Luck was on his side—or so the marquis’s confidant thought. Who would have guessed the one smuggling Ormil into the inner castle wasn’t a soldier or servant, but a chef?

“The kitchen is an excellent place—lots of sharp objects lying around.”

Every successful task earned him another reward. Humming a tune, the confidant headed to the hiding spot where Ormil was stashed.

A maid’s uniform, a wig, a sharp blade perfect for stabbing someone—everything needed to carry out the job was prepared. Just in case the drug’s effects had worn off, he even had a bit extra. Now all that was left was…

“Well then, Ormil, it’s your time to shine… huh?”

He stopped abruptly. Had he come to the wrong place? No, that couldn’t be. He stepped back a few paces to double-check the location. It was correct.

He opened and closed the door several times. But the scene before his eyes didn’t change.

He paled instantly.

“T-this can’t be…!”

Ormil was gone.

***

Mail gave Mac a warning as they walked.

“Someone might attack me in the banquet hall.”

Mac was, of course, shocked by the announcement. Heading to the banquet hall, knowing this?

“Are you going there just to be attacked?”

“It’s what I hope for.”

“…Aren’t you being too calm about this?”

An attack—it was a simple word but far from a light one. Mac gave Mail a look of surprise. He hadn’t thought she was fragile, but this exceeded his expectations.

“You’re quite bold.”

“I’m not.”

“Ordinary people can’t be this composed when it comes to matters of their safety.”

“Well…”

Mail chose her words carefully. Bold? She’d never thought of herself as anything extraordinary. She had once thought of herself as a hero, but in her own judgment, she was just an ordinary person. Ordinary, and—

“I have someone I want to protect. If the risk is for that, it feels worth taking.”

Her courage came from love, plain and simple. It wasn’t as though she had gone through some tumultuous journey of growth. Her ability to stay calm and unshaken in the face of things like attacks or ferocious beasts probably stemmed from that.

Feeling she had perhaps been too candid, Mail shifted the conversation.

“Anyway, sorry to put you through this. You did say it’s the trickiest place.”

“It’s fine. That’s my job.”

“If I get hurt, what happens to you?”

“Uh.”

Good question. What would happen? Mac’s face betrayed that he hadn’t considered it. That, in a way, was a reflection of his confidence. He was so sure of his ability to protect her that he hadn’t entertained the possibility of failure.

“Well, it’s not like I’d die, right?”

He answered, but even he wasn’t certain. Maybe he would.

While Mac silently renewed his resolve to fulfill his duties, they approached the palace.

The banquet hall had two entrances—one connected to the interior corridors and one directly accessible from outside. Mail headed toward the exterior entrance.

At the grand, ornate doorway, a long staircase covered with a carpet stretched upward. As Mail ascended the stairs steadily, one step at a time, she stopped abruptly, leaving only the final step before her. Mac, who had been following closely behind, paused as well, wondering what had caused her to stop, and looked ahead.

The banquet hall doors opened, releasing a cacophony of noise that spilled through the crack. Mail’s gaze fixed on a figure with striking blue hair.

“…Ormil?”

The name, buried in memory, slipped from her lips before she was even conscious of it. Bright blue hair that had once been celebrated as belonging to the goddess of water. Though thinner and more worn, her familiar features and sky-blue eyes were unmistakable. There was no mistaking it—this was Ormil.

Her appearance was far too unique to allow even a shred of doubt that she might simply resemble someone else. Mail unconsciously rubbed her eyes, as if to clear away any illusion.

“That woman…”

Mac spoke up from behind, recognizing her as well. Ormil was infamous, known throughout the kingdom for the public punishment and exile she had endured for her deeds in the imperial city. Yes, exiled. Ormil was someone who should not be here.

“Why here?”

Mac’s murmured question echoed Mail’s unspoken one. Through the open doors, fragments of words emerged amidst the disarray: criminal, who, guards…

It was no mistake, nor a hallucination. Mail’s unsettled gaze stayed fixed on Ormil. Their eyes met. In Ormil’s once-vacant sky-blue eyes, a sudden focus appeared.

Ormil moved. Mac reacted first, his instincts driving him to climb the stairs urgently, positioning himself to shield and respond if needed.

But the anticipated confrontation never came—or rather, it was cut short before it could occur.

Before Mac could reach Mail, a hand pushed against Ormil’s back.

“…Huh?”

A faint gasp escaped into the air. Ormil’s frail body toppled forward helplessly, her blue hair scattering like threads in the wind. Her foot slipped from its perch. In the next instant, a large, warm hand covered Mail’s eyes.

“Don’t look.”

A soft whisper, followed by the sound of something tumbling. A body falling down the long staircase. The noise, unmistakable yet something Mail desperately didn’t want to acknowledge, echoed just as long as the stairs themselves.

Her heart pounded. Mail grasped the hand shielding her eyes.

“…Your Majesty.”

The hand shifted from her eyes to her shoulder, turning her away. When her vision cleared, she was met with the emperor’s face.

The emperor, who rarely restrained her physically, held her firmly this time, his grip resolute as if to ensure she would not look back.

“It’s better if you don’t see.”

His quiet voice was firm. Mail, too, understood. She could sense what scene might be unfolding behind her. Instead of responding aloud, she gave a small nod. The emperor swiftly lifted her into his arms.

“Mac. Handle the rest.”

Without waiting for a reply, the emperor retreated with Mail in his arms. The sound of armored soldiers approaching filled the air. The place was soon engulfed in chaos.

***

“Are you all right?”

Setting her down, Rohayden immediately asked. Although Mail showed no visible injuries, her pale complexion prompted his concern. She nodded.

“Yes.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

The emperor surmised she was shaken. Considering her usual composure, it was unusual for her to be visibly unsettled merely by encountering Ormil in the imperial city.

But what other explanation could there be? It was far more plausible than the idea of sudden, inexplicable dizziness.

Mail looked up. The emperor’s expression, filled with concern, came into view. She frowned slightly, though it didn’t seem to stem from discomfort.

Her hand gripped his sleeve.

“Your Majesty.”

“…What is it?”

Her grip tightened. Mail recalled what had just transpired.

She had seen Ormil and been surprised—but not overwhelmingly so. She’s alive. That realization was enough. The thought of how Ormil had come to be here lingered briefly before dissipating. Her presence wasn’t enough to truly rattle Mail.

What had shaken her came next.

Ormil moved, her gaze fixed unerringly in Mail’s direction. It wasn’t hard to deduce her target. Mail had anticipated such a confrontation the moment she spotted Ormil.

But what happened after that was entirely unforeseen. Someone had followed Ormil out of the banquet hall—a maid with her hair tied back, dressed plainly. Her nondescript appearance drew attention only because her eyes, duller than Ormil’s, seemed lifeless.

That maid had pushed Ormil.

In that moment, Mail recognized her. She couldn’t recall the maid’s name, but she had seen her several times before. They had even exchanged a few words.

She was Ormil’s maid.

Once, she had come to deliver an invitation from Ormil to Mail’s quarters, saying she couldn’t leave until Mail accepted. She hadn’t seemed frightened but rather unnervingly composed, suggesting she was accustomed to *buse. Her long sleeves likely concealed scars.

Even after losing her mistress, she had remained in the palace. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was that she had pushed her former mistress.

Ormil stood at the top of the stairs. What would happen when she was pushed was painfully obvious. The intent and purpose behind it were undeniable.

The scene of Ormil losing her balance and tumbling down the stairs was hidden from Mail’s view by the Emperor’s hand. Yet Mail had clearly seen the face of the maid who pushed Ormil.

It was…

“…Van.”