The Maid of the Cursed Princess

Due to the chaos caused by the attempted assassination on the Second Prince and the subsequent royal response, the esteemed guests who had traveled great distances to enjoy the Heroes’ Festival ended up wasting their time without fully savoring the festivities or properly mingling with other guests.

Considering that fostering camaraderie was of utmost importance in high society, for them it amounted to an utterly fruitless waste of time devoid of any gains.

Thus, they eagerly awaited the ball as their final opportunity to fulfill that purpose.

“It seems they have all but forgotten Louis’s ambush.”

“Is that not simply human nature? Wicked and selfish.”

Uttering words somewhere between lamentation and mockery toward their indecency, the Crown Prince conversed with the woman seated beside him – the Crown Princess.

“Will you not dance? Dance.”

“How long has it been since my brother nearly lost his life? Cutting a rug before prying eyes will only court unsavory rumors.”

“How uncharacteristic of you to heed such concerns.”

The Crown Princess, Adelaide.

There was no undue intimacy between the Crown Prince and this foreign Princess from a nation his Orléans forces had once defeated.

For Adelaide had become Crown Princess solely out of pragmatic reasons – to mend strained international relations due to the war, as well as produce an heir. Such was the nature of Charles Théodone François d’Orléans, a man incapable of love.

“I would prefer not to pay it any heed, but I must. The war has ended, and this is not a battlefield.”

“Words that would make our father clutch his chest, coming from you.”

Though they didn’t share romantic love, their relationship wasn’t unpleasant.

The Crown Princess was prudent, and the Crown Prince treated her with particular respect not as a wife, but a colleague of sorts – a partner. Such was the Crown Prince’s demeanor, which the Crown Princess didn’t take particular issue with nor seem offended by, allowing them to become excellent partners.

“How is the Prince? I heard his life is not in danger.”

“He has regained consciousness. However, the physician advised minimizing his movements to avoid reopening the freshly sutured wounds, lest they become difficult to treat again.”

While the Second Prince could technically be called his rival, the Crown Prince didn’t want him to die. Not out of familial affection, but the simple pragmatic reality that it would only invite more undue rumors if he perished needlessly.

“A misfortune or blessing for you?”

“A blessing. Louis alive is more advantageous.”

For if the Second Prince, a member of the Crown Prince’s opposition faction within Orléans politics, were to perish, the nobles would undoubtedly sow chaos by pinning the blame on the Crown Prince, as they were already trying to do even with the Second Prince still living.

Thus, the Prince had to live – for his own sake, as well as the Crown Prince’s.

“And what of her?”

The direction the Crown Princess’s finger indicated was toward-

“Not yet.”

Where Sibylla was located.

* * *

“…”

It was dizzying.

The dazzling lights, the kaleidoscope of colors.

Sibylla’s eyes, long accustomed to the dim and dreary High Tower, couldn’t process that brilliance and chromatic vibrancy.

“Hah…”

Tilting her head back slightly, Sibylla closed her eyes. Since she was masked anyway, hardly anyone would notice her keeping them shut.

The mask’s eye holes appeared deceptively small from the outside, almost doubtful whether proper vision was possible.

Of course, that was merely an external illusion – sight was relatively unobstructed, but most would still be unable to perceive the wearer’s actual eyes.

All except a certain eye-admiring maid, that was.

…Hadn’t Dorothy arrived yet?

Seated in what felt like a bed of nails, Sibylla surveyed the hall.

After telling Sibylla she needed to prepare something first and leaving her side, Dorothy had yet to reappear.

“…”

Just what preparations were taking her so long? What could she possibly be preparing that required such prolonged absence?

Fidgeting her legs restlessly, head lowered as she wrung her hands, Sibylla awaited Dorothy’s return with mounting unease.

“…When she said she would remain by my side.”

She had promised to obey Sibylla’s orders, to never leave her side.

Yet her unilateral actions were becoming increasingly frequent, constantly trying to depart Sibylla’s presence ever since arriving in Hyperion.

“…?”

At the unsightly wave rising within her heart, Sibylla abruptly raised her head in bewilderment.

Just what was this feeling?

“…Dorothy is not a possession.”

Dorothy Gale was human. An individual life and entity before being Sibylla’s maid.

A person with the right to think and act of her own accord. Yet somewhere along the way within Sibylla’s mind, Dorothy had become something she had to possess, no matter what.

Possessiveness – an improper desire to harbor toward a fellow human being.

It was undoubtedly possessiveness – that misguided craving for Dorothy to remain solely by her side, to move according to her whims alone.

“…Ugh…”

Sibylla felt revulsion toward herself, yet simultaneously even more repulsed by her own impatient longing for Dorothy’s return.

“…”

No matter how much she chastised herself or tried to regain her senses, the unease only intensified rather than subsiding.

“…Loneliness.”

Solitude.

Sibylla was intimately familiar with loneliness, having lived in solitude ever since being cursed.

The High Tower was always cold and desolate. The nameless skeletal remains beckoned to the tower’s newest resident. The few servants shied away from even addressing the one they were meant to tend to.

Her heart had grown numb, her perception of the world around her fading to shades of gray. That expressionless, indifferent mask eventually became a reflection of Sibylla’s own heart.

But all of that had changed, because of one maid.

Foolish, completely lacking in skill, incapable of doing anything properly.

Yet loyal, strong enough to protect her master from assassins, and kind.

Dorothy Gale had awoken Sibylla to loneliness.

Dorothy Gale had made Sibylla aware of her own wretchedness.

“Hah… Hah…”

Hunched over, eyes squeezed tightly shut as she panted heavily.

Her ragged breaths, the sweat trickling down her cheeks – yet none in the resplendent ballroom took notice of Sibylla’s distress, swathed in bandages in a relatively dim corner.

“I must… I have to return… To go back…”

However, the oppressive atmosphere rendered her feet immobile.

This ballroom brimmed with myriad hues. For Sibylla, who had lived in a world of ashes, no matter which way she turned her gaze the inescapable radiance felt like an open-air prison.

“…Ugh…”

Please, someone, anyone, rescue me from this place.

If that was impossible, then at least bring me some semblance of solace.

Sibylla prayed. A prayer unlikely to reach the attendees or any god.

Yet no one approached Sibylla, not a single person noticed her plight. And even if they had, who would possess the courage to approach the cursed Princess?

Clack, clack-

“…?”

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps reached Sibylla’s ears. Footsteps were approaching her.

She had initially dismissed it as a delusion or auditory hallucination, for amid the music, chattering voices, and shuffling footfalls filling the hall, how could a single set of footsteps ring out so distinctly, so vividly?

Thus, Sibylla vigorously shook her head to banish those inexplicably audible footsteps drawing nearer, even biting her lower lip to dispel such unfounded fancies.

But the footsteps didn’t disappear. Instead growing louder as they neared until those footfalls were all she could hear.

And finally, when they ceased right before her, leaving no other sound behind.

“…?”

Sibylla raised her head, realizing.

“Why do you suffer such torment alone, Princess of Orléans?”

Those footsteps had been no delusion nor hallucination.

“You… you are…”

Before Sibylla’s eyes stood a Countess.

Clad in a black tailcoat, white trousers, and boots.

Wearing a riding outfit complete with a masquerade mask, her bronze hair and crimson eyes unmistakable.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

No, Sibylla knew better than anyone that this woman was no mere Countess or anything.

How couldn’t she recognize her, no matter what she wore? She had seen that hair, those eyes, far too many times before.

“You are-“

“Shh…”

But the Countess merely smiled as she pressed a finger to Sibylla’s lips.

“Confirming each other’s identities at a masquerade where all obscure their faces behind masks would simply ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?”

That first smile to grace those familiar yet unfamiliar lips was breathtakingly beautiful, visible even beyond the concealing mask.

“Princess… no, nameless young lady.”

Extending a gloved hand toward the entranced young lady, the Countess proposed:

“Shall we dance, on this vibrant stage awash in myriad hues?”

And the young lady didn’t refuse that offered hand.