“Now, get your filthy body into the tub. Scrub off every bit of dirt.”

Margharita did as she was told. As she submerged herself in the ice-cold water, multiple hands began scrubbing her body vigorously with brushes.

“Can’t you move any faster? You must never do anything to displease the Third Prince. He despises lazy and incompetent servants.”

The maid roughly yanked her hair. Hari’s slender neck bent sideways like livestock awaiting slaughter. The hands were so rough and hurried. When they ran the sharp comb through her hair, she thought her scalp would tear off.

Hari struggled to swallow her screams throughout. Finally, they wrapped her in a soft linen peplos. After fastening the fibula at her shoulder, the maid commanded.

“Now go to the bathroom at the end of the corridor. His Highness should be there.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Are you really asking, or just pretending not to know? What else would a slave do when summoned to the bathroom?”

Margharita was pushed along by the maids’ hands, holding a silver tray with bathing supplies. As Hari headed toward the room at the end of the corridor, she could hear whispers behind her.

“If she ends up carrying the prince’s child, we might have to serve her.”

“Would that happen with a Galate person though?”

“Why else would they bring her here? Just look at that face. Her purpose is obvious.”

They predicted Margharita’s future as if it were the most natural thing.

Hari recalled the time she fled from the Hitais army that stormed the Galate temple. The moment she ran desperately with her nurse, clutching a sword. But the gods, as always, were not on Margharita’s side.

‘I should have died then.’

Heh, heh heh.

A hollow laugh resembling sobs echoed through the dark corridor.

* * *

Margharita Aurel Nualia.

She was the eighth princess of Galate, the suzerain state of Rodos. Known as Princess Hari, she was an illegitimate child. Though a princess, she couldn’t remember ever receiving proper treatment in the palace. She was merely the child brought like dregs by a woman who betrayed her tribe to side with the king. Her half-siblings, who shared no blood with her, tormented the foreigner Hari in various ways.

‘Sister, look at this. Uncle got me a fine foal. I’m showing it to you specially, so be grateful to me. Say: Thank you, great seventh prince Veros of Nephele II, most valiant and handsome, for showing me such a precious foal – and bow down.’

‘Child of a filthy porne (pr*stitute). Don’t even set foot here, you’re disgusting.’

Hari bowed as they demanded, sometimes apologized for things she hadn’t done wrong, and was forced to beg. It was her quiet struggle to survive in a palace full of hostility.

She used the lyre playing and herbology learned from her grandmother as desperate measures for survival. Along with such efforts, the decisive reason Hari could be treated as a Galate princess was because she was a ‘prophet’. The King of Galate made good use of her. Yet the reason they still suffered defeat in war was likely due to the arrogance of assured victory.

“…”

Her hands holding the water basin trembled with tension. Emerging from her thoughts, Hari quietly observed the man half-submerged in the bath. The man who had severed her ‘father’s’ neck in two with a single sword stroke. She’d expected him to be wearing armor instead of skin, but beneath the helmet was an enchanting face crafted of flesh and blood.

Perhaps too generous a review for the monster who destroyed Galate. Yet that was the only impression that came to mind when she first ‘properly’ saw Achilleon’s face.

Or perhaps a sensual and beautiful animal sculpted from taut muscles.

Looking at the man’s arms, twice the size of her own, Hari recalled the moment he had grabbed her by the collar. And the moment she had failed to bite those wrists.

‘Princess of Galate. If you don’t want to die, stay still.’

“What do you want from me?”

Hari asked with a calm face.

“What do you think?”

Achilleon turned his head as he swept back his wet hair.

Concubine. Recalling that unpleasant word and hesitating for a moment, Hari began to undress. Just as her mother had done every day when entering the king’s bedchamber. All she wore was a peplos so thin the red peaks of her br*asts were visible through it. Achilleon watched Hari acting as though she knew no shame and laughed as if amused.

“What are you doing?”

“Doing what you desire.”

“I need prophecies. Not your body, but divine words untainted by lies and power.”

She could feel his sharp gaze openly scanning her body. When the man curved his red lips, his arrogant expression became more pronounced. The words he spoke with that noble countenance were close to raw.

“Though of course, that pretty body would be a nice bonus.”

At that moment, the bathroom door burst open. Pushing aside the protesting servant, a man as tall as Achilleon with equally refined features strode in. It was Second Prince Antor, with snow-white silver hair and mercury-gray eyes.

“Congratulations on your victory, Achilleon. I believed in you. Indeed, you are father’s pride, the god of war.”

“Brother.”

A smile like that of a benevolent holy mother spread across Antor’s face. His ceremonial robes decorated with gold and silver displayed no less majesty than a king’s. Antor’s gaze, wearing soft silk shoes as he entered the bathroom, briefly touched on Hari.

“It’s just like you to bring back a trophy whenever you venture out.”

“That’s not why you came to see me, is it? Unless you mean to steal even your tired brother’s rest.”

“Haha, I apologize. I was eager to hear tales of your heroics.”

In this seemingly cordial atmosphere, Achilleon opened a bottle of wine from the shelf. Antor received the glass and laughed while swirling the ice.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“There’s no need to be so honest.”

Antor’s boisterous laughing voice became secretive after emptying half his glass. He examined his suspiciously composed brother with narrow eyes.

“I have no particular business, I just came to check if you were injured anywhere. And to see your face.”

“Rather than confirming my limbs are still attached.”

Hari, who had been quietly observing the two from one side of the bathroom, saw the sneer that crossed Achilleon’s face.

“Well, I won’t deny having such thoughts too. It would be troublesome if you, the pillar of the nation and father’s pride, were injured.”

“There was someone who tried to take advantage of the chaos for a surprise attack. Otherwise, no problems. Unfortunately, I couldn’t identify who was behind it.”

“My, who would dare try to harm you? I suspect it’s those Falcon elders who are always looking for fault. I hear they even employ private soldiers. Let me handle the investigation while you focus on recovering.”

While letting the strange conversation that continued for several minutes flow past her ears, Hari filled the water pitcher. Instead of letting her attend to his bath, Achilleon washed himself. Despite her tension about what might happen, he didn’t even glance at her. The soft conversation between the brothers mixed with the splashing water sounds drifted past Hari’s ears, from which she was completely excluded.

“A servant girl like you should know your place is to serve your master well. If you act without proper manners, you might not even keep that worthless life of yours.”

Before leaving the bathroom, Antor spoke as if finally noticing Hari’s existence. His eyes were those of someone appraising a beast or object. Achilleon, who had finished his bath, tossed a towel at Hari who hadn’t done anything.

“Pick it up.”

Her body automatically bent at the low commanding tone. Achilleon held her chin, not taking his eyes off the woman. As she bent forward, their eyes came level.

“Remember your worth and don’t forget it.”

The voice reminding Hari of her fallen position was gentle, contrary to the cruel meaning of the words.

As soon as the hand stroking her jaw withdrew, Hari lowered her head. Bang, the door closed, and in the silence that followed, she clutched the wet towel. She didn’t feel miserable. Compared to her previous despair, something like this couldn’t wound her at all.

* * *

Hari spent her days quietly, befitting her slave status. The maids cast disgusted glances at Hari, who sat facing the wall.

“She’s been staring at the wall since earlier. Is something wrong with her head?”

“Can’t blame her. Her country was destroyed in an instant.”

“What if she makes a mistake and we get caught in the crossfire?”

Hari wondered about that too. Galate had fallen and she had become a slave, yet she felt nothing – perhaps something really had gone wrong in her head.

Where was the end of this misfortune? Was there any reason to live for someone who had nothing left? Spending her days in a daze like that, she suffered from inexplicable high fevers every night. She endured nightmares and fever for a full fortnight. When she woke from sleep, she would gasp and call for her grandmother. She wanted to escape this terrible night. She needed to shake off the helplessness that completely paralyzed her body.

On the third day, her fever broke. When she opened her eyes and first took in the distant blue sky filling her vision, Hari realized.

There was her reason for living. To escape from this place and find freedom. That fervent wish became her reason to endure each day.