The crowd's retreat created a void around Evangeline, making the crimson stain spreading across her white hem especially visible. She covered her mouth with her hand, but something in her posture suggested that if she were to remove it, her lips would curl into a graceful, knowing arc.
"Lady Rohanson..."
Kinder called out to her, biting her lip. Unlike the others, who stared at the horror suspended from the chandelier, she had gathered her senses enough to look only at *her*.
_Lady Rohanson couldn't have killed the Crown Prince._ Not like this—not in a manner that practically screamed confession. It was clearly a trap. Sir Gabriel had been right to worry, right to warn her. But who would believe Kinder's defense now?
Evangeline's white dress was dyed red. Her earlier confrontation with Duke Hosakine had been serious enough to nearly soak the entire gown with wine—but fortunately, Gabriel had shielded her, and only a few scattered drops remained on the fabric. Which meant the dress hadn't been stained like *this* before the lights went out.
"I let my guard down."
Evangeline's scarlet eyes flashed, and she uttered the words like a challenge. Her voice was frighteningly *alive*—not the trembling of an accused woman, but the cold assessment of someone surveying a battlefield.
The ballroom doors swung open belatedly. No one had noticed when they'd closed. Only a few remembered that the doors had stood wide open when Gabriel left to change his clothes.
The person who entered was Sir Musetta—the Crown Prince's own bodyguard. The man who had abandoned his post and thereby allowed his master's death.
"H-His Highness!"
Musetta rushed toward the Crown Prince's body, desperately trying to restore order to chaos. He reported the heir's death to the Emperor. He protected and led away the distraught grandchildren. The girl with the emerald necklace—who had stood frozen beneath the chandelier as her father's blood dripped onto her upturned face—was finally escorted back to her chambers, walking arm in arm with her twin sister.
---
## — Earlier —
The maid wearing a scarf over the lower half of her face watched Evangeline finish her wine without blinking. She moved to collect the empty glasses only after both Evangeline and Kinder Toten had set theirs down.
_Strange._ Holy water had no effect on Evangeline Rohanson. Perhaps she truly wasn't a demon after all?
It was clear Evangeline hadn't used any tricks—she had genuinely consumed the entire glass, which had been laced with holy water. As if to demonstrate that such things posed no weakness to her, she had drained it in a single gulp. The maid watching her frowned beneath her scarf as Evangeline twirled the empty glass absently in her fingers.
"Hey, you. What are you standing there for? This isn't a rest break. Go fetch more wine."
Saraka nodded and picked up the serving tray again. She poured holy water from the vial hidden in her apron pocket into every glass. Several times along the way, her glasses were snatched by passing nobles, but she didn't object. Holy water wasn't poison. It didn't matter who drank it.
"Pour me one as well."
Fortunately, before the tray emptied entirely, Saraka reached the right person. She handed a glass to Baron Hvikel and conveyed her request in a low murmur.
Contrary to rumor, Baron Hvikel was remarkably perceptive and capable of keeping his mouth shut—which was precisely why he had become one of Saraka's useful pawns. Lately, she had been carefully guiding him closer to Count Rohanson, and she was now skillfully exploiting that connection.
"Really? So I need to subtly provoke Duke Hosakine?" He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Hm. Well, yes. How *do* you know about my talents?"
Duke Hosakine had a dangerous flaw: a heavy hand and a volcanic temper. Especially when enraged, he lost all capacity for clear thought. If Baron Hvikel nudged him toward a confrontation—guided him toward throwing a glass at Evangeline—the Duke would almost certainly oblige, without considering the consequences.
_Drinking the holy water didn't work. So what if it touched her body instead of entering it? What if it seeped into an open wound?_
Saraka felt her heart pound as wildly as it had in the old days, when she dealt with heretics in the underground prison.
Evangeline and Kinder soon approached Duke Hosakine. First, he hurled one glass, shattering it against the floor in fury. Then he threw a second. But Saraka hadn't anticipated that the Knight Commander would embrace Evangeline, shield her with his own body, and take the blow himself. She had used Sir Musetta to lure him away temporarily, but he had managed to return too quickly.
Baron Hvikel, noticing the plan hadn't unfolded quite as intended, shot a furtive glance at Saraka before quickly looking away. But Saraka herself was so overcome with unexpected delight that she paid him no attention. Beneath her scarf, her mouth—disfigured by countless scars—stretched into a terrifying, too-wide smile.
Baron Hvikel assumed the Knight Commander had been struck with ordinary wine. But the second glass, the one Duke Hosakine had thrown, was *also* laced with holy water.
"Ouch!"
The maid cleaning up the shards did indeed cut her hand. She dismissed it as an accident, a fleeting pain, but Saraka had clearly seen the moment glass sliced through skin. Thanks to the holy water pooled among the shards, the wound healed almost instantly.
But the wound on the Knight Commander—who had been directly doused with holy water—was slow to close.
*Found it.*
She had set out to uncover Evangeline's secret. Instead, she had discovered the Knight Commander's weakness.
An unexpected catch. But a *generous* one.
---
Evangeline, seeing Gabriel's state—soaked and stained with wine—ordered him to change his clothes immediately.
Saraka followed him out. No one noticed a servant leaving the hall; it was easy for her to move as she pleased. Servants weren't considered equals to nobles—so much so that even a face hidden by a scarf drew no suspicion.
Except, perhaps, from Kinder Toten. The fact that she had spoken up, tried to discover what had happened, revealed the gentleness and consideration of her nature. It was a shame fate had made her what she'd become. If not for her son, she could have been perfect—something out of a painting, faithful to Rachel.
Saraka couldn't help but recall how, by order of *one above*, she had been forbidden to supply Kinder Toten with holy water. Her chest tightened painfully at the memory. But there had been no alternative: if the temple openly distributed holy water to the damned, they would be condemned, accused of blind greed. The choice was inevitable.
After that, Kinder Toten seemed to despise Saraka—or rather, the person Saraka was replacing. She had called him a hypocrite.
---
Saraka walked silently behind the Knight Commander, her footsteps as soft as shadows.
"Sir Gabriel, how did you come to be splashed with wine?"
"There was a reason for it." He didn't elaborate. "Will you bring me a change of clothes?"
"Yes. I'll fetch them immediately."
A knight departed to retrieve clean garments and soon returned with a fresh set. Saraka, waiting nearby, extended her hands as if to deliver them herself.
"You'll take them to Sir Gabriel yourself? Then please, pass these along."
Saraka accepted the clothing and entered the room where Gabriel waited. He had already removed his wine-soaked garments and stood bare-chested, his back to the door.
"You brought them instead? Thank you."
Unlike the other knights, Gabriel didn't resort to casual familiarity. Even now, he accepted the robe with exaggerated courtesy. Saraka glanced at him furtively, feigning the embarrassment of a modest servant, and quickly covered her face as if overwhelmed.
In truth, she was struggling to contain her smile—it was too wide, too sinister to allow anyone to see. She retreated swiftly, afraid someone might hear the frantic pounding of her heart.
She had seen it with her own eyes.
There was a round scar on Gabriel's chest.
---
When she—who now breathed only with difficulty... no, when *Bishop Marik* could still speak clearly—one day, holding Saraka's hand over a brazier, the bishop had suddenly spoken of the past.
"Fire reminds me of old times. Ha-ha. But not the time when my family burned alive in a fire set by vile heretics, and I barely survived. That happened much later." The flames licked higher. "Saraka, have you ever heard of the Emperor's youngest child?"
Back then, because of the burns on her cheeks and chin, because of the festering scars that made even the smallest movement agony, Saraka couldn't answer. She merely shook her head. Bishop Marik continued, never releasing her hand from the flames, seemingly without any intention of allowing her to scream.
"They say he died before he even drew breath. But that isn't true. Do you want to know how I know?" A pause, filled only by the crackling fire. "Because *I* took the prince away."
Saraka needed to hear everything. Even as her hand burned, even as screams clawed at her throat, she forced herself to listen.
According to Bishop Marik, there was something unspoken about the imperial bloodline: a symbol was branded onto the bodies of every member of the imperial family, proving their nobility. The symbol of a dragon coiled in a circle, devouring its own tail—representing infinity and the eternal power of the imperial house.
Applying such a mark was considered a sacred honor, performed only by the most trusted priest. During the reign of Emperor Mater, this duty had been entrusted to Bishop Marik.
The newborn was branded with fire, then healed with holy water and blessed. The flesh mended almost instantly, but the mark remained forever—like a tattoo etched into the soul.
"But the holy water had no effect on the youngest prince."
The flames reflected in Marik's eyes as she continued.
"Don't be surprised, Saraka. Sometimes such children are born. Their past sins run so deep that even after rebirth, Rachel turns away from them. Pathetic. Wretched. *Disgusting.*"
Such people had to be reborn again and again, atoning for their guilt, until they were finally purified and could once more rest in Rachel's arms. Until then, they could not be granted recognition.
Such was the youngest prince.
Such was Kinder Toten's son.
The Emperor had ordered the infant's death. But Bishop Marik refused. Instead, she gave the child to a married couple, commanding them to raise him in secret. When the Emperor discovered the prince had been hidden, he was furious—but Marik insisted she hadn't saved the child to exploit the Emperor's weakness.
"Let him live long, until fate itself cuts his path short, and he will atone."
This way, he would earn Rachel's love at least a *little* faster.
But the Emperor, lacking faith and understanding, decided Marik was attempting blackmail. He secretly dispatched knights to kill the younger prince.
They found only the adoptive parents—who had abandoned the child and squandered the money Bishop Marik had given them for his care. The child himself was never located. In the end, the Emperor killed only those two worthless souls.
Those not blessed by Rachel rarely lived long. Bishop Marik had tried to save the infant, but it seemed the youngest prince still couldn't escape his fate. The bishop prayed that somewhere, the child continued to live—suffering—and that this suffering would become his atonement.
"Now not only your face, but your hand has become exactly like mine."
Removing Saraka's hand from the brazier at last, Bishop Marik smiled tenderly at the ruined flesh. Saraka tried to smile back, barely able to move her charred lips.
"Saraka... once you bear the same scars on your face and hands as I do, people won't be able to tell us apart anymore. They'll see the lower half of my face beneath the veil, my hands, and believe *you* are *me*."
Holding Saraka's melted fingers, Bishop Marik spoke these words softly—and simultaneously taught her how to recognize a prince.
The younger prince's brand had failed to become a tattoo. It had to remain a scar.
---
And as the bishop had foretold, there was indeed a mark on the Knight Commander's body.
But it was wrong. Twisted. As if his wings had been severed, his claws torn out—as if the dragon had never been able to *become* a dragon and had remained forever a serpent.
It seemed Gabriel had been abandoned as a child. He himself didn't understand the significance of this scar, which was why he felt no embarrassment showing it.
Saraka forced herself to calm her racing heart. Instead of returning to the ballroom, she headed toward the chambers assigned to the Crown Prince.
There, standing guard before the door, was a holy knight who looked truly pious.
At least on the surface.