The Consort's Honeyed Poison
I suppose it was because I had dropped a few crumbs about my private audience with Raymon.
Feigning a fit of blind rage, I stomped my foot, grinding the shattered ceramic fragments of the teacup beneath my heel. Ouch, it cut right through the thin sole. That stings!
Then again, this was Titania—a girl whose heels and toes were perpetually ground raw by stiff, ill-fitting new slippers. A petulant princess in the middle of a full-blown tantrum would hardly let a measly scrape extinguish her fury.
"He said I looked shabby! Unfit for the imperial palace! Raymon did!"
Crunch!
Forgive me, little roses!
As if overcome by uncontrollable wrath, I seized a bouquet of decorative roses from the wall and tore the blossoms to shreds, scattering crimson petals across the floor. Throwing a fragrant, chaotic riot, I stamped and raged once more.
"He sneered at me! He laughed right in my face! This is all your fault!"
"Oh dear... Did the Young Duke of Castrein truly say such a thing?"
Mary's gaze shifted with subtle calculation. Sarah exchanged a swift glance with her and crept closer, a familiar gleam of contempt and mockery flickering beneath their obsequious masks. Right on cue, I clamped my mouth shut, pouting as though deeply mortified.
"Please, Princess Titania, do not fret so. Swallowing so much anger will ruin your delicate health. Why don’t we sit somewhere comfortable, have a nice cup of sweet hot cocoa, and talk through whatever is troubling you?"
Mary cooed in a syrupy voice. Under normal circumstances, they severely restricted my sweets, insisting I had to maintain my figure; yet whenever they wanted to extract information, they offered treats without hesitation. Not a single person here possessed the decency to offer genuine counsel—to tell me, even in passing, that a royal princess should maintain her composure rather than vent her fury on servants and inanimate objects. Of course, a mere maid lecturing a princess risked harsh retribution, but more than that, these servants were operating under explicit orders to indulge and inflame Titania’s petulant temperament.
Playing the stubborn child who, having exhausted her fury, was now tempted by the promise of sweets, I let my gaze waver. Seeing this, Sarah slipped quietly out of the room, evidently satisfied that the bait had worked.
Right at that moment, an announcement rang out from the doorway.
"Her Imperial Highness, First Consort Cleo den Atri Hamastion, has arrived."
Natalie, whose absence I had noted earlier, appeared alongside the unwelcome visitor. I couldn't help but marvel.
Well, well. I expected her to react, but she moves terrifyingly fast.
To think someone who sat somewhere between a mid-level boss and the final villain would grace me with her presence in person.
"Princess."
A woman strolled gracefully toward me with a serene smile, the rustle of fine fabric accompanying her steps. Judged purely by appearances, she was breathtakingly youthful and stunning, with a delicate beauty mark beneath her right eye that accentuated her feline allure. Her gown, crafted from countless layers of whisper-thin white silk, sheerly hinted at the pale skin beneath. Atop her neatly pinned, swept-up blue hair rested an orange diamond ornament dubbed the Ocean of Stars—a gift directly bestowed by the Emperor.
In every sense, it was an ostentatious display. All the more so considering the Ocean of Stars was an heirloom historically reserved for the reigning Empress, yet the Emperor had sparked an imperial uproar by brazenly gifting it to a mere concubine.
"I heard you were terribly unwell. Oh, poor child, whatever shall we do...?"
She blinked with feigned heartbreak, though the gaze assessing me beneath her fluttering lashes was sharp as a blade.
By imperial law, the empire practiced strict monogamy; mistresses kept by aristocratic families held no legal standing whatsoever. The Emperor, however, was granted the sole prerogative of maintaining an imperial harem. Even then, the numbers were strictly capped: three Imperial Consorts and two Palace Concubines. Consorts had to hail from nobility, whereas women of common or lower birth could only enter as concubines. Even if one bore imperial blood, only the children of Imperial Consorts were treated with genuine dignity. Historically, emperors rarely filled the full quota of five consorts, hardly ever keeping all three consort seats occupied at once. Yet the fact that the current, notorious lecher of an Emperor kept only two consorts was entirely thanks to Cleo's ruthless machinations.
"Thanks to Your Highness's benevolence, I am well," I replied.
Even as the polite words left my lips, I turned my head away and pouted, pretending my sulky anger had yet to subside.
"Oh my, goodness me. Whatever has gotten our little princess so terribly worked up?"
Cleo chuckled with narrowed, catlike eyes, lightly stroking my cheek as if indulging the mood swings of a beloved pet. The intoxicating fragrance wafting from her skin and the silky brush of her fingertips were sweet enough to beguile any naive child. In truth, her original plan had been to murder me the moment she bore a daughter of her own. But after giving birth to First Prince Brian, she suffered consecutive miscarriages and ultimately became infertile. Unable to produce a daughter, she opted to spare me and exploit me instead. Had I not known the grim truth behind her gentle mask, I might have succumbed to her fraudulent affection.
Imperial etiquette dictated that unless one was the Empress herself, no concubine had the authority to speak down casually to the Emperor’s scion, regardless of rank; both parties were bound by mutual courtly honorifics. But who would dare lecture the peerless First Imperial Consort Cleo—the Emperor's most favored paramour—to show respect to an unloved, neglected princess?
"Sniff... Your Highness. What if... what if Raymon thinks I'm hideous?"
Playing the part of a child venting all her pent-up sorrow before the only adult who seemed kind to her, I looked up at her with tearful, brimming eyes. Cleo blinked her narrow, feline eyes and subtly flicked her wrist behind her back, signaling the maids to withdraw from the room.
Consort Cleo had always treated Titania like an amusing pet. While never offering genuine care or protection, she showered the girl with hollow flatteries and meaningless gifts, grooming a starved, emotionally neglected child to cling to her every whim. She fed her empty, sugary affection until the child's teeth rotted and limbs withered, all while gaslighting her with whispered poisons: Even your birth mother doesn't love you. I am the only one in this vast palace who truly cares.
Goosebumps prickled across my skin whenever her arm brushed mine in a mock embrace. Cleo was one of the principal architects of Titania’s eventual downfall. She had played the doting surrogate mother until Bibi appeared—the beloved adoptive daughter of Duke Castrein. The instant a more lucrative prospect emerged, Cleo ruthlessly abandoned Titania to test the waters for an engagement between Bibi and Brian.
Of course, none of this was surprising. Cleo had made a career out of cleaning up the lecherous Emperor’s sordid affairs. Though Brian was the firstborn son, he lacked the ironclad legitimacy of Prince Adrian, who was born of the Empress. Should another prince, born of some random palace maid or noble mistress, rise to prominence, Brian’s position would be gravely undermined. To preempt any threat, Cleo actively procured lowborn beauties to present to the Emperor. Once his interest waned, she had them quietly disposed of without leaving a trace. The Emperor knowingly turned a blind eye. Rather than burdening himself with expanding the harem, it was vastly more convenient to indulge in fleeting pleasures while Cleo handled the dirty cleanup.
"Whatever makes you think that?" Cleo asked softly.
"Well..."
While she made an effort to tame and keep Titania on a leash, Titania was currently out of her direct reach. Her primary objective was using Titania to spy on the Castrein Duchy—specifically, to gauge the status and disposition of Young Duke Raymon. Consequently, whether Titania threw fits, smashed furniture, or dropped dead mattered little to her in the grand scheme. Yet she had come here in person.
"...People said that if someone truly loves you, they won't care what you look like," I mumbled, deliberately letting my voice tremble with misery while avoiding her eyes. "They told me the battlefield is always reeking of blood, full of filthy, wounded people... So I thought Young Duke Raymon might look at me and say I was still pretty even when I was sick and hurt."
Cleo’s eyes narrowed with calculating amusement.
She had expected Titania to summon a priest, heal her injuries, and dress up to perfection before meeting him. Instead, the girl had pulled an 'aberrant' stunt, braving the audience bruised and battered.
Cleo was undeniably perceptive—or rather, her instincts were razor-sharp whenever it came to individuals she intended to exploit. But as she watched the young princess hang her head in shame, cheeks flushed with bitter humiliation, I could feel her suspicion dissolve into a smug Of course. What else would an idiot child think?
It was almost laughable. When the poor girl had hovered at death’s door and barely regained consciousness, Cleo hadn't bothered to visit once. Yet here she was, racing over the moment she heard about a private audience with Young Duke Raymon to dig for secrets. It was laughably transparent; only an innocent, blind child would have fallen for it.
"Princess."
Her tone softened with practiced subtlety. Reaching out with an air of tender solicitude, she gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and spoke in a faux-comforting murmur.
"Well, that cannot be helped. After all, you have always presented yourself before Young Duke Raymon as radiant and utterly unapproachable, like an untouchable flower."
In other words, Cleo had historically sugarcoated Raymon's obvious revulsion, convincing Titania that he was merely keeping his distance out of respect for imperial decorum—that he pretended to dislike her because a gentleman could not brazenly court a noble imperial princess without breaching propriety.
What kind of unhinged, otherworldly logic is that?