— Seeds of Doubt — The soldier spat with conviction, his voice carrying the weight of gossip already spreading like wildfire through the capital's streets.
"The head maid seized complete control of the palace. Tormented the Princess without mercy. Sent nothing but spoiled food to her quarters. Hid needles in her bedding."
"I heard the same from a bootblack in the city. What's worse—the Princess couldn't endure it alone. They say she sold her jewels to her own maids, begging them to stop the harassment."
Heads tilted. Disbelief flickered across weathered faces.
"Is that truly possible? She may be a princess in name only, but how can a servant abuse her master so brazenly?"
"Even if she's a princess, she lost both parents. Has no brother. The King's never here. Who else would protect her? Those vultures saw easy prey."
The soldier stroked his daughter's head as he spoke. The girl with braided hair stood tall enough to reach her father's chest—yet her hands remained small, her cheeks still soft with baby fat.
"Think about it. What can a girl younger than Emma here accomplish alone?"
"Father?"
The child looked up with confused, round eyes.
And suddenly, everyone fell silent.
It struck them with startling clarity.
Cursed. Greedy. Parasite.
The princess they had been vilifying moments ago was younger than this child before them.
What had they done?
Shame crept through the crowd. They spoke again—louder this time, as if volume could erase their guilt.
"Just kill those damned servants."
"No matter what, she's the King's sister—do they treat Valdina's bloodline like that?"
"Speaking of which—isn't the Princess's uncle the Prince Regent himself? Duke Claudio?"
Someone raised the obvious question.
"All those jewels she sold were gifts from the Duke. How could someone as powerful as the Regent not know his beloved niece was being tormented?"
"Friend, how ambitious was the Duke when competing with his brother for the throne?"
"After losing to his nephew, his only remaining niece must be a thorn in his eye. Anyone can pretend affection when it suits them."
"This is why orphans suffer so. Cursed or not, she was left alone at such a tender age."
The conversation had turned—inexorably.
The soldiers' voices churned like a boiling cauldron, inevitably flowing toward the eternal complaint—the endless war, the absent king, the suffering that had no end.
The jewels she had distributed to her maids had served their purpose well.
As the rumors spread, the people's unwavering faith in the Prince Regent would erode—slowly, surely, like water wearing away stone.
Medea closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat.
She remembered her foolish previous life. She made a promise.
This time would be different.
Sunlight from the setting sun illuminated her face like a blessing.
— The Marquis's Estate — The carriage rattled back into motion and finally arrived at Gilliforth's estate.
The residence possessed a rustic yet dignified elegance, perfectly mirroring its owner—a man who had abandoned all pursuit of power.
"The Lord awaits. Neril, you remain here."
"I am Her Highness's personal guard. I must stay at her side."
Neril positioned herself protectively before Medea, refusing to yield.
"Do you fear His Excellency might harm Her Highness? Would you tarnish your teacher's honor? Step back."
The cold reprimand had no effect. Neril stood firm as ancient roots, sharp as a mother bird defending her nest.
"Your stubbornness remains unchanged. Your Royal Highness, forgive the offense, but my master will not receive you unless you enter alone. He also said if you fear for your safety, he would understand completely should you return to the palace."
The words were delivered with such practiced politeness that they seemed rehearsed.
Disappointment flickered across Neril's face. Was her master truly resorting to such tactics? How was this different from the Prince Regent's games?
But before she could protest, a small hand settled on her shoulder.
"It's fine, Neril."
Just that simple touch quelled the explosion threatening to erupt.
"Proceed inside."
The interior was so quiet that only the whisper of Medea's hem dragging across the floor could be heard.
The room possessed a heavy atmosphere.
⚔️🛡️⚔️ Pressure bearing down on shoulders. A sharp tension that forbade relaxation. Various weapons adorned every wall—the study of a warrior who had trained knights and fought on battlefield frontlines.
Marquis Gilliforth An old man stood with his back to the window. Leather straps bound his graying hair, and a luxuriant beard framed his weathered face.
"Your Royal Highness."
Even in his advanced years, his spine remained arrow-straight as he turned to face her.
"It has been some time."
"Years."
Gilliforth studied her carefully. The small child who had once cried herself sick while clutching her pillowcase had grown enough to visit him unescorted.
"You remain unchanged."
But she was still so delicate. The thin eyebrows, round face, and slight frame reminded him of an immature fawn. He couldn't entirely credit the rumors—that this fragile girl had caned the head maid herself.
"I heard the news. You saved my student. This old man offers his belated gratitude."
"Neril is mine. I protect what belongs to me. You have no cause to thank me."
Gilliforth exhaled. At least she wasn't helpless. His student wouldn't face execution.
"Since you have taken this difficult journey, I shall be forthright. It is commendable that Your Highness has awakened to action, however belatedly. However, I left governance long ago and have no intention of returning."
"If you seek me as a replacement for the Prince Regent, I tell you now—I cannot bear such weight."
Bitterness welled within him. Disappointment for the child of his lord, whom he had served his entire life.
A princess so weak she immediately seeks someone new to lean upon.
The late King had certainly been a great man worthy of respect, but his bloodline, Gilliforth believed, had failed him.
The younger brother was a wolf hunting the throne. His son was a stubborn man consumed by war. His daughter was a fragile simpleton.
Valdina had lost its luster.
"I am old now, and I have more to protect. Survival alone is challenging—how could I handle Your Highness's grand ambitions?"
Gilliforth's keen eyes evaluated her carefully.
"You may wonder what could be more regrettable after such a long life, but please remember an old man's final request—one who dreams only of living long and quietly."
"Return to your palace."
Dreams of living long and quietly?
In her previous life, Gilliforth had died defending Valdina when the demonic beast swarms attacked. He had stood at the gates while every noble—including the Prince Regent—fled. He had protected the city until his last breath.
Medea knew the truth of this man's heart.
"I understand your position perfectly."
One of Gilliforth's eyebrows rose. Her expression remained unchanged—neither disappointed nor angry.
He had thought himself skilled at reading people. Strangely, he couldn't decipher anything from the young princess's face.
Medea placed a bundle of documents on his desk.
📜 "This represents all my assets. I have a request."
Gilliforth sighed at her reaction—exactly as he had anticipated.
"Your Highness, I shall repeat myself—no matter what you offer, I have no intention of leaving this place..."
"No."
Medea cut him off decisively.
"What I need is neither your protection nor your political support."
Gilliforth's eyes sharpened with surprise.
"Then what...?"
---