Aerith sat at the edge of her bed with her left leg slightly raised. The ankle still ached despite Lady Gwen having rubbed balm on it. Every time Aerith shifted even a little, sharp pain shot up her calf. Her fingers clutched at the frayed edge of the blanket that draped across her lap.
"Father was right, I always ruin everything," she whispered faintly, her eyes lowered to the swollen ankle. "I can never do anything properly. Useless."
Her words spilled out, scattered with the weight of her sigh. Her eyes shimmered with tears when she realized that in Avalon Palace, she had not even a single friend to whom she could complain.
Knock Knock Knock!
The sound at the door jolted Aerith's body tense. Her thoughts vanished in an instant. She nearly leapt up, but the pain in her foot forced only a wince. From outside, someone asked permission to enter. Aerith had no choice but to grant it.
Slowly the door opened, and a middle-aged man entered. His temples were streaked with white, and his sharp gaze carried years of experience. He was the royal physician, and his very presence made Aerith's heart beat faster.
"I am the royal physician who will examine your foot, Lady Moonstone," the man murmured, as though answering a question that had only formed in Aerith's mind.
"I am sorry to trouble you, Sir," Aerith said with an awkward smile, her expression uncomfortable and guilty for having inconvenienced someone.
The physician did not answer but walked toward Aerith. "Lift your gown a little, Lady Moonstone. I heard you fell hard to the floor in your nervousness. Let me see your foot," he said briefly.
Aerith bit her lower lip, then obeyed. Her face warmed with shame as she slowly drew up the hem of her gown until her ankle was exposed. When the physician's cold hand touched her skin, she held her breath.
The man frowned. For a consort candidate as unpopular as Aerith, to summon the head physician of the palace for such a minor injury was clearly excessive. He usually came only for emergencies or matters concerning the royal family itself.
"This is actually a light injury," the physician said with his brow still furrowed. "Even without treatment, this would heal on its own. It only needs time. But yes, it hurts."
He then asked Aerith to lie down while he prepared his tools. From Aerith's perspective, the instruments seemed far too many for such a small injury.
"I can treat it myself, Sir. There is no need to trouble yourself. You said yourself this was only minor," Aerith said hesitantly.
The physician shook his head. "His Majesty commanded that you must be able to walk tomorrow. There is no other choice but to apply several ancient healing techniques and a splint. Because of this, you must not leave this bed until morning."
Aerith's eyes widened. She barely heard the length of his words, but one thing struck her deeply. "The King… commanded… that I recover at once?" she asked, her voice broken.
The physician nodded and began his work. Pain flared when he pressed certain points around the ankle. Aerith wanted to scream but silenced herself by biting down on a scrap of cloth. She did not wish to trouble anyone with her cries.
"You are quite skilled at enduring pain. That is fortunate, it makes the process faster," the physician praised as he neared the end of setting the splint. Normally, a young woman would scream terribly when he performed these pressure treatments.
Aerith only answered with a faint smile. In her head, the question still echoed: why would His Majesty want her healed by tomorrow?
"This is enough," the physician concluded, closing his wooden case. His glance was brief but heavy with meaning. "If you obey and do not leave the bed until morning, you will be able to walk without limping tomorrow."
He then departed, leaving behind a silence far more suffocating than before.
Aerith sat still for a long while. Her mind was in turmoil, torn between relief and fear. Did the King truly care for her? Or did he simply wish to ensure she would be present for the second round, so he could punish her? Or worse, was this care nothing more than a way to prepare the stage for her humiliation before everyone?
Aerith covered her face with both hands. King Lucien could not possibly care for her. Therefore, the second and third possibilities seemed far more likely. And that thought made her chest tighten even more.
"I am going to die tomorrow…" she whispered, almost like a desperate prayer.
Knock Knock Knock!
Aerith's heart nearly burst from her chest at the sound of her door being struck again. Without waiting for permission, someone barged in. It was Gwenevere.
"Aerith! Tomorrow the second round begins and here you are lounging in bed?" Gwenevere snapped, her hands on her hips. "I know we want you eliminated quickly, but you must still appear well-mannered! Get up, and let's practice!"
Gwenevere did not confess that her mind had already changed!!!
Deep inside, Gwenevere now wanted Aerith to reach the top three candidates. She knew that the rewards for the servant in charge of a top contestant in the second round were far higher than in the first. A flicker of greed had begun to grow in her heart, vague, yet persistent. She wanted Aerith to become a consort.
That way, she would own a machine of endless profit. Gwenevere held Aerith's greatest secret and would blackmail her endlessly to keep it silent.
"But, Lady Gwen, my foot still hurts and must rest," Aerith pleaded weakly.
Gwenevere's eyes widened with anger. "Do not be spoiled! Come, practice! As long as it does not kill you, I will make sure you do it!"
"But… if I practice tonight, my foot will limp tomorrow."
Gwenevere grinned widely. "If that makes you eliminated, isn't that even better?"
The words in Gwenevere's heart were different: If that makes King Lucien pity you and raise your score, you will be nominated. And I will receive a great reward.
Gwenevere glared at Aerith, who still had not moved. "Stand, or I will drag you!"
Aerith surrendered. She slid off the bed, bracing against the pain, then stood and followed Gwenevere to an empty storeroom to practice dancing. Dancing was the most common talent, but when done properly, no man could resist its charm.
The night grew deeper. While Aerith struggled with her dance practice, in the western pavilion of the palace, candlelight lit a gathering of noblewomen. Lady Venetia sat straight in the principal seat, her posture flawless as though she were the very center of a stage. Her fingers curled elegantly around a porcelain cup, her cold gaze piercing through the flame.
At her side, Lady Mirabelle played with a golden fan, covering part of her face with a sly smile. Their meeting was no mere casual talk, it was planning.
"Tomorrow is our stage," Venetia said, her voice flat but heavy with weight. "Yet there is one who continuously disturbs the balance."
"Lady Moonstone," Mirabelle replied bitterly. "The girl who does not know how to walk, who does not know how to bow, who does not even know how to hold her tongue. Yet somehow, she always escapes."
Venetia straightened, her silver eyes narrowing. "She should have been eliminated in the first round. If she survives tomorrow, then she becomes our greatest enemy."
Mirabelle leaned in slightly, her fan hiding lips that whispered like poison. "Then do not let her survive. We will make sure she falls tomorrow, before everyone. Not only fall, but be shattered."
Venetia raised her cup high, as if in a toast. "To tomorrow. To erasing the stain called Lady Moonstone."