The Maid of the Cursed Princess

She had known it was utter madness.

One misstep could potentially lead to headlines blazing across newspaper frontpages: [Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans Found Slain Hours After Abduction].

Yet Sibylla chose to take that risk and flee the Court of Miracles, for she could place her trust neither in its denizens nor, crucially, in Ruslan.

He had only recently been her would-be assassin, then the very perpetrator who had infiltrated the palace and abducted her.

To unhesitatingly entrust one’s wellbeing to such an individual would have been far more astonishing – no, outright foolish naivete.

The Court of Miracles’s inhabitants were equally undeserving of Sibylla’s faith, for had they not ultimately facilitated her kidnapping?

Moreover, with Clopân’s absence, Sibylla had abandoned any expectation of the Court’s downtrodden safeguarding her. It would have been patently absurd to seek protection from those struggling to preserve their own existence.

Sibylla’s judgment had ultimately proven sound, for Ruslan had indeed abandoned his intent to spare her life, while the Court of Miracles lacked the means to shield her.

“Ahh…!!”

Yet every choice invariably carried consequences.

Tying curtains or bedsheets into makeshift ropes to descend from a window might have appeared deceptively simple.

However, for someone lacking prior experience, flawlessly knotting unintended textile scraps into weight-bearing lines sturdy enough to support a human weight was no trivial feat.

“Hah… hah…”

Partway through her descent, the improvised bindings unraveled, sending Sibylla plummeting into the courtyard’s grassy lawn.

While her light stature and the minimal cushioning provided by the lawn’s greenery had spared her life, an uninjured landing was still impossible.

“Nnghh…!!!”

Gritting her teeth against the throbbing agony radiating from her swollen, discolored ankle, Sibylla dragged herself along while leaning against the outer wall for support.

She couldn’t seek aid. While an ordinary soul unafflicted by curses might have garnered sympathy elsewhere within Hyperion’s confines, Sibylla appeared as nothing more than a diseased outcast swathed in bandages within this impoverished slum devoid of human compassion.

Thus, the only recourse available was to grit her teeth and persevere through the anguish threatening to drive tears from her eyes, somehow striving to escape these wretched environs where none would heed her plight.

If she couldn’t leave the slums, she couldn’t seek the police’s assistance – the authorities didn’t dare to tread within these lawless warrens.

Yet if she could somehow break free and ask for help…

“…”

When had the world ever shown her such beauty and benevolence?

Slumping to the rain-drenched street, Sibylla slowly shook her head.

With her legs too severely injured to walk, let alone flee these slums, it had been sheer fortune that she had managed to escape the Court of Miracles at all.

When had her shoes been discarded – during the initial abduction, upon arrival at the Court, or during her escape attempt? She couldn’t recall, only the vivid sensation of the cold, unyielding pavement beneath her bandage-wrapped soles persisting.

“…”

Perhaps she should resign herself to oblivion.

For what purpose did she still struggle so vainly onward, Sibylla Thérèse?

What would change even if she pathetically clung to life, only to eke out a wretched existence wracked by constant pain and hardship?

“Silence…!!”

Rebuking that despairing inner voice urging capitulation, Sibylla forcibly hauled her leaden frame upright through sheer willpower.

For what purpose did she struggle? For what purpose did she tenaciously grasp at life? Was that not self-evident?

“Dorothy…”

She still harbored lingering attachments, reasons to live.

Though raised by her sworn enemy, Dorothy’s existence held profound, unshakable significance for Sibylla that transcended blood relations.

A bond suspended between reconciliation and irrevocable severance, frozen in ambiguous stasis before reaching its inevitable conclusion.

To end that unfinished tale, she couldn’t simply perish here in such ignominious fashion. She must not surrender.

“I shall… go to you…”

Bang-!!

Yet Sibylla’s steps faltered before she could proceed further.

“You’ve come further than I thought. I believed the people of Orléans had no tenacity.”

Because her pursuers had at last caught up.

“Phew… I should get rid of this cane soon.”

The man casually twirled some form of smoldering rod or cane, smoke trailing from its tip.

“Shall we take care of her right away?”

“Hey, hey, people are watching. Let’s go somewhere secluded and take care of it. I’m about to get neurosis from smelling too much blood, so strangle or break her neck clean without any unseemly spillage.”

“Aye, I could do without whiffing any more of that cloying stink for a good while myself.”

The searing agony of the gunshot piercing her side, trauma her psyche could scarcely process.

“But were you not already out the moment you fired? With a hole blown clean through…”

“Oh, geez, look at my state of mind.”

Her body reflexively keeling over, the men’s voices resounding in her ears as a scorching metallic object pressed against the base of her skull.

“Could just off her right quick if you’re that squeamish. Only gonna draw more heat the longer we linger.”

She had to go, had to reach-

Dorothy, she had to go to-

“Well, don’t hold too much of a grudge. Weren’t our intention to slay a Princess, truth be told.”

Unable to discern whether the man’s parting remark was mocking or sincere, Sibylla closed her eyes in resignation tinged with regret that she hadn’t listened more intently when given the chance.

Clang!!

Yet no matter how much time elapsed, the anticipated shattering of her skull never manifested.

“…?”

That distinctly grating screech of friction – Sibylla belatedly realized it was utterly unlike the report of gunfire.

However, before she could ponder the anomaly’s source, a sensation of weightless buoyancy enveloped her accompanied by wafting warmth and a gentle zephyr.

“What… happened…?”

Upon opening her eyes, her vision was consumed by a drearily overcast sky weeping intermittent drizzles.

A world drained of color, rendering everything in monochrome shades of black and white.

An obedient child.

The boy had frequently received such praise since his earliest recollections.

From family, neighbors and friends alike.

Most, particularly adults, had viewed the boy’s deferential conduct favorably – for a polite, well-mannered child was a rarity amid the harsh environments of the slums. Even without considering such mitigating circumstances, a naturally courteous and compliant child tended to be praised anywhere.

Yet there had been one sole exception. The boy’s only friend who hadn’t appreciated his subdued, acquiescent demeanor.

That friend had implored the boy not to mindlessly defer to others, but to forge his own narrative and experiences.

So what had been the outcome when the boy had endeavored to rebel against obedience, to blaze his own trail?

Kill me.

The adult had trampled upon the child.

Kill me.

The downtrodden child had lost his dreams.

Kill me kill me kill me

The child had borrowed his friend’s help, and:

Kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me 

The two hands became the Evans knot that tightened around the child’s neck.

Killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmewnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnjwnrduwnj

Once again, the child lying face down.

Once again, confronting death’s door.

Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

“E-Esmeralda…!!!”

“Cough-“

It was Quasimodo’s frantic shaking and grasping of her shoulders that enabled Dorothy to narrowly break free from her trauma-induced panic attack.

“Cough…  hah… hah… where is…”

“A-Are you alright? Y-Your face just now…”

“…I’m fine.”

Accompanying that reply destined to fall upon deaf ears, Dorothy cradled the unconscious Sibylla.

“E-Esmeralda!?”

She then transferred Sibylla into Quasimodo’s arms while scrawling an address upon his palm:

[11 Sangsong Street, right now.]

“S-Surely you don’t intend to, to go alone, do you…?”

Quasimodo had sought to dissuade her upon comprehending her intentions, yet the instant their eyes met, he realized:

“…I understand. S-Sangsong Street, Sangsong…”

Those weren’t the eyes of one seeking to protect someone, but of one intent on inflicting harm.

“I will definitely, e-even at the cost of my life, attend to, the Princess…!!”

“…”

With a solemn nod acknowledging Quasimodo’s hurried departure resonating with heavy footfalls, Dorothy turned to face the gawking Bastards.

“…You all have poor eyesight.”

No, Arachne blankly faced the mongrels staring dumbly in her direction.

“…Truth be told, humans and weeds seem scarcely distinguishable upon closer inspection.”

Resilient blights sprouting anew with each futile trampling.

“…Annoying.”

Their presence is inevitable without stringent countermeasures.

Thus, the spider could only unfurl her silken strands once more.