"Why are you laughing?"
Brentian felt genuinely aggrieved, believing Granada was dismissing his legitimate concerns too lightly.
"This isn't merely rumor or paranoia. I distinctly heard the sound of metal striking metal from inside that doll. There must be something dangerous concealed within it. Don't take this casually—be vigilant. We don't know what the Princess might attempt..."
Granada cut him off mid-sentence.
"Brentian, have you actually seen the lady's body?"
"What...?"
"Even if she charged at someone with all her strength, wielding whatever blade you imagine she's hiding, not a single person in Ronheim would have cause for genuine concern."
"Granada, despite her appearance, she's still Idelian nobility. Contrary to how she looks, she might harbor hidden agendas. It's wisest to remain cautious..."
Granada genuinely doubted whether Chloe possessed the physical capacity to stab anyone with those thin arms and delicate hands that appeared utterly devoid of muscle.
Stabbing a person requires considerably more strength and technical skill than most people imagine.
With Chloe's evident lack of physical power, she'd struggle to penetrate even muscle tissue, let alone bone.
That girl can't even lift a bathing basket without assistance. Who exactly could she physically threaten?
She probably couldn't even cut a carrot with any competence.
Granada had been thinking about this throughout the entire bathing process.
There must have been servants attending her at the Arrental Palace. Why in heaven's name is she so painfully thin and weak?
She'd been so concerned that she'd genuinely wondered if the girl might be suffering from some wasting illness.
Granada patted Brentian's shoulder with something approaching fond exasperation.
"You overthink situations to the point where you miss what's genuinely important."
"Ah..."
Brentian released a sigh of profound frustration.
He'd heard that assessment somewhere before—multiple times, in fact.
Both Lhasa and Granada had told him the same thing, yet he couldn't comprehend how they reached such conclusions when he examined his own reasoning.
Feeling defensive and irritated, Brentian fired back at Granada:
"Then allow me to say something in return. Granada, you're far too lenient toward those who present as weak. You seem to have been completely fooled by the Princess's delicate appearance and are taking far too lightly the fact that she carries Idelian royal blood."
He became so agitated that he ended up voicing something he absolutely shouldn't have:
"Do not forget who murdered the person you once served. The Idelian royal family is our enemy—our mortal enemy."
"..."
Granada looked at Brentian without speaking, her expression unreadable.
Brentian, meeting those calm gray eyes, belatedly realized his catastrophic error.
Oh no.
But the water had already been spilled—there was no retrieving those words now.
Granada spoke with devastating calm:
"How could I possibly forget? With every single step I take on this prosthetic leg, I relive that day's events more vividly than anyone else ever could."
Her weathered eyes turned slightly red at the corners.
She swallowed repeatedly, as though her throat had closed with emotion.
"Don't presume that simply because your wounds cause you pain, someone else's hurt any less. Everyone's own wounds hurt the most—to them."
"...I was thoughtless and cruel. I sincerely apologize."
"Yes. I know you are sorry."
She soon returned to her characteristically rigid, expressionless demeanor and straightened her posture with visible effort.
"And incidentally—even if parents are murderers, there's no guarantee whatsoever that their children will become murderers as well."
"Statistical evidence suggests that children of criminals are substantially more likely to become criminals themselves."
"I wonder if those same statistical results would hold under conditions where society didn't brand them on the forehead and subject them to constant public condemnation from birth."
"...Regardless of philosophy, it won't harm us to exercise appropriate caution. I've clearly issued my warning."
Brentian spoke in a deliberately stern tone, then turned and departed without waiting for response.
There were numerous people in Ronheim Castle who—no matter how mature they typically behaved—couldn't entirely conceal their childish tendencies when interacting with Granada.
Alex, who'd been keeping silent and carefully observing both parties' expressions throughout this exchange, nodded respectfully to Granada and followed Brentian down the corridor.
I need to find somewhere to extract my treasure and hide it properly.
I examined the teddy bear and cushion with serious consideration.
Alex and Brentian had definitely noticed something suspicious about their unusual weight.
Where can I possibly hide my treasure without anyone discovering it?
The staff at Ronheim Castle harbored deep animosity toward me, and I couldn't trust my own maids—it was a genuinely difficult situation.
While I wrestled with this problem, Granada returned to the room.
I watched her closely, desperately hoping to glean some clue about what Brentian might have said to her during their corridor conversation.
But Granada showed no outward sign of anything unusual. She simply helped me into my nightgown and dried my damp hair thoroughly.
I observed Granada through the mirror as she silently combed my hair. Just when I thought she was completely absorbed in the task, she spoke:
"If you have a question, ask it with confidence. If you've been offended, voice your displeasure with confidence. You possess the position and authority to do so."
"...!"
How could someone be so refreshingly direct about such things?
Her gray eyes met mine unflinchingly through the mirror's reflection. I awkwardly looked away, pretending I hadn't noticed anything amiss.
She spoke again with firm insistence:
"Don't avoid eye contact. State clearly what you want."
"I—I'm sorry."
I felt a reflexive pang of guilt and apologized automatically, but she immediately corrected me with stern precision:
"It's extremely poor practice to apologize for matters that don't warrant apology. It spoils the servants and diminishes your authority."
"Ah... I understand."
She was absolutely correct. I'd been determined not to over-apologize, yet here I was falling into old patterns again.
It's genuinely difficult for people to change ingrained habits.
I'd asked her to train my maids, and instead she was training me.
Granada set down her comb and asked directly:
"So. What did you want to ask me?"
I was deeply hesitant to discuss Brentian—a fellow Ronheimer—with her. But I felt instinctively that I'd face worse consequences if I remained silent.
I was genuinely intimidated by her directness.
"Viscount Brentian..."
But when I actually voiced his name, I found myself confused about what precisely to say.
Should I ask if Brentian finds my doll suspicious? If he dislikes me personally? If he doubts my intentions?
The answers are obvious just from observation. Why would I need to ask?
When I hesitated too long, Granada nodded as though she understood my unspoken concern perfectly.
Instead of pressing me to articulate my worries, she simply stated her position:
"The Viscount behaved rudely. I made that fact abundantly clear to him, so such discourtesy won't occur again."
I felt genuinely taken aback. Was that truly what she'd said during their corridor conversation?
Granada's expression remained absolutely firm and unwavering.
Observing her steadfast demeanor, I concluded that she couldn't possibly be lying.
Even though this was only my first day knowing her, I could tell with absolute certainty that deception wasn't in her nature.
"Thank you."
"He doesn't trust you, my lady. Not even slightly. Every single action you take will seem suspicious to him. As you're well aware, just over a dozen years ago, we lost countless irreplaceable people to the Arrental army."
"..."
"I don't believe I need to explain at length what I'm referring to."
"I understand perfectly."
"Excellent."
I'd sensed it from our very first meeting, but I remained surprised by Granada's remarkably bold personality—the way she voiced such harsh truths directly to my face without softening them.
"For precisely that reason, it's entirely inevitable that Viscount Brentian would remain wary of you, my lady. It's literally his responsibility to quickly identify and prepare countermeasures for any potential threats to Ronheim. However, today's specific actions crossed the line into genuine rudeness, so I trust you'll receive a proper apology eventually."
"Yes, I understand."
Granada nodded with satisfaction. Then, seemingly preparing to depart, she turned back toward me one final time:
"Incidentally, may I ask you something directly?"
"Yes? What is it?"
"Did you conceal a weapon inside that stuffed bear?"
I stared back at Granada with wide, startled eyes.
"A weapon? Did Viscount Brentian truly misunderstand so severely?"
I waved my hand dismissively, feeling oddly relieved that I hadn't been caught hiding treasure—merely accused of concealing armaments.
"That's absolutely not true. I don't even know how to handle weapons properly."
Granada nodded as though that answer fully satisfied her curiosity.
"From this moment forward, I will not permit anyone to touch items you treasure, my lady."
"Thank you so much."
"I'll take my leave now. If you require anything during the night, simply pull that rope beside your bed."
I lay down on the bed and pulled the thick blankets over myself.
My thoughts swirled chaotically.
What will my life be like here from now on?
The journey itself had been filled with relief and hope.
Relief at finally escaping Kavala and Andrea's reach. I felt certain that Andrea would never endure the arduous journey to Ronheim—the physical demands alone would defeat him.
Hope that I could truly start anew here.
But that tiresome label—"Idelian Princess"—had followed me like a curse.
It would be utterly useless to ask Callius to ensure people didn't misunderstand my intentions.
I must personally demonstrate to everyone here that I'm no longer the Princess of Idelian, but the Marchioness of Rodrian.
After spending these few days with the Ronheimers and listening carefully to their conversations, I'd realized that their use of "Princess" wasn't a title of respect—it was a pointed refusal to recognize me as the Marchioness of Rodrian.
I turned the problem over and over in my mind, contemplating what precisely I needed to do to earn their acceptance and be genuinely called Marchioness Rodrian.
But before I could formulate any concrete strategy, the soft, thick blankets—combined with my exhaustion from travel—lulled me toward sleep.
It was sweet, luxurious rest. It had been far too long since I'd slept in such a comfortable bed.
I fell into deep, dreamless sleep almost immediately.
Then suddenly, penetrating my sleep, I perceived an ominous red light flashing across my chest.
Hmm? What is that?
I rubbed my eyes groggily and looked again with more focus—but there was no light visible anywhere except the gentle flames in the fireplace.
Was I dreaming?
I felt so profoundly sleepy that my eyelids seemed weighted with lead.
I didn't think much more about it and allowed myself to drift back toward unconsciousness.
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