"Ow!"
At that moment, one of the maids cleaning the floor let out a sharp cry. She seemed startled by her own voice, immediately pressing her hand over her mouth and glancing around with wide eyes. It was clear she feared being reprimanded for disturbing the peace—making noise while working was an unforgivable breach of protocol.
"Did you cut yourself?"
"What? No! I thought I had, but there's no wound—it must have just been a prick."
The droplet that had collected on the tip of her finger wasn't blood after all, but wine. When she wiped her hand against her apron, her fingers came away clean. She wasn't lying. Good—at least she wasn't hurt.
"I'm sorry for adding to your workload."
"No, no, my lady!"
At my apology, the maid waved her hands in flustered confusion. By showing kindness even to a servant, I hoped it might shift people's perceptions—that perhaps Evangeline wasn't quite as terrible as they whispered. _I'm sorry I used you... My conscience won't let me rest..._
"You must be quite shaken as well, my lady. Perhaps you should rest until Sir Gabriel returns."
It wasn't shock I felt, but remorse. Mrs. Toten, however, assumed the former and, taking my arm gently, guided me toward a quieter corner of the hall. As we approached, even the few guests lingering there dispersed like startled birds. Just moments ago, they had seemed eager to speak with me—but upon witnessing the Duke's open hostility, they tucked their tails between their legs and pretended not to know me.
"I didn't expect Duke Hosakine to react so... crudely. I'm sorry I couldn't help you."
"Please don't worry about it."
As I'd promised Gabriel, I remained calmly in place, keeping myself unobtrusive. Soon, the same maid who had earlier asked if everything was alright timidly approached, offering me wine. _Clever girl._ Fear is best quelled with alcohol. Mrs. Toten and I accepted our glasses and touched the rims together in a silent toast.
"It tastes different from what we had before..."
Mrs. Toten took a sip and murmured this with mild bewilderment. Was it truly that noticeable? I tried a sip myself, but perhaps my palate was too unsophisticated to detect subtle variations. The wine seemed stronger than before—but then again, it might simply have been better aged.
When we finished our drinks and set down our glasses, the Crown Prince's Ball officially commenced. I felt utterly drained and wished only for it to end. Once again, I was filled with grudging respect for the protagonists of novels: navigating high society was proving far more exhausting than it ever appeared from the outside.
"The ball officially begins."
The Crown Prince descended from the dais, one of his twin daughters' hands clasped in his. The man considered the future emperor seemed oddly diminished among his children—both his son and the daughters who held no formal titles. They gathered in the center of the hall.
"That is Her Highness Jeremiah."
"Mrs. Toten, can you truly tell them apart?"
Identical golden hair. Blue eyes like twin sapphires. Matching outfits and hairstyles, as if they were reflections of one another. How could anyone distinguish between them?
"They are completely identical in appearance—even His Highness the Crown Prince, their own father, cannot always tell them apart."
_Even their parents struggle?_ Then how did Mrs. Toten manage it? Were her eyes truly that sharp? She smiled slightly and continued her explanation.
"Actually, once you know the secret, it's quite simple. They wear different decorations."
"Decorations?"
"When the twin Highnesses were born, His Majesty gifted them necklaces. Jeremiah received an emerald, and Her Highness Tenebrae was given black onyx."
Now it made sense. The girl standing beside the Crown Prince wore an emerald at her throat—Jeremiah. Easy to remember, once you knew to look.
Mrs. Toten added that they never removed these ornaments, not even while bathing. Simply by glancing at their necks, one could immediately tell who was who. Once you had the answer, distinguishing them wasn't difficult at all.
"My beloved daughter, would you honor your father's birthday with a melody?"
"With pleasure."
As the Crown Prince and Jeremiah took their starting positions, the orchestra adjusted to their movements and began playing in perfect unison. Dozens of instruments performing for just the two of them created a truly mesmerizing experience.
With each turn, each smooth circle across the floor, the lights in the hall began to dim one by one—as if it were part of a premeditated production. After the final spin, every light extinguished entirely. It seemed even the windows had been shuttered, because not the slightest glimmer of light was visible ahead.
_What kind of performance requires plunging the hall into complete darkness?_
The guests, caught off guard by the sudden blackness, began making noise—talking, stumbling, calling out in confusion. Someone beside me collided with another, there was a cry, a body swayed, and I instinctively reached out to steady them. At that moment, wine must have splashed onto me; my dress grew damp and heavy against my skin.
_Gabriel... your efforts to save my gown were in vain..._
"Lady Rohanson, thank you."
Before I could even ask if they were alright, the stranger had already vanished into the darkness. How much longer would this spectacle last? Judging by the fact that the music continued uninterrupted, this wasn't an emergency but a prearranged act. You couldn't set off fireworks indoors—something else was meant to happen. But from the panic rippling through the audience, the effect was clearly not what had been intended.
And then, at last, the light returned.
The scene that unfolded before my eyes exceeded all expectations.
The Crown Prince—who had been dancing with Jeremiah's hand in his—now hung limply from the great chandelier. His body was slack, lifeless, and a sword protruded from his chest.
Something about its hilt felt eerily familiar.
The moment I recognized where this feeling came from, I pressed my hand over my mouth in horror.
**_It was the dagger I had brought._**
I wasn't the only one who realized it. Somewhere in the crowd, a hysterical cry—almost a shriek—pierced the air:
"**Lady Rohanson killed His Highness the Crown Prince!**"
_Damn... what?_
_No!_ **_It wasn't me!_**
---
## — The Ballroom —
The first waltz had begun to the accompaniment of the orchestra. Since the princess's place remained vacant, the Crown Prince's partner was one of his twin daughters. In truth, she had always been his constant companion at such events. At official occasions, the Crown Prince invariably chose Jeremiah, and this time proved no exception—he took the hand of the daughter wearing the green stone.
While the girl with the black necklace watched her father and sister dance with cool indifference, the beautiful pair with their identical blue eyes continued to move gracefully across the polished floor. Their multi-layered dresses swirled, tracing gentle arcs through the air. The young, unmarried aristocrats watched, mesmerized, as the hems rose and fell like the breath of the sea.
"Her Highness Jeremiah is beautiful."
"But in appearance, she's an exact copy of Her Highness Tenebrae."
"Yes, but *inside* they're completely different. Though their faces are identical, there's something... *dark* about Her Highness Tenebrae."
Similar in appearance, as if cast from the same mold—yet their personalities were polar opposites. Jeremiah was bright, cheerful, and sweet, while Tenebrae always appeared gloomy and melancholic.
Perhaps this explained why the Crown Prince treated them so differently. Although the superstition about twins being ill omens should have applied to both, all the dark legends seemed to cling specifically to Tenebrae. Rumor had it that at the moment of the twins' birth—those harbingers of misfortune—the Crown Prince himself, supposedly foreseeing some grim future, had even attempted to kill Tenebrae with his own hands.
The music swelled toward its familiar rhythm. Those who realized the first dance would soon conclude began preparing for the second, seeking out their partners. Just as the performance reached its climax, the dazzling lights of the candelabras began to fade, one by one.
"There's no wind—why are the lights going out?"
The illumination seemed to focus for one last moment on the very center of the room, where the Crown Prince danced, and then those lights, too, extinguished. The luxurious ballroom plunged into darkness.
*Total* darkness. It was impossible to discern even an object directly before one's nose.
"What's happening...?"
"Hey! Damn it, don't push!"
"Ow! Someone stepped on my foot!"
"I can't see anything...! I—I should go out!"
In such chaos, the music should have ceased—but the orchestra, terrified of accusations that they had arbitrarily stopped playing at the Crown Prince's own ball, continued their melody, which had now reached its soaring peak. There was precedent for their fear: once, a cellist who accidentally snapped a string at the Emperor's ball had been *beheaded*.
The murmuring of the crowd—a mixture of fear and confusion—mingled with the orchestra's melodious music, creating a whimsical, discordant harmony. It was almost comical, as if a carefully staged scene from a theatrical production were being performed.
Fortunately, before further chaos could erupt, the lights blazed back to life.
The candelabras, suddenly brilliant as if they had never been extinguished, caused the crowd to squint and shield their eyes, hastily adjusting to the glare.
"What the—"
Only when their eyes adapted and they could perceive the luxurious decorations of the hall once more did people, one after another, begin to cover their mouths in horror.
The last thing anyone had seen before darkness swallowed their vision was a dancing couple in the center of the room. So when the light returned, every gaze naturally turned there first.
But of that waltzing pair, no trace remained.
Only the girl with the green necklace stood alone, frozen in place, staring up at the ceiling as red liquid dripped slowly onto her upturned face.
Following her gaze, the crowd beheld something that could not possibly be real.
Someone screamed. Someone lost their senses entirely. Someone collapsed to the floor. Someone retched violently. Perhaps it would have been better if the darkness had remained—if they had seen *nothing*.
The music faltered.
The orchestra, completely absorbed in their performance and oblivious to the growing horror, continued playing—but as the musicians, one by one, registered what hung above them, the harmony began to disintegrate. Only the pianist, isolated at his instrument, continued the majestic final movement until the string, unable to bear the strain, *snapped*, producing a drawn-out, death-like groan.
After that, the music ceased entirely.
Only a single rhythmic sound remained.
Drops of blood trickled from the Crown Prince's fingertips in time with some ghostly heartbeat, falling with metronome precision. The soft *plink... plink... plink* as they struck the marble floor and pooled into a small, spreading puddle was audible—**terrifyingly** clear.
The Crown Prince, slain by a single blow to the heart from an ancient dagger, hung suspended from the chandelier. It swayed gently under the weight of his body, creaking as crystal pendants clinked against one another. The sound was eerie and cold, though barely audible beneath the screaming.
"**Father!**"
One of the Crown Prince's twin daughters cried out. She wore a black necklace—Tenebrae. At the same instant, another voice cut through the pandemonium, sharp with recognition:
"Th-that's the sword Lady Rohanson presented!"
Every eye in the hall turned toward the hilt protruding from the dead man's chest. Evangeline Rohanson had given the Crown Prince a dagger upon entering, and many had witnessed her do so. Realizing the weapon was the same, the crowd turned their heads in unison—toward *her*.
"**Lady Rohanson killed His Highness the Crown Prince!**"