"Hillen?"
"Are you talking about the woman who came here supported by a child?"
"That's right! She was being helped to walk. Her hair was braided on both sides and twisted intricately at the back... Her name is Hillen?"
"Yes. I'm certain it's Hillen."
It was strange.
The name I remembered from my past life was Tirena.
That peculiar hairstyle... that profile... they look so familiar.
In my previous life, Tirena had been one of Kavala's closest maids—staying at her side like a shadow for years.
Did I mistake Hillen for someone who just looks like Tirena?
I asked Alex several more questions about Hillen.
He explained everything he knew in detail.
"She's the younger sister of a knight named Andrew. I heard she's been ill for a very long time and rarely leaves her house."
"Ah... I see..."
Was I seeing things wrong?
I hoped so.
But the sense of vigilance wouldn't completely disappear.
I thought carefully about the chronological order.
The first time I encountered Tirena in the palace was after Callius died and Ronheim fell.
It was entirely possible that Hillen had fled to Arrental after Ronheim's collapse and changed her name to Tirena.
Alex said she was sick now, but she might recover in the future.
The possibility still existed.
What made me so certain was her hair.
From the first moment I'd seen it, I'd thought her hairstyle was remarkable.
That had never been a fashionable style in Arrental. The knotwork was unique and exotic—something that had caught my eye immediately.
Even if it's a common hairstyle in Ronheim, I've never seen anyone else here wearing it that way.
Looking at that intricate arrangement, I'd thought it was something I could never replicate myself—not if I spent my entire life learning. It had seemed impossibly complicated.
I was just staring at it absently at the time, not thinking much of it... I can't believe I remember it so clearly now.
Besides, as I recalled, Tirena had been tall—like a typical northerner.
The Hillen I'd seen yesterday had seemed average height among Ronheim's people. If she went south to Arrental, she would definitely be considered tall there.
Similar faces. Similar builds. Identical hairstyles. Can all of that really be coincidence?
But if Hillen was Tirena... how could she have gone to Arrental's capital and become Kavala's close maid?
I didn't know the details—I hadn't been interested in politics after marrying Viscount Pelsus—but I vaguely remembered hearing that after Ronheim completely collapsed, its people scattered abroad.
After all, it would have been better to seek refuge in another country than drift into Arrental, the enemy empire.
There's also a tendency in Arrental to look down on Ronheim's people...
So why would Hillen—a woman from Ronheim—go to Arrental's capital and become Kavala's personal maid?
Unless there was some kind of connection beforehand, it's hard to believe it happened by chance.
I felt compelled to find out if there was any connection between her and Kavala.
Even if it doesn't exist yet, it might form soon.
I checked with Alex again.
"You said Hillen is Sir Andrew's sister?"
"Yes, that's correct."
I thought I knew who Andrew was.
He was the knight who had been particularly wary of me—the one who gave me sharp, suspicious glares. He stood out even among the other knights who distrusted me.
I need to keep an eye on Sir Andrew.
But Callius was fiercely proud of his men and cared for them deeply. I didn't think he would appreciate me saying Andrew was suspicious without any solid evidence.
Once I'm certain, I should organize my thoughts and speak to Callius carefully.
Even I wasn't sure yet whether Hillen truly was Tirena, or if they just happened to share similar features.
In this situation, it seemed premature to bring such suspicions to Callius.
Once I recover some energy, I'll investigate more thoroughly with Lamia's help.
Until this point, I'd thought I was just suffering from a bad cold.
The doctor who examined me earlier had said I was in good health overall. Callius had assured me I would soon adapt to Ronheim's cold.
I believed that after a few days of rest, I would soon be back on my feet.
But the time I spent bedridden only increased day by day.
About a week after Chloe had fallen ill, Lamia began feeling threatened by a recent string of minor accidents.
Strangely, bad things keep happening one after another...
Whether coincidence or not, dangerous incidents occurred around her several times a day.
For example—what was happening right now.
Lamia sensed an ominous presence above her head and quickly threw herself to the side, rolling across the ground.
Chloe's freshly laundered clothes flew out of the basket she'd been carrying and scattered everywhere in the violent movement.
CRASH!
A heavy flowerpot fell from above with a terrible noise, shattering exactly where Lamia had been standing moments before.
"..."
Lamia stared at the broken remains of the pot, her mind racing.
If I'd moved even a second later, my head would have been crushed. I could have died.
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest.
"Who's there?!"
She looked up and shouted, furious.
But there was no one visible behind the only open window on the fourth floor.
It looked as though someone had dropped the flowerpot and immediately fled.
This was clearly intentional.
Lamia was certain.
Because as far as she knew, there were no flowerpots anywhere inside Ronheim Castle.
In this cold, windy country, there was no culture of growing plants in pots on windowsills. The fierce winds made it dangerous to place anything that might fall, and there weren't suitable plants for growing indoors anyway.
Though Ronheim had several mysterious flowers that bloomed even in the dead of winter, most grew in clusters across the vast snowy fields—not in pots.
Lamia had learned this while trying to prepare a potted flower for Chloe, who was confined to her room.
A few days ago, Chef Latina had given her a tip when she'd been about to transplant some pretty winter flowers into a pot.
"Despite their hardiness, Ronheim's flowers wither in less than a day once removed from the soil where they've taken root. It would be better to simply pick them and display them in a vase."
When Lamia had told Chloe that, her mistress had been amazed.
"They can't survive without the land where they've rooted... Even Ronheim's flowers are so deeply Ronheim. How romantic."
Anyway, for that reason, Lamia was absolutely certain: if a flowerpot had been dropped from a window in Ronheim—where no one even grew potted plants—it had been intentional.
Besides, this wasn't the first or second time something like this had happened over the past few days.
Someone is trying to assassinate me.
Lamia gritted her teeth and resolved to find whoever was behind this.
That's when it happened again.
This time, someone shoved Lamia hard from behind as she descended a staircase.
"Ah!"
But Lamia—who had been sharpening her senses constantly—had already anticipated that something like this might occur. She twisted mid-air and landed in a perfect crouch.
It was a flawless recovery.
No longer surprised, she whipped around and glared up at the landing where she'd been standing.
"Who's there?!"
Again—no one.
Lamia grumbled under her breath, yanked off her apron, and threw it to the floor.
Then she quickly rolled up her sleeves and charged back up the stairs.
"Oh, that's IT! Let's settle this NOW!"
Her movements were so nimble and efficient that anyone watching would have thought she was a well-trained knight.
But Lamia had never received formal training. She was simply angry.
Moving on pure survival instinct and single-minded determination to catch the culprit, that kind of agility came naturally.
She shouted into the empty hallway.
"I saw you! I SAW YOU!"
At first glance, it seemed like an empty threat.
But Lamia was staring at one very specific spot.
"Why are you trying to kill me, Granada?"
Granada silently emerged from the shadows of the hallway—a place where no one should have been able to hide.
Lamia glared at her sharply and took an attacking stance.
"The accidents that almost killed me these past few days—they were ALL your doing, weren't they?"
Granada lifted her chin slightly, her expression bland.
"You're quick-witted, Lamia."
She didn't seem to have any intention of denying it.
If she'd wanted to lie, she wouldn't have revealed herself from her hiding place in the first place.
Lamia's hand drifted toward the small knife she kept hidden in her skirt—a blade no one knew she carried.
"Why? Why are you doing this to me?"
"Well..."
Granada asked an odd question, her expression genuinely puzzled.
"You didn't tell the lady that I was trying to kill you. Why not?"
"I didn't want to worry her unnecessarily—especially not right now. Besides, I don't understand your intentions. You have far better ways to harm me if you truly wanted to."
Lamia knew that Granada was a former assassin. Granada herself had told her as much.
If Granada had genuinely wanted Lamia dead, she could have killed her long ago.
There had been countless opportunities.
But instead, Granada was doing something cumbersome—something that didn't have a high success rate—rather than using simple, direct methods.
"Why are you acting like some mischievous teenager playing pranks?"
To be continued...
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