In her mind, the lukewarm treatment began three days ago. That was the day she had started applying the scar-healing ointment, as Ivan had instructed her to do.

She had been diligent, rubbing it into her skin day and night. Yet no matter how carefully she applied it, the ointment never fully absorbed and inevitably left dark stains on her clothes.

Naturally, the laundry piled up quickly. The problem was that none of it was ever collected. Before long, all of her few dresses had been stained.

‘I thought it was just an oversight… but it seems they’ve been skipping me on purpose.’

Sveta resolved to do it herself, lifting the large rattan laundry basket. She was going to take the laundry to the washroom herself. After taking a deep breath, she stepped into the corridor, determined.

The laundry room was bustling with workers, filled with steam and the warm scent of soap. The workers were too preoccupied to spare her a glance as they hurried about. This disregard left her feeling slightly unsettled.

Then her gaze fell on a familiar face.

Balancing the laundry basket, Sveta approached the maid assigned to handle her laundry.

“Your name was Mary, wasn’t it?”

“…Yes?”

“I brought the laundry myself because you didn’t get it.”

“Apologies, my lady. I must have forgotten—things have been so busy.”

Mary flashed a quick smile.

Perhaps she had only been overthinking. Feeling her tension ease, Sveta softened her voice and asked,

“That’s all right. Where should I put this basket?”

“Ah, well… as you can see, we’re very busy.”

“…So?”

“If you’re in such a hurry, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

“What?”

“The laundry, my lady.”

Mary scrunched up her nose and smiled again. Faint snickers emerged from the haze of steam like thorns.

“Well then, I’m busy.”

With an exaggerated flourish that one might expect from a noblewoman, she spun around and strode off.

It was a whole new level of torment.

In Zloytan, they would simply have grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, thrown her aside, or tipped a pile of stinking laundry over her head. Compared to that, Mary’s clumsy malice hardly fazed her.

Before she began, Sveta paused to consider.

‘Is it really right for me to do this myself?’

She deliberated briefly.

The duke would never listen to her. Her foster mother would only scold her. On the vast ducal estate, she had no allies — just dirty dresses waiting to be washed.

‘It’s unpleasant, but I’ll do it.’

With that, she rolled up her sleeves, adopting an expression that suggested all was well.

Although everyone was busy, she still caught the odd sidelong glance — unwelcome, watchful eyes. The longer these glances lingered, the more her pride urged her not to succumb to such petty cruelty.

Sveta poured steaming water into the tub and watched the vapour rise gently. She scrubbed away the stains with soap, rubbing hard. The fragrance of flowers rose with the mist.

“…It smells nice.”

As she rubbed the soapy bar over the fabric, she was suddenly pulled back to her past: the bloodstained clothes she’d had to wash in the middle of winter, her hands freezing as she dipped them in icy water and scrubbed until they were stained red with blood that would not come out.

How often had she cried? How bitterly had she shivered?

The more the memories clawed at her, the busier her hands became. With practiced movements, she finished the laundry in no time. Approaching Mary again, she asked,

“Where should I hang these?”

“…Through the back door, my lady.”

Mary’s voice was subdued now.

Sveta lifted her chin and smiled gently.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, my lady…”

Once she had hung out the laundry, the cloud hanging over her mood lifted entirely. The hot afternoon sun warmed her damp sleeves, enveloping her in gentle warmth.

After hesitating for a moment, she took the discarded handkerchief back with her to her room.

◯◯◯

It had been a while since she had done such hard work, and she became hungry quickly.

Fortunately, night was falling and dinnertime was approaching.

Sveta sat in the drawing room adjoining her chambers, waiting. When a servant entered with a silver tray, she greeted him with a bright smile.

“I hope you enjoy your meal, my lady.”

“Thank you.”

He bowed and withdrew. Sveta preferred simple meals and didn’t want anyone to serve her.

The table was laid with neatly prepared dishes: green vegetables cut into bite-sized pieces, beef ribs glazed with a rich brown onion sauce, fluffy potatoes, three crisp crackers and a fragrant herbal tea.

The fine tableware and careful arrangement only heightened her hunger. She eagerly bit into a piece of juicy beef.

“…Ugh!”

But to her dismay, she had to spit it out at once.

It was far too salty.

The crackers, the vegetables, even the tea—every single thing was unbearably salty.

‘Another ‘mistake,’ no doubt.’

She had no illusions. Even if she called the servants back or went to the kitchens herself, she knew she would never be given proper food that night.

Sveta had spent the entire day acutely aware of her decline in status — from Madam Elise guest to the duke’s mistress and now to a courtesan who was obstructing her master’s path.

She laid her fork down with a weary hand. Hunger was nothing new.

‘So it’s fine.’

Back in her chamber, Sveta sat on the edge of her bed, idly fingering the still-damp handkerchief.

“I threw it away. It was dirty.”

That deep, resonant voice — splendid enough to make her chest sink like a stone — echoed in her ears.

More than the laundresses’ mockery or the malice in her meal, it was that single sentence which hurt the most.

◯◯◯

“Thank you.”

That flowing, melodic voice rippled softly in Mary’s ears. She could not sleep deeply.

“I never thought she’d respond like that. She truly seemed like a noblewoman.”

Frustration and indignation surged through her like the hot steam pouring from the iron.

“She’s just a beggar trying to act superior.”

It was infuriating! How could a beggar possibly behave like a noble? Mary could not accept it.

She was born to a fisherman in the southern provinces, she had worked as a maid in the household of Baron Norien, the half-brother of Baron Luce. Before joining the ducal household in the capital city of Renan, she had worked for Baron Norien.

Although Norien often claimed to cherish his younger brother, he never missed an opportunity to slander him.

“That fool who took a suspicious woman banished from Prisada as his mistress.”

“That madman who adopted a beggar girl as his daughter.”

“That simpleton who can’t even take care of himself and is plagued by illness.”

Mary, who had received a strict upbringing as the baron’s maid, had always secretly mocked both Luce’s mistress and his adopted daughter.

“Parasites who try to seize life without effort.”

But the truth was that she was surrounded by contemptible people.

After all, the environment was rich.

In Czernok, the territory of House Strilland, stood the empire’s only port — one of the largest on the continent — which was the sole gateway for trade with the mysterious island nation of Muwieo.

Merchants with vast fortunes came and went constantly and were generous with both coin and temper.

Ever since the duke cracked down on crime a few years ago, the streets had become safe. For the homeless, Czernok was little short of a paradise.

Mary knew exactly how such worthless lives survived.

“They’d rather beg than work. The more comely ones sell their bodies, never mind if it’s to man or woman.”

Their filthy bodies, their base thoughts and their lazy minds.

The more she despised them, the harder Mary worked.

Her diligence bore fruit. Three years ago, Lady Norien wrote her a glowing letter of recommendation and she entered the ducal household.

Here, too, she worked faithfully. She built connections, earned a solid reputation and, above all, cultivated pride.

The man she served was no ordinary nobleman. He was a peerless knight who had overthrown the king. Unlike the others, he did not surround himself with countless concubines or indulge in debauchery. He was honourable, and more beautiful than anyone else.

His eyes were like the waters of the Oakman Sea, his hair was like the golden sun, his thighs were as powerful as a stallion’s, and his arms were broad and muscular. He was perfect.

He was too perfect to even dream of possessing.

Mary felt fervent admiration for him, bordering on devotion.

So when Sveta Luce clung to him as his mistress, Mary’s despair was indescribable.

“To think I would see that beggar here.”

Sveta Luce was an orphan who had once caught the eye of the peculiar Baron Luce. He had risen to nobility in name only and now clung to the duke’s side with nothing but her beauty to offer.

For Mary, this was a devastating blow that overturned the principles on which she had built her life. It was proof, she thought bitterly, that the world was steeped in malice.

So she waited. Patient and calculating.

Had she not seen it before? How Baron Norien had cast aside his discarded mistresses, leaving them worse than worthless?

In the end, the world would right itself. Order would be restored.

Mary endured, biding her time until the day the duke publicly cast Sveta aside.

“Did you hear? His Grace told that mistress that she doesn’t know her place.”

Mary knew that the time had finally come.

Yet she had never intended to torment Sveta so cruelly. No matter how busy she was, she had not lied. Due to the duke’s fastidious nature, the laundry was always one of the busiest areas of the estate.

‘But to think that she would actually do the washing herself, and do it well, too…’

The “thank you” that slipped from those enticing, wanton lips was a humiliation Mary could scarcely bear.

‘As if I had done something wrong. How sly.’

She thought it was either intended to make her feel guilty, or to feign virtue.

Either way, the beggar’s hypocrisy stung. For this reason, Mary found herself lingering near the kitchens, salt jar in hand, looking for an opportunity to get her revenge.

“Hey, Kyle. I saw a silver spoon in the corridor. Did you drop it?”

The dim-witted servant panicked and scurried off. In his absence, Mary carelessly poured a large amount of salt into the meal intended for the mistress.

Just one plate.

This was hardly enough to balance the scale of her offence, but Mary decided to show leniency. After all, the fate of a discarded mistress was always the same: pitiful and obvious.

Kyle returned, blinking in confusion.

“What? There wasn’t a spoon out there.”

“Oh, sorry. It must have been a mistake of mine. Working in the steam all day must have blurred my vision. Anyway, I’ll get back to work now.”

Mary imagined the beggar imitating nobility and spitting out her food in disgust. Satisfaction swelled within her.

But it lasted only a heartbeat.

Even in her mind’s eye, that crumpled, pale face was still unbearably elegant.

Her mood soured once more. Mary flung herself up from the bed.

“I’ve been far too soft.”