“She brought me a tea I don’t like.”

The boy didn’t respond. A long, heavy silence followed. The girl tilted her head upward slightly, determined not to let her feigned indifference crumble.

In the end, it was the boy who spoke first.

“Is that all?”

“What more is there to say?”

The girl replied with a haughty smile. She clenched her teeth to hide the trembling in her lips. The boy seemed as if he had more to say but ultimately chose to remain silent, and the girl was grateful for that.

No matter what happens, please stay by my side without asking questions. Remain by my side, forever knowing nothing. That was her wish—so foolish she didn’t realize its folly.

***

The girl had grown unbearably sensitive since Ellie was banished from the palace. Every word she spoke bristled with thorns, and she distanced herself from others, allowing no one to approach. With time, her condition didn’t improve; it only grew worse.

The servants attending to her became exceedingly cautious. It was as if they were walking on thin ice, afraid to take even a single step or breathe too loudly. Even so, they often faced punishment. The girl distrusted every single item she used, insisting on seeing someone taste her food before she would eat it. But her suspicions didn’t stop with objects—they extended to people.

Since they all served her father, she couldn’t afford to relax anywhere. At her father’s command, anyone—even her nanny—would betray her without hesitation. No, they wouldn’t even see it as a betrayal. They’d think they were simply obeying their master’s orders. The girl wasn’t their true master. Though they served her for now, as long as they lived in the palace, their allegiance belonged elsewhere.

At times, she fell into a hallucinatory state, where every gaze watching her seemed as dark as her father’s eyes. Everyone seemed like his eyes and ears. He watched her every move with startling clarity as though he were right there. Her father would plant traps to end her life, just where she least expected them.

There’s no one on my side here. Thinking that way brought her a sense of relief. It was simpler to reject everyone than to selectively trust a few.

And her judgment was, sadly, flawless.

“Bring me medicine for my wounds, I said.”

“…”

“Where, I wonder, did you find this poison that slowly paralyzes the body when applied to the affected area?“

“M-my lady, I only followed the royal physician’s instructions…”

“If I had applied this and collapsed, do you think you’d be punished—or rewarded?”

The first resolution the girl made to survive was to grow accustomed to poison. Though she was a crown princess, expected to be well-versed in the kingdom’s history, continental politics, and etiquette, the books she devoured until they fell apart were unrelated to those topics. Instead, they were about herbalism, particularly poisonous plants. After cramming every detail into her memory, she began to understand how often her father attempted to kill her and how many people carried out those attempts on his behalf. It was a bitter realization.

Sarnaya, a poisonous herb with a scent as strong as a perfume; Brokhil, a paralysis-inducing oil applied to hairbrushes; Hebran, a hallucinogenic drug hidden as a seasoning in her soup; Mekus, a toxin in her morning wash water that made her body feel like it was being pricked all over… A dizzying variety of poisons infiltrated her daily life.

She had to detect them—and, most importantly, expel the culprits for reasons unrelated to their crimes. A wrinkle in her dress, a poorly combed hairstyle, an unappetizing soup, or wash water that was too cold… She used these pretexts to repeatedly banish people from the palace without tiring.

“Ugh…”

By day, she drove people out with arbitrary whims, and by night, she consumed or applied the poisons she had seized from them. It was all to grow accustomed to their effects.

One day, she would fall into a sleep so deep it resembled death; another day, her body would thrum with a tingling sensation down to her fingertips, robbing her of any rest. Yet, she did not die. Her father never used a poison potent enough to kill her outright. His goal was not her death but her suffering. Thus, she turned that to her advantage and built up a resistance to the poison.

“It won’t kill me in one dose; it won’t kill me with a single application…“ she whispered to herself every night. And then, her nights stretched into agonizing hours of physical pain that overwhelmed her mind.

Of course, poison wasn’t the only method her father employed.

“Who’s there?”

Late one night, an uninvited guest dared to intrude on the sanctity of her bedroom. Even as she writhed in pain from the poison, the young girl sensed the presence and demanded answers in a sharp voice. The intruder, poorly concealed in the shadows, eventually stepped into view.

Even amidst her suffering, she recognized him—Eric, the royal gardener of the Rose Palace, who had always gazed upon her with a fondness befitting a granddaughter. He clutched a pair of garden shears almost as large as her small frame.

“I doubt you’ve come to prune the hedges in my bedroom at this hour,“ she said, her tone deliberately calm despite the effort it took.

“Your Highness, I…“ Eric began.

“Did you receive an order to kill me?”

The hands gripping the shears trembled violently. Even through her blurred vision—an effect of that day’s poison—she could see his fear.

She knew. Her father had deliberately chosen someone as soft-hearted as Eric to carry out this command to make the experience all the more excruciating for her. Her father sought to torment her by forcing her to confront an assassin so hesitant that she might be tempted to spare him. A cruel, blood-chilling strategy.

Mustering her strength, she removed a ring from her right hand and threw it toward Eric. The sapphire on the marble floor rang out with a clear sound.

“That should be enough to support your family,“ she said coldly.

“Your Highness…“

“Cross the border. Disappear. Live like you’re dead, and never let the Baileys find you again.”

Her voice was devoid of warmth. Yet Eric saw her words as an extraordinary act of mercy. By sending him away, she freed him from the impossible situation her father had placed him in. To Eric, she was a compassionate and benevolent princess.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, he knelt deeply, gathered the ring, and quietly left the room. The door closed with a soft click, and the hurried but muted footsteps of a man trying not to run echoed away. Only then did the girl bury her face into her pillow.

She had not spared Eric out of consideration for him. What mercy could she possibly show someone sent to kill her by her father’s orders? She had simply chosen the most effective and straightforward solution available to her.

Her father’s command would not have included conditions or rewards. It was a “command,“ something absolute, stemming from his authority as king. In that case, her only recourse was to “buy off“ the man with wealth. What other power did a twelve-year-old girl have to deal with an assassin-wielding garden shears?

“Ha…”

In truth, her childhood was a string of such ordeals. The girl withered visibly, faster than a plucked flower left to dry. She avoided human contact and lived perpetually on edge, her nerves raw and exposed. Servants around her bowed their heads in deference, trying desperately to anticipate her volatile moods. Yet no one could ever truly predict her whims. Many quit, unable to endure her temper, while others were dismissed and banished from the palace.

To the palace staff, the Rose Palace became synonymous with exile—a place from which few emerged unscathed. Its infamous name was painted with tears and fear.

Among those exiled were some who pleaded for justice, their voices trembling with indignation. But they were no different to her than the rest. They were all the same to her: ordinary people, just ambitious or meek enough to try and survive. Sorting truth from lies among them was an impossible task.

“I miss you, Ruben…”

And perhaps because of that, the boy was all the more special to her. In the world, she knew, no one else possessed eyes as pure as his. Like a summer forest, his green eyes shone brighter than the sun and more evident than the moonlit night. Whenever their gazes met, she felt an almost rapturous awe. His eyes seemed to hold treasures more precious than anything in the world.

But those eyes grew colder toward her with time. The affection that had once filled them faded into doubt, and his steps, which had always confidently brought him to her, grew hesitant. He began visiting her less and less.

“The Rose of Bailey, I presume?“

“Who is this? Surely the busy duke isn’t here to see a mere princess?“

“... It’s been a while. My apologies for the delay.”

Whenever he did visit, her words were laced with bitterness. His absence felt both infuriating and heartbreaking. Yet no matter how much she wanted to lash out, she always softened before him.

“…Sit down.”

The reason was simple. She had faith that he would come to her, no matter what. My knight would never abandon me. And he never betrayed that belief.

“Another new maid, I see,“ he remarked one day, seated across from her after two weeks apart. His voice was low, but the words carried weight.

The maid had just left after serving their tea.

“And what was the reason this time?”

She didn’t remember, of course. She couldn’t even recall the last maid he had seen. Recently, two different maids had taken turns attending to her tea.

“She spilled the tea, perhaps,“ the girl replied nonchalantly, lifting her teacup for a sip.