It wasn’t Lord Nouvelier, the doctor, who entered – it was the Marquis de Versica, one of Henri’s lackeys.

He had apparently come to Lantéonne to investigate after hearing that someone had died during the procession.

At the arrival of the old man, both husband and wife instinctively furrowed their brows, but Versica acted as if nothing was wrong. He removed his tricorn hat and gave a curt nod before approaching Arnaud.

“Step aside, will you?”

“Where is Lord Nouvelier?”

“Oh ho, shall I summon him for you? I’m told he’s on his way.”

That greasy expression made it clear – he had not yet shed his Chamféra ways.

The nightmare of Moerne seemed to return all at once, and Isabelle turned her eyes back to the window.

“And what do you think you’re doing to my wife?”

“You’ve been f*cking that wh*re for three years and you’re still looking for a wife?”

He must have meant Camille.

The name she had tried to forget sent a dull pain through her forehead. Isabelle instinctively put a hand to her brow. 

Arnaud, catching a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, stepped close to Versica and growled.

“Oh, well, there’s no real difference. She’s a wh*re too, isn’t she?”

At those words, Isabelle’s gaze became as sharp and cold as her husband’s, fixed squarely on Versica. 

She hadn’t meant to cry – but she could feel something trickle down her cheek. 

“No… it’s not true! It’s not!”

Versica glanced between Arnaud and Isabelle, then raised an eyebrow and shouted into the hallway.

“It seems Monsieur is suffering from quite a headache – escort him to his chamber immediately!”

Moments later, three or four guards burst into the room.

Without so much as a courtesy to the monsieur, they pounced on Arnaud, grabbing his arms and neck.

“What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

“Thanks to you, I now have the chance to talk to Madame Latvién. Go on, take him away. He doesn’t seem to be just a little unwell.”

Who would ever think of him as royalty now?

Startled, Isabelle tried to rise to stop them, but Versica’s hand came down on her shoulder, stopping her.

Though Arnaud struggled, the guards had no hesitation in seizing him and dragging him out through the main doors.

Only Versica and Isabelle were left in the room.

“What a perfect match – a traitor and a wh*re!”

Looking at the tightly closed doors with satisfaction, Versica casually threw the tricorn he was holding onto the bed and stepped toward Isabelle.

It wasn’t the first time she’d experienced something like this.

Whenever he had the chance, the Marquis would come to Isabelle’s house to threaten her – it was his favorite pastime.

And on the days when she could stand it no longer and threw him out, the queen always came to visit.

The two were eerily similar when it came to taking pleasure in tormenting her.

But that was Calvador.

Even if they were still in Chamféra, Louise’s influence would not extend here.

Her maid – who had been like family – was dead, and Isabelle had no more patience for Versica.

Gritting her teeth, she muttered under her breath.

“Shut your mouth.”

Whether it was the rare harshness of her words or the unexpected defiance after such a long time, Versica stared at Isabelle with his beady, button-like eyes wide.

Meeting his gaze, she unconsciously started counting in her head.

One, two, three.

“What did you just say?”

The moment she reached three, Versica grabbed her chin and pulled her face toward him.

His grip was so strong that it felt like her skin would tear.

It was always like that.

His grip was so tight it felt like her skin was being ripped from her face.

It was always the same.

He’d barge into her quarters like he had every right to, spewing filth and acting out his cruelty – but the moment she tried to fight back, he’d show her those vile, violent hands.

Despite the pain, Isabelle didn’t close her eyes.

The Marquis stared at her with his unnaturally large eyes.

It would be a lie to say she wasn’t afraid.

“I asked you what you said.”

When she still refused to answer, Versica finally let her go – though throwing might have been the more accurate word.

Isabelle collapsed face down on the bed.

The Marquis, now sitting beside her, reached for the mahogany box Isabelle was holding.

She tried to stop him, but he came closer.

Versica opened the box, shook it, and then placed it casually on the side table.

“A woman who hated Châteaubienne so much, now laid to rest in a box carved by a craftsman from this very land. Rather inconsiderate of who chose it, wouldn’t you say?”

“What are you trying to say?”

She had no interest in exchanging pleasantries with him.

No doubt it would lead to some tiresome lecture about how she should bow her head in gratitude to the magnanimous king who had supposedly saved her life.

But then he said something completely out of the blue.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

The completely out of place remark made Isabelle’s expression twist in irritation, but in the end his words were always the same.

He was a man interested only in mocking her.

She replied sharply, her tone like a blade.

“Is this really your idea of a performance? Throwing me down, threatening me, chasing Arnaud out like cattle? Or did you summon the queen as part of the act, too?”

Her voice was dripping with venom, but Versica just let out a flat, hollow laugh and shook his head. He really did resemble Henri at that moment.

If only he had been Henri’s relative instead of Arnaud’s…

No – that wouldn’t have turned out any better either.

Isabelle gritted her teeth.

“No, no. I was talking about the fish from Imanoria that you used to keep, Madame.”

Suddenly a shiver ran down her spine, spreading through her entire body.

“It seemed cruel for it to live in that cracked fishbowl, so I took it upon myself to set it free. I hit her heart – so she probably didn’t suffer long.”

It was only when the icy cold crept up to her head that Isabelle fully understood Versica’s meaning.

It was him. He had killed Alathea.

“You said… you said you’d leave Théa alone!”

“Have you forgotten your promise to His Majesty the King?”

Isabelle, burning with rage, froze in place – half rising from her seat – her eyes widening as she took in Versica’s next words.

“That bruise is still there? You were beaten ages ago… such fragile skin is troublesome in its own way.”

He must have noticed the deep bruise near her collarbone.

With a cruel chuckle, Versica pressed his thumb into the wound, forcing her back into her seat.

“If you want to keep your husband’s head on his shoulders, you’d best keep your mouth shut. If you start talking the moment you enter the bridal chamber, how do you expect His Majesty to trust you enough to send you to Antmaren?”

“So that’s why… Théa… you dare…”

“A lesson like this was necessary. I’m sure it was an excellent lesson for the other servants as well.”

Anger surged through her.

Isabelle raised her hand, ready to strike the grotesquely grinning cheek – but the Marquis grabbed both her wrists with such force that she was thrown backwards, helpless.

“Do you think His Majesty, shrewd as he is, would leave the bridal chamber unguarded, madame, in Moerne you can even hear a breath if you put your ear to the wall.”

“You are filth… a disgrace to humanity…”

“Do you think it’s any different for a heretic? The moment you open your mouth, your husband’s head will be gone, Madame.”

The Marquis continued to squeeze her wrists mercilessly – until he straightened up at the sight of her tears.

Then he picked up the tricorn that had been thrown on the bed and put it back on his head.

Next came the look – cold and slithering, like a snake – as he fixed his eyes on Isabelle.

“As you promised His Majesty, be a wh*re in front of your husband. Show him your lowest part. And don’t think for a moment that Antmaren is safe.”

“What?”

“His Majesty and I are not fools, madame. If you value your husband’s life, you’d better act like it.”

With those parting words, Versica left the room.

The small, stunted figure slowly faded into the distance.

Isabelle clutched the bedding tightly in both hands, her arms trembling as she poured all her strength into them.

“……”

Théa had been murdered.

The snipers were probably long gone, and any investigation would conveniently conclude that it had been a poacher’s mistake.

Carelessly wiping away the tears that streamed down her face, Isabelle rose and approached the box on the side table.

The lid wasn’t even closed – it hung open, foolishly ajar.

Inside was a small handful of Théa’s ashes, wrapped in a torn and misused piece of stationery.

Without ever being placed in a proper coffin, Alathea had left the world just like that.

Isabelle stared at it in silence for a long moment, then plucked a single strand of her own hair and placed it in the box.

She now had one more enemy to avenge.

Her thoughts drifted back to that night in the bridal chamber.

Yes… she had been foolish.

Even the stray dogs belonged to Henri’s loyal Chamféra, didn’t they?

She should have remembered that every wall in the Moerne Palace had ears.

“It is true. If I could only see you, I would tell you – I never spent the night with the king.”

She had said those words.

But Arnaud hadn’t believed her.

Perhaps, thanks to that inexplicable moment of kindness, Isabelle had managed to forget – at least for a while.

She had revealed her deal with Henri, and Arnaud hadn’t believed her.

“Haaah…”

Regret always went hand in hand with self-torment.

Isabelle pressed her hand harder against the box – so hard that it shook – then lifted it to her hair.

Digging deep into her scalp, she buried her face in the box.

“Hic… hhngh… hic… ugh… sob…”

She remembered Théa’s face – the same expression she was wearing now – on the day she was knocked unconscious by a heel thrown by Louise.

Théa had been there, looking at her just like that. 

She had taken countless blows in Isabelle’s place, always insisting that she was fine.

And yet Isabelle hadn’t been able to protect her. 

What had she missed? 

Alathea might not be the last. 

The Grand Duke and Duchess in Imanoria, their people, their young nieces and nephews – and in the end, even Arnaud… 

Leaving Chamféra hadn’t meant that her responsibilities had disappeared. 

Even at his side, the leash would never really come off. 

The crushing realisation that she had overlooked this – that nothing had changed since three years ago – overwhelmed her with anger and sadness.

As she writhed in self-loathing for what seemed like an eternity, the door creaked open with a long, dragging sound.

“Leave me alone.”

Isabelle muttered, her face still buried.

But the door didn’t close.

“I said leave me alone!”

Had it been any other noble, they would have closed the door quietly when asked to leave.

Even this was unbearably pathetic.

Isabelle cried out in fear.

But still she did not hear the sound of the door closing.

With a sharp movement, she dropped the hand that had been running through her hair and sat up.

“Are you deaf or something? I said I want to be alone!”

“It’s me, Isabelle.”

Contrary to her expectations, Arnaud was standing at the end of her gaze.