The Maid of the Cursed Princess

Since developing affections for her, Sibylla had never once doubted Dorothy Gale’s innocence.

She could attest to it – even during that period when she had striven to deny and disregard her burgeoning feelings, Dorothy’s purity itself had been unquestionable.

A blindly devoted, simpleminded maid who tended to Sibylla more diligently than anyone solely due to her assignment.

Her manner had been too sincere to chalk up as mere monetary motivation, and she lacked any ulterior motives that would indicate duplicity.

No matter how lucrative the payment, no matter what hidden agendas existed, those could hardly outweigh one’s life, could they?

Thus, Sibylla believed Dorothy’s words – that she truly had been unaware of the Witch’s former name and true identity.

It was hardly a subject she would take interest in, and their bond, intimate yet lacking complete mutual understanding akin to family, reinforced her belief.

Moreover, Dorothy’s inability to deceive had already been amply demonstrated. If her words had been lies, she would have surely betrayed some telling sign.

An uninvolved adoptee ignorant of her benefactress’s identity, bound only by her commission yet devoted to safeguarding her master with her very life.

“…And yet I vowed to change…”

Despite knowing this, Sibylla found herself unable to wholly love Dorothy any longer.

“Medea, Medea, Medea…”

The root cause who had sent Sibylla’s life plummeting into the abyss, one she could never mete out sufficient vengeance upon no matter how savagely she retaliated.

How could she unreservedly love the adoptive child of that bitter enemy?

The virulent hatred Sibylla had harbored toward that unseen centuries-old adversary remained undiminished even after glimpsing her face. Even after receiving her aid.

No, that very aid had only amplified Sibylla’s resentment toward the Witch.

How utterly ridiculous it must have been when the cursed victim whom she had afflicted came seeking her assistance. How amusing to dangle vague hints through obfuscating wordplay while reveling in her desperation.

She had likely known everything from the start as the curse’s perpetrator. Perhaps those ‘hints’ had been mere meaningless word salads all along. Could Dorothy have been unaware, given how unlikely it was for one the Witch so despised – a descendant of the royal lineage she had doomed – to gain her favor?

And it was only natural for Sibylla’s hatred and resentment toward the Witch to taint her feelings toward the intimately associated Dorothy.

While a parent’s sins couldn’t automatically be ascribed to their child, especially an adopted rather than biological one, human emotions were seldom so resolute nor rational.

Despite understanding it was unjustified, seeds of doubt began sprouting within Sibylla’s heart, corroding the trust in Dorothy she had once deemed immutable.

“…No.”

No matter how fervently she attempted to purge those insidious misgivings infiltrating her thoughts, once tainted, her heart couldn’t be easily cleansed a second time.

“…”

Unable to withstand the surging deluge of negative emotions any longer, Sibylla rose, hoping the outside air might provide a calming reprieve from her turbulent inner turmoil.

* * *

What should she do?

How could she untangle the knots binding her master’s heart?

Leaning against the chamber door with her head bowed, Dorothy pondered their increasingly complex predicament.

The painstakingly accumulated foundation of trust between them had been thoroughly shattered. The bridge connecting them obliterated without a trace by the abrupt tempest.

Dorothy understood the profound implications better than anyone, for what manner of master-servant dynamic could function without mutual trust? It would be an exceedingly fragile, ephemeral bond prone to shattering at any moment.

A servant who didn’t trust their master could betray them at any moment. Conversely, a master who didn’t trust their servant could discard them on a whim.

Dorothy harbored no particular ill will toward Sibylla, for she was undeniably the victim in this matter. But what of Sibylla’s perspective?

“An untrustworthy servant…”

The master held dominance while the servant remained subservient – an intrinsically imbalanced power dynamic where Sibylla and the royal lineage indisputably held the advantage over Dorothy.

If dissatisfied with her servant’s conduct or capabilities, the mistress possessed the unilateral authority to terminate their contract. Should Sibylla nurture negative sentiments toward Dorothy, she could dismiss her at any moment.

While such an extreme outcome seemed unlikely, if that worst-case scenario did transpire, Dorothy would have no recourse but to silently depart with her belongings.

“…I can’t allow that.”

It was a future Dorothy fervently wished to avoid.

Would it not be unjust to be expelled despite having committed no wrongdoing?

Yet the royal family possessed that prerogative. No, they could even put her to death without it being considered overstepping bounds. More versed in fables and lore than most, Dorothy understood the grave implications the name ‘Medea’ held within Orléans better than anyone.

What could she do to regain Sibylla’s trust? Grappling fruitlessly with that unanswerable quandary-

“Miss Gale?”

A familiar voice reached Dorothy’s ears.

“…Prince Louis?”

Raising her head in response to the voice, Dorothy’s eyes indeed fell upon the Prince himself.

“Why are you lingering out here? Will you not enter…?”

“…It is nothing, Your Highness.”

Deeming there no reason to divulge the situation’s intricacies to a third party, Dorothy fell silent.

“…You quarreled with Sibylla, didn’t you?”

Yet even Dorothy’s exercise of discretion couldn’t conceal the truth from the discerning Prince, though he hardly required her admission.

“Mmm… might I have a word, Miss Gale?”

Extending his hand toward the sullen, morose Dorothy exuding a palpably gloomy aura, the Prince remarked:

“You wish to reconcile with her, don’t you? Allow me to enlighten you on how to achieve that.”

Dangling an irresistible lure before Dorothy’s very eyes.

* * *

“…”

Ultimately, Sibylla had ventured outside once more, this time alone in the gardens.

It was the gloaming hour when the sun’s last vestiges tinged the horizon in fiery red hues. Bathed in that blazing amber glow, the gardens seemed unusually desolate compared to their typical splendor.

“Haah…”

Heaving a weary sigh, Sibylla sought a relatively secluded spot away from prying eyes, for lingering in plain view would only invite unpleasant scrutiny – something she could ill afford at present.

To be sure, ‘relatively secluded’ was a relative term, for palace security had been drastically tightened following the recent incident. Royal guards patrolled the palace grounds and gardens in groups, while servants diligently monitored even areas they rarely frequented, vigilantly watching for any suspicious individuals.

“…”

Their heightened precautions were understandable, for after not one but two members of the royal family had narrowly escaped assassination attempts, lax security could prove catastrophic.

Yet their presence did little to soothe Sibylla’s turbulent mindset. If anything, it only served as an unwanted distraction hampering her attempts to regain her composure.

Unable to dismiss them outright yet unwilling to completely tune out their activities, Sibylla crouched before a flowerbed, studying the delicate new blooms just beginning to unfurl their fragile petals.

How recently had they been planted for these budding flowers to appear so minuscule and frail? One careless touch could easily snap their tender stems.

“…?”

Unconsciously reaching toward the stems, Sibylla froze mid-motion.

Why had she instinctively moved to pluck these fledgling blossoms?

“…What appalling lack of compassion.”

Dismayed at her own reflexive cruelty toward such defenseless new life, Sibylla chided herself wryly.

“Have you truly deteriorated to envying flowers before they can fully bloom, Sibylla Thérèse?”

Like an unsightly entity begrudging beauty, she had nearly severed those pristine flowers in their infancy out of sheer spite.

Expressing a derisive, hollow laugh at her own deplorable pettiness surpassing even that of flora, Sibylla wondered. Had her turmoil inadvertently manifested such violent impulses, or had the shocking revelation merely catalyzed her long-simmering resentment toward the world into erupting with greater virulence?

As Sibylla wallowed in self-loathing over her pitiful circumstances, the tell-tale clanking of approaching footsteps announced another’s arrival.

“Princess Sibylla.”

“…What is it? Guards.”

Recognizing the unmistakable sounds without needing to turn, Sibylla addressed the newcomers as royal guards.

“Is it not time you returned indoors? The sun shall set presently.”

“…I am well aware.”

Indeed, the waning sun had nearly vanished beyond the horizon, the previously blazing crimson sky steadily fading into dusklight.

While Orléans’s climate was relatively warm and currently amidst summer, night temperatures could plummet drastically enough to risk catching chills – not an unlikely prospect for Sibylla in her current vulnerable state.

“I shall retire of my own accord, so attend to your duties.”

Sibylla had intended to return to her chambers before much longer regardless, even if it meant potentially encountering Dorothy again. It was hardly as if she could simply spend the night on a bench to avoid her.

“…?”

Yet the lingering shadows and sounds despite her dismissal roused Sibylla’s suspicions.

“Did I not instruct you to withdraw, guar-“

The words died on Sibylla’s lips as she turned, cut off by-

“-!!”

A dull thud as a jarring impact struck her head.

“Tsk, was aiming to knock you out in one blow… Hey there, sis’.”

Leveling a cudgel at the dazed Sibylla, the rogue guard addressed some unseen figure while Sibylla’s head swam from the vicious blow.

“Shall we flee for now? This uniform is far too stifling.”

Following his line of sight as she struggled to remain conscious, Sibylla’s blurring vision beheld:

A crimson-haired reaper from the depths of hell itself.

“…!!!”

Before the terror-stricken Sibylla could even think to cry for aid, the Slave Prince’s savage kick crashed against her skull, the world fading to black.