The Appearance of the Wicked Woman
In the Rosefield Duchy, an old saying had endured for generations.
Those born with scarlet hair and scarlet eyes, if their line were to end, would cause the red clovers that blessed this land to wither and vanish alongside them.
The tale was far too entrenched to dismiss as mere superstition.
Over the red soil, red clovers bloomed without end.
Whenever the wind stirred, the fields rippled like waves, and the people gazing upon the sight found comfort in the belief that this land still lived.
A vitality that sprouted anew from the thinnest soil.
Soft leaves usable even as fodder for livestock.
And, rarely, a fifth leaf that bloomed, imbuing the plant with mana.
The prosperity of the Rosefields rested upon those crimson clovers.
It was said that the moment the first Duke of Rosefield had signed a contract with the elves, these red clovers had spontaneously sprung up.
A sign of the peace blessing between humans and elves.
And in this generation.
Only one soul had fully inherited that blessing.
Rachel Rosefield.
The current Duke Griffin Rosefield summoned his daughter and spoke softly.
“Rachel. You are the sole Rosefield of our house.”
Rachel lifted her head calmly.
“Yes.”
“Do you have the resolve to bear this heavy burden?”
The question was quiet, yet its weight was anything but light.
Among the children born in this generation, only Rachel possessed both the perfect scarlet hair and scarlet eyes.
The others fell short in some way.
Some bore only the red hair.
Others only the red eyes.
And even those who had both showed unstable mana flow.
Rachel alone was different.
Rachel did not waver for even a moment.
“If I refuse to accept it, what will become of our house?”
Griffin closed his eyes for a moment before replying.
“…It might crumble according to prophecy.”
Hearing those words, Rachel hesitated not a whit.
“Then I shall do it. For our house. And for the family.”
Griffin remained silent for a long time before uttering a tiny, “Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
After that, Rachel truly endured the entire weight.
In the northeast, she grew into the noble of nobles more than anyone else.
A woman born for the house, moving for the house, laughing for the house.
Everyone confirmed this fact at her coming-of-age ceremony.
“Miss Rachel, would you do me the honor of dancing?”
“With pleasure.”
The bloodline that had received the blessing of the red earth walked differently, it was said.
A dance was no mere social custom.
It was the most splendid way for nobles to prove their dignity and self-control within their society.
And Rachel had not erred once in that place.
The men rushed in.
All the nobles of the northeast respected and admired the Rosefields while at the same time coveting them.
It was the moment the Rosefields were most vulnerable, they believed.
The man who claimed Rachel.
At that moment, he would gain not just a portion of the Rosefields, but almost their entirety.
To the moths fluttering toward her, Rachel replied the same words every time.
“You are not the one.”
When the other’s expression froze, Rachel added calmly.
“I require someone who would not feel ashamed to stand beside the Rosefield house.”
That was, in truth, an impossible condition.
No matter how proud a noble, it was difficult to remain undaunted before the greatest house in the northeast.
Yet to Rachel, it was only natural.
She had lived her entire life for the house and family.
And she understood her final role as well.
To give birth to the new Rosefield.
To a woman raised for nothing but that, personal romance had never held priority from the start.
Watching his daughter, Griffin had long ago pored through the house’s ancient records.
Why had only Rachel inherited the house’s will intact?
Why had the others not?
He gradually entrusted more and more practical duties to his daughter while he himself immersed himself in the interpretation of old documents.
One day, Rachel asked quietly.
“So, have you found the answer?”
Griffin sighed heavily.
“…It is not certain. But I heard that the contract with the elves inscribed the flow of mana into our bloodline.”
The ancient mark etched at the moment the Rosefields and elves had signed.
The record contained a flow reminiscent of elven spell arrays.
Not to summon the spirits, but to embed the spirit’s blessing into the body.
No wonder it was a contract with elves.
The problem was that the contract was far too ancient.
“Should I go to the elves and ask them to renew the contract?”
“The last time we properly met them was too long ago. Those who approached the forest were shot and fled before they could say more.”
“That was the fault of the slave hunters.”
“They would surely be enraged that we did not fully block them. The chances are low.”
Griffin slowly brushed his palm over the mark etched upon it.
His expression gradually twisted.
The remaining choices were not to his liking.
“Now the only ones left are the imperial princes.”
Rachel’s eyes trembled ever so slightly.
“Imperial princes… you say?”
Unlike the old ties, the current relationship between the Rosefields and the imperial family was extremely delicate.
Memories of fighting together during Constantine’s campaign had long since faded.
The current imperial princes provided almost no direct aid to the Rosefield house.
They were not outright enemies, but they were not close either.
The distance was even more painful when it came to blocking the northern barbarians and nomads.
While they spilled blood to guard the borders, the treatment they received upon return was always formal.
Complaints would inevitably pile up.
The distance had widened every year, and this was now the farthest point.
“Neither the heir declaration ceremony nor your recent coming-of-age visited the imperial palace.”
“At the heir declaration ceremony, there was the assassination attempt.”
Rachel answered calmly.
At that time, the palace had been completely overturned by the assassination.
All the nobles of the empire had rushed to the capital, and naturally the northeast had been pushed outside the window of attention.
Afterward, the palace had been in turmoil—purging, title confiscation, direct rule annexation—but the northeast had not received even a single proper glance.
Griffin had once considered openly conducting military training to attract imperial attention.
Of course, he had not gone mad, so he refrained.
Military provocation was for the enemy, not for the heart of the empire.
“The imperial family should have paid a price,” Griffin said with a low laugh.
“But hearing you speak so coldly, I feel my anger subside.”
He drew a single letter from his desk drawer.
“The imperial princes carry powerful mana in their blood. Their lineage continues from the ancient empire, allowing them to reach even with the spirits and to interfere with ancient mysteries.”
Rachel accepted the letter.
The instant she saw the sender, she understood what kind of proposal this was.
[Ruang Caesar]
The man at the center of the assassination incident.
The second prince rumored to have gone mad.
And the recipient was
[Rachel Rosefield]
The house’s sole heir.
The reason men and women of a certain age exchanged names was only one.
Marriage.
Griffin spoke quietly.
“However, if you do not wish it, I will not proceed. No matter how noble the imperial blood, this man is a mad prince.”
Noble blood was sometimes too wretched.
Without power, one was no different from a mere stallion.
A being consumed after only leaving behind seed to claim the finest lineage.
And if the counterpart was a mad man, the situation was far worse.
Normal marriage.
Normal relationships.
It was difficult to expect either.
Could a man whose body still lived but whose mind was shattered truly act as a husband?
Rachel sank into thought for a moment.
Whether to seek out the unresponsive elves and cling to reviving the ancient contract.
Or to grasp the imperial prince who existed in the present and negotiate.
In the end, she judged with structure rather than emotion.
“If I remain unconnected to the imperial family, do you have any prospective marriage partners in mind?”
The question was cold.
As though her marriage was not a choice that would change her life, but merely one means among many for the house.
Griffin opened the drawer.
Countless letters lay stacked within.
“If not an imperial prince, you may choose for yourself. In any case, they are all just such houses.”
The words carried both exhaustion and despair.
Letters had come pouring in.
Yet among them, no suitable family for the Rosefields had appeared.
Normally they did not aid the north, but only desired marriage when necessary.
That hypocrisy was repugnant.
On the other hand, the imperial princes had at least sent steady gifts to the Rosefields, who nominally guarded the north.
A tradition that had continued since Constantine’s time.
Only because the conservative imperial family had not broken that tradition.
It was enough to surpass the other nobles.
Rachel ultimately replied.
“I will follow Father’s decision.”
“Good. Send the reply when your letter arrives.”
And not long after, Rachel’s letter received a single-word answer.
[Approval]
She departed at once.
The procession was large.
Because the other party was an imperial prince, the ducal house could not travel lightly.
The dowry, the gifts, and the attendants were all prepared to match the dignity of the Rosefields.
With so much baggage and so many people, the procession moved slowly.
Thanks to that, before arriving in the capital, Rachel could continue receiving reports about Ruang Caesar’s son through letters.
And the first report to reach her was this.
[The Prince Ruang Caesar engages in sparring with the imperial guard knights, bare-handed.]
Rachel read the letter and fell briefly silent.
*Is he hoping to die?*
A noble miss—perhaps even a future husband—had such a severe notion in mind.
But there was no choice.
*Since he is said to be mad… it is only natural.*
The expectation had cooled slightly.
More accurately, it had not cooled, but it had begun to waver unsteadily.
Still, she wished for one thing.
Until they reached the capital, at least that man would not die.
Rachel folded the letter and placed it on her lap, slowly gazing out the window at the red fields.
For the house, she could grasp even the mad prince’s hand.
She had tried to make herself believe that.
But she could not deny that a tremor existed within her heart.
*Love… will I be able to do it?*
Political calculations she had learned.
Compromise she had learned, patience she had learned.
Yet she knew nothing of love.
Having lived by killing all emotions, it was only natural.
Yet the girl standing before her very marriage began to recall what she had dismissed as unnecessary.
Love.
Perhaps that emotion had been important after all.
Rachel sank into that reverie.
Then.
The letter that arrived the next day shattered her mood in a single line.
[Prince Ruang Caesar has publicly rolled in the bed with his lover at the banquet.]
“......”
Rachel stared at the letter.
Until only moments earlier, she had been thinking foolish, soft thoughts about being able to love.
But now, it was not.
Even without love, she could feel a very hot and clear emotion rising in her chest.
[Luang Caesar is publicly rolling in the bed with his lover at the banquet.]