An Imposter Born of Sin
Had she lacked beauty, had she lacked grace, or had she been even slightly vulgar, Cleo might have felt some small sense of triumph in her heart.
Yet the Marquis of Landt's legitimate daughter was dazzlingly superior, outshining every peer of her generation.
In the Empire, an emperor's coronation had to be celebrated alongside the investiture of an empress; no sovereign could ascend the throne unmarried. Thus, when the previous emperor died suddenly and the crown prince was poised to take the throne, the court frantically searched for a suitable bride.
Many whispered that even if the marquis's daughter vied for the crown against the maiden of the prestigious House Integria, victory would lean in her favor. They murmured that while House Integria's daughter was virtuous and steeped in flawless decorum, she possessed none of the breathtaking allure of the Marquis of Landt’s daughter. Even the Empress Dowager had privately summoned the young lady, declaring how thoroughly pleased she was with her.
Listening to those whispers, Cleo had ground her teeth.
At this rate, I will never surpass her.
Her sister would become the exalted Empress, bear the prince who would rule the realm, bask in the envy and adoration of the high imperial palace—and look down to sneer at her.
Perhaps that was why.
That was why she had slipped her sister the poison she had acquired by pure chance.
Watching her sister empty the tainted goblet and vomit dark blood onto the floorboards, Cleo had trembled in a sickening blend of ecstasy and dread.
And in that fleeting moment before the end, her sister—the woman Cleo hated with every fiber of her being—spoke in a voice that was dreadfully serene. Looking down at Cleo with eyes thick with disgust, she whispered:
“Are you happy that I’m dying for you? You pathetic, crawling vermin.”
The instant those words fell, realization struck Cleo like lightning.
The renowned jewel of the Landt Marquisate had lived her entire life behind a mask of sheer boredom, as though the whole world were unworthy of her attention. She memorized every tome she glanced upon. She never erred in a single point of etiquette once shown. Even the embroidery she stitched to pass the time eclipsed the work of master seamstresses, and her idle love poems were more poignant than those of court bards. With a faint, weary indifference, as if oblivious to love, affection, or passion, she let every praise roll off her shoulders.
She looked upon the desires and deficiencies of others as though they were laughable.
Indeed.
Her sister possessed no appetite for life. Sneering at Cleo—who trembled with inferiority, hatred, and burning rage—had been her one modest diversion.
So she had simply chosen to ‘die for her.’ Even without taking the empress's seat, even if she perished and vanished from the earth, Cleo, left behind, would never have any way to surpass her. Even without the poison, she had simply found living to be dreadfully dull.
After the marquis’s daughter swallowed the venom and breathed her last, Cleo’s father—who had never once sought her out of his own accord—summoned her and spoke with curt indifference.
“The Empress Dowager promised that child the throne, but now that matters have unfolded this way, you will have to fill the empty seat.”
His eyes were cold with open disdain.
“I shall formally register you under our name, but you will never measure up to your sister. The empress's seat will go to House Integria. I expect nothing from you, but try not to disgrace us.”
Cleo’s murder of her sister was cleanly erased, as though it had never occurred. The marquis’s daughter was deemed to have succumbed to a tragic accident. Cleo had gritted her teeth in the dark.
I will bear a son.
I will seduce the Emperor and bear a son before anyone else.
And I will make that child Emperor.
Her sister had tossed aside the seat of Empress as if it were worthless, but the son Cleo bore would become more exalted than her sister could ever have dreamed. She would place him on the highest throne so that he could look down upon the Landt Marquisate like insects beneath his boot.
For that goal, she was willing to do whatever it took.
Seducing the Emperor had been child's play. Whenever she looked upon the rigid, sanctimonious daughter of House Integria, it grated on her nerves because the woman reminded her of her dead sister, but at least they were not the same person.
She ruthlessly disposed of any servants who dared whisper that she had coveted the sovereign's side, envied her sister, and poisoned her to steal her place. She bore a precious son before the Empress did. Seeing an opportunity, the Landt Marquisate rallied behind her, eager to place their blood upon the throne.
The name of the dead faded into oblivion. To survive was to win. Step by step, victory had tasted sweet.
So what reason did she have to hesitate over manipulating a worthless girl whom no one cared for?
It had been so easy. A wretch whose eyes begged for love yet whose lips never dared utter a single complaint.
She had believed it was simple. So why?
‘How about you think of it this way?’
That voice had been so dreadfully gentle.
‘Perhaps the foolish child who, in her youth and ignorance, believed Your Highness’s affection was genuine died back then—and a fake, born from Your Highness’s sins, has taken her place.’
The way Titania spoke of death with such casual ease overlapped completely with that memory from long ago. A fake born from my sins? What does that mean? You, standing before me? Even knowing the words were spoken purely to mock her...
“Are you happy that I’m dying for you? You pathetic, crawling vermin.”
Those cold, mocking eyes surfaced in her mind once more.
Princess Titania had smiled with eyes like empty mirrors. Reflected within them was neither the fiancé she had yearned for so desperately nor the biological mother she could never quite let go of. There was only Cleo’s own reflection, frozen in terror, wrath, and utter disarray.
‘So I look forward to your continued care, Imperial Consort.’
Looking at her, Cleo had felt a chill creep into her bones.
That could not be the Titania of old.
There was no way that creature was the naive, pathetic little girl whose every thought was laid bare upon her face.
Because that thing... that thing was...
“You seem in quite a hurry, Imperial Consort.”
A voice cut through the corridor, bringing Cleo to a sudden halt.
“...Do you still have business with me, Young Duke Castrein?”
The imperial consort forced a smile to her lips, her eyes frantically darting to read his expression. Clad in a crisp black uniform and cloak, Raymon stood before her, his face carved of stone.
“Is today not the day your precious fiancée finally awoke? I assumed you would rush to her side to keep vigil...”
Yes. That altered Titania must have harbored some ulterior motive when she saved that girl—Bibi, or whatever her name was.
And could this demonic young duke truly be blind to it? This fiend who was practically the living incarnation of obsession over the Castrein name?
“Or perhaps matters differ from what the public believes? To be sure, Princess Titania’s beauty is undeniable, but given the striking features of your own kin... I suppose you have little need to gaze upon others for visual solace.”
“I do not judge people by their appearance.”
“A truly admirable sentiment. But, Young Duke... surely you did not stop me just to trade pleasantries?”
He would not dare lay a hand on her within the walls of the imperial palace. Nor would he attempt to drag out an argument over who was right and who was wrong.
The imperial consort would never willingly confess that she had orchestrated the curse placed upon Princess Titania. She might have made an error, she might have been deceived by another party, but she would never openly admit fault. Anyone with a shred of sense understood that much.
“Whom did you join hands with?”
Sharp-witted as she was, Cleo immediately realized he was asking where she had procured the 'evidence.'
“How should I know? How could I have anticipated that a vile enemy plotting against the imperial palace would plant such dangerous relics?”
“I did not ask where you obtained the items. I asked whom you joined hands with.”
The utter absence of emotion in his low voice carried a suffocating menace. Hearing it, one could almost understand the Emperor, whose entire being was twisted with an inferiority complex toward Duchy Castrein. Earlier, to push through his scheme, Raymon had deigned to bow his head before the Emperor, but usually, he was insufferably unyielding.
What was so grand about hunting down beasts, anyway?
In the end, how was it any different from the work of a common butcher?
“There are countless souls willing to lend me their aid. Surely I have no obligation to turn away the goodwill of those who voluntarily assist Brian, do I?”
In the gloom of the corridor, Raymon’s golden eyes burned with an unsettling, predatory gleam. From somewhere nearby, a thick, cloying stench drifted into the air, sweet and rancid like bait meant to lure crawling vermin.
“...I see. I did not expect Your Highness to answer honestly in the first place.”
“Then why waste my time with such obvious questions—”
“What I wished to say was something else entirely.”
SCREEEEEEAAACH!
A horrific, ear-splitting shriek ripped through the darkness.
The imperial consort could only stare in stunned paralysis as a demonic beast lunging straight for her ankles was crushed and obliterated before it could finish its cry, bursting into a shower of blackish-red gore that splattered across her skirts.
Raymon drove the blade of his sword into the stone floor. A dark, foul-smelling viscous fluid dripped from the back of his bare hand, splashing heavily onto the ground.
Instinct told her the truth.
That was the bait used to summon demonic beasts. He had been holding it in his bare hand the entire time, casually walking up to her and carrying on a conversation as if discussing the weather.
Soaked in warm, crimson blood, the imperial consort could only shudder as Raymon spoke to her in a terrifyingly tranquil voice.