The Prisadans were blunt but passionate.

Wouldn’t it be better for her to align herself with the Prisadan royal family than to cling to Baron Luce’s modest fortune?

What if she were to become the princess’s foster mother?

‘Would that not make her something akin to the Queen of Prisada herself?’

At the thought of such a meteoric rise in status, a thrilling sensation surged from the tips of her toes.

Dalia sprang from the bed and stamped her feet in agitation.

“Sveta, you lovely child!”

She felt as though she might go mad with love for her stepdaughter. She wanted to run to her and embrace her at once.

However, the exhilaration pounding through her veins disappeared the moment she picked up a dress.

“But… what if she isn’t?”

But what if she wasn’t the princess?

On closer inspection, her belief that the girl was the princess turned out to be nothing more than a suspicion. There was no solid proof — nothing she could truly rely on.

For a moment, she had been intoxicated by the possibility, abandoning her usual cold, calculating judgement.

If she were to present a mere beggar as the princess without certainty, the consequences would be far worse than exile.

A strained sigh escaped from between Dalia’s red-painted lips.

“In the end… is there only one way?”

***

Two large figures were locked together, rolling across the ground.

The fresh green grass beneath them was crushed beyond recognition.

“I yield! I yield, Your Highness!”

“How disappointing.”

Queen Leparda curled one corner of her lips.

With both arms raised, she pressed down harder on the knight’s neck as he lay pinned beneath her.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I am only this capable. So please—urgh!”

The knight was hauled upright by his collar before he could finish. The queen clenched her fist and shouted.

“Again!”

“Your Majesty! Do you know how many times this has been?”

“Are you asking me to count the times I have defeated you? How does one count the uncountable?”

“Your Majestyyy…”

The knight had just let out a deep sigh when a low chuckle sounded behind the queen, who looked ready to charge again.

“Your Majesty.”

The knight brightened at once and bowed as he recognized the visitor.

It was Count Provia, her uncle and chief aide. The count shook his head slightly. With a mere flick of his hand, the knight fled without hesitation.

“What is it, Count Provia?”

The queen wiped the sweat from her brow and, with an irritated air, untied her gathered hair. Her jet-black locks fell in waves down her back.

“A letter personally sent by the Duke of Strilland of Aetania.”

“Why would he?”

“You should read it first.”

The queen took the letter. Her sky-blue eyes moved swiftly across the lines.

“Ha—haha!”

A hearty laugh burst from her lips.

“What does it say?”

Grinning broadly, she replied.

“He says he will hand over Jace Gould if we apply pressure to the Queen of Aetania.”

“…What sort of pressure, Your Majesty?”

“He wants permission. He claims that he wants to marry his mistress. So the illustrious Duke of Strilland is just a man driven mad by a woman. Fine by me.”

While Count Provia read the letter calmly, the Queen roughly brushed the dust from her training attire.

“Are we the only royal house eager to take Jace Gould’s head? Just a marriage. The Duke of Strilland is no different from our esteemed Duke of Beiton.”

“The Duke of Baiton is your younger brother, Your Majesty.”

“That is precisely why I say it. One steals a foreign queen and makes her a duchess, while the other wants to make his mistress one. They’re both pathetic.”

“…”

Training concluded, Queen Leparda strode past the count. He followed at a measured pace.

“It might be amusing to invite King Terris and execute Jace Gould before him.”

“…”

The queen stopped and turned back, confidence blazing in her gaze.

“Tell him he has my consent.”

***

“Sveta.”

“…”

There was no answer.

Aiden stepped into the dimly lit bedroom.

Sveta lay fast asleep beneath the partially drawn canopy.

The steady patter of rain echoed softly amid the gentle intervals of her breathing.

After glancing towards the window, Aiden leaned back against the headboard and carefully pulled Sveta into his arms.

“…Are you tired?”

Instead of replying, her pale lips moved faintly.

The sight was unbearably tender.

He gently captured her lips.

As he parted them, a faint bitterness seeped onto his tongue.

It was not the flavor of the herbal tea she usually drank.

“Did you take a sleeping draught?”

Her skin felt soft beneath his fingertips; it was pale and almost luminous, even in the dark.

He pinched her cheek lightly.

He could not bring himself to let go.

As he slowly stroked her dark hair, it spilled across the pillow like seaweed. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Mmm… Your Grace.”

The way she called his name, her voice thick with sleep, filled him with quiet, indescribable pleasure.

Aiden held her small body tightly.

She frowned faintly in response.

“Aah… it hurts.”

He loosened his hold slightly and murmured.

“I want to hold you so tightly that you might disappear into me.”

“…Mm. That’s impossible…”

Dragged helplessly by the heavy tide of sleep, she trailed off and exhaled a warm breath.

Rain sliced through the air, falling in round droplets onto the growing puddles.

Blending with the sound of the rain, Sveta’s breathing spread in quiet ripples across Aiden’s chest.

Relief filled him.

“A reply has come from Prisada, Your Grace.”

Three weeks had passed since he sent the letter.

The message delivered by his aide was brief yet unmistakably clear.

His request had been granted.

This meant that he could now marry Sveta Luce without Queen Elvita’s opposition.

The thought of placing this beloved woman at his side, in the brightest and most honored position, stirred something profound within Aiden.

A rare, genuine smile lit up his face as he gently kissed her on the forehead and cheeks.

“It tickles… Aiden.”

“Hearing you say that tickles me more.”

Something vivid bloomed inside his chest.

Joy. Exultation. Relief.

And perhaps—happiness.

It was a feeling he had never experienced before.

“Sveta.”

For a moment, he thought he was being foolish to cling to her so desperately.

But this thought was quickly dispelled.

Affection swelled within him.

That tender, itching warmth overflowed.

Being consumed by this uncontrollable sea of emotion did not feel unpleasant.

***

It seemed as if the heavens had made up their mind: the rain fell without pause for days.

This relentless downpour dragged Dalia back into memories she wished to forget.

The rainy season had begun on the night of Bloody Saturday.

The endless interrogations that followed. The torment. The exile.

Shaking her head sharply, she tried to force the memories away.

Then she strode across the stone floor, her heels striking it with a sharp echo.

“You must finish within an hour.”

A guard whispered near Jace Gould’s cell.

“Oh, of course. Naturally.”

Dalia answered in a sweet, nasal tone as she looked into the anxious eyes of the guard.

She slipped a small pearl earring into his hand and winked.

The guard disappeared down the corridor, almost as if he were fleeing.

Dalia watched him with faint disdain.

He was the kind of man who would want his wife to become a maid to the duke’s mistress.

‘A commoner, no less. A lady’s maid? Absurd.’

Nevertheless, it was her foolish ambition that had enabled her to enter.

She had no intention of honoring the false promises she had made to the guard. He was merely a tool.

Scoffing quietly, she approached the cell.

“Do you… remember me?”

The orange glow from the torch on the wall flickered violently, as though it might burn Jace Gould where he stood.

The scene of Bloody Saturday rose vividly in her mind.

Dalia’s shoulders tightened.

“…Do you remember me?”

Scratching irritably at the chain around his ankle, Jace Gould replied indifferently.

“What are you talking about?”

“That day.”

“How would I know which day? There’s been more than one, hasn’t there?”

Clinging to the bars, Dalia whispered.

“Bloody Saturday.”

“…”

Their eyes met.

Jace Gould’s expression seemed almost vacant, yet his gaze burned with an unusual intensity.

It frightened her.

Grateful for the iron bars between them, Dalia continued.

“The day you stole the babies from the neutral temple. I was there.”

“So you came all the way here to curse me? Speak clearly.”

“You don’t… remember? Truly?”

Suddenly, Jace Gould jumped up.

Limping forward in his peculiar way, he approached her. The sharp sound of chains dragging across the floor followed.

After glaring at her for a moment, he grinned.

“Ah… I might remember. The loud red hair. The maid who dropped the baby and ran.”

“That’s right. I was a nursemaid, not a maid.”

“…Why did you come looking for me?”

His long fingers curled around the top of the bars that Dalia was holding onto.

When their skin touched, she flinched and took a step back.

“Th-that baby you took. The Princess of Prisada… What did you do with her? Did you kill her?”

“Hmm…”

Jace Gould furrowed his brow.

He rubbed the scar etched across his cheek with his forefinger as he examined Dalia from head to toe. His gaze fixed on the pouch in her hand.

“Not sure. I don’t remember.”

She opened the pouch and took out a loaf of bread.

“You probably haven’t been fed properly. Here, eat. What do you think? Will you remember now?”

As she carefully pushed the white bread through the bars, Jace Gould snatched it swiftly.

He parted his well-shaped lips and devoured it in an instant.

“Now I remember a bit. But instead of this, bring me a dagger. I need a blade.”

“…If that’s what you want, I’ll bring it. Just tell me.”

“That girl? She’s the duke’s bedroom slave now.”

“I knew it…”

Her daughter, Sveta, is truly the Princess of Prisada.

A smile slowly spread across Dalia’s face, revealing her quiet triumph.

Then, without warning, her eyes met Jace Gould’s.

He was still staring at her.

Slowly, he lowered his body, his posture coiling with intent.

He looked like a wolf preparing to strike its prey.

Dalia took an instinctive step back.

The moment Dalia’s body went rigid with tension, Jace Gould finally opened his mouth.

“Do you know what’s funny? She’s been abandoned twice. And that bastard just abandoned her again.”

“…What?”

The nonsense spilling from Jace Gould’s lips carried an unsettling weight.

“I made a bet with that tiny brat. Told him I’d spare him if he could take the princess from my hands. And the fool charged at me like he was ready to die.”

“Th-that fool…?”

“The duke, the master of this house.”