‘Why is my body so heavy…?’

Ever since the mild fever began yesterday, Ayla felt as if all strength had drained from her limbs. Her throat prickled as though lined with thorns. She forced down a sip of water, tugged the pull-cord again—

—and the door burst open as several maids streamed into the room.

“…?”

Her drowsiness vanished at once. Lavish dresses and glittering ornaments flooded in, and the servants rushed about, clearing her vanity and rearranging the wardrobe.

“Good morning, Your Highness!”

Among them were Jen and Roti. Roti, far friendlier than before, greeted Ayla cheerfully—prompting all eyes in the room to turn toward her.

Ayla’s cheeks warmed at the sudden attention.

‘Morning greetings…’

It had been so long since she’d heard someone speak kindly to her that she hesitated, unsure how to react. She scribbled awkwardly:

〈Good morning, everyone.〉

A brief, strange silence fell.

‘Did I do something wrong?’

Flustered, she wiped the words and wrote anew:

〈What is all this?〉

“What do you mean? You need to get ready for this morning’s royal breakfast.”

Breakfast?

Ayla’s eyes widened.

“Did you not hear about the schedule? The maid on duty should have informed you…”

Roti trailed off, narrowing her eyes at the other servants. Their stiff expressions made it clear that someone had deliberately withheld the news from Ayla. Perhaps they were trying to trip her up.

But she had no time to dwell on it. She was swept from place to place and soon found herself freshly bathed and dressed.

Rows of dresses were displayed before her.

‘Who sent all this…? Balkan?’

She stared blankly at the garments when a maid approached with a jeweled hair ornament. The sharp glint of the hairpin made Ayla instinctively shrink back.

Years of blades slicing into her skin had conditioned her body to fear anything that shone like that.

Her breath hitched.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

〈Is there… a different accessory?〉

Roti, quick to notice her discomfort, hesitated before offering another.

“Then how about this? A soft lace ribbon. I think it’ll suit your hair color nicely.”

The airy accessory held no sharp edges, and Ayla accepted it with relief, massaging her cold hands before nodding.

After a whirlwind of preparation, Ayla finally headed for the breakfast hall.

Thanks to Jen and Roti’s efforts, she avoided the embarrassment of being late, though she still felt their eyes on her, for the King and Theodore were already seated.

The solemn atmosphere pressed down on her the moment she stepped inside.

“Princess.”

The King spoke, and Ayla bowed slightly in greeting.

“I trust you understand the privilege you are receiving simply by being invited to this table.”

His icy voice cut through the air with the same chill she had always felt from him.

Ayla answered with silence.

“And Theodore.”

The King’s gaze shifted.

Theodore, perfectly composed, continued slicing his meat with an indifferent hand.

“I need not explain the responsibilities of a crown prince. Do not forget that you sit in that seat only thanks to your brother’s sacrifice.”

At the king’s words, Theodore’s hand paused—only briefly—before he resumed cutting his steak with an impassive expression.

“I’m fully aware that I am here to fill the place my brother left behind.”

The king let out a thin, mocking smile.

“Then you should also understand the duties expected of a crown prince. Marriage to Princess Ayla is one of them. Remember that this is not a matter of personal feeling, but a choice for the kingdom.”

Ayla’s breath caught. His words were not a request—they were an order wrapped in cold reality.

“I understand that as well.”

Theodore’s tone remained frigid, though the strain beneath it was impossible to hide.

“And that applies to you as well, Princess.”

Grinding his molars so hard his jaw ached, Theodore pushed his hair back in irritation. Nothing—absolutely nothing—unfolded outside of what he had predicted.

Drowned in quiet exhaustion, he glanced at Ayla.

‘She’s probably making that same pitiful expression again.’

But for the first time, his prediction failed.

Ayla looked up at his father with a steady, unflinching face.

〈Even without being pushed like this, His Highness is already fulfilling his responsibilities more than enough.〉

“…?”

Theodore had not expected her to speak in his defense. Leaning back in his chair, he watched her with a mixture of surprise and distrust.

“Fulfilling his responsibilities? And how, Princess?”

The king’s low, oppressive voice aimed straight at her.

Unshrinking, Ayla lifted her pen.

〈Even after learning I was… flawed, he did not send me back to Melshid. He didn’t raise objections either.〉

She paused—then continued writing.

As black ink spread over white paper, the words he’d thrown at her in the archives resurfaced in her mind.

“Like someone said—you’re full of defects.”

Being treated as useless was an old, familiar ache for Ayla. But hearing it from Theodore—of all people—had pierced far deeper than she expected.

She swallowed hard, pushing that pain back down.

〈Even if our marriage was arranged under the excuse of ending the war, anyone would be angry receiving damaged goods. Yet His Highness let the matter pass without conflict.〉

A wry, self-mocking curve touched her lips.

Theodore narrowed his eyes at her, irritated.

“Let’s get the facts straight.”

He tapped his knife against the plate, sharp metal ringing like a needle scraping nerves.

“I didn’t not send you back. I couldn’t. I had no choice.”

〈Regardless, the fact that you even bother speaking to me at all means you’re doing more than enough.〉

Theodore’s brows pulled together.

Before he could respond, Ayla resumed writing—firmer this time.

〈If it were me, I would tremble with fury just being in the same room as the niece of the man who killed my brother.〉

When Hayden’s death was mentioned, Theodore’s expression hardened. The knife in his hand trembled, the movement barely perceptible but real.

Contempt. Rage. An ugly tangle of emotions twisted beneath his composed facade.

Whatever softening had occurred between them in the archive vanished instantly.

But the king merely chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass.

“Indeed. The princess is right. The very fact that the crown prince tolerates you is already worthy of praise.”

He took a leisurely sip.

“At least you know your place. Continue to behave like this.”

Ayla accepted the words without argument, but her fingertips trembled faintly. Although the king’s tone sounded like praise, the weight behind it pressed on her chest like a stone.

Only the clatter of cutlery broke the suffocating silence of the hall.

After a moment’s hesitation, Ayla lifted her spoon. The cold silver felt especially heavy in her frail hand.

She had never used such fine tableware before. It felt foreign. Despite Balkan’s guidance on etiquette, her movements were undeniably clumsy.

Nevertheless, she managed to keep pace.

‘I’m going to be sick.’

After pretending to take a few bites, Ayla finally lowered her spoon—

“When last I heard, the princess is incapable of using her ability.”