I Have My Pride, Too
"If I were to cross the line—clinging to the flimsy pretext of being your savior, acting as if I were a master of House Castrein rather than a mere guest—do you have any idea what would happen to me?"
"I gave my word that I would protect you, Your Highness."
"Even if I were to become an enemy of House Castrein?"
"That could never happen—"
"Why couldn't it? I am the Emperor's daughter, after all."
The corner of Titania's lips curved upward in a faint, humorless smile.
"At the very least, I am glad you didn't insult my intelligence with an absurd lie like claiming I matter more to you than your own family."
"...Your Highness."
"You don't need to pretend you like me, either."
"I truly—"
"The moment I mentioned Gloriana's Insignia, you drew your sword and aimed it straight at my throat. It hasn't been that long, has it?"
A sudden, sharp realization struck Raymon.
That day—the day he had felt the sheer depth of her transformation more acutely than anyone else—Titania hadn't shown the slightest hint of shock when his blade cleared its scabbard. She had looked at him as if expecting nothing less, entirely convinced he was someone who would slaughter her without a second thought if it served the Castrein Duchy.
"I played along to a certain degree for Bibi's sake, but... let's be reasonable. Let's keep things manageable between us. Don't go spouting absurd nonsense about offering me the seat of the next duchess."
"Was that not the position you wanted?"
Raymon finally voiced the question he had suppressed for so long. Even as her demeanor shifted so visibly, he had never dared to press her. At first, the change had seemed curious and not unwelcome; later, weighed down by his own guilt over having deceived her without ever offering his heart, he couldn't bring himself to ask if she had been playing a part all along. And after that...
"If I said I wanted it, would you give it to me?"
Her voice was flat and even. Raymon swallowed dryly. It was a simple question, yet an inexplicable heat scorched his chest.
"...Yes."
"Don't."
Titania chuckled softly. It was a sound as delicate as a blossom blooming from the grave of a girl who had once craved a place by his side more than life itself—infinitely light, like flower seeds scattering into the breeze.
"I see. An imperial fiancée willing to lay down her life for Bibi... Looked at from that angle, House Castrein doesn't have much to lose. Yes, I suppose I never considered it from that perspective..."
She murmured under her breath, lost in thought for a passing second, before meeting his eyes again.
"Even so, the answer is no."
"We are officially betrothed."
"Then find someone you actually love and marry them."
"...What?"
That, at least, caught Raymon completely off guard.
"You love Bibi, don't you?"
"I do."
"Then how would you feel if Bibi were forced into a mechanical arranged marriage with someone she felt nothing for, driven purely by cold calculation and political gain?"
"Our family has no need to subject Bibi to such an arranged marr—"
"Because you, Young Duke Raymon, are more than enough to shoulder that burden. Yes, I understand. We've been talking in circles for a while now, so let me make this abundantly clear right here. Young Duke, I have every intention of breaking off our engagement."
Raymon stared at her, genuinely stunned.
"...Pardon?"
"I intend to break it off, which is why I am telling you upfront that I will not marry you. The current circumstances don't allow for an immediate annulment, and I kept quiet until now only because I didn't want any unnecessary misunderstandings."
She spoke without the slightest hesitation, as though airing thoughts she had weighed and settled long ago.
"......"
"I understand Duke Castrein's intentions well enough. There was a reason he deliberately delayed our wedding until after I reached adulthood, wasn't there?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"'Endure it for now; if you wish, I will find a way to break the engagement later.'"
"......"
An inexplicable urge to protest flared in Raymon's chest. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, to explain himself. But he couldn't bring himself to deny it. Biting the corner of his lip, he forced out a strained reply.
"I... cannot deny that. But still—!"
"The Duke cherishes you in his own way, that's all. It means he believes you shouldn't have to sacrifice yourself unconditionally for the sake of the family."
Her tone was dry and detached, as though none of it concerned her in the least.
"You must be wondering why I'm going through all this trouble. I suppose that's what puzzles you..."
Titania blinked, a shadow of weariness passing over her eyes.
"All my life, I have lived without owing a single debt to the Empress. I don't consider myself indebted to anyone in the imperial family, either. To House Castrein, my past conduct must have seemed shameful, but..."
Her pallid complexion looked less like living flesh and more like fine porcelain. Beneath her pale cheeks, long eyelashes cast quiet shadows.
"That is why I despise the thought of it. I despise the idea of someone sacrificing themselves for me out of a fleeting shred of pity. Out of mere sympathy. Out of the notion that *this much help is manageable.* I truly despise it. I can't bear the thought of someone suffering even the slightest loss on my account, or believing it is a fair price to pay just to rescue a foolish, ignorant, helpless princess."
"......"
"You probably won't understand, Young Duke."
A smile touched her lips—fragile and razor-sharp, like someone balancing along the edge of a blade.
She was like a neglected child who had grown up listening to other children boast of their parents' warmth through gritted teeth. A child who, upon tripping and scraping her knees, would take an outstretched hand to stand back up, but would never shed a single tear. She would force a smile through bloodied lips and say, Thank you for the help, rather than cling to that hand and sob, It hurts, it's so hard, please save me.
She would never beg for affection, for sympathy, or for pity. She would never give anyone the chance to click their tongue at her pathetic state. And more than death itself, she refused to let anyone look back and regret ever offering her a hand.
"I have my pride, too, you see."
Looking at her face, Raymon finally understood.
Titania Sol Kite Hamastion would never, under any circumstances, beg for his love. She would never again lay bare the raw depths of her heart or flail in desperate yearning before him.
Her eyes were fierce and unyielding—the eyes of someone who, upon realizing her affection had become a burden, would sooner strangle her own breath and seal herself inside a coffin.
"Just as you anticipated, this is the cursed object recovered from the grounds near the Rose Palace."
Everything was proceeding smoothly. Consort Cleo nodded approvingly to the Captain of the First Imperial Guard, who bowed low and presented a square wooden box containing a blackened mass. She commended him for his hard work.
Every single piece was falling into place.
"When is the High Priest expected to arrive, Natalie?"
"He is on his way as we speak, Your Highness."
"Hmph. Taking his sweet time even in a crisis like this. Well, no matter. It makes little difference."
Consort Cleo was in high spirits.
Time had been extraordinarily tight for this scheme, forcing her to push boundaries. Securing evidence radiating enough 'power of darkness' to pass as a genuine curse within half a day had been no small feat. Of course, smuggling it into the palace under the cover of night and burying it near the Rose Palace had been trivial by comparison.
She had already toyed with a similar scheme in advance. That was why, the moment she heard whispers of a peculiar sword residing in the Rose Palace, the idea of tying it to a dark curse had sprung to mind instantly.
She hadn't anticipated that the very sword she gifted would become an issue, but what did it matter? Titania would never dare claim that Cleo had been the one to give it to her.
A trainee priest—one who routinely tended to Cleo's skincare and cosmetic treatments—had stood alongside Head Maid Natalie to witness the unearthing of the tainted relic in the Rose Palace gardens.
The Consort smoothed down her attire one final time. In place of the revealing, opulent gowns she usually preferred, she had donned a relatively modest dress of deep navy silk. The dazzling Ocean of Stars tiara that typically crowned her hair had been set aside, replaced by an unassuming sapphire hairpin.
Today, her role was that of a devoted guardian, destined to weep and plead in anguish over the tragic curse that had befallen an imperial princess she claimed to love like her own daughter.
High Priest Marzid would arrive shortly. Once he did, she would greet him at the threshold and lead the charge straight into the Empress's palace.
"Hmph. Did they truly believe they were the only ones capable of summoning a High Priest? Claiming they had to call one because she has been bedridden and unconscious for three straight days—what a laughable excuse!"
Consort Cleo was almost certain Princess Titania was already awake.
The claim that she remained comatose was bound to be a fabrication.
While she couldn't yet verify whether the carriage accident had been staged—she had ordered an investigation, but the Castrein Duchy's airtight security yielded nothing—she needed to uncover the condition of the little wretch hiding inside the Empress's residence.
Who could have foreseen that the maidservants she sent to probe the waters would be humiliated in such a disgraceful fashion?
Seeing that brazen retaliation, Cleo had concluded that Titania was alive and perfectly sound.
Yet the Empress and her faction had only dared to pull such a maneuver under the mistaken assumption that they held a monopoly over the High Priests.
Across the entire empire, there were only five High Priests. Two were frail with age and semi-retired from public affairs, leaving a mere three active young clerics. Among those three, Ilian and Marzid stood out as the most prominent figures.
The third had ascended to the rank at an exceptionally young age, only to bury himself entirely in research, completely shunning secular duties and palace politics.
Ultimately, the only ones who mattered were Ilian and Marzid.
High Priest Ilian was the undisputed figurehead of the Commoner Faction, an outspoken advocate for establishing divine healing shelters accessible to those outside the nobility.
High Priest Marzid, on the other hand, hailed from a distinguished, blue-blooded lineage. He adamantly proclaimed that divine power was God's sacred reward bestowed solely upon noble actions—and should therefore be granted only to those worthy of it: the highborn elite.
With these two distinct factions clashing at every turn, a relentless war for supremacy was raging within the heart of the temple.