The Maid of the Cursed Princess

It had become increasingly commonplace for commoners of sufficient wealth and influence to ascend to the position of chief of police in Orléans.

Particularly after the bourgeois capitalists began to wield greater sway, the nobility’s presence in the role of Police Chief had waned considerably.

Rather than being forcibly ousted, it was as though the nobility had conceded the position with an air of ‘here, take this and leave us be’. Consequently, the capital’s constabulary found themselves in closer alignment with the capitalist faction.

“You’ve prepared a gift for me? All of you?”

“Indeed, Chief.”

Thus, when Baron Auguste de Montferrand, a noble and central aristocrat no less, assumed the mantle of Police Chief, reactions proved quite diverse.

Certain capitalists raised a clamor, decrying the nobility’s apparent attempt to reclaim their dominion, while others voiced more muted apprehensions.

Yet their concerns ultimately failed to materialize into any substantive grievances.

“Rather than squandering your generosity on one such as myself, already blessed with both wealth and title, you ought to bestow gifts upon your own kith and kin. Why this unnecessary…”

“Don’t say such things, Chief. Is not your son’s natal day fast approaching? We’ve included some playthings that the youth of today favor.”

“My son has seen fifteen summers, wait, I say, you lot, cease this pushing! I shall manage it myself!”

Baron Montferrand was not a typical noble who discriminated based on social standing.

He was a man who neither looked down upon nor disregarded his subordinates, but rather attended to and cared for each with kindness and benevolence.

There existed no officer of the law who did not hold such an ideal superior in high regard. Even if he stood as part of the establishment they sought to overthrow.

Furthermore, while his central leanings indeed aligned with that faction’s platforms, he fundamentally remained a royalist stalwart, steadfastly devoted to the crown.

Unable to fully endorse the capitalists’ reformist demands, yet unwavering in his loyalty toward the Crown Prince spearheading those bourgeois reformist interests.

It was this multifaceted character that allowed the Baron to garner such profound trust and respect.

“Well… Hm?”

And at the same moment.

“Why did my back suddenly give out? Someone, could you illuminate the… Mmph!?”

It was also the reason his name was inscribed upon the centralists’ death list.

“Mmph!! Mmmmph!!!”

“Chief!? Chief—”

A grisly spectacle unfolded in the encompassing darkness.

“…”

Soon the commotion subsided, and the sole actor who emerged from the shadowy stage locked eyes with a colleague who materialized before him like a spectre, without emitting even the faintest sound.

“I came to rendezvous with you, Ruslan. The Chief?”

“Handled.”

With blood-drenched fingertips, Ruslan methodically struck through a name inscribed upon that fateful notepad.

“The other targets?”

“Our confederates have departed to dispatch them. Once their designated quarry are eliminated, they shall converge upon either the Crown Prince or Princess next.”

“I see.”

The name etched at the very apex of the death list, and the name scrawled at its very nadir.

“Are you bound for the Court of Miracles, or the Fontaine family villa?”

“The Court of Miracles.”

“…Are you certain?”

Intelligence had been received of a carriage arriving before the Fontaine family mansion, and a figure swathed in bandages from crown to sole emerging from the dwelling to board said conveyance.

It was unanticipated that the Princess would manifest from the Fontaine abode rather than the Court of Miracles where they had presumed her to be residing, yet it was not beyond the realm of plausibility. The Fontaine family, after all, was a noble house intimately connected to the royal lineage, the Head Chamberlain especially so.

“One of our own bore witness to the chamberlain fleeing the palace grounds with a figure bearing striking resemblance to the Princess in tow. Yet you insist upon scouring the Court of Miracles instead?”

“…”

Ruslan responded with a resolute nod, unwavering in his convictions despite his compatriot’s palpable skepticism.

“…If the mistress’s designs are thwarted this time, she’ll doubtless confine you to the bedchamber for no less than a month… Nay. You must possess knowledge beyond my ken.”

“…!”

“See? Your body trembles at the mere mention of the mistress.”

Witnessing Ruslan’s instinctive visceral terror at the mere mention of his mistress’s designation, that assassin could only shake his head with a weary sigh.

“Don’t worry, I won’t report about your solo action.”

“…Thank you.”

That dreaded household he wished never to return to, that terrifying mistress awaiting his homecoming.

If only he could never return.

“…”

Ruslan, who had been staring at the dagger in his hand, put it back inside his coat.

Because the life of the Slave Prince who had been robbed even of the courage to die was not his own.

* * *

Guillaume de Lusignan.

More commonly addressed as Viscount Lusignan, he hadn’t originated from central factional affiliations since birth.

Rather, in times past, he stood as a royalist of unparalleled loyalty among the central nobility. Surpassing even the chamberlain himself in uncompromising fealty toward the crown.

Not only that, but the entire Lusignan family was once zealously royalist. His sire had served as Minister of Finance under the current King, and even after the current King’s descent into madness and the Crown Prince’s ascension to power, relations between the Lusignan family and the royal family remained unscathed.

How did the paths of the Lusignan family and the royal family diverge so dramatically?

The backstory proved too labyrinthine to elucidate in but a few words, and mere contemplation of it engendered a throbbing ache in his temples.

Who betrayed first? The Viscount deemed there was little merit in scrutinizing the circumstances.

In the end, the Viscount and the Crown Prince, once steadfast comrades, had become irreparably estranged from one another, and now they found themselves with sword tips poised at each other’s throats.

“The central armies?”

“We can mobilize between 7,000 and 11,000 troops. If it were during the zenith of the war, we could have easily conscripted about 30,000…”

“That should suffice.”

The quantity of troops wasn’t entirely satisfactory, but the centralists were in no position to voice complaints. Rather, it was nothing short of miraculous that they had managed to amass such a force.

“And the police alongside the gendarmerie?”

“The capital’s constabulary amounts to around 3,500 men at most. As for the gendarmerie, their ranks cannot exceed 300.”

Originally, the gendarmerie existed as a rural law enforcement entity, charged with maintaining local order in lieu of the police. Had the issue of Hyperion’s public security vacuum not arisen, even those 300 or so would not have been present.

“Our chances?”

“Quite favorable. At least until we eliminate the Crown Prince. After that… in all honesty, it’s arduous to claim our prospects appear particularly auspicious.”

Subduing the poorly armed police and gendarmerie, as well as the royal guards who are little more than a ragtag assemblage, and aiming for the Crown Prince’s neck itself isn’t an insurmountable task. The quandary lies in what follows.

“…Can we even harbor hope of survival?”

“I can offer no such assurances.”

Can we endure in the face of the army that traversed the continent with the Crown Prince and the wrathful masses?

The Viscount deemed it improbable. Whether their heads are severed by the guillotine or their bodies rent asunder, preservation of life seemed an unlikely outcome.

“Yet we cannot simply expire in silence, can we?”

Despite comprehending this stark reality, the nobles had resolved to unsheathe their blades nevertheless.

Whether they perish slowly suffocating or torn to pieces, in the end, death remains constant.

“Comrades, we must draw our swords.”

In Orléans, which had only recently washed away the vestiges of war.

“For tonight shall become the Night of Swords.”

The time had arrived to bathe these shores in fresh blood once more.

* * *

“Father.”

Sprawled limply upon his bedchambers, the current King blankly stared into the void.

Next to the King’s bed, the Crown Prince held his father’s hand tightly with both of his own, gazing intently at his countenance.

“It’s Charles, your eldest son.”

How long had it been since he had engaged in a tête-à-tête with the current King, with his father?

Since he descended into madness, nay, even before his mental faculties waned, the Crown Prince hadn’t been able to conduct a proper discourse with his father.

Unlike his other siblings, the eldest son destined to inherit the throne was raised with stern discipline by his father, and as the firstborn, he was dispatched to the battlefield as soon as he came of age.

They had conversed many times. As King and Crown Prince. As monarch and subject. As teacher and student.

But dialogues as father and son were scarce, occurring only when the Crown Prince was of tender years, and even those could be enumerated on a single hand.

“…Father.”

Had there ever been a moment when he felt so bereft of words?

The Crown Prince found himself at a loss, his tongue conspicuously leaden before his absent-minded father, despite never having faltered when confronting cunning nobles.

“…You cherished Louis and Sibylla immensely, didn’t you, Father?”

Two younger siblings, with but a slight age difference. Two siblings who grew up basking in the adoration of all Orléans, unlike himself who was raised under austere conditions.

“Perhaps you may soon lose both those cherished jewels you so adored, Father.”

Despite realizing his voice could never penetrate the miasma clouding his father’s consciousness, the Crown Prince spoke to the current King in hushed tones, as if confessing a transgression.

“For one of them…”

The Crown Prince couldn’t bring himself to add ‘might be shattered by my own hands.’

“…I only hope it doesn’t come to that.”

What is it that renders him so vulnerable?

Is it the familial affection he thought had long since withered, or is it self-loathing for being unable to form attachments to anything?

“..Still, there is one piece of heartening news.”

Even though he knew it would fall on deaf ears, the Crown Prince added, as if tendering an excuse:

“There is someone who desires Sibylla.”

Recalling the maid with crimson eyes, who had boldly requested Sibylla’s custody before him, the Crown Prince said:

“Although, this person would hardly meet Father’s approval…”

A pauper, an orphan, a murderer… and a woman no less. Someone with myriad flaws as a prospective son-in-law, but.

“Yet the only person who can accept Sibylla as she is now without any hesitation.”

Simultaneously, the sole individual capable of embracing his sister’s curse.

“Your Highness, a rebellion has erupted.”

“…I shall take my leave for now, Father.”

Bertier’s urgent summons prompted the Crown Prince to rise, concluding his soliloquy that wavered between confession and justification.

And as the Crown Prince departed those tenebrous chambers engulfed in somber silence-

“…S…l…a…”

The old King’s fingers began to twitch, ever so slightly.