Isabelle was not shocked by the mere fact that a mere servant had dared to mention the king’s name or fearlessly call him a coward.

What truly astonished her was the realization that Camille had someone supporting her from behind-and that “someone” turned out to be the king himself.

“So Arnold’s poisoning…?”

Upon reflection, the connection was clear.

It was Henri who had tied Arnaud to Antmaren and condemned him to Ouretique, so it must have been Henri’s will to keep him tied.

What followed her shock was not anger or despair. It was guilt.

Isabelle clutched at her chest as if a bullet had pierced her heart, but no matter how hard she clawed at it, she could not forgive her own foolishness.

This was Antmaren, after all, where even the sky itself seemed to serve as Henri’s pawn.

She fell to her knees.

There were so many things she needed to hear – so many truths still out there – but her ears felt sealed, as if the sound itself could no longer reach her.

Where should she reach? What should she hold on to?

At that moment, the confusion seeped through her like water through bone, leaving her completely paralyzed.

“His Majesty still has Her Highness the Queen. She doesn’t even have a place to stay.”

“That’s what’s been bothering me all day. That crazy Kaltenberg woman won’t leave Lady Camille alone. And His Majesty clearly has no intention of protecting her… Just wait. She’ll be sulking for days.”

“Then why don’t you comfort her, brother?”

“You’ll have to wait at least three days. You newbies don’t get it, do you? Do you even know how exhausting it is to cling to her coattails like that?”

“Then… while she’s sleeping…”

“It’s not that I didn’t try! But she makes such a scene!”

Her words dripped with cruelty-vulgarity so raw it hung in the air.

Anyone who heard them would recoil in disgust.

And Isabelle, kneeling there, felt each word like a slap.

But Isabelle had no mental capacity to despise her. Instead, she stepped back far enough that the door hid her, for she needed to hear more of their conversation.

But time was not on Isabelle’s side.

“What luck, carrying a bag in a place like this…”

“Shh, shh! That toy of hers might hear us.”

From afar came the idle chatter of maids on their way to a late-night snack, and Isabelle had no choice but to rise immediately.

She fussed with her hair, tucked tightly under her headscarf, as she quickened her pace toward the end of the corridor.

She had no idea who the maids’ disparaging remarks were directed at, but for Isabelle, it was completely useless information at this moment.

She hid next to a pillar and waited for the maids to pass.

“Isn’t she living with three men at once? Honestly, doesn’t that make her the bigger harlot?”

“Exactly. The madam actually seems like a gentle person in comparison.”

“Right, right. Just this morning I was wiping the doorframe, and would you believe it – she was actually worried about whether I’d eaten.”

At that moment, Isabelle pursed her lips.

For someone eavesdropping, she seemed far too gentle.

Though Isabelle couldn’t see her face – she’d extinguished the lamp for fear of being discovered – she suspected it was the same maid she’d seen immediately after returning from Agnès’ quarters.

“She seems like a good person… but we have to follow her orders anyway. Like you said, she’s a fox with three men wrapped around her finger.”

“So annoying. Does His Majesty only like women like that?”

“I heard that the Kaltenberg girl also has a bad temper. Maybe you’re right.”

But it wasn’t something Isabelle could take kindly to.

The implication that Camille might be the real harlot meant that, until recently, she – Isabelle – had been the one called a harlot.

And now she was forced to confront the nature of Camille and Henri’s relationship that she had tried to deny in her heart.

It was a conversation that was both precious and deeply uncomfortable for Isabelle.

The two maids soon came down the stairs. That was all she heard.

As expected, a dull throbbing returned to her head.

Isabelle pressed her fingers to her temple and closed her eyes tightly, but opened them again at the faintly visible embossed door and quickened her pace.

“Lady Isabelle!”

The first thing she saw upon entering was Marie.

So much for the request to stay quietly in bed – she must have been pacing the living room restlessly all this time.

Marie came right over to her, not forgetting to bring a candlestick to replace the lamp that had gone out.

But she didn’t ask what Isabelle had heard or seen.

She must have already known.

Isabelle didn’t say anything either – although she did rip off her headscarf and throw it on the floor.

“Damn it!”

Truthfully, she’d wanted to say something even worse – one of the many vulgar words she’d secretly learned when she’d gone to the market with Alathea in Imanoria.

Had she only been able to remember them – had the Châteaubienne tongue not become so familiar to her – Isabelle would surely have used one.

But it seemed that Isabelle was no longer Elisabeth.

Even in moments of intense emotion, the language of Châteaubienne came first.

“You son of a bi-” “Lady Isabelle.”

“Haa… hh, shi-ahh…”

Her incoherent rage continued until Marie, unable to watch any longer, gently guided her to the sofa.

No, it didn’t stop even after she sat down.

The hand that had been tearing through her hair fell to her knee, and even after her grinding teeth had snapped shut with a sharp click, the anger inside her remained.

Marie also knew that Isabelle couldn’t just burst into tears and roll around in despair.

So she didn’t remove her hand from Isabelle’s back.

She just stroked her for a long, long time.

“I’m guilty too. Even if I turned away, it wouldn’t change anything. I know that.”

It was much later that Isabelle finally spoke.

Marie, who had carefully broken the silence, lowered her hand from Isabelle’s back and gently clasped it in her own.

“I am not angry with you. Maybe I would have been before, but not now.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you stooping so low?”

Marie laughed, fiddled absently with Isabelle’s hand, now cold and stiff as plaster, and offered only a vague, unreadable smile.

What followed was a confession.

“Madame Saint-Mang-Camille, that is… she was originally a servant in Mœrne. Just like me.”

Isabelle’s eyes flashed.

Marie had always come up with amazing truths, but this one wasn’t so easy to nod at.

Still, as if she’d expected this reaction, Marie continued.

“Of course, that was only while Lord Arnaud was away in Calvador, so Monsieur doesn’t know about Camille’s past.”

How did they meet?”

“She had Madame Eurbonne hire Camille. Antmaren was always understaffed, and Her Highness had long been concerned about Monsieur. The princess simply wanted to send someone – anyone – to help him while he was imprisoned in Hérétiques. That good intention of hers… was taken advantage of.”

Then Isabelle thought of Eleonore-Madame Eurbonne.

The perfect salon hostess: cheerful to a fault, but never lacking in grace.

At first glance, it sounded like she was the one they were talking about.

But Marie had a way of weaving her words in layers, and Isabelle knew – things weren’t always what they first seemed.

After some thought, Isabelle shifted her grip on Marie’s hand and asked.

“You can’t tell me who took advantage of her, can you?”

“Even if I don’t say, you can guess, Lady Isabelle. You already know-Madame does.”

In the end it was Henri.

The words had barely left Marie’s mouth when a shadow fell across Isabelle’s face.

She hadn’t heard everything, but what she had heard was more than enough to put the pieces together.

It made perfect sense.

After all, the last thing Henri would have wanted was for his thorn-in-the-side little brother to gain an ally.

He was the same man who had once drawn his sword on Isabelle, his lawful wife.

Her brow furrowed instinctively.

Whether from anger or pain, she couldn’t tell.

All she knew was that her insides hurt – just enough to sting.

“So Camille is his person too, isn’t she, Marie?

No matter how it happened.”

“I’ve only seen over one shoulder and heard things through the gate. I can’t explain the circumstances. It’s not that I’m hiding anything – I just really don’t know.”

“As long as one thing is clear, that’s enough.”

“She is not Monsieur’s person, but His Majesty’s. That much is certain. It’s as you suspected and as I said.”

This time, Isabelle couldn’t nod so easily.

Because the part about it being as she suspected – that was the one thing that wasn’t true.

“No, I…” 

“……”

“I… I didn’t see it coming, Marie. That’s the truth. For someone who carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, I didn’t even see this one thing coming.”

The sobs came like a crashing wave.

Isabelle covered the bridge of her nose, burning hot, a posture that invited tears.

But Isabelle didn’t cry.

It wasn’t because there were no tears left.

The guilt was still there, as heavy as ever.

But no matter what, Isabelle didn’t cry.

She refused to break down.

Sobbing felt like surrender, so she swallowed her tears – again and again, forcing them down her throat.

What did Henri really want?

Surely he wanted them to destroy each other – piece by piece.

How many glasses of wine had he downed while he watched everything slowly unravel, just as he’d planned?

Louise in his arms, whispering a hundred bitter curses…

Camille obediently sinking her teeth into his brother…

The thoughts flowed through Isabelle’s mind like a river – but she would no longer drown in them.

With a sharp, deliberate movement, she rose from the bed.

“Lady Isabelle.”

“Bring me the crane pattern porcelain, Marie.”

She didn’t even look at Marie, who had risen behind her.

And as always, Marie brought it without a word.

It was the porcelain Camille had left behind – white, with blue cranes delicately carved in relief.

Isabelle picked it up and went straight to the window.

“Open it.”

“Lady Isabelle, what are you-“

“I said open it, Marie.”

The window groaned open with an eerie creak.

It overlooked the corridor below – a path often used by the servants as a shortcut.

And without a moment’s hesitation, Isabelle threw the porcelain down.

“Lady Isabelle!”

With Marie’s scream came the sharp sound of shattering.

Clatter – the porcelain shattered with brutal clarity, scattering across the lawn like a flower from the East.

Blue and white shards littered the lawn.

Someone would see it in the morning.

Marie clung to Isabelle’s arm, using this very point as a reason to stop her.

“Lady Isabelle, this porcelain was left by Madame Saint-Mang…”

“I know.”

“What will you do if anyone sees it?”

The slight curl of Isabelle’s lips was answer enough.

She let out a soft, wind-like laugh.

She had thrown it out there to be seen.

Let them trample it, spit curses at it – that was the point.

She untangled the rest of her tangled hair.

Ash-gray strands fell in waves over her shoulders.

“Marie.”

“Yes, Lady Isabelle…”

Marie replied in a barely audible voice – perhaps confused, perhaps uncomfortable with Isabelle’s demeanor.

But Isabelle had no intention of appeasing anyone.

“Starting tomorrow, you don’t have to dress me up anymore.”

“Dress you up?”

“I mean, I’ll do my own hair.”

With that, Isabelle pulled her hair up.

She didn’t braid it or put it in a neat bun – she let it fall loose like a horse’s mane.

Just like Elizabeth, the Princess of Imanoria.