Chapter 7
I thought my debutante ball would be perfect.
Until the moment she held it, Olivia had thought so too. Starving herself on a diet, everything—from her dress to her makeup and hairstyle—had truly fallen perfectly into place.
Just as the first waltz began and her heart felt ready to burst from anticipation—that was when everything shattered, the moment dazzlingly handsome Leopold asked the Nordian Viscount’s daughter for the first dance.
She had known it all along: that Leopold disliked their engagement, and that as crown prince betrothed to the imperial-aligned Madelaine, he might ask the Nordian Viscount’s daughter for the first dance to appease the uneasy noble faction.
But knowing something and experiencing it firsthand were entirely different. Not even glittering jewels or a shimmering gown could mask the feeling of being smeared with filth.
Despite her status as an imperial princess and the crown prince’s fiancée, she became the wallflower of her debutante ball, receiving not a single dance request.
She had desperately wished someone would just speak to her. She had hoped, just once, someone would ask her to dance.
She remembered that desperate moment when it felt as if everyone was whispering about her. She frantically scanned the room, but neither the Duke, nor Conrad, nor Jade looked at her.
Afraid her smiling mask might crack, she gripped only the hem of her dress. The one small mercy was that she hadn’t made a scene at her debutante ball.
Every time Leopold glanced at her, Olivia smiled. And whenever she did, Leopold would give her a handsome smile in return. It was worth the effort she’d made to appear composed—like a proper Madelaine princess, like someone destined to become crown princess someday.
Her hand, clutching her dress throughout the twelve waltzes, had turned deathly pale, and though she’d returned home and buried her face in her pillow to sob uncontrollably—
“Olivia.”
Only upon hearing Conrad’s warning did Olivia blink, pulling herself out of that long-buried memory.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just thinking about my debutante ball.”
It had already been two years. She had grown so well since then. She occasionally shared dinners with her siblings and had even gained some real authority within the household. Glancing sideways at Essela, whose eyes brimmed with anticipation, Olivia said,
“Essela, you’ll do infinitely better than I ever could.”
She meant it sincerely. Essela’s cheeks flushed rose-pink.
“Really? But… when I have my debutante ball, you’ll come with me, right, sister?”
It was customary for young ladies making their debut to be accompanied by a noblewoman or a lady who had already debuted. Olivia reflexively looked toward Conrad.
Conrad, who had been gazing kindly at Essela, now turned to Olivia with a face as cold as winter’s north wind. His tightly pressed lips silently conveyed a firm “no.”
“…What should I do? I’ll probably be too busy with palace affairs.”
“Well, if you’re busy, there’s nothing we can do. Essela, I’ll find you a suitable lady to accompany you.”
“Yes…”
Despite Conrad’s gentle reassurance, Essela nibbled listlessly at her food, her face drooping. Unable to hide her disappointment any longer, she finally rose from her seat.
“I’ve finished eating. I’ll head upstairs first.”
Her lifeless footsteps faded away, leaving the dining room in silence. Conrad lightly swirled his wine glass.
“Olivia.”
“Yes, brother—”
“Who’s your brother?”
Her careless slip earned a cutting reply. Conrad spoke dryly.
“You need to understand your place clearly.”
“…”
“You’re merely a member of the Madelaine family.”
How painfully he spoke. Not family—just a member of Madelaine. That single phrase felt like a massive wall standing between Conrad and her.
Conrad’s lips moved slowly. Olivia knew exactly what he was about to say. She clenched her fist as if to cushion the shock. Before her nails could even dig into her palm, an even more painful remark pierced her.
“So keep your distance from Essela. Who do you think you are, speaking to anyone? Do you intend to drag Essela down to your level?”
“Who do you think you are, talking to anyone? Trying to make Essela end up like our mother? Trying to stain Essela with your reputation?”
Conrad’s words echoed in her mind like an engraving. With just those words, young Olivia—who had so desperately wanted to play with Essela—let go of that longing without a second thought.
Olivia knew well how cruel society’s rumors could be. Thus, protecting Essela from harm was only natural for her.
“Answer me.”
She couldn’t help it now. But if she just worked a little harder—if she became the acknowledged crown princess, as her father had said—
Things would change then. Once Conrad saw her succeed as crown princess, surely he would accept her as family. So she had to answer now.
Olivia clenched her numb fist once more and gave the reply she hated to make.
“…Yes.”
Only then did Conrad’s expression soften slightly. He jerked his chin toward the dining room door.
“Leave.”
“Then I’ll take my leave. Have a good day… brother.”
The last word was half sincere, half revenge. Olivia fled the dining room as if escaping, quickly shutting the door behind her.
The hallway was empty. Olivia took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
It was her mother’s habit. “Even when things are hard, just take one proper breath—you’ll find your strength again,” she used to say.
Olivia added one more thing to that habit: a silent vow to herself—to become a beloved crown princess.
Now, that truly was her only path.
If she became crown princess, her family, Leopold—everyone—
Would finally smile brightly at her.
Clutching onto that last hope, Olivia kept trying to smile, even as she refused to acknowledge that her smile was crumbling at the edges.
.
.
.
The red wine rippled in the glass. Alone in the dining room, Conrad let out a heavy, exasperated sigh.
“Then I’ll take my leave. Have a good day… brother.”
Olivia was a calamity that had entered their home.
Because of her, his once-loving parents became worse than strangers—and ultimately, because of her, his mother had died.
She was an irredeemable half-Madelaine. Yet she was the Madelaine blood who had to go to the treacherous imperial palace in Essela’s stead and stay beside that reckless crown prince.
That was all Olivia amounted to.
If only she’d stayed precisely within those bounds. Yet she kept gazing—with those green eyes—at him, at Father, at Jade, at Essela, as if hoping for something.
Conrad knew exactly what that look meant, yet every time hope flickered in her eyes, he snuffed it out.
That girl—
Simply didn’t deserve it.
The wine left a bitter aftertaste. To distract himself from his irritation, Conrad pulled Jade’s letter from his coat.
The letter, which he’d read immediately upon receiving, contained overdue news. Though he’d already been briefed on it through his Foreign Ministry duties, Conrad reread the final lines once more.
“…Victory is confirmed. Once I settle a few remaining matters, I’ll return soon. Thank you always, brother. Please take care of Father and Essela.”
Naturally, there was no mention of Olivia. There was no reason whatsoever to entrust someone who lay outside the family circle.
Conrad scoffed and refolded the letter. He paid no mind to the part in the last sentence—where something seemed to have been scribbled over repeatedly as if correcting a mistake—or the faintly written “Oli” barely visible beneath.
It was none of his concern.
Inside the opulent reception hall, the Emperor sat upon his throne.
The most exalted seat, adorned with gold and agate, was reserved for him alone.
With his imperial bloodline evident in his lustrous golden hair and vivid blue eyes, the Emperor smiled with satisfaction.
Immense wealth and power—all lay beneath his feet.
And especially, he had “that one.”
The Emperor gave a leisurely nod. As the head steward opened the door, a tall man clad in a black robe strode into the reception hall.
“At last, you’ve come—the hero of this war.”
The Emperor laughed heartily, his eyes fixed on the man without a trace of warmth.
Slowly, the man removed his robe. When his jet-black hair, beautiful face, and ruby-red eyes were revealed, the Emperor let out an involuntary, low sigh.
“…You look just like your mother.”
The only difference from the late Grand Duchess was that he never smiled. Recalling the ever-gentle smile of the former Grand Duchess, the Emperor quirked one corner of his mouth.
After all, when the previous Duke had disappeared and was declared dead, he’d forcibly confined the Grand Duchess within this palace. Back then, she too had stared at him exactly like this—just as her son now knelt emotionlessly before him, lifting his gaze with empty eyes.
“Edwin Lowell Bicander. I present myself before the Sun of the Empire.”
The voice that echoed through the hall was chillingly cold. The Emperor watched the man—Edwin Lowell Bicander—with sharp, calculating eyes.
“The Emperor’s hound.”
That was the nickname whispered behind the man’s back. At the thought of that gratifying title, the Emperor’s eyes gleamed greedily.
Those vacant eyes that seemed to feel nothing, and the flawless efficiency with which he carried out every command—
He held the title of Duke in name only; his actions were no different from those of an assassin.
Remembering the tasks he’d assigned him, the Emperor felt a thrill so intense it sent shivers down his spine.
That noble, exalted “Bicander,” reduced to doing the work of mere assassins.
It had taken a full ten years to break “Bicander” like this.
After swearing fealty to the founding Emperor, the Bicander Dukedom had been granted the barren, frigid northern lands—like desolate winter mountains.
Those arrogant pests, relying on their exceptional swordsmanship, had discovered mines and gold veins in that useless northern territory and instantly began challenging the imperial authority.
Naturally, the memory of the previous Duke surfaced—the stiff-necked fool who’d taken the fallen kingdom’s princess, whom the Emperor had considered his own, as his Grand Duchess.
It was he who had finally broken both their necks.
Blinking his glittering eyes, the Emperor spoke fondly.
“I hear you led the vanguard throughout this war as well. Truly, you are Bicander.”
“It is your praise, Your Majesty.”
“You’ll soon formally ascend as Duke. We must hold a grand victory banquet. I look forward to the rare treasures you’ll present to the imperial court.”
“I shall move to the palace immediately upon my return.”
“Good. I shall await it. Come to think of it—you’re already past twenty, are you not? It’s time you married and secured your lineage.”
The Emperor broached the subject gently.
“…I haven’t considered it yet.”
“Oh, come now. The Bicander main line has only you left. This is precisely when you must strengthen your direct bloodline.”
Beneath his robe, the Duke’s fist clenched so tightly that tendons stood out. Oblivious, the Emperor rambled on, lost in his own mood.
“Now that I think about it, didn’t you miss your debutante ball? And I believe your knighthood ceremony was only a modest affair.”
The Emperor feigned forgetfulness, trailing off vaguely.
He knew perfectly well that during her debutante ball, she’d been crushing the Serarchi tribe crawling up from the east, and that her knighthood ceremony had been hastily conducted while drenched in blood, standing in for a royal commander who’d fled.
Tsk. If only that coward hadn’t run, the Bicander name wouldn’t have spread so widely.
The Emperor clicked his tongue in regret—and thus his desire only grew stronger.
Until now, she’d obediently wandered the battlefields as he directed, but now she was twenty-one, mature and formidable. Bicander’s fame already soared throughout the empire, and factions had begun gathering around her.
One never knew when that wolf might crawl up to him. He needed to secure another leash—firmly.
“Still, a knight ought to have his lady. Conveniently, the Imperial Princess has prepared a flower for you at the upcoming victory banquet.”
And marriage would be a fine, unbreakable shackle. If the Duke—who resembled the late Grand Duchess—became his family, it would be utterly satisfying.
If that princess of the fallen kingdom, who’d rejected him to the very end, saw this from the afterlife, she might vomit blood.
Pleased, the Emperor lowered his voice and coaxed gently,
“…I have news you’ll be glad to hear, Duke. That white quartz mine of Lowell now belongs to the Imperial Princess.”
The mine the late Grand Duchess had cherished as Lowell Kingdom’s final asset—and simultaneously, the leash binding the Duke.
At those words, the Duke’s eyes flashed.
Only then did the Emperor smile leisurely and add,
“Titles matter, of course—but as husband and wife, you could inspect the mine without the palace’s permission, couldn’t you?”
He never imagined the Duke would obsess so intensely over the white quartz mine, granted as compensation for the previous Duke’s disappearance in battle.
Perhaps because she’d only ever roamed battlefields, she was astonishingly naive. Even after dangling the “white quartz mine” before her more than twenty times, she still lit up like that—over a mine that had run dry for fifteen years.
Suspicious of the Duke’s persistent fixation, he’d even ordered thorough searches of the mine. Eminent mages and geologists were dispatched, yet all reports concluded it was an abandoned mine.
Last year, as a final measure, he’d assigned the investigation to the Imperial Princess. Having matured remarkably in recent years, she’d restored even her struggling spring famine-stricken domain—and thoroughly investigated the white quartz mine as well.
Yet again, the report was identical: the vein had long been exhausted. The Emperor rewarded the hardworking Imperial Princess by granting her the mine.
Though it was an abandoned mine with no remaining white quartz production, she must have wanted to inherit her mother’s final legacy—after all, she’d been marching across battlefields since age ten out of filial devotion.
He had no intention whatsoever of actually giving it to her. He planned only to keep using it—as bait smeared thick with hope—to drive the Duke forward.
…Forever.
The Emperor laughed, drunk on arrogance. That arrogance clouded his vision.
Unseen by him, the Duke watched the cackling Emperor with cold, mocking eyes.
And that day, a special bulletin spread across the entire Franz Empire.
The joyful news that Duke Bicander’s war against Heperti, in which he’d seized the advantage, had ended in victory.
