Five days had passed since Duke Darconer and his entourage returned to the Darconer estate.
Sevine spent her days doing small, simple things—trimming her toenails, rubbing rose balm into her palms, trying to soften the rough skin.The calluses came from all the late-night sword practice she'd been forcing herself through lately.
Emily, as always, was relentless.
"You can't let your hands get any rougher, My lady. What if the Crown Prince holds them and flinches like he's touched tree bark?"
Sevine sighed. Convincing Emily she no longer had feelings for the Crown Prince was like trying to teach a bird to swim.
"Did you read this morning's paper? Word is, southern nobles were caught trading off the offering food. Executed."
More like forced to die, Sevine thought bitterly.
"Really? Good. Let the rats rot," she said flatly.
Sevine remembered that day all too well. The day of Sebastian's massacre. As soon as the blood dried, the Ruberius men arrived, silent as phantoms, scrubbing every trace of carnage as though it had never existed.
The palace knew. Of course, they did. But for reasons not voiced, they said nothing.
If the public ever learned that those nobles weren't executed, but butchered by the 'blessed heir' of the sacred Ruberius line—it wouldn't be justice they felt. It would be fear.
Emily finished massaging her hands.
"Just a moment more, My Lady. Let the balm sink in, then I'll wipe it off with warm water." She excused herself to fetch it.
Sevine watched the girl's retreating back. So small. So young. Likely even younger than Louis. In this world, no one blinked at child labor.
Emily was too beautiful for a servant. Apple-red hair, bright green eyes—she looked like a heroine, not a supporting character in the antagonist's tale.
And that name... "Emily"? Why that of all names? It screamed overused. Couldn't the author have chosen Ruby, Alyse, or Krystal?
"My lady?" Emily had returned.
"Oh! Sorry, I was spacing out," Sevine chuckled weakly, giving her hands over again.
"You've never told me much about yourself, Em."
Emily blinked. "You want to know about me?"
"Of course. You're my personal maid."
Emily hesitated, then smiled faintly. "There's nothing special to tell, really. I'm the daughter of a bread merchant from the South. I work here to help my parents, and save up so my younger brother can attend the academy."
"You have a brother?"
She nodded proudly. "He's adorable. I can't wait to see his face when I give him his acceptance letter."
Sevine smiled—faint and sharp, like glass.
She'd once been the same. A sister who gave everything. Youth, time, dreams—just to make sure Cecilia could live like a queen.
Her chest clenched. The wound hadn't healed. Not really.
"My lady? Are you... crying?"
"Em... I..."
Emily rushed to her side, stroking her back with the gentleness of a falling petal.
"Breathe.. You're alright."
»»——⍟——««
Yelena Darconer's seventeenth birthday loomed close.
The estate buzzed with preparations. Drapes, pastries, invitation scrolls. But this wasn't just a birthday—it was her debutante.
Her first official appearance as a young noblewoman before society.
The Darconers had invited every eligible noble girl yet to debut. All eyes would be watching.
"Focus, Lady! You're off again!" snapped Madam Roscell, tapping Sevine's leg with her ornate fan.
"Sorry, Madam. The steps are just... difficult," Sevine muttered.
They weren't. Not really. But the repetition was maddening, and the pressure was a weight pressing on her ribs.
"You'll be dancing in unison with many girls. Even the smallest mistake will stand out."
Duchess Darconer's voice echoed in her mind:
"Duchess Ruberius's daughter is the talk of the town. Don't let her steal your title as the golden swan, my dear."
Sevine rolled her eyes. Every world had mothers who couldn't stand their daughters being outshined.
"I've heard it helps," Madam Roscell mused, "to imagine dancing in front of someone you love."
Sevine raised a brow. "Someone I love?"
Sevine nearly laughed. The last man she loved tried to kill her. Daniel. The poison disguised as a fiancé. Dance before him? She'd rather crack his skull with a wooden beam, rip out his teeth one by one, and feed him to crocodiles.
"I'm a little tired today, Madam. But I'll practice harder tomorrow."
"Very well, Lady. Until then."
"Until then, Madam."
»»--⍟--««
Less than six days remained before her birthday—before the debutante ball that would parade her into high society like some sort of painted doll.
Sevine could barely process it when her mother, Duchess Darconer, decreed that the coming days would be devoted entirely to beauty treatments. No sword training. No reading in the gardens. No escaping into anything remotely enjoyable.
Just spa sessions. Skin care. Corset fittings. And starvation.
Predictably, Emily had reacted the same way her mother did—launching into a tirade about the state of Sevine's hands. Apparently, they were unacceptable. The Duchess herself had recoiled dramatically when she touched her daughter's palm.
"I'm having Lucas throw out all those wooden swords," she snapped, storming off in a whirl of silk and irritation.
Sevine stared after her, dumbfounded. "Are my hands really that bad?"
Knock knock.
"My lady, may I come in?" came Emily's voice through the door.
"Just come in."
Emily entered, carefully carrying a pink dress so frilly and floral it could've choked a rose garden.
Sevine blinked. "Whose dress is that?"
"It's yours.."
"…Mine?"
"Yes."
Sevine narrowed her eyes. "Where's the one I actually designed? The one I ordered from Lucia?"
Emily hesitated. That was answer enough.
Sevine's gaze sharpened. "Tell me."
"It was your mother's request."
Perfect timing. Duchess Darconer appeared in the doorway, arms crossed and expression like stone.
"I made my own dress," Sevine protested, already bracing for the argument.
"And it's lovely," the Duchess said flatly. "But it's not suitable for this kind of event."
"What's wrong with it?"
"This is a debutante ball. Tradition matters. All the girls wear floral gowns and dance in circles pretending to be delicate. If you stand out too much, you'll look improper. Not special—unpleasant. Understand?"
Sevine clenched her jaw. Then, quietly, "I understand."
"You can wear your design another time. For now, follow my lead."The Duchess reached out, brushing a hand gently across Sevine's forehead.
Sevine sighed and leaned into her mother's waist, knowing full well that resistance was futile. "Fine. For you, I'll suffer through those damn corsets a little longer."
"Good girl. So… what do you think of the dress?"
Sevine gave a noncommittal shrug. It was beautiful, sure—an elaborate piece clearly crafted by master hands.
A Vivian original. Of course.
"She was thrilled to design it for you," the Duchess said. "She nearly fainted when I told her you'd actually wear one of her creations."
Vivian had been desperate to collaborate ever since Sevine's own design stole the spotlight at the winter ball. She'd dodged the designer ever since, using excuses like "too busy" or "already committed." And now here they were.
»»--⍟--««
A soft sigh slipped past Sevine's lips as she sank deeper into the warm water of the estate spa.
The room, custom-built at her mother's insistence, was like something from a noblewoman's dream—steam rising in curls, pale light glowing off the marble walls, the scent of lavender thick in the air.
"My lady, we're adding sheep's milk now. It'll help soften your skin."
"Mmm." She barely acknowledged them, her body too relaxed to care.
Servants moved around her quietly, pouring in buckets of milk and scattering rose petals across the water. Candles flickered on every surface, their scent sweet and heady.
It was ridiculous. All of this... for one night in a tight gown and tighter shoes.
"Would you like a head massage?" Emily asked softly.
Sevine said nothing. That was enough of a yes.
Fingers slid through her wet hair, firm and skilled. Two more sets of hands worked on her arms and legs, pressing into her muscles, easing the soreness from days of training she wasn't even supposed to be doing.
"Harder on my hands," Sevine murmured.
The pressure deepened. She let her eyes drift open, watching the petals float lazily across the milk-white water.
"Anything else, My Lady?"
"Yes. Food."
"I'll bring fruit—"
"Not fruit. Food. Real food."
Emily hesitated. "The Duchess has ordered a restricted diet.."
Sevine didn't answer. Her soul left her body.
All this suffering. For that cursed corset.
»»--⍟--««
Dinner was agony.
While everyone else feasted on roast turkey, rich sauces, and sizzling cuts of beef, Sevine was served a plate so sad it deserved mourning: half a sandwich with smoked meat, two boiled eggs, seven grapes, and a heap of unseasoned greens.
"Father," she whispered, leaning toward Duke Darconer with a look of betrayal. "I can't survive on this."
Lucas looked at her, then glanced toward his wife.
Duchess's expression could cut stone. One word from him, and she'd probably find a way to exile her own husband.
Across the table, Louis—usually loud and obnoxious—suddenly found his food extremely interesting.
"This is for your own good," the Duchess said smoothly. "If you don't stick to the plan, that corset won't fit. Try acting your age."
The quiet click of her knife against the plate was enough to silence any protests.
"…Yes, Mother."
Sevine sighed and stabbed a grape.
Louis caught her eye. His face said, Just give in. Save yourself.
"There you go. Good girl,"
A collective breath was released.
Now Sevine understood. The novel hadn't exaggerated—the Duke truly was afraid of his wife.And now, so was she.
»»--⍟--««
Love has a way of making people lose their grip on reason.
That phrase, though overused, perfectly described Reinhardt Baterville—the Crown Prince of Baterville, soon to be its eighth king—as he wandered the royal treasury like a man possessed.
Every so often, he would pause, reach for something, then change his mind and move on.
"Why the hell didn't the staff label these with their historical value?" he muttered. "How am I supposed to know what's appropriate?"
Yes. Reinhardt Baterville—the cold, calculated heir to the throne—was now facing the one challenge he couldn't overcome in all twenty-two years of his life: picking out a gift for a girl.
"Hey, Sebas. Do you think she'd like the necklace from Queen Baterville the Third?" he asked, holding up a silver necklace from behind a glass display.
It had once belonged to the wife of King Baterville III—a piece rich with history.
Sebastian had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. His jaw was stiff from smiling too much—no, from forcing a smile too many times.
"I believe Lady Darconer would gladly accept anything you give her, Your Highness," he repeated for what felt like the twentieth time.
Sebastian had grown up with Reinhardt. He had seen the man handle diplomats, win political debates, even hold his own in war councils. But today, he was witnessing something far rarer: Reinhardt, the genius prince, rendered completely useless by the idea of romance.
"No, no. Her eyes are a bright brown. Green won't match," Reinhardt muttered, putting the necklace back.
He moved on. This time, his eyes caught on a dress in the backmost case.
"What about this? The gown Queen Baterville the Fourth wore for her coronation—the first woman to rule Baterville."
This time, Sebastian finally gave a different answer.
"With respect, Your Highness, I believe Lady Darconer would prefer if Her Majesty's dress stayed in the royal museum."
"Ugh, come on…" Reinhardt groaned, rubbing his face.
Sebastian pitied him. Was it really that hard to choose one thing?. He himself had already chosen a gift: a land certificate for a few northern plots—not too far from Ruberius estate. Practical, valuable. And for some reason… he hadn't told Reinhardt. Maybe because he wasn't ready to admit that he, too, remembered Yelena's face a little too often.
"What about this one?" Reinhardt asked again, pointing to a glass box containing the favorite mirror of Princess Diane Rosemary Baterville, wife of King Baterville V.
"I'm sure Lady Darconer already has enough mirrors, Your Highness. If I may suggest—perhaps something wearable."
Reinhardt considered that. Then turned toward the next case.
A pair of glass shoes—his grandmother's, the mother of King Baterville VII.
He glanced at Sebastian, hopeful.
"Ahem. I believe those are rather precious to His Majesty," Sebastian said gently. "Too sentimental to give away."
Reinhardt's eyes narrowed. "My mother must have a few extra crown sets, right?"
Sebastian blinked, then nodded.
And finally, Reinhardt made a decision.
A tiara set once worn by his mother in her youth—simple, elegant, refined. He could already see it resting around the pale neck of that girl, glinting like moonlight against her skin.
He summoned the royal treasurer, instructing them to pack and deliver it immediately to the Darconer Estate. He kept his face carefully blank. But Sebastian saw through him long before.
Two men, both stumbling into the unfamiliar world of affection… both thinking of the same girl—at the same time.