Chapter 18. Shattered to Pieces

“Drunken fool.”

The sharp voice slithered into my ears, dull and sluggish. My throat was parched, my head pounding.

“A reckless drunk with no sense.”

“Ugh… what… now…”

I managed to move my stiff lips just enough to mumble, and something cold pressed against my cheek.

“Hmph. I told you not to show off. That’s the kind of liquor only a lunatic like Ralpido would drink!”

I was lying on a bed. The mattress felt soft, cozy, and faintly scented with aromatherapy. The blanket was feather-light and comforting.

The cool sensation on my cheek disappeared, replaced by the faint rustling of movement. A quiet thud followed.

“There’s water on the nightstand. Drink it if you want, or don’t.”

The soft sound of the carpet muffling footsteps, then the careful closing of a door. The warmth of another presence faded away.

I struggled to open my heavy eyelids and groped blindly for the nightstand. My fingers brushed against a glass, and I chugged the cool water in desperate gulps.

‘Ahh… that’s better.’

The cold liquid soothed my parched throat, the sensation traveling down my chest like a refreshing stream. Feeling a bit more human, I pulled the blanket up and glanced around the room.

A single ornate chair, an empty console, and perfectly aligned wall art. The meticulous organization screamed of Ralpido’s domain.

‘…Still here, huh.’

With my senses returning, I knew I should get up… but…

‘I don’t want to move.’

The bed in my shabby inn was so stiff it left my shoulders aching, and the cold air seeped through the drafty windows. This bed was a luxury I hadn’t realized I missed.

Leaning into Ralpido’s hospitality for just a bit longer couldn’t hurt, could it? I decided to indulge myself with thirty more minutes. Just thirty.

Curling up like a hibernating bear, I sank back into the softness.

‘So warm…’

And drifted off once more.

❖　❖　❖

‘Where am I?’

This wasn’t the bedroom. The cold floor pressed against my bare feet. That sensation alone was vivid.

All around me was darkness. So deep that nothing could be seen.

“Sniff… hic…”

A breeze tousled my hair. A faint tang of salt lingered on my tongue. Was this the sea?

“Hic… sob… sniff…”

No. What I thought was the wind was the sound of sobbing.

And it wasn’t someone else.

It was me.

Tears soaked my cheeks. My clothes felt unbearably heavy, as if drenched in water. As I flailed, the darkness slowly lifted, revealing a faint light.

I was leaning against a balcony railing.

‘Is this a dream?’

I looked down at my hands. Familiar hands. The hands of Mine Molière, with the small mole between the thumb and index finger.

My heart thundered wildly, not with joy but with rage, shame, and humiliation.

‘This is… Mine’s memory.’

It felt surreal, like starring in a movie while also watching it unfold. Both helpless and omnipotent.

I remembered reading this part of the novel. A wave of déjà vu chilled me.

‘Think. Focus. Which scene is this?’

Mine, biting her lip until it bled, pulled back a heavy curtain slightly to peer into the grand ballroom.

Her gaze zeroed in on a woman standing at the center of the hall.

A woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to the king. Midnight-black hair, emerald-green eyes. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, but she carried the dignity and poise of royalty.

Her attire set her apart. She wore a pure white Doric chiton, reminiscent of a Greek goddess, with fabric that cascaded like rippling water and revealed a slit on one side. Her shoulders were fastened with emerald brooches matching her eyes, and atop her head rested a laurel crown.

With this, I knew exactly which part of ‘Bitten by a Mad Dog’ this was.

The woman, smiling serenely, exchanged pleasantries with high-ranking nobles. Then her eyes caught sight of Mine, hiding behind the curtain like a thief.

Without hesitation, she called out loudly, “Mine! Over here!”

The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward Mine. There was no escape now.

Reluctantly, she stepped out from behind the curtain, her movements stiff and awkward. Her tear-streaked face was a stark contrast to the elegance of the ballroom, prompting hushed whispers among the onlookers.

“Greetings to Princess Agnès,” Mine muttered, her voice trembling.

When Mine knelt in respect, the woman signaled with a glance for her to rise.

“Yes, my sister.”

The legitimate Princess Agnès Molière and the illegitimate Mine Molière.

Two women dressed identically stood face to face.

* * *

The Kingdom of Ingberri was one of the nations that best preserved the traditions of the fallen Ing Empire. Among these was an ancient practice of offering human sacrifices to the Sun God to pray for a bountiful harvest, which had been transformed into a theatrical reenactment performed every spring. This was known as the “Spring Martyrdom.”

The first martyr in the myth was the king himself. As the noblest of all, he offered himself on the altar, where the priest cut open his chest to extract his heart. It was said that white blood flowed from the wound for three days, saturating the earth and nurturing all life.

The “Spring Martyrdom” play mirrored this legend. The king would take part in the reenactment, lying on a stone altar at the climax. The priest, using a fake blade, would simulate the act of stabbing the king’s heart, and instead of blood, milk would spill onto the ground.

The role of the priest was usually given to one of the king’s children. Since the event was annual, the roles rotated, and the priest’s part was considered the highlight of the performance, making the selection order highly significant. Typically, the role was assigned to the king’s favored child.

Imagine how much Mine Molière, the long-ignored illegitimate daughter who had only recently entered the palace, yearned for that role.

Despite awakening as a mage and being treated as little more than a tool by the king, she had become one of his most indispensable children. And yet, she had never dared to voice her desire to play the priest. That was her position in the hierarchy.

But that year was different. The king, delighted by her conquest of the northwestern Newglia Archipelago, hinted at the possibility:

“You might get to play the priest this year!”

Mine’s heart swelled with hope.

When the time came, a maid brought her the script. Though her lines were few, she read the script repeatedly until it was worn.

She didn’t question why she wasn’t being fitted for costumes or participating in rehearsals with others. She wouldn’t have dared to ask, and even if she had, what answers would she have received?

The “Night of the Sun God” arrived. A maid brought her old, tattered clothes and crowned her with a wreath of withered laurel leaves. Even dressed so humbly, Mine was radiant. After all, this was to be the moment that proved her father’s affection.

“Oh my, look at that! The illegitimate child is dressed in the priest’s costume.”

But her fantasy soon shattered.

“Did she really think she’d be given the role? How laughable.”

“This isn’t just ridiculous; it’s insulting. She’s brought shame to Princess Agnès, who’s been chosen as the priest this year.”

“How shameless of her!”

“Princess Agnès treats her like a real sister, and now she’s completely overstepped.”

Mine must have fled to the balcony, trembling in betrayal as she cried. Perhaps she resolved to expose the injustice and confront Princess Agnès.

“Your Highness, please, I beg you to hear my grievance! Punish your maid for deceiving me!”

“What do you mean?”

Mine pointed an accusatory finger at the maid standing rigidly beside Agnès like a candle.

“That woman tricked me. She instructed my maid to deliver the ‘Spring Martyrdom’ script and dress me in these clothes.”

“Did you do this?” Agnès asked.

The maid, wearing a brazenly shameless expression, replied calmly, “That is not true.”

“So it isn’t.”

“Your Highness, please question my maid as well!”

The attendants promptly brought in Mine’s maid, but the outcome did not change.

“She expressed a desire to see the ‘Spring Martyrdom’ script, so I merely procured a copy. No one else was involved.”

“You insolent wretch! Confess the truth!”

Overcome with betrayal and rage, Mine struck her maid’s cheek.

“Aah! Please, spare me! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Mine. Compose yourself. This behavior is unseemly.”

“These two are in collusion! Your Highness, believe me! I never, ever coveted Your Highness’s role. I swear it…”

“Izelle has served me faithfully for over ten years. She is honorable and loyal. But you? I hardly know you.”

“Your Highness!”

“You don’t even attempt to engage with us.”

Agnès said “us.” Mine’s body tensed.

She was not part of Agnès’s “us.”

Agnès’s gaze was as cold as a glacier. The room fell deathly silent as she spoke in her solemn voice:

“Whose word should I trust?”