The Maid of the Cursed Princess

There are times in life when an ominous premonition strikes without any forewarning. An uncanny feeling akin to a divine revelation, like a lightning bolt sending a chill down your spine.

Had this been any ordinary day, the chamberlain wouldn’t have been swayed by such baseless intuition, for relying on gut feelings is inherently irrational.

Yet this time felt different. If he ignored the warning this time, he sensed something untoward would occur.

Thus, by the time the chamberlain came to his senses, he had already mounted a horse in hot pursuit of the carriage Sibylla and Dorothy had departed on.

“You have endured much, Miss Gale.”

And now, the chamberlain was grateful to his past self for heeding that premonition.

“Then… may I ask your name, young lady?”

“…”

Alternating his gaze between this new obstacle and his shattered arm, Ruslan was deep in thought.

Did he stand a chance of victory against this new foe?

Ruslan’s condition was dire – covered in numerous self-inflicted wounds from his relentless assault on Dorothy, his right arm utterly mangled beyond use.

Could he prevail in this compromised state with one arm incapacitated against this man?

If there was any favorable factor for Ruslan, it was that the man appeared quite elderly.

With his stark white hair, wrinkles, and hunched posture, he was undoubtedly an old man – though he had clearly maintained his physique, musculature still visible.

Moreover, he was unarmed and dressed in a typical suit, hardly garb suited for combat. Thus, Ruslan judged he had a reasonable chance.

Above all, his true target wasn’t Dorothy or this old man, but the Princess under his control.

“…”

Hence, Ruslan unhesitatingly raised his reverse-gripped dagger to impale the kneeling Sibylla.

“…?”

Yet in the mere blink of an eye before he could strike, the chamberlain somehow closed the vast distance between them in an astounding burst of speed.

What Ruslan had failed to account for was that the chamberlain hailed from the Fontaine lineage.

A chamberlain’s duties weren’t limited to merely attending to the King, but also their protection and managing the royal household – requiring knowledge, wisdom, substantial physical prowess, and martial ability.

Thus, the Fontaine family had long pursued an aesthetic diverging from other central nobles, venerating robust and heroic physiques.

And Chamberlain Matthieu de Fontaine stood out even among his illustrious lineage, having won equestrian tournaments against the finest knights well into his sixties through sheer prowess.

Admiring his valiant vigor unfitting his age alongside the power to back it up, the people of Orléans had affectionately dubbed the chamberlain:

Don Quixote.

Woosh- The intense windblast belatedly followed in the chamberlain’s wake.

Only then did Ruslan attempt to withdraw, realizing he should retreat.

Yet in that infinitesimal moment before his feet could leave the ground, the chamberlain’s fist had already reached Ruslan’s face. And-

Kabooom!!!!

The deafening thunderclap impact slammed squarely into Ruslan.

“…I’m glad I have arrived just in time, Princess.”

After watching the direction Ruslan had been sent hurtling for a moment, the chamberlain turned to address the kneeling, mud-caked Sibylla.

“Why does one born of the solar lineage wallow in such filth? Rise at once-“

“You said… you weren’t too late?”

And the chamberlain could only be taken aback by Sibylla’s response, for it wasn’t her usual emotionless, hollow tone, but one thick with visceral feeling.

Needless to say, it wasn’t positive sentiment. Not in the slightest.

“…So… it may seem that way to you. Anyway, I’m not dead.”

The voice of a woman who had witnessed her beloved’s demise before her very eyes.

Yet the chamberlain couldn’t claim ignorance of Sibylla’s heart, for he was aware of her ardent feelings toward her maid, Dorothy Gale.

While he didn’t consider it romantic love, he had discerned that Dorothy was the most precious person to Sibylla. Thus, instead of trying to raise Sibylla, the chamberlain moved to attend to Dorothy’s bloodied body, her breath already stilled.

“…Had you not been here, the Princess would have lost her life to the assassin.”

Dorothy’s mutilated state was utterly gruesome, lying in a pool of her own blood. That she had retained consciousness until the very end was astounding.

“I… have no words. I should have… been more vigilant…”

Overcome with dejection before Dorothy’s form, the chamberlain could only repeatedly apologize, lamenting how he had once rejected her as a murderer.

“I don’t know if Miss Gale had any family, but… if she did, I shall return her body to them without fail. If she had none, then I alone shall see to her funeral rites…”

Finishing his apologies, the chamberlain reached out to carry Dorothy’s corpse, for leaving the maid who had sacrificed her life protecting the Princess lying in the mud would be unpardonable.

“…?”

But the moment he cradled her body, the chamberlain saw.

“…This is…”

And realized.

“…Princess, quickly board the carriage.”

“…Yes, I must return. To the High Tower…”

“No, we won’t be going to the High Tower.”

Striding back to Sibylla, the chamberlain took her hand and firmly raised her to her feet without hesitation.

“…Chamberlain…?”

“There is no time. Get in the carriage right away. Miss Gale is-“

Miss Gale is not dead.

* * *

…Truly, it was a dream.

Only after pinching his own cheek did the boy realize he had been aimlessly adrift within a dream.

A sensation akin to drifting across a vast ocean without even a ramshackle raft, let alone a proper vessel to cling to.

He had once enjoyed dreams as a child, for their unpredictable tales unfolding within the realm of imagination had been surreal, hence all the more enthralling.

But now, the present boy didn’t enjoy dreams, for they no longer invited him into that fantastical paradise of old.

Instead, as if to rebuke or mock him, dreams merely dredged up memories of the past, unfolding unpleasant tales before his eyes.

-You, what’s your name?

-Ah, it’s you again.

Perhaps ‘again’ was inaccurate, for this girl always appeared in the boy’s dreams.

-A name… I don’t have one.

The boy answered the girl’s query in a listless tone, for few slum children were born with names. Having no name was hardly unusual.

-Same here, I don’t have one either.

And the girl too hailed from the slums.

-Then how about we give each other names?

-…Names?

And on that day, the boy received a name.

…Idiots.

Watching those panoramic flashes of memory, the boy offered his assessment.

What was the point of putting so much thought into coming up with such names, foolish children who knew nothing?

-Look, ■■■, a new storybook!

He had enjoyed his time with the girl.

-…But there’s not a single intact page?

-Huh? What? Whaaaat?

The girl had been foolish and mischievous.

-It’s okay! We can fill in the blank pages ourselves and make our own story!

Ceaselessly optimistic, never losing her cheerful demeanor.

-■■■ you’re good at sewing, huh?

-…Just a hobby. Nothing special.

-Nothing special? It’s amazing!

No matter what the boy did, she would beam and lavish praise without reservation.

-Okay, I’ll be the Prince, and ■■■ can be the Princess!

-..Why am I the Princess? I’m a boy. You’re the girl here.

-Well Princes shouldn’t be gloomy like ■■■.

Unabashedly tomboyish like any boy her age.

-So don’t worry no matter what! This Prince will take care of everything!

Always taking the lead with an outstretched hand, utterly self-assured.

…The boy had liked that girl.

His childish heart couldn’t discern if it was romantic or platonic affection, but.

The boy liked the girl. The girl with those beautiful eyes that shone more brilliantly than any jewel.

-…Sorry, ■■■. I shouldn’t have believed in fairy tales, I guess.

For that light wasn’t eternal, making it all the more-

…Depressing.

Dejecting, unpleasant memories tormented the boy as always.

The crushing weight of regret and guilt, as if he might burst apart.

-You’re in quite the pathetic state. A mere sewer rat despite your larger size.

It was at that lowest point the boy encountered her.

-If you have nowhere else to go, why not stay at this old witch’s home for a spell? I was feeling rather lonely.

Family.

“…Mother.”

“Yes, your real mother.”

And by the awakened boy’s bedside:

“Did you sleep well, my son?”

The witch gazed down at him with an unusually calm expression, offering her lap as a pillow.