The Maid of the Cursed Princess

A slave is not human.

The youth who had once been a Prince learned that immutable truth while confined within dank underground cells, whipped mercilessly, and licking bread crumbs mixed with dust off the floor.

Not a person, but a mere commodity to be bought and sold on a whim – a tool obligated to obey its master’s every word.

Fidgeting with the dog collar cinched around his throat, Ruslan reminded himself of this truth.

“…”

The reason Ruslan decided to return to the Court of Miracles despite hearing his colleagues’ eyewitness accounts was disarmingly simple.

Intuition. A flash of premonition that illuminated his mind when faced with danger.

Ruslan is not one to place much stock in intuition. Unless blessed with the keen instincts of a beast, his intuition was average, perhaps even duller than that of ordinary folk.

Yet sometimes there comes a moment when he yearns to entrust himself to such intuition. For instance, at this very juncture.

And usually, his intuition that normally only made useless flails would particularly work well at those times and save his life…

“…”

…But that was merely a pretext.

There existed a genuine reason. Though Ruslan himself would likely never realize it in his lifetime.

“You… bastards…!! You think you’ll escape retribution for this…!!!”

“If Hyperion hadn’t transformed into a sea of flames, we might have been apprehended. But what can we do? It’s become a situation where anyone’s demise wouldn’t be out of place.”

The scene of the slums revisited was truly hell incarnate.

For the maggots of the mud pit, long despised and scorned, began to shed their last shred of humanity along with the burning city and burst forth with their pent-up desires.

Brawling, plundering, murdering without compunction.

As if liberated from some unseen shackle, everyone was reveling in madness.

“…The Court of Miracles.”

Ruslan traversed this inferno and approached a building slightly removed from the all-consuming flames.

It seemed that Clopân Trouillefou’s reputation hadn’t been forgotten even in this state of affairs, as the Court of Miracles stood inviolate under the strict guard of sturdy men.

Of course, no matter how vigilant their guard, infiltrating without detection was child’s play for Ruslan.

“What’s transpiring outside? It seems more tumultuous than usual…”

“Judging by the brightness beyond, I wonder if a conflagration has erupted somewhere?”

Listening to the conversations of ailing elders, Ruslan thoroughly searched the interior of the Court of Miracles, concealing himself amidst the shadows.

He occasionally made eye contact with denizens, but whether they were out of their minds or because they had fought against the mongrels who had invaded the Court of Miracles before, most feigned blindness to his presence.

Thanks to this, Ruslan was able to complete his search with ease.

“…She’s not here.”

And at the same time, he could realize that he had failed.

Princess Sibylla wasn’t present anywhere within the Court of Miracles – his comrade’s statements couldn’t be attributed to mere delusion after all.

Which meant she must indeed be secreted away at the Fontaine villa his compatriots had relocated toward instead. All the credit for completing the mission given by the mistress would go to them.

“…”

While Ruslan himself awaited only his mistress’s punishment – the terrifying, soul-rending, maddening torments.

Her touch, her long nails on his neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, and below—

“…?”

Ruslan, who had been unconsciously grasping at the dog collar that felt particularly suffocating, suddenly sensed something amiss.

He had searched every nook and cranny of the Court of Miracles. There wasn’t a single door he hadn’t opened or room he hadn’t entered.

“…Where’s Clopân?”

Where is the King of the Court of Miracles?

* * *

By the time the assassins had traced the carriage’s trail leading to the Fontaine villa, it was already well past the hour when most people would have retired to their beds.

Especially for elderly individuals who are more susceptible to slumber. So, to prepare for any potential inconvenience, the assassins bided their time until the chief chamberlain and Madame Fontaine succumbed to sleep.

Moreover, while Madame Fontaine might be just an ordinary person, if the chamberlain who had bested Ruslan before remained wide awake, it was evident that assassinating the Princess would be significantly impeded.

Only once verifying both their targets had withdrawn into their personal chambers did the assassins commence their thorough search of the entire domicile for the Princess.

The villa wasn’t particularly expansive for an Orléans noble’s abode. For the assassins, accustomed to the bleak landscape of Königsberg and the cramped interiors of densely packed edifices due to uncontrolled development, even this seemed capacious.

These were individuals capable of unearthing every secret without missing even a single rodent in 20 minutes alone in a grand mansion. With not just one, but eight people, searching such a modest villa was child’s play.

Thus, after about 5 minutes of scrutinizing every corner that even the villa’s owners or managing servants would rarely frequent, the assassins communicated through hand signals and reached the same conclusion.

Princess Sibylla wasn’t present anywhere on these villa grounds.

Had the eyewitness reports provided inaccurate intelligence after all? Was the information that the Princess had headed to the Fontaine family villa in the suburbs by carriage not certain?

Everyone’s gaze turned to one place, the person who had brought that eyewitness account, and the assassin desperately shook his head, claiming innocence.

He insisted that the person was definitely Princess Sibylla, and he had heard the chamberlain and his family addressing her as ‘Princess’.

He also clearly heard the chamberlain’s words about going to the Fontaine family villa, the assassin explained.

If all those observations were accurate, then where precisely was the Princess’s current location?

As the assassin was about to turn his head to avoid the sharp gazes and questioning of his colleagues, his eyes suddenly caught sight of something beyond the window.

[Over there – look over there!]

The assassins simultaneously looked in the direction their colleague was pointing, and they could see a person wrapped in bandages from head to toe, wearing a shabby robe, walking in the backyard with their back to the moonlight.

Seeing this, the assassins, as if by some unspoken agreement, silently headed to the backyard.

Was there any possibility that it might not be Princess Sibylla?

There was no such possibility. The assassins thought simultaneously.

The robe bearing the mark of the family of Orléans and the bandages covering the entire body. Who else in Orléans would be dressed like that other than the Princess?

Which only left one remaining question – who among them would personally deliver the fatal stroke?

The assassins looked at each other. Usually, they carried out missions alone, so there had never been a situation where so many people aimed for the neck of a single target at the same time.

Should I step forward? Or should I hold back? Because there was no particular hierarchy and everyone was treated equally, the assassins conversely couldn’t easily step forward.

Of course, such hesitation was only momentary. They were assassins, not novices who couldn’t do anything without detailed orders.

The assassin who stepped forward first approached the Princess slowly, just as they had always done. So that she wouldn’t hear even the faintest sound, let alone sense their presence.

Slowly, carefully. Finally, the back of the Princess walking in the backyard grew closer and closer.

Just as the Princess seemed to sense something and was about to turn around, the assassin grabbed her body and stabbed a dagger into her chest.

Clang—!!

…

“…???”

An utterly inexplicable sound followed, the assassins felt perplexed.

Was that… the noise typically accompanying the act of stabbing someone with a knife?

For veteran assassins with extensive experience in killing people, they all knew what sound it makes when a dagger tears through human flesh.

The sound of flesh tearing, the sound of blood oozing out, the sound of the victim’s breath escaping like a punctured balloon without even being able to scream.

Yet not a single one of those sickeningly familiar sounds had manifested – at least, that inorganic metallic clang shouldn’t have been made.

“…!!??”

And the one who tried to stab the Princess with the dagger, the assassin who aimed precisely for the heart and thrust the weapon, was even more astonished than his colleagues.

For the sharp dagger had mercilessly shattered into pieces. And by the Princess’s supposedly unprotected bare hand, at that.

Can an ordinary person break a dagger with their bare hands alone? No, even someone with strong grip strength and thick skin, could they grasp a dagger with their hand, shatter it to pieces, and remain unwounded?

At least under the common sense he knew, it was impossible. Even Ruslan couldn’t show off such a feat with his bare hands.

Suddenly, a question flashed through the assassin’s mind.

Was Princess Sibylla truly… someone like that?

Of course, the world is wide and there are many eccentrics, so somewhere in the world there might be someone who could break a dagger with their bare hands without shedding a drop of blood.

But the assassin could assert that at least it wouldn’t be Princess Sibylla. How could a royal woman, already sickly and curse-ravaged, perform like that?

And the logically stemming question that followed.

If Princess Sibylla wasn’t such an eccentric, how could she perform such a feat?

Rather – was she even the real Princess to begin with…?

Thunk.

“Gkkkhh—-“

The assassin’s revelations couldn’t continue beyond that.

Because an elongated staff, no, a sword stick that had appeared from who knows where, accurately pierced through his brainstem.

“I suppose even Königsberg’s vaunted murder machines harbor a surprisingly naive side.”

Nonchalantly throwing aside the assassin’s corpse, the woman they thought was the Princess took off her mask and tore off the bandages on her face as if ripping them off.

“Swallowing such transparent bait hook, line, and sinker.”

Revealing a short raven hair, rather than any semblance of Orléans’s royal family.

“Isn’t that right, Lord Chamberlain?”

“I can’t help but agree.”

The King of the Court of Miracles disguised as the Princess. And the chief chamberlain who emerged from their collective blindspots simultaneously.

“In that case…”

Only then did the remaining assassins comprehend the inescapable reality.

“Let’s partake in this dance under the moonlight’s soft caress together, shall we?”

They had been utterly deceived – ensnared by the most artfully fabricated lure.