The Maid of the Cursed Princess

“Is this not going too far!?”

Slamming the table, a young capitalist roared.

“Inviting the Princess to the Heroes’ Festival – do you think we are oblivious to what that implies?”

“Calm down, you are far too excited.”

Even the relatively older capitalist attempting to placate the irate youth couldn’t conceal his own anger and bewilderment from showing on his face.

“However, he speaks the truth. Despite being well aware the Princess narrowly escaped a life-threatening situation, the reason they insist she attend the Heroes’ Festival is…”

“At the very least, it implies either they wish for the Princess to perish and the curse to pass to the next generation, or worse, that the ones who ordered the assassination are among them.”

It was an established fact for the capitalists that there was a shadowy presence among the central noble factions holding decision-making power in the Tripartite Assembly. While still circumstantial, the objective and motive were far too evident.

To transfer the Princess’s curse onto the youngest Prince, the Crown Prince’s son.

“But to go that far just because the Crown Prince’s actions don’t suit their tastes…!!”

The Crown Prince wasn’t on good terms with the nobles, for his extensive military leadership experience had left him little opportunity to socialize and forge connections with the central nobility.

Moreover, after seizing effective power, the Crown Prince steadfastly adhered to a strict meritocracy, frequently clashing with the established central noble factions over every issue until the rift between them only deepened.

Instead of the central nobles, the forces the Crown Prince had chosen to support him were the military dominated by provincial nobility, and the rising capitalist class. Reorganizing the former national assembly dominated by nobles and clergy into the current Tripartite Assembly by including the bourgeois commoners had been entirely the Crown Prince’s initiative.

As the Crown Prince pursued reforms backed by the military and with the capitalists at the forefront, the central nobles vehemently opposed him.

“Those damn clergymen…”

“They’ve always been the types to look down when told to look up, point right when told left, toward the royal family that practically worships the sun instead of their god.”

The clergy of the Nazarene faith, who held the sun-worshipping Orléans royals in disdain for not revering their god, had voted in favor as usual on matters displeasing to the royal family.

“Scum not worth the air it takes to curse them, those nobles and clergymen…”

“The clergy have always been the same, but the true issue lies with the nobles. It is clear their blades point toward the Princess and the Crown Prince.”

The nobles were more adept at political machinations than anyone. Too formidable an adversary for the newly minted capitalists or provincial noble-born military officers ignorant of court intrigue.

“With the royal authority no longer what it once was, recklessly provoking them will only bring harm upon us and the Crown Prince.”

Orléans was an absolute monarchy – in times past, any evidence could have been fabricated through torture if necessary.

But the current King had gone mad, and the one effectively holding the nation’s reins was the Crown Prince.

The Crown Prince wasn’t the King, merely an agent wielding borrowed authority in place of an unsound monarch.

In the world of politics where legitimacy was paramount, the Crown Prince’s position was utterly precarious, only kept from crumbling thanks to his military accomplishments and popular support for his reformist leanings.

“…Is there a possibility the nobles are colluding with the Second Prince?”

“Hmm…”

Everyone present fell silent, pondering one capitalist’s question.

“I can’t say. Was the Second Prince not rumored to cherish his kin above all else, never displaying any ambition for the throne?”

The personality of the Second Prince, Louis Ferdinand d’Orléans, was well known – devoid of lust for power, deeply loving toward his family, fond of art, with the benevolent moniker ‘Gentle Spring.’

Moreover, the capitalists themselves harbored no ill will toward Prince Louis – he was one of the few who treated all equally regardless of status, and many capitalists had personally benefited from his assistance.

“Hmph, who’s to say it’s not all an act? Who better than him would understand the nobles’ machinations?”

Unlike his brother who had campaigned, Prince Louis had walked the archetypal path of royalty by remaining in the capital until adulthood, interacting with the nobles. This meant he had deeper ties and support from the nobles.

Considering most major government positions were occupied by central nobles, Prince Louis effectively had the backing of forces capable of dominating the central political sphere from the shadows. In other words, he was the epicenter the capitalists had to overcome.

“But surely the Second Prince couldn’t…”

“We must not underestimate him. Absolutely not…”

Was Prince Louis part of the shadowy faction intent on killing Princess Sibylla, or merely a public face put forth by the nobles? This was the debate raging among the capitalists.

“Enough.”

The one who ended that debate with a single word was the Crown Prince, who had been silently observing them.

“Whether Louis intends to kill my younger sister is irrelevant. What matters is those gathered around Louis seek Sibylla’s life, and we have no legitimate means to preemptively thwart their schemes.”

The nobles’ claims, while principled, didn’t deviate from the nation’s laws – legitimate discourse.

The Crown Prince’s own supporters lacked justification to forcibly override such legitimate discourse.

“For now, remain vigilant. You never know when those vipers may strike at my poor sister’s neck.”

However, if they could acquire justification, evidence.

He could thoroughly eradicate that antiquated obstruction to his reforms.

* * *

The air in the High Tower felt somewhat different.

“Hyperion, Hyperion… back to Hyperion…”

For the usually aloof and indifferent Sibylla had, unprecedentedly, fallen into a panic.

“Princess, are you alright?”

“I’m fine. No, I’m not fine. No, I’m fi-… I’m not… not fine at all.”

Her usually languid pace was nowhere to be seen as she paced about the study in a frantic fluster, a pitiful yet amusing sight like a rat with its tail on fire.

“Princess, calm down. Take a deep breath first. Inhale, and exhaaale.”

“Huff… Whoo… Huff… Whoo…”

Gently holding the distraught Sibylla, Dorothy helped her calm down.

“Are you feeling better now?”

“…Yes, I’m calm now.”

Though she had sat down and caught her breath, Sibylla’s heart remained troubled.

“Are you anticipating going to Hyperion? Or are you worried?”

“I’m not sure. Whether it’s anticipation or worry… my heart refuses to settle.”

Excluding their brief previous outing, this would be Sibylla’s first time leaving the High Tower since being imprisoned.

And not just any place, but Hyperion, the capital city where she was born and held many memories – it was only natural for her to be unable to contain her excitement.

The problem was that her excitement didn’t solely stem from anticipation.

Hyperion was fundamentally a highly populated metropolis. And as the Heroes’ Festival was held only once a decade, the population might swell several times, perhaps even dozens of times more than usual.

Before being cursed, Sibylla had directly witnessed and experienced the Heroes’ Festival herself. The immense crowds that had packed Hyperion’s expansive streets were enough to give even those fond of socializing pause.

“…I must go to Hyperion in this form? Attend the Heroes’ Festival in this form, appearing before all those people?”

To reveal her bandaged, masked cursed visage amid those throngs.

The very thought made her dizzy, almost nauseous enough to start foaming at the mouth – only by forcibly swallowing the bile rising in her throat did she avoid such an undignified display.

“…I’m afraid.”

Sibylla was afraid – afraid of facing all those countless people.

She wanted to flee somewhere, anywhere. Or failing that, wished to die instead. Why must she endure such an ordeal? Why?

“…Princess.”

As Sibylla descended into panic once more, trembling hands a-quiver, Dorothy moved her face before Sibylla’s and met her quavering azure eyes.

“Look at me, Princess. Gaze into these eyes.”

“Eyes… eyes… your eyes…?”

Such beautiful eyes, no matter how many times she saw them – like deep pools.

“If the sunlight frightens you, I shall be your shadow.”

Suppressing the burgeoning impure thoughts regarding those eyes, Dorothy made a promise to Sibylla.

“I will always be on your side, Princess. As long as you see me as your servant.”

To reassure her, to fulfill her duty as a maid.

“…O…Okay…”

Sensing Sibylla’s trembling gradually subside, Dorothy straightened up and stepped back.

Ultimately failing to notice how Sibylla’s concealed cheeks had flushed crimson beneath her mask and bandages.