No Paradise Where the Traitor Arrives (3)
"Since your stomach's aching, I'll bring some food to your room that won't weigh heavy on it."
Jichel said this abruptly as she led Isel down to the lower floor. Isel couldn't help but be startled.
Lunch and dinner—every day, Jichel had personally brought bread and milk. She hadn't chattered idly or treated her with contempt, but neither had she seen her as more than a slave. And yet.
Just now, she had spoken to her with honorifics.
Even Gellion, the head butler, had always addressed her with casual disdain. No matter how exalted the duke's slave might be, or how lowly the commoner's station, a slave was little more than livestock. So Jichel's politeness felt burdensome to Isel.
"...Y-you can speak casually to me."
At Isel's request, Jichel continued walking in silence.
The conversation between Biela and Isel that she'd overheard on the stairs still lingered in her ears, unresolved. Thud, thud—their footsteps echoed through the corridor, thick with the chill night air.
With no reply from Jichel, Isel assumed she'd offended her somehow in the hallway and apologized.
"S-sorry... for messing up the hallway. I'll clean it right away..."
"..."
Still no response. Fearing she'd angered her, Isel clamped her mouth shut and bowed her head. Of course she'd be upset... Everyone's asleep at this hour, and my vomiting kept her from resting.
Accepting it as natural, Isel followed in silence.
Thud, thud.
Red lanterns spaced every two meters along the walls cast a dim glow over the corridor. In their flickering light, Isel's anxious face and Jichel's enigmatic expression glided through shadows and illumination.
And gradually, as the play of dark and light passed over her, the tension in Jichel's face began to soften. The unresolved words between Isel and Biela, still circling her ears, finally coalesced into clarity, sinking deep into her heart.
Jichel parted her tightly sealed lips.
"...Thank you."
"Pardon...?"
Isel looked up at the unexpected gratitude, scanning the space opposite Jichel. But no one was there. Why would she thank me of all people? Assuming she'd misheard, Isel started to lower her head again—only for the thanks to come once more, freezing her in place.
"Thank you for saving the kingdom, Hero Emilia. It may be late, but I wanted to say it properly."
"...M-me...?"
Isel's eyes went wide.
"There's only one Hero Emilia in this world. Even if she was convicted of treason, no one can deny that this peace we have was protected by her hand. That's why I wanted to give thanks."
"...J-Jichel..."
Isel hadn't known her long, but Jichel had always been rigid. Her lips were sealed like iron bars, her weathered face as unyielding as a steel helm. Isel had even wondered if such a woman possessed emotions at all, given her utter lack of unnecessary gestures or expressions.
And now, she was thanking her.
Isel was dumbfounded. Something welled up inside her at those words—a surge of raw emotion.
She had heard countless thanks during the march from the northern Frostpeak Mountains, after slaying the Demon King, all the way back to the capital. Praise and adulation laced with glory. Back then, it had simply made her happy.
But not now. The same words, the same meaning—yet they brought no joy. Once, she'd taken such gratitude for granted, even reveled in it. Now, it felt utterly undeserved, and that unacceptable courtesy struck Isel with a poignant sorrow.
Perhaps that's why tears blurred her vision, unbidden and childish. The red lantern light rippled like stones skipped across a pond in her trembling eyes.
But she didn't let them fall. She'd promised her master.
Sniffling, Isel lifted her chin and widened her eyes, blinking hard to scatter the gathering moisture.
Jichel strode on toward the infirmary, posture ramrod straight, gaze fixed ahead. Though she'd offered her warm words, her expression remained strictly businesslike.
"If there's anything you'd like to eat, just tell me. I'll make it with all my heart."
"...N-no, really, it's fine..."
"No need to refuse. For the master to eat comfortably, it seems Lady Emil needs proper nourishment first."
"...Pardon? What do you...?"
Isel stared at Jichel—or rather, at the neat gray bun at the back of her head.
"The meals Lady Emil has been eating were originally the master's portions."
"W-what...? What do you...?"
Lebion del Rosel had always brought leftovers after dinner, gruffly claiming he'd "found them on the way." It had seemed odd that untouched food—fork never laid to it—had ended up there, but Isel had assumed it was just one dish among many from the lord's table.
So Jichel's words hit her like a bolt from the blue.
"When dining in the study, he always ordered just one dish since he eats at the desk. And ever since bringing Lady Emil here, he's taken all his meals there."
"H-he...?"
In other words, since her arrival, Rosel had been skipping dinner.
Isel stood stunned, mouth agape. What master skips his own meals for a slave? It bordered on resentment—how could he sacrifice himself so for someone as worthless as her?
How was she ever to repay such grace? His selflessness filled her with both gratitude and quiet anger.
"Why on earth...?"
"Probably to avoid drawing eyes in the manor. Though no one would dare oppose the master's esteemed decisions anyway."
"..."
"You've seen it yourself, but Duke Rosel is cut from different cloth than other nobles. In a lifetime of service, he's the first gentleman of his kind. Even if he keeps Lady Emil at his side, no one in the territory would protest."
"B-but I'm a convicted traitor..."
"The master brought Lady Emil here for profound reasons. And today... I think I understand what they are."
Rosel, handing over his own food despite his hunger, caring for Isel with such warmth. And Isel, resenting Biela on the third-floor stairs. From those two moments alone, Jichel could gauge it—the depravity of King Brikal. What had befallen Emilia.
Of course, it was mere conjecture, rooted in absolute faith in her master. But she harbored no doubts.
"So feel free to speak openly with me. I'm the head maid, in charge of the manor's meals and comforts. Just fulfilling my duties."
"...Jichel..."
"A meal should always be tasty and hearty. Only then can you regain your strength, right?"
She hadn't wanted to cry. She'd meant to keep her promise. She'd been holding back so well.
But the image of Rosel smiling as he offered his own food—it overwhelmed her. And Jichel, doing this for a traitorous slave like her... it was too much. Jichel, promising to prepare meals just for her, seemed like a mother. In that tender care, Isel could no longer hold back her tears.
It felt as if her own mother had appeared.
"Hic..."
Even without reaching the infirmary, everything seemed to heal. The bitter scrape in her stomach eased; the roiling waves of rage in her heart calmed like a storm-tossed sea gone still.
It was too much—far too generous a comfort. Overwhelmed by the tangle of emotions, tears spilled free, and though they hadn't arrived, all her pain felt mended.
Jichel's back looked like a mother's warm embrace. The urge to run to her like a little girl, to cling tight—that comfort shone from her silhouette.
"Hic..."
"Oh."
Jichel halted at the faint sob from behind. She turned to face Isel. Her gaze was, as ever, stern.
"...Did I say something unnecessary? You don't need to cry anymore."
But her words were warm.
Isel wiped her tears frantically, sniffling as she gazed at the now-motherly Jichel.
"Hic... N-no... I just... miss my mom..."
That fragile, daughterly plea softened Jichel's iron lips into a benevolent smile. She was breaking her vow as head maid: restraint in expression.
"She must have been a fine woman, like our master."
In the hushed night corridor, Isel healed once more, her aching heart filled with Rosel's grace and Jichel's blessing.
Biela sat on the sofa in the study, hiding her fear as she eyed Rosel. His aura alone overwhelmed her. And his question—whether she wasn't looking for Rapelon—had chilled her to the bone.
How does he know?
It baffled her. Daltan and Gleon had sworn secrecy on their lives.
No... he's just probing.
She had plenty of excuses ready. Straightening her back, Biela composed a resolute expression. In a battle of wits, you couldn't yield the initiative.
She didn't know how Rosel had learned of it, but first, she'd shift the mood.
"...You seemed awfully chummy with that traitorous slave, Duke."
Striking first at a vulnerability. Redirecting to seize control. Being friendly with a traitor was as good as scorning King Brikal.
Rosel accepted the jab with ease.
"Do you truly believe Emilia plotted rebellion, Lady Biela?"
"What's to say? As the tribunal made clear, she schemed to seize the kingdom the whole journey."
Biela snapped back irritably. Partly to avoid losing ground, but mostly because this man—who'd chased her for years only to smile at Isel—infuriated her.
Rosel chuckled softly, leaning back.
"I attended the tribunal too. But one witness seat was empty."
"Rapelon? No idea why, but he bolted a day before reaching the capital."
"So you're looking for him? The porter?"
"..."
Her opener on Isel's treason had led straight to a disadvantageous question. Biela swallowed hard. She'd been on guard, yet here she was, cornered.
Of course, in the cutthroat dance of noble ladies, she'd survived unscathed thus far. This much pressure was nothing.
"Yes. Looking for him. Daltan and Gleon too."
"I'm curious why."
Rosel's eyes sharpened to points. He knew already but feigned ignorance. In noble mind games, you always hid your hand—for an easier checkmate.
Biela pulled out her prepared excuse.
"It's pitiful, isn't it? He could've had a fat reward upon reaching the capital, but vanished. And if he was kidnapped, we should rescue him."
"So that's why you're searching."
"Of course. He was a comrade."
"Pfft."
But Rosel burst into scornful laughter. Outrageous—the sheer gall of such a lie. How could he not laugh?
Biela frowned in displeasure, but as Rosel leaned forward, elbows on knees, she couldn't hold onto her irritation. His gaze.
It pierced like a beast eyeing prey, unearthing her darkest secrets. With savage intensity, Rosel bared his fangs.
"...How repulsive. I know you're hunting Rapelon to bury your ugly truth."
"Pardon...?"
"I know you're seeking Rapelon to kill him and cover your filthy secrets."
"...!"
Rosel's sudden strike at her throat sent an earthquake through Biela's pupils. He invoked that "ugly truth"—known only to six souls, including Isel—not as a probe.
No. His jaws had clamped her nape, shaking to snap her neck.
Checkmate. Delivered personally by the encroaching king.
"Why else would porter Rapelon vanish a day before the capital?"
"...W-what are you...?"
A victor's smile curled Rosel's lips. Cold enmity gleamed in his eyes.
And Biela realized it: how ignorant, how foolish she'd been to challenge him without knowing her place.
"...No way."
The nightmare that had shattered Isel now descended upon her.