The Maid of the Cursed Princess

Blind rage robs one of their sight, while haste robs one of reason.

Thus, Dorothy’s defeat at Ruslan’s hands could be seen as inevitable.

“…”

The telltale wheezing sound when one’s throat or lungs are pierced.

Hearing that chilling noise, meeting her bulging eyes, Ruslan withdrew the dagger embedded in Dorothy’s neck.

“Kugh… ghh…”

The maid’s body crumpled, spraying blood into the air as she collapsed.

While he had grazed past her carotid artery, it could hardly be called a non-fatal wound. Left unattended, she would soon lose consciousness and die.

“…”

Ruslan didn’t bother confirming the kill. Dorothy wasn’t his true target.

Thus, rather than directly silencing her, he simply left her to bleed out – just as he himself had once experienced at her hands in the past.

Not out of any particular desire for vengeance or resentment, but simply returning what he had received, as he had been taught.

Turning his back on the fallen Dorothy, Ruslan approached the carriage.

His mission from the start had been singular – to kill Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans of the Orléans Kingdom.

What value could the life of a mere cursed Princess exiled to the High Tower possibly hold that he would target her neck? It mattered not to Ruslan, held no meaning for him.

There must have been a reason to kill her, so he would kill – for a dog simply bites when its master commands. What cause had he to question further?

Tales of some curse or other from that remote, fallen border royalty were unknown to him. Even if he knew, it would change nothing.

Tak, tak-

The reaper approached his sacrificial lamb.

Gripping the dagger stained with Dorothy’s blood, he moved to claim his target’s breath.

Ching!!

Once more, that piercing screech echoed through the woods – the sound of Dorothy’s wires clashing against Ruslan’s dagger.

“…”

Ruslan turned to regard Dorothy’s eyes, still defiant despite her unfinished death throes as she manipulated the wires in a futile attempt to ensnare him. Those blood-red eyes that hadn’t yet lost their spark.

No matter how desperately she struggled, the inevitability of her demise remained unchanged.

That was a question directed at himself as well, as his steps carried him back toward the fallen Dorothy rather than his actual target.

Why did the Slave Prince bother approaching this paltry nuisance who could offer no meaningful resistance, whose feeble thrashing amounted to nothing?

Ruslan couldn’t answer that question – the reason his feet had turned away from his objective, the reason he approached the downed Dorothy.

Was there any purpose in wasting time with such inefficient movements? Even as he crouched beside Dorothy, raising his dagger skyward, Ruslan didn’t know the answer.

“Kghh-“

He simply stabbed.

“Kghh, ughh, gkkhh, aghh-“

Surrendering to his impulses, mindlessly thrusting, slashing, thrusting again as he butchered Dorothy’s body relentlessly.

Until her death rattles ceased, until her twitching stilled, until the crimson light faded from her eyes – Ruslan showed her no mercy.

“…?”

Like a child digging in the dirt, lost in that singular act, Ruslan’s trance was broken by the chill impact against his head.

Raising his gaze in response, dark storm clouds had gathered as raindrops began pattering down to greet him.

Only then did Ruslan rise, leaving behind Dorothy’s further mutilated remains.

Now that he thought about it, it was summer.

As the downpour intensified into a thunderous deluge, Ruslan turned his head.

The one who had witnessed every moment of Dorothy’s grisly execution from start to finish-

“Dorothy…?”

The one who had witnessed every moment of Dorothy’s grisly execution from start to finish-

“No way…”

The cursed Princess’s gaze, full of grief and despair that couldn’t be concealed even by the mask.

* * *

What kind of person was Dorothy to Sibylla?

It would be difficult to define her with simply any word or any specific term. Sibylla’s feelings toward the single human being named Dorothy Gale were more complex than any difficult problem and more severe than any deadly poison.

A person she believed in yet couldn’t fully trust, someone she wanted to have but hesitated due to her own shortcomings.

At the very least, she had managed to fasten the first button somehow, but Sibylla still couldn’t completely escape from that agony. Because she wasn’t an honest person.

However, if there was one thing certain amidst those complicated feelings, it was her belief in Dorothy’s strength.

A strength that could instantly solve any hardship, like a Prince or Hero from a fairy tale.

Watching the assassin’s head, who had tried to kill her, get sliced off right before her eyes, Sibylla was convinced. Dorothy, this woman, was strong.

In reality, Dorothy was indeed strong. More than anyone Sibylla had ever seen. Perhaps except for the chamberlain, there was no one comparable.

That’s why Sibylla believed in Dorothy’s strength. She believed and relied on it.

Some might call it blind faith or fanaticism. But if she didn’t do so, she felt like she would crumble and collapse, unable to endure the situation where her life was threatened.

And such Dorothy had fallen. In a miserable state.

Dorothy, who had always extended her hand to her like a Prince without losing her composure, had been brutally slaughtered.

“…No.”

While trying to protect Sibylla, her master.

“There’s no way… Dorothy would lose…”

“Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans.”

Despite the assassin who had slaughtered Dorothy approaching with heavy steps, Sibylla couldn’t run away. Because fear had tied her ankles. Fear of death. Fear of the assassin.

“Doro… thy..”

Yet her greatest terror was the reality of Dorothy’s absence from her side.

Dorothy had been the one who allowed Sibylla to take even a single step into that world brimming with vibrant hues.

If Dorothy was gone, if she was abandoned once more to that ashen, monochrome world-

“…Then I’d rather.”

Then death would be preferable.

She had abandoned any thought of escape. No, she had never intended to flee in the first place.

For she didn’t wish to return to that dim, dreary world.

Then she would follow you instead.

“…”

Awaiting the approaching death, Sibylla closed her eyes.

“…?”

Yet the agony she had braced for, the demise she awaited, didn’t arrive.

“How dare you… presume to…”

“…!!”

For the arm Ruslan had raised to impale her with his dagger began twisting at an unnatural angle.

“Touch… my master…”

Wires ensnared and contorted his arm, drawing streams of blood from the unnaturally bent limb.

“…I had expected you would soon die.”

“I don’t think it’s time for demise yet.”

The owner of those wires was, of course, Dorothy – an impossibility in the eyes of Ruslan who had brutalized her himself, and Sibylla who had witnessed it.

“How are you standing?”

Dorothy was indeed standing, though her precarious stance seemed on the verge of collapse. Yet she did stand, on her own two feet.

The injuries Ruslan had inflicted should have killed her instantly from shock or blood loss before she could even rise. Yet she had risen.

“Who knows…”

Perhaps the heavens deemed it too soon for her demise.

Dorothy’s condition was so dire, even she couldn’t fathom how she remained upright.

“Maybe it’s the will of God… for me to complete my duty first.”

Yet despite her calm demeanor, somehow managing to move amidst the agony, Dorothy held Ruslan in her grasp.

“So… Ugh…”

Eventually succumbing to the pain, she sank to her knees – yet didn’t relinquish her hold.

“…It doesn’t matter. I have one arm remaining.”

“Yes, as a human you were born with two… I lack the strength to stop you, but…”

Watching Ruslan approach with a dagger gripped in his left hand, Dorothy inwardly prayed.

That the owner of those vibrations transmitted through the earth to her ears would be a reliable ally.

After collapsing from Ruslan’s assault, instinctively pressing her ear to the ground, Dorothy had sensed a familiar tremor-

The urgent yet rhythmic cadence akin to a horse’s hooves at full gallop.

“…How about over here?”

And immediately after crippling Ruslan’s arm with her wires, Dorothy realized those were indeed the sounds of hoofbeats, their source having approached right behind Ruslan’s back.

The whinnying of a horse. The sound of someone dismounting. Footsteps drawing nearer through the rain-soaked mud.

So Dorothy prayed – please let those footsteps belong to an ally, let her bluff become reality.

“…”

Yet Ruslan showed no reaction despite the newcomer’s arrival, as if they were allies.

No, the Slave Prince had simply always been that way.

Oh please no, please let it not be so, please –

“…?”

Whether her prayer was answered or not, Dorothy felt a weight settle upon her shoulders, something covering her body.

“…A… coat…?”

Lowering her gaze revealed it to be a coat – a brown coat.

“You may rest for now, Miss Gale.”

“…Ah…”

Only after hearing the coat’s owner’s voice did Dorothy feel the tension leave her body in relief.

Ah, a reliable person has come.

“Leave the rest… to this old man.”

The one who had arrived amidst the downpour was no saint, hero, monarch or knight-

Merely an aged chamberlain who had long served a single master and their family.

“…You have prevailed, Chamberlain.”

With those final words as she watched the chamberlain roll up his sleeves and march forward…

Dorothy’s vision flickered out.