The Maid of the Cursed Princess

The Court of Miracles.

A manor of considerable size for the slums, located in the southwestern district of Hyperion’s impoverished quarters.

Once a royal villa that had fallen into abandonment for unknown reasons, this estate had been occupied by the most destitute and powerless dregs languishing at the very bottom of society’s food chain.

Why had the lowliest of the slum’s downtrodden claimed one of the better-situated and more spacious facilities in the area?

Because its owner had willed it so.

The eccentric Clopân Trouillefou.

Having seized the vacant manor he christened the Court of Miracles, he transformed it into a sanctuary for the ailing and enfeebled.

None dared defy his decision, for the monarchy that held the estate’s legal ownership had long since relinquished any stake in the Court of Miracles.

Where laws held no sway, strength became the only law that mattered – and the Court of Miracles’s mandate had been established solely through Clopân’s personal dominion.

Few knew the true nature of this individual called Clopân Trouillefou, for how could one discern the identity of one who constantly shifted their age, appearance and even gender?

Manifesting as an elderly crone one moment, a young child the next. A strapping man, then a delicate maiden.

Whether a slovenly beggar or regal matron, all claimed the same name when presenting themselves, leaving onlookers utterly bewildered as to who or what the sovereign of the Court of Miracles truly was.

Was it a single prodigy displaying myriad talents, or numerous individuals alternating usage of the same moniker?

Either possibility existed, yet the truth mattered little – male or female, old or young, Clopân was Clopân.

And the Clopân currently before Sibylla was but one of the myriad guises this sovereign of the Court of Miracles had assumed.

“…You are… no, were a man…”

Only after fully appraising this form and hearing that voice did Sibylla realize the strapping physique was merely an ensemble of cloak, mask and padded garments concealing a woman’s svelte frame.

“Oh dear, it seems I have been found out. My humble guise must seem rather shoddy to outside eyes.”

Momentarily pausing at Sibylla’s observation, Clopân swiftly shed the unconvincing masculine affectations with a perfunctory flick of her left arm.

“Well then, Princess? Am I more presentable in this form?”

Like a butterfly emerging from its pupal casing, Sibylla mused.

For the beauty unveiled after discarding that outlandish, nigh-comical disguise was so resplendent that the butterfly analogy seemed inadequate.

“…Is your right arm like that naturally…?”

“Ah, this?”

The sole flaw marring her appearance was her right arm bent at an unnatural angle.

“I lost my original arm long ago and have no choice but to use this prosthetic in its stead. Though I fear this low-quality model tends to malfunction and contort rather frequently.”

Offering Sibylla an abashed smile, Clopân deftly removed and reattached the wayward prosthetic limb.

“But enough about that. Given our fortuitous reunion, might I propose we engage in some pleasant conversation? It’s not often even I have the chance to converse with an Orléans Princess, after all.”

“…What is your aim?”

Despite Clopân’s amicable manner, Sibylla held no inclination to engage her in dialogue.

“Oh dear, it seems you have formed rather an unfavorable impression of me.”

“I asked what your intention is.”

An understandable reaction, for Sibylla had been abducted.

Having been ambushed and rendered unconscious within the palace grounds she had assumed were secure, only to awaken in this strange locale. No wonder her guard was raised to its utmost.

Moreover, her abductor was none other than the Slave Prince, an assassin who had previously made attempts on her life. Under such circumstances, her wariness was only natural.

“I have no particular intentions of my own. If anyone harbors ulterior motives, it would be the one who brought you here.”

Clopân gestured toward a familiar crimson-haired figure.

“You were delivered to this place by that woman over there. Apparently her original intention was to slay you outright, but she recently received new instructions from her master to refrain from thoughtlessly ending your life for the time being.”

Disregarding Sibylla’s trembling lips as she recoiled in terror, Clopân continued her explanation.

“For whatever reason, I have received an advance payment to ensure your cooperation as well.”

Separate from the purely altruistic motives that had driven Clopân to establish the Court of Miracles as a haven for the meek, she harbored an innate fondness for money.

Not out of greed or self-interest, but because maintaining the Court of Miracles’s operations required funding.

“If word spread that I was holding a member of the royal family for ransom, it would undoubtedly bode ill for us all.”

“When have relations between us and the monarchy ever boded well?”

Clopân’s demeanor remained nonchalant, as if utterly unconcerned about potential repercussions should the truth come to light.

Within the Court of Miracles, status, honor and all such distinctions held no meaning. Whether a diseased outcast or the youngest Princess of Orléans, all were treated as equals expected to conduct themselves accordingly.

“But fret not, I shall ensure no undue harm befalls you. In fact, I vow that none within these walls shall lay a hand upon the Princess.”

“…And how can I believe that?”

“Then let me pose this question instead: so what if you don’t believe me?”

“…”

She was rendered speechless, for having set foot within the Court of Miracles, Sibylla could exert no leverage over Clopân through argument or force.

“Rest assured, inflicting harm upon others is strictly prohibited within the Court of Miracles.”

“…And you expect that assassin to uphold such rules?”

“Well, we’ll have to see about that.”

And the same held true for Ruslan as well.

* * *

The sudden disappearance of Princess Sibylla had sown chaos extending well beyond the palace’s walls.

“You can’t be serious. Are you claiming the Princess’s abductor is that assassin from Lombardy?”

“Indeed, that is what has been confirmed.”

Even the central nobility supporting Prince Louis had been caught off-guard by Ruslan’s unilateral actions undertaken without any prior consultation or notification.

“If she had the opportunity, she should have slain the Princess outright – what is the meaning of this abduction nonsense?”

“The reason is detailed in this letter here. Read it yourselves.”

With an expression far more sour than usual, his already heavily lined face contorted into a pronounced scowl, Marquis Vallière tossed a letter onto the center of the table.

“A letter, you say…”

“One from Königsberg. Or put more plainly, a missive from the assassin’s own master.”

Even before reading its contents, the Marquis’s flagrantly negative demeanor – an amalgam of rage and despondency – indicated the letter boded nothing positive for those present.

“…’Listen up, you Lombardian savage wench, and pass this on to those Orléans pigs. If you dare ignore the contract again, plotting schemes on your own, or showing disrespect to my beloved Prince, it won’t be the Princess whose head will roll, but yours’… The insolent wretch.”

Upon reading the letter aloud, the gathered nobles’ expressions gradually mirrored the Marquis’s own distressed visage, each reacting with their own uniquely indignant variations.

“Th-This audacity, this is why those Lombardian savages…!!!!”

As Orléans central nobles hailing from illustrious aristocratic lineages, these men possessed lofty pride in both their own personas and dynastic pedigrees.

For such arrogant individuals to receive a letter laced with vulgar expletives from those they had looked down upon as Lombardian barbarians was an utterly unacceptable affront.

“That wretched, crimson-haired bitch should be apprehended and executed forthwith!”

“Restrain yourselves, our objective remains paramount.”

“You would simply overlook this intolerable insult? I can’t, I absolutely can’t abide such indignity!!!”

“These matters can be addressed once our endeavor concludes…!!”

Marquis Vallière felt like weeping. What transgression had he committed to warrant such torment?

He had faithfully upheld his end of the contract by entrusting all matters to the Slave Prince. It had been the other nobles, not him, who had grown impatient and schemed separate contingencies due to their distrust.

True, he had hurled insults and even doused the Slave Prince with wine after their initial failure, venting his frustrations. But was it not his prerogative as an employer to voice some dissent after compensating the assassin?

Moreover, the complaint from Königsberg had been addressed solely to Marquis Vallière, the one who had scrupulously honored the contract’s terms aside from that singular outburst.

Thus, Marquis Vallière resented his ranting compatriots whose unruly conduct had subjected him to such demeaning abuse. If anyone deserved to vent their ire, it should have been him who had been labeled a ‘pig’ – why were they the ones raving?

“Marquis Vallière, since you engaged her services, the responsibility falls upon you. You understand, don’t you?”

“…”

Yet the reality was that by commissioning the assassin’s employ, the ensuing liability naturally fell upon the instigator as well.

Having sacrificed his wealth, honor and everything in pursuit of this endeavor, Marquis Vallière felt an overwhelming sense of bitterness toward the world’s cruel injustice.

As raucous shouts continued echoing through the nobles’ clandestine meeting chamber:

“…Princess.”

A single maid desperately scoured the streets in search of her missing mistress.

Tl/note: Oh my, so many references, and so many genderbent characters, it becomes increasingly difficult to translate and keep in mind as well as on screen who is what gender with their male names ughh. Therefore, if you find mistakes or inconsistencies, please indicate them, thank you!