging morale.

“All troops!” 

The general cried, leaning forward over the battlements to issue the order to fire.

“Fire…!?”

But his command died on his lips as he experienced a sudden, surreal sense of disconnect. The wall before him seemed to recede as he felt himself slowly tilting forward, falling…

This was his final cognizant thought.

“Ge-General?” 

The soldiers, turning in horror at their commander’s abrupt silence, beheld a ghastly sight.

“…”

There lay the general’s headless corpse, and standing over it, a woman with eyes of crimson, regarding the scene with eerie calm.

“You cra-” 

The soldiers, training their weapons on this apparition, found their words dying in their throats, their aim faltering.

For as they gazed into those blood-red eyes, as if filled with freshly spilled vitae, a new terror gripped them – one that eclipsed even the dread inspired by Murat’s approaching cavalry.

“Hmm?”

In the blink of an eye, Murat and his intrepid cavalry, charging forth without hesitation, beheld an unexpected tableau beyond the slowly parting city gates: a disarmed rebel army, and a woman with bronze tresses standing as if in welcome.

“Ah, I see this young lady must be the collaborator mentioned in the missive. My deepest gratitude, mademoiselle!” 

Murat called out, his voice carrying over the thunderous hoofbeats. He had been forewarned of an ally within the walls through the Crown Prince’s letter, and had witnessed the enemy commander’s grisly demise atop the ramparts.

Thus, unfazed, he maintained his breakneck pace, offering words of thanks as he and his forces swept past. 

“How can there exist a woman of such courage and beauty in this world? Were I not so preoccupied, I would not have denied myself the pleasure of bestowing a kiss upon that fair lady!”

He added, true to his reputation as the Grande Armée’s most notorious libertine.

“…”

Dorothy, having observed Murat and his cavalcade’s swift passage, mounted a conveniently tethered steed and galloped towards the city’s heart, sensing the approach of the other four marshals’ forces. 

For her work was not yet done.

* * *

On that fateful day, the Crown Prince, or rather, Count Villefort, had entrusted Dorothy with a weathered notebook, his instructions clear:

-Ensure the security of those individuals listed herein.

-These people…

-They are the architects of Orléans’ new chapter. Naturally, the particulars need not concern you.

Despite her cultivated indifference to the ebb and flow of political tides, Dorothy readily discerned that the names inscribed within were the Crown Prince’s influential supporters. Even she, typically uninterested in current affairs, recognized the name Colbert.

Whether patriarch or scion, it seemed improbable that the Colberts, with their capitalist roots, would align themselves with the central nobility – especially in light of the heinous abduction of their precious youngest daughter, orchestrated by those very same aristocratic factions.

-You don’t need to safeguard every single soul. I’d simply ask that you secure their safety to the best of your considerable abilities.

Dorothy had accepted this charge, with Sibylla’s personal security once more serving as her true north, her unspoken compensation. 

Whatever his genuine motives, Count Villefort had acquiesced to this implicit demand.

Thus, when the day of reckoning arrived and gunshots shattered Hyperion’s uneasy peace, Dorothy found herself racing towards the Colbert residence.

Swoosh—

Her instincts proved prescient – upon arrival, she discovered Colbert mere moments from an assassin’s blade. Having saved the man, Dorothy commandeered his carriage, crisscrossing Orléans to secure the safety of those named in the notebook, one by one.

She encountered several would-be killers in her quest, yet none proved a match for Dorothy—or rather, for Arachne.

Of course, not all could be saved despite her most strenuous efforts. Including Police Chief Baron Montferrand, about nine had already met their end before her arrival.

But unless she could be in two places at once, such losses were inevitable – Dorothy had harbored no illusions of complete success from the outset.

Now, with these missions accomplished, only one task remained.

“Should I remark that it’s been some time since our last encounter, Slave Prince?”

“…Arachne.”

The final obstacle standing between her and the culmination of her unfinished business materialized before her.

“I anticipated you would be the last.”

“Where is the Princess?”

“Find her yourself.”

The Slave Prince, Ruslan.

Dorothy knew nothing of the life he had led, the experiences that had shaped him. The same held true for Ruslan regarding her. 

They didn’t even know each other’s true names – Dorothy’s was but an alias plucked from a fairy tale, while Ruslan’s was derived from his origins.

One had never possessed a name, the other had lost his.

“…”

Yet, inexplicably, they felt a profound understanding of one another.

In a relationship devoid of commonalities, they sensed an ineffable kinship. 

Was it born from lives spent as passive tools, existing only to follow others’ commands? Or perhaps from the shared experience of abandoning their original selves to become women?

Neither Dorothy nor Ruslan could pinpoint the source of this connection.

But now, facing each other, they felt a resonance as if they were the only two beings in existence.

“It was a tedious tale, truly.”

Dorothy mused, as they both drew their weapons in perfect synchronicity.

“Were this a fairy tale, I would have closed the book out of sheer boredom, only to reluctantly reopen it time and again.”

For they both knew that in any story, there could be but one protagonist.

“Now…”

Dorothy’s voice trailed off, heavy with finality.

“Shall we end it?”

To conclude the enemy’s narrative, to pen the final chapter of their own.

The two marionettes, strings cut and fates intertwined, leveled their blades at one another.

Chapter 72: My One True Master

Two souls, forged in disparate crucibles – one born to lowliness, the other to nobility. 

One who had never known possession, the other who had lost all. 

One who willingly donned the collar of servitude, the other upon whom it was forcibly clasped. 

And now, in this moment of reckoning, one destined to deal death, the other to receive it.

Clang—!!! Screech!!

The clash of their weapons – blade against wire – rent the air with a cacophony of metallic screams, a discordant symphony that set teeth on edge. 

Clang!! Clang!!

Like master swordsmen locked in mortal combat, Dorothy and Ruslan exchanged blows with dizzying speed and precision. Ruslan’s dagger lashed out with lupine ferocity, only to be ensnared by Dorothy’s entrapping wires, then striking again, seeking purchase between those gossamer strands.

For neither constituted members of the nobility. This was no duel of honor fought for lofty ideals. They were assassins, cold-blooded killers who followed orders without question or conscience. 

Their battle was a fluid dance of death, each movement both offensive and defensive, aimed not for mere victory, but for utter annihilation of the other.

Swish—

As before, it was Ruslan who drew first blood, though this time it was but a glancing blow across Dorothy’s cheek. 

Yet even this minor wound sent a ripple of unease through him.

Clang!!

Their weapons, worn by repeated clashes, began to show signs of fatigue. Both Dorothy’s wire and Ruslan’s dagger began to wear and dull against each other’s unexpectedly sturdy weapons.

Dorothy’s wire would likely fail first, but Ruslan’s limited supply of daggers put him at a disadvantage in a prolonged engagement. Realizing this, he launched a desperate gambit.

He couldn’t match her in quantity. No matter how many wires he cut, in the end, he would be the one left without a weapon.

Ruslan realized this fact. Then what should he do? Should he just stand by and watch until his claws are completely worn down?

Whoosh—

With a swift motion, Ruslan retrieved a throwing dagger from his bosom, targeting Dorothy’s vital points. He momentarily retreated, regaining his composure, then surged forward with renewed vigor. Dorothy’s web of wires expanded outward, a protective lattice, while Ruslan aimed for its vulnerable center.

Ting—!

A musical ting, like the snapping of a violin string, heralded the wire’s failure. Ruslan’s dagger, poised to pierce Dorothy’s heart, found its mark – or so he thought.

“Caught you.”

Dorothy whispered, as wires from all directions ensnared Ruslan’s right arm and left leg.

“—!”

Blood flowed freely from his limbs, now reduced to tattered flesh. Had he not altered his trajectory at the last instant, his very bones would have shattered.

Ruslan, panting heavily, surveyed Dorothy. Two blood-stained daggers gleamed in her grip, testament to her cunning strategy. She had blocked one dagger aimed at her head, deliberately leaving openings elsewhere to lure him in, then sprung her trap.

“This is tougher than I thought.”

She blocked three daggers. Especially the one aimed at her head was completely broken.

“Perhaps it’s because I was so thoroughly ravaged in our last encounter.”

But the other two, aiming for her left arm and right leg, Dorothy didn’t block. She deliberately pretended to block, luring Ruslan in, and then moved her wires to catch him.

Only then did Ruslan comprehend the wellspring of his unease. For the Arachne he had once known fought with a different methodology entirely.

In their previous encounter, before her transformation, Arachne had cornered Ruslan with true arachnid precision, never yielding an opening, constricting her prey with methodical ruthlessness.

She had eschewed even the slightest disadvantage, refusing to bear even a minor wound. True, their prior bout had left her bloodied, but that was solely due to Ruslan’s desperate contortions to exploit the tiniest of weaknesses, not through any flaw in her technique.

Now, however, she acted in ways the former Arachne would have scorned. 

She deliberately left daggers unblocked, risking injury to her extremities to create openings against Ruslan. 

Her former self would have parried every blow, nay, she would have negated the very angles from which Ruslan could launch his assaults. For is not the spider a patient predator, one that strikes only after its prey has exhausted itself in futile struggle?

Of course, in their recent confrontation, Dorothy had fought with uncharacteristic aggression, but that had been with the Princess, her ward, in close proximity. Now, with Sibylla absent, such recklessness seemed incongruous with her usual modus operandi.

What remained was a war of attrition, a gruesome contest to see who would exsanguinate or collapse from exhaustion first. 

Any observer would remark that even beasts fought with more restraint, for most creatures instinctively prioritize self-preservation over the destruction of their opponent.

The two combatants, locked in their frenzied dance, painted Hyperion’s drab canvas with splashes of crimson, like some macabre artist’s fever dream. 

Neither the spreading flames nor the cacophony of battle could divert their singular focus from each other.

“Haa… haa…”

“…Cough.”

Only when their spilled blood formed small lakes at their feet did they pause, if but for a moment.

“…You’ve changed, Arachne.”

“That observation ill suits you. When did you become so talkative?”

Ruslan perceived the shift in his nemesis, who had once driven him to death’s door. 

Gone was the façade of polite speech, replaced by a stark honesty. 

Had she shed some great burden, or attained a higher understanding?

That attitude was similar to what he had seen when she was Arachne before, yet somehow different.

“Was it the Princess, then – the one solely responsible for your changes?”

In Ruslan’s mind, only one person could have such a transformative effect on her: Princess Sibylla. 

Surely, only she could alter Arachne, who had regarded humans with the same indifference as pebbles on the roadside.

“Is that woman truly so extraordinary?”

Though he had encountered Sibylla a few times, Ruslan had never sensed anything particularly remarkable about her. He felt she wasn’t an ordinary person, but thought that was due to her background or the influence of the curse eating away her entire body.

Yet if even that modicum of uniqueness had been enough to change Arachne…

“…The ‘Arachne’ you once knew exists no more.”

The Arachne Ruslan had known was a mirror of himself.

A being devoid of free will, a puppet dancing to its master’s tune. That was the Dorothy he had known, and in knowing her, he had known himself.

“…What?”

But on that rain-soaked forest path, Ruslan had glimpsed a spark of something in Dorothy’s once-vacant eyes. 

Something that neither a slave like himself nor a puppet like Dorothy should possess.

“…If that Princess, your master, has changed you…”

If only…

If only he too had found a master like that Princess—

“Cease this foolish speculation.”

Dorothy snapped, her words lashing out to sever Ruslan’s train of thought.

“What is it you truly covet?”

Loyalty? Or perhaps… love?

“It is my master.”

In that moment, Ruslan realized that something fundamental had shifted.

“My one true master.”

The nature of Dorothy’s devotion, once born of blind obedience, had transformed into something far more profound – a choice, freely made and fiercely defended.

Chapter 73: The Protagonist

A small raft adrift on the vast ocean, bereft of oars, sails, or rudder.

Such was Dorothy Gale, once known as Arachne – a being who drifted aimlessly, surrendering to the whims of the current, rising with the waves and resting in the calm.

He was destined to live thus, until one day, caught in a tempest, he would sink beneath the surface, never to rise again.

“…I don’t know how it came to this.”

Princess Sibylla had initially been but another passing wave – or so it should have been. A mere ripple to push the eternal drifter further from shore. 

Never did the boy expect this wave to guide his fragile vessel to land he thought forever beyond reach.

Instead of sweeping him away like countless waves before, this one extended an oar, as if to illuminate a path forward.

“I question whether I’m worthy of this chance.”

The boy confessed, grasping the proffered oar and gazing towards the unseen horizon. 

“Even so… I’ll seize it.”

I’ll forge ahead, towards the shore from whence this oar came. Towards the land we’ll someday reach.

“So, don’t stand in my way.”

For any obstacle daring to impede Dorothy’s path must surely be overcome, right?

Gossamer threads glimmered in the night sky, a web spun with preternatural skill, anchored indiscriminately to buildings and debris alike. 

Atop this aerial lattice stood Dorothy, gazing down at Ruslan with arachnid poise.

“I wondered… how to… those threads…”

Ruslan muttered, realizing that to reach Dorothy, he too must traverse this treacherous web – threads so fine and sharp they seemed impossible to balance upon, let alone leap between.

Yet Ruslan stepped forth without hesitation, bounding skyward. He ascended the threads as if climbing an invisible staircase, each step bringing him closer to his nemesis.

Would this confrontation end only with one’s demise? 

And if so, what prize awaited the victor?

“How to… this collar…”

No answer came, neither to Dorothy nor to Ruslan. 

Their past killings had been driven by others’ will. Requests, orders, but never their own desires.

Once, one might have gained coin, the other a moment’s respite.

“If I can… break it—!!”

But now, such trivial rewards held no sway. The raw emotion infusing their weapons spoke volumes.

“I must… kill you, Arachne—”

“My name is Dorothy, no longer Arachne!!!”

Clang—!! Their weapons clashed anew beneath the moon’s pale light. The boy who had reclaimed his long-lost will collided with another who could not accept such transformation.

Like macabre acrobats, they fought, leaping between threads with hearts more selfish and self-centered than ever before. Their battle, dazzling yet brutal, resembled nothing so much as the unrestrained brawl of children.

“Now, disappear—”

The one who was defeated at the end and fell from this lofty stage was…

“From my sight—!!!”

“—!!”

The boy who ultimately couldn’t become the protagonist.

* * *

The golden star, forever beyond reach no matter how one stretches towards the heavens.

There was a time when the young Prince dreamed of grasping that distant light, a pure and reckless longing for freedom ill-suited to one confined by castle walls.

A dream of reaching the star in that distant night sky.

“…”

But even as he grew, the Prince found the star no closer.

 Indeed, with each passing year, it seemed to recede further into the vast night sky.

No,t was not the star that had moved. The Prince had drifted away, carried by currents of duty and expectation.

Yes, just as now.

Thud…

Ruslan’s battered form, fallen from the gossamer battlefield, met the cold, unyielding ground.

The Slave Prince, defeated once more, just as he had been by Arachne in their first encounter.

“…Cough.”

Yet Ruslan felt neither anger nor sorrow at his defeat. He merely gazed, unfocused, at the star he could never reach. 

Whether from the impact of his fall or the loss of blood, his vision blurred, the golden light above seeming to flicker and dance as consciousness began to slip away.

Such trivialities held little import now. Perhaps even his impending fate paled in significance.

Loser.

Loser, Ruslan. No, Yuriy Vladimirovich.

The name he had shed, deemed an unnecessary luxury for a mere slave, suddenly resurfaced in Ruslan’s mind.

His ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps, unsteady and weary.

Ruslan knew instantly to whom they belonged – after all, only one person would approach him in his fallen state.

“You look utterly pitiful. What a waste of the moniker ‘Prince’.”

His eternal nemesis, once a fellow puppet dancing to others’ tunes, now imbued with unmistakable self-awareness, gazed down upon him.

“Do you intend to continue this futile struggle?”

“…”

In times past, no matter how grievously injured, he would have clawed his way back to his feet, compelled by his master’s iron will. 

But now, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, the desire to remain prone weighed heavily upon him. Even knowing the dire consequences of defying his master’s edicts, Ruslan found himself unable to rise.

“You seem… different somehow. You used to struggle upright even with your limbs in tatters.”

Even in his days as a man, before acquiring his preternatural healing abilities, Ruslan had never shied from injury. Like a caged bird denied flight, the terror of his master—more frightening than death itself—had always forced his body to rise.

“…It hurts. My whole body aches.”

But for the first time since his enslavement, Ruslan acknowledged pain. He, who hadn’t flinched in the face of death, now recognized his agony and gave it voice.

“I thought your body was impervious to pain.”

“…Is that how it appeared…?”

Their frank exchange belied the fact that mere moments ago, they had been locked in mortal combat, painting the ground with their blood.

“…Arach—”

“Dorothy.”

“…Ara—”

“I said Dorothy. Dorothy Gale. Can’t you understand?”

Each time Ruslan attempted to use her former name, Dorothy cut him off with irritation.

“…Dorothy.”

Finally, Ruslan acquiesced, cowed by her sharp tone. What did names matter now?

“…How were you able to change?”

Ruslan, still uncomfortable with her unfamiliar appellation, repeated his earlier query.

“You were once… the same kind as me.”

In the past, before adopting the name Dorothy Gale, she had been indistinguishable from Ruslan.

An empty vessel devoid of self-awareness, a mere tool bending to others’ wills. 

Her eyes had been vacant, like peering into a void wearing the shell of a person.

But Ruslan sensed a profound shift in the current Dorothy. Where once there was emptiness, now there brimmed emotions, self-awareness, desires, and dreams.

“How… can one transform like that…? I must know.”

Ruslan implored. What was needed to remove this suffocating collar, this mark of subservience to a master?

Surely Dorothy, who had severed her puppet strings to become human, would know the method.

“I believe you misunderstand something…”

Dorothy began.

“You and I have more differences than similarities. Now and before.”

She illuminated the aspect he had failed to perceive.

“I’m not subordinate to others as you are. Though an orphan from the slums, my human rights were never stripped away.”

Dorothy and Ruslan were clearly distinct individuals. Between oneself and another, which is swifter to discern – similarities or differences?

The answer, of course, is differences. Dorothy and Ruslan were not in positions to fully empathize from identical circumstances. They might sense a kinship in certain aspects, but…

“So… I don’t know. What you seek is, strictly speaking… freedom, is that right?”

A person who could have cut their strings at any time but lacked the will to do so, and one who possessed the will but was unable to sever the bonds.

Naturally, Dorothy couldn’t offer a perfect solution to cut Ruslan’s collar. How could she know whether to cut it or not without becoming a slave herself?

“Hmm… it may not be of much help… but if I were to offer advice that’s not truly advice…”

Nevertheless, after pondering Ruslan’s question, Dorothy eventually proffered a vague suggestion.

“Be selfish. Become a person who thinks only of yourself and knows only yourself.”

“…”

Advice that seemed problematic in myriad ways.

“Is that… the solution?”

“It’s all I can conceive.”

For the first time, by being honest with her desires and dreams, by rowing with the determination to reach land by any means necessary, Dorothy had finally become human. She had transformed from puppet to person.

“…Be selfish…”

What a preposterous notion.

“How childish.”

Ruslan scoffed. Even at his criticism, Dorothy merely shrugged.

“Fairy tales are originally for children, anyway.”

Indeed, wasn’t such a childlike answer most befitting a fairy tale protagonist?

Chapter 74: Even Without Receiving Reciprocation

“I’m departing.”

Dorothy rose to her feet, leaving the fallen Ruslan behind.

“…You won’t kill me?”

“Considering future consequences, it would be right to eliminate you, but I lack the strength to do so.”

She harbored no particular desire to end Ruslan’s life. It seemed incongruous after their recent mortal struggle, but Dorothy’s hostility had evaporated. 

Was it sympathy? Kinship? More likely, she simply lacked the will to kill. Her body felt leaden, her mind even more so.

“Unfinished business awaits me.”

Time was precious when she couldn’t guarantee consciousness should she close her eyes.

“So… farewell.”

A parting salutation laden with the fervent hope they’d never cross paths again – a final, eternal goodbye.

Unspoken thoughts flowed, inaudible to Ruslan: May you too one day realize, though perhaps you already have.

Dorothy pressed onward.

* * *

Her body felt heavier than a thousand pounds, teetering on the brink of collapse. 

Fatigue, as if she hadn’t slept in days, weighed upon her consciousness. What trials had a single night wrought?

Of course, she knew this was of her own choosing. She had willingly accepted the Crown Prince’s request, by far the most challenging she’d ever undertaken. Who else could she blame?

She craved rest more than ever before.

No need for alcohol, cigarettes, or gambling – just a bed and the oblivion of sleep.

“…Ah, no time for that…”

Shaking off such indulgent thoughts, Dorothy staggered towards Sibylla’s hiding place.

With the assassins neutralized and the rebellion seemingly ebbing, if she could just spirit Sibylla away now, all would be well. If only…

“…Ah, right.”

The problem lay in Sibylla’s refuge – the slums.

“I’d forgotten. The nature of those who dwell here…”

Underdog. Could there be a more apt descriptor for the slums?

The despised and oppressed had transmuted their very weakness into a cause, a weapon – dry tinder awaiting the spark. 

And when the flames finally licked at their heels, they hurled themselves into the inferno, heedless of their own immolation, hoping only that the conflagration would consume the world entire.

It was a maelstrom of malice and chaos. Should she encounter these frenzied souls, Dorothy’s battered body would surely falter.

Yet she had to breach their ranks to reach Sibylla. She had to navigate this sea of madness to attain her goal.

Dorothy wavered. Should she retreat? Would turning back spare her from these maniacs?

In peak condition, such deliberation would be unnecessary. She could have cut them down without hesitation.

But now, weakened, facing the kindling-turned-conflagration…

“Hey, check out that babe over there!”

“…Ah.”

While Dorothy hesitated, a man among the rioters pointed and shouted.

“What, truly a woman? And quite the beauty at that?”

“Don’t know where she’s been rolling to end up so disheveled, but she’s not hard on the eyes!”

Ruffians who normally wouldn’t dare glance her way now held the upper hand. Dorothy pondered, for the first time, not whether she should kill them, but whether she could.

“…Argh.”

As she gritted her teeth against the dull ache in her uncooperative arm, trying to evade them-

“Don’t let her esca…huh?”

Between the men and Dorothy, a mountain of a man intervened.

Disheveled red hair framed a hideously distorted face – a hunchbacked giant glowering at the men with fierce intensity.

“W-What, what is this monster…”

Even the senseless rioters regained their wits, so threatening was the giant’s mien. To those unfamiliar with him.

“…You are… from that time…”

But Dorothy recognized him, if not by name, then by nature of this deformed giant.

“…”

“…!? Y-Your face…”

The clear marks of violence visible as he turned his head made Dorothy catch her breath.

“Wh-Where, are you, going?”

Who had reduced him to such a piteous state? Given his unsightly appearance, despised wherever he went, and the current chaos, it wasn’t surprising he’d fallen victim to someone’s cruelty.

Dorothy discerned the emotion in his sole remaining eye – a sorrow so profound, a grief so fathomless that she could scarcely comprehend its depths.

“I’ll… I’ll escort you. Any-Anywhere.”

He stammered, his face contorted not by physical agony but by mental anguish.

Dorothy pondered. Could she truly place her trust in this soul?

Certainly, Quasimodo possessed a nobler heart than any she had encountered.

Yet, she hesitated. For a kind heart and good intentions do not always yield benevolent outcomes.

“…Would you guide me to the sewers?”

In the end, Dorothy chose to trust him, hoping her decision would not prove misguided.

* * *

From birth, the world had branded Quasimodo as cursed.

His body, grotesquely distorted and deformed – a curved spine, clouded eyes.

How could they not deem it a curse? Whether laid by devil or deity, one thing was certain: whoever had molded Quasimodo’s form must have harbored deep antipathy.

To the world, he was a spectacle deserving only of scorn. His twisted visage led many to declare him forsaken by God.

The intensity of persecution didn’t wane even when he bowed his head and clasped his hands in perpetual submission.

Whether Quasimodo caused harm was irrelevant. To them, he was a cursed abomination, a spawn of the devil, and they believed themselves justified in meting out punishment.

This is why Quasimodo cherished Archdeacon Claude Frollo, the man who took him in and raised him.

Without Archdeacon Frollo’s intervention, Quasimodo would have perished in infancy, a cold corpse discarded. Even the faithful who professed belief in God cursed him as demonic; his fate seemed sealed.

Thus, it was natural for Quasimodo to love the Archdeacon as a child loves a parent.

Even if Frollo’s motives for adopting him were less than pure.

Even if the Archdeacon persecuted and abused him like others did.

Even if he, too, regarded Quasimodo as a monstrosity born of the devil.

Nevertheless, Quasimodo loved the Archdeacon and strove to fulfill his every wish.

And this Archdeacon desired a woman – a beautiful creature with copper hair and red eyes, Esmeralda.

It was too base an emotion to be dignified with the term ‘love.’

Lust, obsession – such terms more aptly described it.

Claude Frollo was by no means a righteous man. He cloaked his desires in the guise of faith.

Yet even knowing the Archdeacon’s true nature, Quasimodo did not rebel. No matter how rotten his character, Frollo remained his benefactor and adoptive father.

If the Archdeacon desired Esmeralda, Quasimodo believed it right to deliver her to him.

“We’ve… we’ve ar-arrived.”

However, Quasimodo had defied the Archdeacon’s will.

“This… this is the right place, isn’t it?”

Not once, but twice, he had betrayed his beloved adoptive father.

“…”

Despite the warning never to disobey again and the order to bring her to the cathedral, Quasimodo gently lowered Esmeralda before the sewer entrance as she nodded in confirmation.

It was all because of her.

Both betrayals stemmed from his love for Esmeralda.

Though he had barely encountered her a handful of times, even knowing she loved another – Quasimodo ultimately chose her over his adoptive father’s commands.

Was this woman so significant?

Was that fleeting encounter meaningful enough to defy the will of the man who had raised him for so long?

To this self-directed query, Quasimodo could answer unequivocally: Yes, it was meaningful.

The momentary kindness Esmeralda had shown that day – a kindness another might have offered once had Quasimodo been ordinary.

But for him, born with a hideously twisted, monstrous form, there was no one who would show even that modicum of compassion. Not even his adoptive father.

So to Quasimodo, Esmeralda was precious beyond measure.

Even if his love could never be requited, even if his devotion went unrewarded.

It didn’t matter. Truly, it didn’t matter at all.

“My, my name is Qua-Quasimodo.”

His sole wish: for her to remember him.

To remember him as kind Quasimodo, not as the hideously deformed giant.

That alone would suffice.

“…Farewell.”

May your future be radiant with hope.

May the one you love return your affections.

And may the conclusion of your tale be adorned with joy.

Please, be happy.

Quasimodo wished, with all his heart.

Chapter 75: The Frog Prince, Snow White (illustration)

The sewers, repository of Hyperion’s filth and refuse, concealed a secret – a pristine, serene park unknown to the world above.

Robin once spoke of the central tree, claiming it had been planted by the witch Medea to commemorate her lost child. Even now, long after Dorothy’s acquaintance with the woman once called Medea began, the truth remained elusive.

To Dorothyб no, to Araignée and Robinб this tree held significance beyond ancient tales.

“…You’re late, my dear.”

Beneath the tree’s canopy stood a woman – cursed, her decaying form shrouded from moonlight.

“…This is… the first time… I’ve revealed my true self to another.”

Sibylla crouched against the trunk, as if to shield her maid from her unsightly appearance. Just as Araignée and Robin had done in days past, leaning against the ancient wood.

“Can you truly call me beautiful, even seeing this form—”

“You are beautifulю”

Dorothy interjected without hesitation. 

“More than anyone else in this world, Princess, you are beautiful.”

It was neither platitude nor falsehood, but pure sincerity born of genuine admiration.

“…Is that so…”

The Sibylla of old might have doubted such words of love. But no longer. Now she understood Dorothy’s true nature, her genuine feelings.

“…May I sit beside you?”

“By all means.”

With Sibylla’s assent, Dorothy eased her battered body against the tree.

Just as the boy and girl who once frequented this place had done, hands entwined beneath the sheltering boughs.

“…What transpires outside? Did events unfold as you intended?”

“I’m uncertain if all went as planned. As you know, Princess, I’m quite the fool.”

The rebellion’s fate, the success of the chamberlain and Clopân against the assassins – such facts remained unknown in this secluded glade.

“But if I dare speculate… everything should have proceeded according to design.”

Dorothy believed, without doubt, that all had gone as intended. The chamberlain and Clopân possessed skills to rival even seasoned assassins, and she herself had facilitated the Crown Prince’s army’s rush to Hyperion.

The two would survive. Murat’s cavalry would gallop to protect their master and vanquish his foes.

“Now, if we can just lift the Princess’s curse… everything will truly be over.”

“Have you… discovered a method to break the curse?”

“Yes, I have.”

Upon hearing the witch’s third hint, Dorothy had realized the condition for lifting the curse.

Fairy tales. Prince and Princess. Love. Things Dorothy cherished. And things the witch adored.

“Éclair favors stories more saccharine and mawkish than they appear.”

She, too, thirsted for love with equal intensity.

“Do you know of unquenchable thirst?”

Dorothy asked suddenly.

“Unquenchable thirst…?”

“Yes. A burning thirst unquenched by wellsprings or damp throats.”

Thirst. A thirst water cannot slake.

A thirst so agonizing it crushes the chest, so unbearable it sears the innards.

“Éclair suffers from such unquenchable thirst. And that thirst…”

Dorothy’s crimson gaze met Sibylla’s azure eyes.

“The Princess and I endure it too.”

“…So it would seem, indeed.”

Sibylla, more perceptive than the oft-insensitive Dorothy, instantly grasped her meaning.

“Love… is it.”

Lack of affection.

A woman abandoned by her beloved, a girl betrayed by those who professed to love her.

And the deficiency experienced by a boy who knew not what love was.

The witch’s adoption of the boy, Sibylla’s obsession with Dorothy, Araignée’s slaying of Robin and subsequent emotional void – all stemmed from love. From hearts parched and fractured.

“I thought I would never comprehend it. Neither Éclair nor the Princess.”

The hollow vessel that was Dorothy had been incapable of comprehending love, much like the Crown Prince. For Dorothy, the sole treasure had been the friend who had once painted her world in vibrant hues.

Without that friend, her world had been rendered drab and desolate. Like the monochrome existence Sibylla had endured before encountering Dorothy, all was gray – sky, earth, people.

“…Surely that should have been the case.”

A lone passenger adrift on a vast ocean, bereft of compass, sail, or oar.

Dorothy’s fate had seemed an endless journey, awaiting the day she would finally sink beneath the waves.

“Princess. I beg your forgiveness.”

What had transformed this Dorothy was a woman she had initially regarded as merely the subject of a request.

The cursed Princess of Orléans, with eyes more resplendent than the finest jewels.

“I… I have dared… to harbor feelings for the Princess… that I ought not.”

When had it begun? What had been the catalyst?

Was it her captivating gaze? Her pitiable circumstance? Her resemblance to Robin?

While none of these could be dismissed entirely, they were not the decisive factor.

“…If the curse is lifted, the Princess will once again be adored by all.”

The exceptional beauty of the Orléans royal family was widely acknowledged. Being the sole daughter of that lineage could alone be deemed sufficient to inspire adoration.

Moreover, the moment she overcame the curse and reclaimed her former appearance, all of Sibylla’s tribulations would transmute into a noble and beautiful narrative, further elevating her status as a sympathetic heroine.

“You will encounter others, individuals of noble blood to which I dare not even aspire.”

The influential figures of the continent would set their sights upon Sibylla, captivated by her beauty and the miraculous tale of her triumph over the curse.

“…I don’t want that. I detest the very notion.”

Dorothy recoiled from such a future.

“I can’t bear the thought of losing the Princess to another. I can’t endure seeing the Princess speak another’s name with affection.”

Dorothy balked at the prospect of witnessing someone else loving Sibylla, or Sibylla reciprocating that love.

“I want your gaze fixed solely upon me. I want your love reserved exclusively for me.”

“My dear…”

Childish possessiveness. Unsightly inner thoughts. A child’s tantrum, refusing to share what they deem theirs.

“…Are you… crying now?”

“…Huh?”

This was the visage Sibylla had revealed to Dorothy. In Dorothy, unknowingly shedding tears, Sibylla saw a reflection of her past self.

“…Ah.”

So this was my countenance?

This youthful, immature aspect, these were my emotions?

How truly vulgar.

How truly endearing.

“…Dorothy, guide me to where the moonlight shines.”

“Where the moonlight… shines?”

Sibylla beseeched Dorothy, who wept like a fountain, to lead her into the moonlight’s radiant embrace.

“Very well… I understand.”

Though bewildered, Dorothy acquiesced to Sibylla’s request. The Princess’s cursed form was exposed to the lunar glow, yet her azure eyes, still alight with life, remained fixed in a single direction.

“Is there something you wish me to—”

And in that moment, as Dorothy turned her head after stepping from the shadows, Sibylla’s hand in hers,

Sibylla pulled her close.

Or perhaps more accurately, she cast herself into Dorothy’s arms.

“…Princess?”

Somehow, they found themselves in an embrace, the tall maid cradling her diminutive mistress.

Naturally, Dorothy lowered her gaze to the Princess nestled in her arms.

Sibylla, in turn, rose on her tiptoes.

“Wha-“

—Chu.

In truth, no such intuitive sound actually occurred. The contact between them was too gentle to be called a collision, too soft to produce any audible noise.

Perhaps it would be more apt to say they simply pressed together, the space between them a vacuum of silence.

Yet undeniably, they touched.

Even if no sound was heard, they felt the contact, the sensation upon their lips unmistakable.

“…”

“…”

Dorothy and Sibylla’s lips met.

The kiss was neither deep nor lascivious.

It was silent enough to be solemn, yet intimate enough to feel each other’s presence more acutely than ever before.

Mutual love. A kiss between two who shared the same feelings, the same love—not a one-sided affection from either party.

Crash—! With a sound like shattering glass, at last the key engaged the lock of the curse.

“Princess, your body…!”

“I know.”

The pain is receding. The agony of the curse that had tormented Sibylla for so long, the suffering that had seemed escapable only through death’s embrace.

Yet Sibylla’s heart raced faster than ever before, her blood boiling with newfound intensity.

“The curse, it’s been lifted.”

Brilliant platinum-hued tresses, skin as white and flawless as the finest marble.

“How is it, my dear?”

The curse of the royal family that had been devouring Orléans, the bloodline of the sun.

“Is it as beautiful as you imagined?”

At last, it was vanquished.

Chapter 76: END. The End of Drifting (illustration)

No matter how dark the night, dawn will inevitably break.

Even the most ferocious inferno, consuming all in its path, must eventually burn itself out.

“…Phew…”

With bloodstained, trembling hands, the chamberlain managed to light a crumpled cigarette.

The Königsberg assassins had proven formidable adversaries, taxing even the seasoned chief chamberlain who had weathered countless political storms. When last had he felt so battered, so drained that controlling his own body became a Herculean task?

His once-sturdy legs, which he’d believed would never falter in his lifetime, now betrayed him pitifully, refusing to bear their master’s weight. Perhaps it was a belated reckoning with his age.

“…It’s over.”

Yet, despite his wretched state, the chamberlain had survived.

Survived, repelled the enemy, and ultimately triumphed.

“Cough… Won’t you share a puff, chamberlain?”

A woman, sprawled beside him, reached out with a cheeky grin, panting.

“I must decline. These are rather expensive, you understand.”

“Oh, come now. How can the chief chamberlain of the royal family and head of the Fontaine clan be so miserly? How expensive can a cigarette be…”

Even as he demurred, he placed a cigarette between her fingers. She accepted with a smile, their banter a testament to the camaraderie forged in the crucible of their shared ordeal.

“Where did you leave one of your arms?”

“Over yonder. I suppose the prosthetic came loose in the heat of battle.”

Clopân glanced ruefully at her empty, drooping sleeve.

“It must be utterly ruined. Perhaps I should seize this opportunity to request a proper replacement…”

“How did your arm come to be in such a state?”

“I was born thus. That’s why I was abandoned at the Court of Miracles, leading to my current circumstances.”

The congenital disability that had led to her abandonment had also paved the way for her to become Clopân Trouillefou, sovereign of the Court of Miracles.

“So I empathize with Princess Sibylla. How excruciating it must have been, confined by a curse she never sought.”

Unlike herself, who had known nothing but lack from the start, Clopân sympathized with Sibylla, who had possessed everything only to lose it in an instant. The anguish of such loss, how bitter that wound must have been.

“What are your thoughts on the Princess?”

“…Well.”

Gazing skyward with a pensive expression, the chamberlain mumbled around his cigarette.

“In the past, I pitied yet feared her. As did others.”

Once, he had dreaded Sibylla, terrified of the curse consuming her. That fear had led him to unwittingly wound the young Princess, causing her to withdraw into herself.

“Now, I’ve surmounted that fear… yet I question my right to remain by her side. Perhaps none in the royal family possess that privilege.”

Orléans had scarred Sibylla. Her servants, her blood relations – all had inflicted wounds, great and small. How then could they approach her now, so shamelessly?

“…Save for one.”

Yet there existed a sole exception.

The maid who had approached her without pretense, caressing her decaying form and soothing her shattered spirit when all others had turned away.

“…It matters not now. So long as the Princess finds happiness.”

Matthieu de Fontaine vowed to lend his aid in whatever capacity he could.

* * *

“…”

The kiss was brief.

Yet to Dorothy and Sibylla, that fleeting moment stretched into eternity.

The condition for breaking the curse: a kiss between two who truly loved each other.

It couldn’t be one-sided affection, nor could it be forced.

Only a kiss shared at the precise moment when they acknowledged and accepted each other’s feelings, wholly embracing the other’s existence in their hearts.

The key to lifting the curse of the Orléans royal family was a fairytale-like kiss of love.

“How is it, my dear? Is it as beautiful as you imagined?”

Dorothy found herself at a loss for words. When she attempted to speak, her voice caught in her throat, emerging only as incomprehensible sounds before her mouth closed once more.

Beautiful. Too beautiful. The snow-white, delicate skin, the pure and fragile countenance.

Everything was exquisite, but most captivating still were the eyes – those jewel-like orbs visible even before the curse’s dissolution.

Before her stood a woman worthy of universal adoration. Even without the title of Princess of Orléans, without that noble lineage, here was a beauty capable of ensnaring the hearts of legendary heroes.

And that woman had just kissed her.

“…!!”

Dorothy’s cheeks flushed crimson. Her eyes widened, and she unconsciously covered her face with both hands.

“What’s this, my dear? So you’re capable of blushing like a young maiden after all.”

“Th-That’s because, j-just now, that was, a k-kiss.”

What was this euphoria coursing through her? Dorothy dared not contemplate it fully. Embarrassment. Joy. Delight. Desire.

“…The more I come to know you, the more enchanting you truly are.”

Gently prying Dorothy’s hands from her face, Sibylla gazed intently at her flushed visage.

“My dear, I’ve yet to hear your answer.”

“What answer… If it’s regarding your appearance…”

“No, that’s not it.”

Sibylla sought something specific from Dorothy’s lips.

“You said before. If you could say it with certainty someday…”

May I allow myself to fall for you?

Dorothy had spoken those words to Sibylla as she lay in her sickbed that day. If she could be certain of her uncertain feelings, would it be permissible to fall for her then?

“Now can you say it with certain-“

Whoosh—

“…I love you.”

The answer was a resounding yes.

“I love you. I love you. I, Dorothy, love you, Princess.”

Holding Sibylla tightly, Dorothy whispered ‘I love you’ incessantly into her ear.

“I love you more than anyone else. I love you more than anyone in the world. Truly, truly… you…”

The declaration held dual meaning. Dorothy loved Sibylla more than anyone else in the world. No one in the world loved Sibylla as profoundly as Dorothy did.

Gone was any trace of her previous rational and calm demeanor. With a voice trembling with unprecedented excitement, Dorothy poured forth her love for Sibylla.

“…Don’t call me Princess anymore.”

Gently caressing Dorothy, Sibylla spoke.

“You are no longer my servant.”

“…Does that mean…?”

At last, the collar was severed.

The collar Sibylla had placed upon Dorothy to keep her close was finally removed.

“Call my name.”

But this did not signify Dorothy’s departure from Sibylla’s side.

“Not as a servant, but as a lover.”

It heralded the rebirth of their relationship, no longer as master and servant, but as something new.

“…Sibyl..la..”

And so, at long last, Dorothy spoke Sibylla’s name.

Not Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans, but simply Sibylla, the woman she loved.

“Dorothy, my dear.”

Whether she was laughing or crying, seeing Dorothy with tears and mucus streaking her face, her cold and intelligent beauty nowhere to be seen, Sibylla chuckled.

It wasn’t a sneer of disappointment, but an affectionate laugh born of overwhelming emotion.

“I don’t wish to return to the palace.”

To this Dorothy, Sibylla confided.

“I no longer desire to be a Princess.”

Sibylla had grown weary of the curse that had tormented her for so long.

She had no intention of re-entering the cage of royalty that had confined and persecuted her for being cursed.

“I refuse to marry another under the guise of political alliance, nor do I wish to be confined within the castle walls like a cultivated flower.”

This was her will. The determination to turn her back on the royal family and discard her noble blood of her own volition.

“So to you, for the final time… No.”

Closing her eyes for a moment before reopening them, Sibylla commanded Dorothy.

“For the first time, you who shall be my partner.”

For the first time, not as a Princess, but as a beloved.

“Sibylla Thérèse commands her partner Dorothy Gale.”

The order she gave that day in the moonlit garden.

“Make me happy.”

Sibylla once again conveyed to Dorothy.

“Even if you must become a shameless royal kidnapper and traitor.”

A selfish and playful order, or perhaps a request.

“Take me away, my Prince.”

To Sibylla’s command, whispered under the moonlight as before, yet now accompanied by a smile.

“…Haha.”

Dorothy, with a smile of her own…

“As you command.”

Answered just as she had then.

* * *

When would it reach land? When would escape be possible?

The waves that had led the boy, adrift on the vast ocean in a boat bereft of oar or sail, hither and thither.

But finally, a miracle occurred. At last, the boy’s vessel touched shore.

-…Hello.

A girl stood there. On the beach, not in the sea, a girl with a familiar countenance.

-Hello, Araignée.

How should he respond? Should he simply answer, ‘Robin’?

No, Dorothy knew that wasn’t the correct response. For this girl was not Robin.

-Hello, my childhood.

It was the boy’s dream, the boy’s childhood. A star glimpsed by the desert fox, a fragment of memory, resembling Robin but not Robin.

The existence that had always regarded the boy with an unsettling, lifeless expression – that was guilt and self-portrait, that was trauma.

But not now.

-…You’re smiling.

That existence was smiling. Like Robin in his cherished memories.

With hands clasped behind her back, eyes twinkling, she beamed.

-You know the reason best, don’t you?

It signified that the boy had finally removed the shard of mirror that had frozen his heart. Like Gerda melting Kai’s heart, a girl had thawed the boy’s frozen core.

-So now, it’s time to part.

And simultaneously, it heralded their farewell. For the boy who had become an adult, she was now a precious memory to be treasured in a corner of his mind.

-I have one question. Will you answer, Dorothy Gale?

The memory no longer addressed him as Araignée or boy. Calling his new name, once fabricated but now genuine, it inquired.

-Are you happy now?

-…Yes, I’m happy.

Chapter 77: And They Lived Happily Ever After (illustration)

To Lady Sibylla Thérèse,

Three years and five moons have waxed and waned since Your Highness’s departure from Hyperion’s gilded halls.

My heart frets over the challenges you might face in foreign lands. Does life in Limburg treat you kindly? I pray no ill has befallen you.

Surely, Queen Wilhelmina’s reputation as an exemplary monarch is well-founded. May the lowland paradise, with its ever-turning windmills and fields ablaze with tulips, offer solace to your spirit.

Perhaps tidings have already reached your distant shore, but in case curiosity stirs within you, allow me to paint a picture of Orléans’s current state.

The rebellion’s embers were swiftly extinguished. Those nobles who dared raise their banners in revolt have lost their heads, while Prince Louis, sequestered in his mansion, was spared the executioner’s blade. Though he retains his life, he has been stripped of his royal status, cast into the sea of common folk.

Joachim Murat and His Highness the Crown Prince’s loyal coterie, whose valor proved instrumental in quelling the uprising, have reaped abundant rewards of honor, glory, and lands before returning to their domains. The capitalists’ influence in the Estates General has burgeoned further.

His Highness the Crown Prince no longer bears that title. Mere months ago, he donned the crown at his coronation ceremony, ascending to the throne as King.

Ah, but fear not – this does not herald the passing of the current King, now styled the Grand Duke of Orléans.

Rather, His Majesty lives on, having stirred from his stupor as the rebellion’s final acts played out. His madness has abated, replaced by a wisdom that surpasses his former self.

I beg your forgiveness for informing His Majesty of your continued existence and the dissolution of the Orléans curse without seeking your leave. However, even upon hearing this news, His Majesty made no attempt to seek you out, declaring that if it was your will, he would honor it.

I, too, have relinquished my positions as chief chamberlain and head of the Fontaine family. The toll of that bloody day has weakened my constitution, and this aged frame can no longer shoulder such weighty responsibilities.

Now I while away my days as a doddering old man, content to observe my grandchildren’s antics from the sidelines. Yet even this brings its own joy. It seems my life has not been lived in vain.

The plight of the slums has seen marked improvement. I surmise the recent upheaval must have stirred some revelation within His Highness the Crown Prince. No longer shall shadows linger in Hyperion’s corners. Pray, convey this to Miss Gale.

The Court of Miracles has been transformed into a royal hospital under the crown’s patronage. Consequently, Miss Clopân finds herself even more inundated with responsibilities. She laments the doubling of patients when she’s yet to complete repairs on her prosthetic arm…

I find myself wondering if life with Miss Gale presents any difficulties. Perhaps this is merely the unnecessary fretting of an old man…

Naturally, I am well aware that Miss Gale cherishes and loves you more profoundly than any other. However, a union between two women is not something society readily embraces. I, too, initially grappled with acceptance.

Yet if this path leads to your happiness, this old man shall stand firmly in support. For your future—

* * *

“…May it be filled only with happiness. Matthieu de Fontaine.”

Sibylla, once a Princess, carefully perused the missive from the man who had served as chief chamberlain until just before her departure from Orléans.

“Much has transpired since I left. Well, three years and five months is not an insignificant span.”

Upon leaving Orléans, Sibylla had lived for a time utterly disinterested in her former home. She harbored no particular attachment to the country that had confined and wounded her for so long. Moreover, she knew that if word of her survival and comfortable life abroad were to spread, it would inevitably entangle her in unwelcome complications.

Yet her disdain for Orléans did not extend to all its inhabitants. She still maintained occasional correspondence with a select few, like Matthieu and Clopân, who had aided her settlement in Limburg.

“You, too, have faced your share of trials.”

“Tch, that old codger. If he’s gotten so decrepit, he should just lie down quietly in a coffin. Does he think I’m some sort of courier?”

The witch who had delivered the letter was among those few confidants.

“Not just Orléans, but trekking all the way to far-flung Limburg just to play postman. Haah…”

Whether time truly heals all wounds or not, the once-strained relationship between Sibylla and the witch, Éclair, had mellowed considerably. They now exchanged casual jests with ease.

“I think it would be lovely if you visited more often. The children are quite fond of you.”

“Don’t spout nonsense. That kindergarten or whatever. Taking care of a child I didn’t even birth myself was more than enough with one brat, one time.”

“Hm.”

After arriving in Limburg, Sibylla and Dorothy had established a kindergarten. Many parents in their adopted city struggled to care for their children due to work commitments.

The children adored Éclair, who embodied the very image of a fairy tale witch, bringing fascinating toys and sweets with each visit. Though Éclair outwardly feigned distaste, she never treated the children unkindly.

“So, where is your beloved?”

“She embarked on a picnic with the children. I expect… they’ll be returning shortly.”

Sibylla, who had been seated in a rocking chair watching the sun’s descent, rose to her feet.

“I think I’ll go out to greet them.”

The ring adorning the fourth finger of her right hand, which grasped the armrest, caught the dying sunlight, sparkling brilliantly.

* * *

When gazing upon the reed field swaying in the cool breeze, one’s thoughts inevitably drift to the lake.

A single droplet falling upon tranquil waters. The ripple, like a wave, born from that solitary disturbance.

Sibylla found herself lost in reverie, her gaze fixed upon the undulating reeds. Memories of Orléans washed over her, unbidden.

“Oh my.”

As she stood, adrift in her thoughts, something gently collided with her midsection.

“Hehe, Teacher Sibylla!”

“Welcome back, little one. Did you enjoy your picnic?”

The mischievous children often announced their presence thus, like a living doorbell heralding their arrival.

When she informed the children of the witch’s visit, their eyes sparkled with delight as they raced towards the kindergarten, each vying to be first.

Such scenes had become a cherished part of daily life. And then…

“Sibylla~!”

At the sound of that voice, lovely beyond compare no matter how often she heard it, Sibylla’s face blossomed into a smile as she turned.

“Oh my…”

Short copper tresses and crimson eyes. Her beloved partner waved from afar, her form silhouetted against the horizon.

Dorothy no longer addressed Sibylla as Princess, for she had relinquished that title.

And Dorothy herself no longer wished to use such formal address for the one who was no longer her master, but her equal, her partner. Naturally, they had come to call each other by name.

Dorothy Gale, once a fabrication, had become her true identity. The lengthy name Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans had shed its final component, thanks to the widely held belief that the Princess of Orléans had perished along with the curse.

What remained were Sibylla Thérèse, no longer royalty, and Dorothy Gale, no longer an illusion. A pair who had exchanged rings of their own volition.

The two stood silent for a time, the swaying reed field their backdrop.

Partly due to the distance between them, which would have required shouting to bridge, but also because they could read each other’s emotions merely by gazing upon one another’s faces.

An everyday smile, as familiar and comforting as the rising sun.

That alone sufficed. For both Sibylla and Dorothy.

In the tales parents weave for their children at bedtime, those universally known as fairy tales, the love story of a Princess and a Prince is an essential element.

A Princess who vanishes, leaving naught but a glass slipper, and a Prince who scours the land for her. A Princess cast into slumber by a witch’s poisoned apple, awakened by a Prince’s tender kiss.

Some may decry such tales as cliché, but to be cliché is to be beloved, a story that resonates deeply. Is there another narrative that stirs the human heart as profoundly as love blossoming amidst adversity?

Yet people cherish these fairy tale-like stories precisely because they seem impossible in reality. Imagination, they say, is fundamentally different from the mundane world we inhabit.

…But is this truly so?

Everything that graces the pages of fairy tales exists in our world. A Princess imprisoned in a tower, a witch, a valiant Prince, and love itself.

Of course, there’s no guarantee these elements won’t converge. A magnificent Prince who rescues the Princess from her tower, breaking the witch’s curse, surely exists somewhere in this vast world.

The timeless tale of a handsome Prince appearing to save a beautiful Princess never loses its luster, no matter how often it’s retold.

To be cliché is to be both well-crafted and well-received.

Even with a Prince and Princess who may be flawed in myriad ways, one can weave a tale as enchanting as any fairy story.

And the ending best suited to such a narrative is predestined.

A childish yet touching, predictable yet beautiful happy ending.

Let us conclude this story with that very denouement.

The handsome Prince and the beautiful Princess.

Lived happily ever after.

The author’s note:

This is the afterword following the conclusion!

They lived happily ever after for a long, long time. The ending that suits a fairy tale best is indeed a happy ending, isn’t it?

Of course, there are many sad stories like The Little Mermaid, but I think the ending that suits a classic Prince and Princess story best is still a happy ending! So it’s only natural that this story, which I decided to write like a fairy tale, ends with a happy ending.

Like Snow White who woke up from eternal sleep with the Prince’s kiss, like the Frog Prince who returned to being human thanks to the Princess.

The cursed Princess was freed from the curse by the maid’s kiss.

At the same time, the maid whose heart had frozen also had her emotions revived by the Princess’s kiss.

Of course, there were many events before that, but nothing was as decisive as the kiss.

That’s how the story of the cursed Princess and the maid came to an end.

To the readers who have steadily followed this novel throughout. Or to the readers who haven’t read it and have saved it up.

To the readers who encouraged my will with their precious support, thank you all, and I love you too!