Just moving into the Hermit’s Room was a challenge. The maids and porters who had been packing up her belongings vanished the moment they heard she was headed to the room haunted by eerie rumors. The attendants, acting carefree, questioned whether it was even necessary to pack since the Emperor’s anger would likely subside in a few days.

With no other choice, she packed herself. She shoved a nightgown, cream, hair ties, and the unsettling opal ring into her handbag. At the bottom, she added a hammer and a chisel.

Margo entered the Hermit’s Room boldly, only to regret it immediately. She should have brought a blanket first. Dust rose from the bedding, the ceiling mural was full of holes, and the decor looked like it hadn’t been updated in a century, with wood shards jutting from the walls.

The carpet smelled rotten, and the chair looked too filthy to sit on. Unable to bear it, she covered her mouth and pulled the bell cord loudly, but no one came.

“No, this is good.”

Whether they were avoiding the room out of fear or simply ignoring Margo for having fallen from the Emperor’s favor, she couldn’t be sure. In this state, even if there were loud noises, they’d probably just pretend not to hear.

Margo took out the hidden chisel and hammer from her bag. Wearing gloves, she pulled back the carpet, revealing rotten floorboards. The sight of scattered mold made her gag.

She applied the cream she’d brought to her nose and began removing the floor one board at a time. Had they been sturdy, it would’ve taken longer, but thankfully they peeled away easily due to decay. Each time the hammer made a loud noise, she perked her ears, but no one came, so eventually she just smashed and tore with abandon.

“Wow, there’s really one white brick.”

Among the red bricks under the floor, a single white one stood out. Wedging the chisel into the crack and pressing hard, it came loose. Reaching into the gap just big enough for a woman’s arm, she felt a spacious emptiness. When she reached in up to her shoulder and swept around, something caught her hand.

This is it.

Carefully gripping it so as not to drop it, she slowly pulled it out. Inside the plain square box was a small dagger, about the size of her palm. The rusty blade looked worthless, but when she unsheathed it, a dazzling multicolored light filled the room.

The holy sword the Church lost a hundred years ago.

This was the weapon that played a crucial role in Crown Prince Allen overthrowing the current Emperor, who held near-absolute power.

When heretics overran the Aegean continent long ago, a prophet had struck down the corrupt god of heresy with this sword. It had been the Church’s symbol and source of authority.

But a hundred years ago, the Church lost this treasured sword. No one knew when or how it vanished. Since then, divine power lost its edge against the authority of the crown, and the Church was reduced to a mere mediator.

A prison guard loyal to Allen had once passionately recounted the story, spitting as he spoke. He claimed a god appeared in his dream and revealed the sword’s location, commanding him to punish the Emperor’s lack of virtue for being consumed by government corruption.

At that time, a favored consort of the Emperor was caught not just scamming but also committing murder. Public outrage flared, and the Emperor declared abdication. Secretly, she intended to continue ruling behind the scenes. But after being locked in the tower, she realized she had truly been dethroned.

And in the end… she died.

How could Allen have punished the Emperor, whom he had once adored to the point of favoritism? No matter what, she was still his mother. Just recalling that horrifying scene gave Margo chills.

She wrapped the dagger in her undergarments and hid it in her bag. As she was about to dismantle the box and toss it, a faded piece of paper fell from between the hinges.

〈□□□□ □□ □□□□□.

—Leah Selma de Schmelberk〉

Curious, she unfolded the paper to find a line of text. Most of it was illegible from age, but the signature below remained clear. It was signed by Countess Schmelberk—the very woman who created the “Proxy of High Society” title for imperial consorts.

“Wow.”

The countess had vanished into the mist of the guillotine about a century ago, around the same time the holy sword disappeared. Could she be the culprit? If so, why hadn’t she used this valuable card to save her life?

“Thank you, Madam.”

As Margo gave thanks, the paper crumbled to dust, as if the century-old grudge had finally been released. Feeling oddly moved, she offered a moment of silence.

—A parasite, showing up at the audience chamber with that hairstyle? What a surprise. She’s always decked out in jewels.

—She acted like some elegant noblewoman. Gave me chills.

Startled by sudden voices, Margo nearly screamed. She frantically checked the windows and curtains, but there wasn’t a single soul.

—Ugh, all that pounding, and now it’s finally quiet. My eardrums nearly burst from the bell sound earlier.

—Guess she tired herself out.

The conversation that followed was strange. While they criticized Margo, they occasionally brought up things like today’s laundry or the Emperor’s schedule. Curious, she brought her ear to the hole where she had removed the brick, and the voices became louder and clearer.

“Ah.”

Directly below the Hermit’s Chamber was the maids’ waiting and break area. It seemed the sound of them whispering over tea had traveled up through the walls.

So the ghostly wailing said to come from this room was just the maids’ gossip.

—Hmm, but isn’t that room short on firewood? Should we bring some up?

—No. We were told not to deliver it for about a week. Also, not to serve meals until a maid is assigned.

It was obvious who had given those orders. In public, the Emperor often said she cherished Margo more than her own daughter. Margo had indeed received better fabrics and jewels than Princess Dolores. And the Emperor always made sure to proclaim that at tea parties and balls.

So Margo, like a monkey on display, bowed her head in gratitude for the so-called grace while being the subject of everyone’s gaze. She had once thought that was proof of affection. In response to the disregard and subtle torment, she dressed in gowns made from the fabrics bestowed by the Emperor and wore jewels to arm herself.

Foolish. Now that she had stepped back from affection and observed from a distance, everything was clear.

The Emperor never loved Margo. What she cherished and valued was merely the womb capable of bearing a child who held the succession rights to both nations.

With a bitter smile, Margo pushed the brick back into place. The voices shifted into a hum, like the wind. If she covered the spot with a carpet, it really would sound like ghostly wailing. The source was laughably absurd.

Wondering if the voices would still be audible, she placed her ear to the floor. The words came through clearly and distinctly. She couldn’t help but question what kind of soundproofing had been done to this room.

“Her Highness Margarita, His Highness the Crown Prince has arrived.”

At the attendant’s voice, she jumped up. Just as she opened her mouth to respond, the door creaked, tilted, and collapsed forward. A century’s worth of black dust billowed up in its wake. Allen, standing stunned, finally pulled out his handkerchief and covered his nose. Even the attendant grimaced.

“This is worse than I heard. Look at that floor.”

“Margo, come out.”

Allen, his expression crumpled, motioned to her. She felt like someone standing in the middle of a pigsty strewn with droppings. Compared to the underground prison, it was nothing, but there was no reason to refuse. She grabbed her handbag and stepped out into the corridor.

“Is that all the luggage you brought? Just that bag?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the rest?”

It was embarrassing to explain. Allen had probably never experienced a servant pretending not to hear or vanishing altogether.

“Hans.”

“Yes, Your Highness. I will first send for a cleaning crew and order that Her Highness Margarita’s belongings be brought.”

With just a single word, the attendant listed off Allen’s intentions. That was the difference between Margo and Allen. Though both bore the title ‘Your Highness,’ Allen could command people with just a glance, while Margo had to shout, and even then, a disinterested servant might finally appear.

“The luggage… never mind. Don’t bring it. Who could sleep in a place like this? Cleaning won’t fix it. The floor needs to be rebuilt.”

“I’ll notify the facilities department.”

“Margo, for now, come to my residence. I’ll have a guest room prepared.”

Crowned prince from birth, Allen had been raised in the palace reserved for Castor’s crown princes since he was a year old. There were over thirty rooms. Surely one could be given to Margo. But she shook her head before accepting his kindness.

“The Emperor gave an order. I can’t ignore it.”

“Look at this place. Who could sleep here? I’m sure Mother would understand if it’s only until repairs are done.”

How could she say she had survived two years in a far worse underground prison?

“Men and women shouldn’t sleep in the same quarters.”

“It’s not like I’m asking you to stay in my room. Margo, besides, we’re going to be married. If it weren’t for the church law that royalty must be of age to wed, we’d have been married already.”

At his words, Margo gave a bitter smile.

Originally, under the Emperor’s plan, Margo was to marry Allen in a grand ceremony the moment she turned eighteen.

Had that happened, even if Ingrid appeared at the New Year’s ball when they were nineteen, Allen would’ve been powerless. All he could’ve done was gaze at her longingly and share a single dance. At best, he might have taken her as a mistress and cherished her in secret.

But unfortunately, even when both turned eighteen, they never married.