About the Story of the Duke's Daughter Heading to the Imperial Palace (2)
Is it okay to just call romance fantasy "romance fantasy," or whatever? Sometimes I wonder. The genres are pretty varied, after all. Not sure if I should call them genres or just say they're overflowing with lunatics.
Women who sleep around with countless men, get knocked up by some unknown daddy, and run away— that's commonplace. And there are plenty of guys who chase after those sluts, claiming they're in love. If this were my old world, some hooker that loose would've been turned into Swiss cheese with bullets from a back alley in Mapo by now.
Anyway, they call it romance fantasy for a reason— there is some fantasy to it. I can swing a sword and shoot out something like sword aura, after all. In the Vintervalt house up north, firing off sword aura left and right is basic stuff.
For romance lovers, I guess a guy in a dashing uniform swinging a sword looks cooler than one in a suit firing a gun. Whatever. There's magic, nobles, all sorts of things. But it's a world where as long as the love interest regrets it, people can die, wars can erupt, and empires can fall without a hitch. Honestly, living here isn't all that fun.
Especially when I'm precious enough that even if I slaughtered my beloved family in a fit, no one would bat an eye— I'd just be a spicy seasoning in some story. This isn't the tale of my brother— er, — rotting in the underground dungeon in some gay-pride poster pose that's perfect for the wanted posters.
Sure, there are stories where the world is rotten but the family is warm. The palace is a slaughterhouse where one wrong glance gets you killed, but the dad is weirdly affectionate. Or a kid with a thirty-something auntie crammed in her head deliberately lisps like a toddler.
The funniest part? They start off nailing down that this marriage is a transaction, not love— then fifty pages in, everyone's playing the "who fell first" guessing game. "It's a contract!" "No emotions involved!!" Yeah, well, when hot, pretty people are rubbing up against each other every other day, it's hard not to get horny. Thinking of it as lust instead of love calms me down a bit.
Anyway. If my brother— — and father had just started their rebellion, wrecked the house, and rotted in the dungeon, fine. But dragging me to this stinking city is all because of this "love story."
From my past life to this one, my blood kin are all idiots. At least the upside is that 's a traitor, but I'm just some "hostage"-ish thing forced under imperial protection because the rebellion endangered the empire. "Hostage" sounds shitty no matter what you call it.
Lost in such idle thoughts, I stood there blankly. Alone in the center of the banquet hall, basking in stares from all sides, I felt oddly like an exhibit on display. An antique up for auction. Well, not quite antique— more like brand new.
The commotion from upstairs continued. Voices raised, fighting over who gets to take me. Guys with grudges against House Vintervalt, and ones probably smitten by my face. Neither appealed.
Grudge or lust, expecting anything from me was the same crap. Regrettably, unlike , I'm not gay.
As I mulled that nonsense, a girl caught my eye amid the chattering nobles. The black-haired girl right in the center of the railing. Her pure white dress glimmered faintly in the light— not candlelight, but something magical.
She beckoned the helmeted knight beside her. The gesture looked practiced. And apparently, he was the only one with her up there.
The knight unbuckled the shorter of the two swords at his waist and handed it to her. The banquet hall fell silent in an instant. A different kind of hush from when I'd entered.
The girl descended to the first floor via the stairs in the corner. Step by step. Her dress hem whispered over the marble. The click of her heels on each step rang out unnaturally clear.
No one uttered a word. The breathing of me and the other dragged-in kids grew louder, almost to gasps. Annoyingly so in my ears. Except for mine.
She stared at me, then drew the dagger from its sheath. Shing. Nice sound. The kind only a well-honed blade makes. I'd handled swords in this life too, so I could tell from the noise alone. Good blade.
She walked toward me. Her face sharpened as she neared. Glossy black hair that shone bright in the light fell to mid-back. Eyes like a winter lake frozen at dawn. Damp, as if freshly cried out and composed.
Yet her gaze was sharp, lips pressed tight. A young face, but aged with expression. Like someone bearing a heavy load. A kid one or two years younger than me held a sword and stopped right in front of me.
Arm's reach between us. The dagger tip grazed past my cheek. Something cold lightly scored my skin. Swish. I felt the blood a beat later. Cool at first, then my cheek burned. A thin trickle ran along my jawline.
She pulled the blade away, then rested the trembling tip on my stomach. I felt the cold steel through the thin dress fabric. Right above my navel. Every inhale pressed my belly against it.
I glanced around. Not a normal situation. The servants who'd followed her down were ashen-faced. The nobles upstairs looked twisted in displeasure. Unplanned, apparently.
Someone yelled from above. "Your Highness—!"
She didn't turn. Your Highness. So, the princess.
She spoke lowly. "Rebecca Vintervalt. You've grown far prettier than when we met as children. A treasure of the duke, indeed— the rumors were true."
Her voice was close. Close enough to hear each other's breaths. I wiped the blood from my cheek with my hand's back. A red streak on pale skin. Nice color combo.
"I'm pretty gorgeous, yeah."
Her eyes flickered faintly. Fun reaction.
"...You speak informally."
Her voice dropped. "Want a secret? Your father was already burned alive in the streets."
Burned alive? The words took a moment to sink in. Even then, no real emotion stirred. My dad was probably still fine somewhere in Gyeonggi, blowing his retirement on stocks. Maybe.
"They say northern barbarians' women fear no death. Tell me, are you truly unafraid?"
I didn't answer. She took my silence wrong.
Hoo. Her sigh-warmed exhale brushed my face. So close. It stirred the ends of my bangs. Then she glared. Blue eyes met red. Like blood droplets on a winter lake.
"One thing I'm curious about." Her voice quivered at the end. Her eyes glistened.
We'd met as kids, probably. This girl and the original Rebecca. Me, now. Maybe at some palace banquet or festival.
But could you hate someone just because they're blood kin to your hated foe? Face half-forgotten?
Her lips parted. "Is it right to make a child pay for their parents' crime of assassinating His Majesty and slaughtering countless others?"
The tip seemed ready to pierce. Her tremor transmitted through the dress to my skin. Her hand shook. Fingers white-knuckled on the hilt.
"The child of the house that killed my dear father and beloved mother, right?"
Her voice cracked. "I'm asking. Answer me."
She prodded my belly threateningly with the tip. Not hard enough to stab. Her face said drawing the blade was already her limit. She was holding back tears. Lips quivering, shoulders hitching with each breath.
I didn't answer. Instead, I stepped forward.
One step. Her eyes widened. "What are you—"
Two steps. The blade pushed aside the dress fabric— then sliced it. Rip of cloth. Skin parted too. Thin red line on my belly. Blood welled on pale skin.
Her grip slackened. Clang. Dagger hit marble with a clear ring, echoing through the hall.
She staggered back a step. Face drained white. Lips agape, blue eyes darting between my belly wound and cheek cut.
"You're insane—"
She trailed off. Upstairs erupted. Chairs toppling, gasps, hurried footsteps down stairs.
Amid the chaos, I bent and picked up the fallen dagger. Handle lighter than expected. Ornate, but balance decent. My pale skin peeked through the slit dress— kinda embarrassing. Even if my soul's an old man, this body's sixteen, a girl's.
But priorities. I gripped the hilt, pointed the blade at her.
"That goes for me too."
My voice came out calmer than thought. Locked eyes with her shaken ones again. Glanced at the blade— faint blue sword aura clung to the short dagger. One thrust, and her neck and head would part in a flash.
The knight nearby didn't move. Frozen? Or hoping she'd die? Then my vision spun.
Left face exploded in pain. Iron taste in mouth. Gums burst, blood pooling thick.
Feet left ground, body flew sideways, back slammed marble. Dagger slipped from hand, skittered away.
Ceiling above. Dangling glowing gems. Pretty lights. Head throbbed. Left cheek swelled.
Glanced sidelong: the knight's gauntlet that clocked me. My blood on his knuckles. He'd charged and swung.
He glared around, planted between me and her, sword drawn. After knocking me that far with one punch.
"Your Highness, are you alright?"
His voice steady. Not a hitch after decking me.
Her reply drifted over. Didn't catch it. Ears ringing. Ceiling gems seemed to sway. Or my eyes? Jaw intact, but bit tongue— blood filled mouth.
Ptoo. I propped up slightly, turned head, spat. Red stain bloomed on white marble.
Footsteps approached. Multiple. From upstairs.
Voices overhead. "Your Highness, please come up—" "That insolent thing, right now—!"
A shoe tip brushed my periphery. Her voice echoed distantly. No clue what she said. World spun, and I collapsed flat.