Throughout tonight’s gathering, I’d locked eyes with this man more than once.
At first, I dismissed it as mere coincidence—
But now I realized otherwise.
He’s been observing me… waiting for a chance to pounce.
I studied the look on his face—one that practically begged to call me a backwater hick from the southern provinces.
Being on the receiving end of such contempt never felt pleasant, but I was no weak-willed maiden swayed by the scorn of a noble raised in the capital’s golden cradle.
“I apologize. I’ve committed a discourtesy, Young Lord.”
I deliberately lowered my gaze and bowed slightly, my expression laced with just enough fear to feed his pride.
When dealing with nobles, it was always wise to let just a hint of awe show in your eyes.
They were creatures who felt most at ease when basking in their illusion of dominance.
Yet even with my submissive posture, the young lord remained firm.
“Discourtesy? Do you even understand the true meaning of that word, Emelline Wedgwood?”
“I… I beg your pardon, but I don’t quite follow…”
With my voice trembling, I put on a flawless act, glancing up at him through lowered lashes.
His crimson eyes, impossible to read, looked down on me with veiled disdain.
I clenched my jaw behind closed lips, silently grinding my teeth, yet forced myself to keep bowing.
Just one more week… the wedding is only a week away. You mustn’t stir trouble until then… At least until then.
Even as I burned with the urge to ram into him like a furious spiritual rhinoceros, I suppressed it with everything I had.
It was then that Eric spoke.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m referring to your mother’s impudent attempt to seize the seat beside the Duke of Orléans.
Emelline, I dislike you and your mother quite thoroughly. Your brother is at least tolerable—because he doesn’t pretend.”
With that, Eric raised his hand in a threatening manner.
Ah, how cliché. Violence now?
I closed my eyes tightly and braced myself, teeth clenched—not out of fear, but to avoid biting the soft flesh inside my mouth.
With blood in my mouth, even a light meal would be impossible for days.
But then, something strange happened.
“…?”
“…?”
Or rather—nothing happened at all?
I opened my eyes.
Eric Orléans was staring at me with a puzzled expression.
“…Why did you close your eyes?”
His question made the truth slip out before I could stop myself.
“W-Weren’t you about to hit me…?”
At that, his face twisted into visible displeasure.
He looked me up and down with that same expression, then said,
“…What nonsense.”
Eric Orléans looked genuinely offended.
“You think I’m that kind of man?”
It seemed I had trampled on his pride.
Without another word, he turned and stepped away from the balcony.
Just before exiting fully, he left one final remark behind:
“The next time you
feel
like a man might strike you, don’t close your eyes like a fool.
Dodge with everything you’ve got, and report him properly.
Must I spell out even this for some rustic girl from the southern lands?”
There was still that edge of scorn in his voice,
but hidden deep within it—so faint it barely registered—
was a sliver of sympathy.
…
I stood alone on that balcony for a long time.
He knew.
He’d seen through me.
That I had been struck before.
That I feared being hit.
I had been exposed.
And somehow, that truth felt far more humiliating than his contempt.
Only after I was certain that Eric was nowhere near the balcony did I finally leave.
Wandering in a daze through the banquet hall, I came upon an old matron offering cups of apple spirit.
Without thinking, I downed several.
I couldn’t endure it otherwise.
Ah… Mother told me not to drink…
“Now we can finally be happy.”
Mother’s words echoed, but a sense of foreboding told me they would never come true.
Memories of misfortune don’t simply fade—they linger, like parasites feeding on one’s spirit.
The old crone had looked at me with something like approval as I drank the apple wine, and then she said something strange.
“That cider’s apples are enchanted. They ward off misfortune.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Did you know dreams serve three purposes?”
“Yes, yes, I suppose they do.”
I offered indifferent replies while downing the cider in heavy gulps. The old woman muttered a few more things, then vanished.
✵
✵
✵
…And that, of course, is how I ended up with a spiritual affliction from overindulgence.
Now I was on my way to meet Erik Orléans.
Somehow, facing that cold-faced heir felt far more unbearable than enduring the sneers of the noblewomen who looked down on my mother and me.
Why had he come in person anyway? Weren’t high nobles the sort who wouldn’t even cleanse themselves without ordering a servant to do it? Why come himself about something so mundane as ceremonial betrothal gifts, which had already been settled?
As I descended the staircase, I began to sense something strange. My steps slowed.
A familiar voice called out with its usual mocking tone.
“…Rather slow in receiving guests, aren’t you?”
I forced my lips to move.
“Apologies. I overslept a bit…”
Last night’s events flashed in my mind, and I bit my lip without thinking. I felt the faint sting of blood.
Erik Orléans stood by the sitting room sofa, not even seated, simply watching me. His brows furrowed slightly as he took in my appearance.
Deep navy uniform, immaculate cravat, hair brushed back just so—
How could this be?
My mind reeled.
Because Erik Orléans looked exactly—
exactly
—as he had in last night’s dream.
The dream I had after drinking that strange apple wine and falling into a fevered daze.
Clenching my fists, I recalled the strange nightmare.
It had begun just like this—with Erik Orléans dressed just as he was now, saying the exact same words:
“What are you, a child? Still biting your lips like that?”
And now—
“What are you, a child? Still biting your lips like that?”
My blood ran cold.
It was word-for-word. What was this called again…?
As the thought flickered through my mind, a maid approached, carrying a tray with a teapot of hot tea.
And in that moment, the crone’s words came flooding back:
“Dreams serve three purposes: to recall the past, to fulfill hidden desires, and to foreshadow the future. Never ignore what a dream tries to reveal.”
A sign of the future.
I wobbled on the final step, almost losing my balance. Gripping the banister, I stared down at my hand.
The dream replayed in my mind—vivid and unmistakable.
Could it really have been… a glimpse of what was to come? Impossible.
But then it happened.
Just like in the dream, the maid passed by the young lord of House Orléans, carrying a tray with a teapot.
In the dream, she had tripped on a half-burned log left behind after the hearth had been cleaned—spilled tea, scalding, directly onto the young lord’s lap—
Without thinking, I sprang forward and thrust myself between Erik and the maid, catching the tray in my hands.
The momentum knocked the teapot over, and its searing contents splashed across the back of my hand.
“Ahh!”
The pain seared through my skin, sharp and biting. I cried out, letting go of the tray as it clattered loudly to the floor.
“Imeline!”
When he saw the redness blooming across the back of my hand, Eric called out my name, startled.
But I had no interest in Eric as he scrambled to find cold water.
My attention was fixated elsewhere—on the spot where the maid had nearly tripped.
On the carpet.
There—charred fragments of half-burnt kindling.
Exactly like in the dream.
“Are you alright? You shouldn’t have stepped in. It would’ve been better if the tea had spilled on me…”
He went on and on.
I don’t remember anything he said after that.
My thoughts had already been swallowed by the dream from last night—
visions of death, blood, and the brutal demise of my mother, my brother, and me.
‘Emelline. The truth is… the Duke of Orléans is marrying me for the land left behind by Viscount Wedgwood.’
Mother had spoken those words the night before what should have been the happiest day of her life—her wedding.
In the dream, her face was deathly pale as she confessed that the Duke’s interest had nothing to do with love at first sight.
That he had another aim entirely.
The dream-version of me hadn’t understood what she meant.
Viscount Wedgwood—her fourth husband—had been nothing short of a dog. A gambler neck-deep in debt who eventually fell from a cliff while being chased by spirit-debt collectors.
Before his demise, he’d left Mother a small plot of coastal land.
But that land was already—
Cursed viscount. He had already mortgaged it off multiple times. All that remains of that land is debt! She still has it? Then all the debt collectors…
Mother had stared at me with terrified eyes, then pulled me into a desperate embrace.
‘Mother? What’s going on? Are you saying the Duke refuses to go through with the wedding unless he gets that land? Why would the richest noble in the capital care about some useless patch of dirt the day before his wedding…’
At my words, she suddenly shouted,
‘Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare tell anyone the Duke is after that land! Never speak of it again!’
‘Alright, alright! I get it! Ow—your grip—my shoulder—’
When I let out a pained squeal, Mother flinched and quickly let go.
Then she staggered back into her chambers—
Her figure, from behind, looked so small. So... defeated.
And the dream didn’t end there.
The next morning, she stood in her wedding gown—drenched in sparkling jewels, looking like a lifeless doll.
It was the gown she had chosen herself.
Seeing how drained she looked, I pulled her aside in the bridal chamber and whispered,
‘If the Duke’s being this vicious over some forgotten land, let’s just run away. Whether we have money or not—if you marry a man without a shred of humanity, it’ll drag us straight into the abyss.’
I almost said
“Haven’t we been through this already?”
but bit my tongue and sighed instead.
To be honest, all of Mother’s past husbands had been more or less the same.
‘Or better yet, let’s go to the Duke together and tell him the truth. Say it was a misunderstanding. Apologize for not disclosing the debts earlier. That’s what decent people do. They own their faults, bow their heads, and make amends. That’s how normal people act, Mother.’
Strangely, even in the dream, Eric Orléans came to mind when I said that.
Always arrogant, his pride more precious than his life—
Yet when he was wrong, he corrected himself without hesitation.
Would you call that... kind?
…No. I don’t think so.
‘You said once you’d live honestly if you became a duchess. Let’s start now, okay? Let’s stop doing terrible things.’
Mother gave me a faint smile and stroked my cheek with a trembling hand that held no strength.
‘You don’t understand, Emelline. The Duke... he’ll never let me go. Even if I die, he’ll cling to my corpse. As collateral.’
I was stunned into silence. And at that moment, the maids entered the bridal chamber.
I didn’t understand what she meant then.
And so the wedding took place.
With the Duke smiling as tenderly as ever beside my mother—
who looked more like a corpse than a bride.
Time in the dream flowed chaotically, like a storm of memories.
Mother, my brother, and I spent an entire week buried under formal greetings from the main and branch families of the Duke’s clan, not to mention retainers offering their allegiance.
Thanks to that chaos, we never found time to discuss the land left behind by the late Viscount.
Then one night, Mother burst into my room in a panic and thrust a sealed envelope into my hands.
“Imeline! Get up. Take these documents and slip out the back gate—run to the nearest constable’s office. Don’t open it until you get there. When you arrive, ask for a prosecutor named Patrick…”
I was still groggy and had barely begun to ask what she meant when a maid’s voice echoed down the corridor, calling for my mother.
Mother flinched like a beast sensing slaughter, her body curling in on itself. And then she left.
For a moment, I just sat there, stunned. Then I got up and began stuffing my bag with anything in the room that looked light, valuable, and easy to exchange—starting with the silver candlestick.
If Mother said things were this urgent, it meant we had to escape the manor—immediately.
Strangely enough, I didn’t feel fear. If anything, I felt... relieved.
I was tired of pretending to be a meek, demure noble daughter from the countryside.
Tired of watching Mother bow her head all week as if she were burdened with karmic sin before the Duke.
So, goodbye, you damned noble brats. I’m done.
I was never a noble to begin with.
As for my father… I’d rather not think about him.
Mother wasn’t born of noble blood, and neither was my biological father. So neither was I.
I did as Mother instructed—I didn’t open the envelope. I packed quickly.
The only order I didn’t follow… was the one to leave.
Instead, I climbed out the window and waited near the back gate—for Mother and Philip.
We were always together, the three of us.
When we fled the third husband’s merchant guild and wandered the streets…
When we worked in that grimy inn and got beaten by the owner…
Even when we stole the till and ran in the dead of night—
We were always together.
And this time would be no different.
I believed that.
When we left the capital this time, I’d insist we live properly—even if we had to starve.
No more leeching off drunk stepfathers. Just us, and our own strength.
If we sold the silver candlestick and the gold trimmings I’d packed, maybe we could open a small stew stall in a village somewhere.
Mother’s chicken stew was decent. Philip might not have business sense, but he had the mouth of a street cultivator—he could draw a crowd.
And I’d handle the money, the ledgers, the planning.
I turned toward the manor with that little dream playing out in my mind.
That’s when I heard it.
Two gunshots.
Bang! Bang!
Translator's Note:
🎧 Check out the audio versions on my YouTube channel:
https://youtube.com/@novel-tube-w2f?si=UqMphhId_8DH80Ns