🔊 TTS Settings
Chapter : 01
The Grand Duke’s Pet Bird
It was the center of a vast, magnificent hall.
Amid a crowd dressed in black formal wear, quietly murmuring among themselves, a single woman with perfect posture was singing in a beautiful voice. It was a memorial banquet for Duke Heron, who had recently passed away after a sudden heart attack.
Given the nature of the occasion, the grand hall carried a somewhat restless atmosphere, yet the only one who remained completely unmoved, holding her place without wavering, was the singer gracefully parting her lips there. She looked as though she had taken root on the stage from the very beginning, flawless and without the slightest disorder.
—Now, at this very moment, when death comes to us…
As pure as her astonishingly clear tone was, her appearance was just as exquisite. The gazes of the nobles, who should have remembered the very purpose that had gathered them here, continuously drifted toward the elegant beauty.
When she finished the short memorial song and bowed, the sound of politely restrained applause rose behind her, and her straight legs moved as if dancing. Hair as dark as the feathers of a crow slipped smoothly into the narrow passage beyond the stage.
The color of the woman—blackest in the world yet seeming almost white—lingered in one’s vision.
Then, suddenly, the legs that had entered that space faltered and stopped in an unsteady step. The dress, designed to accentuate her curves, cinched her waist so tightly that even sitting in it was an ordeal.
“Alperil! Are you okay?”
From afar, a man who had been casting anxious glances hurried over and supported her. Leaning against him, Alperil steadied her breathing and offered a faint smile as if to say not to worry.
Rather than easing concern, it was an expression pitiful enough to deepen it. With a troubled face, the brown-haired, brown-eyed young man gathered Alperil’s slackened limbs.
He was Pascal Müller—her only close friend and a fellow serf who shared the same circumstances. Reading the worry plainly written in his eyes, Alperil quickly opened her mouth before any further scolding could begin.
“Why are you making such a fuss? I’m fine. Have you ever seen me not be fine?”
“You—”
“Anyone could see today’s performance was perfect. Thank you. I think so too, Cal.”
Chattering nonstop, she successfully cut Pascal off and even flashed him a grin. Pascal swallowed a strange sigh, as if resigned.
Alperil was a serf born and raised in the Heron ducal household—a person, yet never truly a person, more like a puppet.
In the distant past, after the fall of the ancient empire, the Kingdom of Tribéral split off and, through countless wars, came to occupy the most fertile portion of the fragmented continent. The Heron ducal family, Alperil’s masters, were loyal vassals of that royal house.
Having long maintained closer ties with the crown than anyone else, the House of Heron was among the wealthiest and most powerful noble families in Tribéral. Naturally, their ducal estate was open as a center of inland entertainment and social gatherings, and amid the endless banquets and salons, there arose a need for amusements that could continuously delight the guests.
Thus, it became common practice in the kingdom to select especially talented individuals from among each house’s serfs and educate them in painting, music, architecture, and the like.
Among the hundred thousand serfs belonging to the vast House of Heron, it was hardly surprising that Alperil—particularly outstanding in both appearance and voice—caught the eye of the late duke.
Treasuring her rare talent and beauty in life, the duke supported her with advanced opera training and paraded her proudly at his side like a special toy.
Now that the duke was dead, it was only natural that Pascal worried over Alperil as though she were a newborn chick. The woman who constantly claimed to be fine never once revealed her true feelings to others.
“Really, don’t worry about it. You should stop now—”
“Pascal Müller, have you finally fallen for that filthy whore too?”
At that moment, someone’s voice suddenly cut between them like a sharp blade.
Several servants who had approached at some point looked at Alperil leaning against Pascal and snickered crudely. Some even went further, hurling vulgar insults outright.
“If you’re going to keep going, take it to the stable out back. Let us get a good look too!”
Alperil grabbed Pascal’s sleeve as he bristled and tried to stand. Clear exhaustion settled in her pale blue eyes as she whispered sharply.
“Endure it! There’s no need to cause trouble because of me. It’s not the first time, is it?”
While there were certainly cases of powerless female serfs being forced even into their masters’ beds, Alperil had never once been asked to do such a thing by the late duke.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—he had cherished her as a valuable possession rather than desired her as a woman.
Even so, those who envied the favor she received often spread unfounded scandals. Aside from Pascal and his family—two brothers who were tailors and a father who was a blacksmith bound to the House of Heron—few either opposed or refused to partake in such petty ostracism. It wasn’t worth flying into a rage over, yet it was too irritating to ignore entirely.
“…You must be tired too. Go and rest.”
Having accepted the situation, Pascal muttered through clenched teeth, his voice thick with resentment.
Alperil patted his shoulder a few times and urged him to turn back quickly. Hundreds of nobles were visiting the ducal estate at that very moment, and he, too, must have made time to come despite being busy.
She watched her childhood friend’s retreating back quietly.
Maybe I’ll sneak him a few leftover pastries at dawn… I could invite his brothers and uncle too and pretend it’s a little tea party. They’d all be so happy.
Lost briefly in such foolish yet pleasant thoughts, Alperil suddenly heard a low voice by her ear.
“Is he your lover?”
At the whisper of a man who had approached without a sound, every hair on her body stood on end. The tone almost sounded gentle, and without turning around, Alperil recognized its owner.
“…Young master.”
“Tell me. Is he your lover?”
Leopold Tassilo Scholmann Berchtold Heron—the legitimate heir of the House of Heron, just past twenty-four years of age, now a son who had lost his father. A flicker of unease crossed the strangely colored eyes that had always seemed so calm.
With his handsome, ever-smiling face and generous temperament, he was popular even among the servants. She couldn’t understand why a man who should have been busy receiving mourners was here.
“Of course not. He’s just a friend.”
Alperil answered with an awkward smile. A lover—perhaps possible for an ordinary serf, but a word never permitted for her. Her throat tightened.
For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, the young lord whom everyone praised as a good master made her uncomfortable. Though they had rarely met or exchanged many words, his overly familiar manner always unsettled her.
“Hm… It didn’t look that way.”
At his repeated question, Alperil quietly nodded.
When a rough hand was placed on her shoulder, her slender body was easily turned around. She swallowed a dizzy cry and planted her heels firmly on the floor.
Leopold’s dark red hair and green eyes shone much like the late duke’s. The fresh-faced, handsome man slowly swept his gaze over her from head to toe before speaking.
“The memorial song earlier was excellent. Now I understand why my father cherished you.”
“Th-thank you.”
The response slipped out half by habit. Seemingly satisfied with her meek, obedient reply, Leopold curled the corner of his lips upward. He was a young man with a refreshing air about him.
“When the duke was alive, aside from opera, what kind of education did you receive?”
At the sudden, inscrutable question, Alperil gauged his expression. After a brief pause, her lips opened obediently. After all, she had no choice in the matter.
“I studied basic history of Tribéral, and the Litnian, Grutian, and Nimelian languages three or four times a week. Besides that, art, etiquette, and music…”
“My.”
His low exclamation cut her off. The drooping eyes that had given him a gentle impression now seemed threatening as Leopold took a step closer.
“Impressive. That must have cost a fortune.”
His large, rough hand brushed the slender nape of her neck. Her skin twitched faintly at the cold touch. A necklace glittering with obvious jewels caught his eye.
“I can’t say I understand the value of investing that much in a single serf woman. I suppose my father saw things differently.”
Clear hostility lay in his languid voice. Thump, thump. Her heart pounded as if it might burst from her chest. Overwhelmed, Alperil froze, unsure how to react.
“The piano?”
“Pardon?”
“Are you as good at the piano as you are at singing? Or should I ask whether you play well at all?”
You see, I’m quite ignorant when it comes to music.
He withdrew both hands from her at once and stepped back, adding the last with an innocent smile. Instinctively, Alperil realized this question was an opportunity being offered to her.
He would soon claim his rightful position as the eldest son of House Heron and inherit the ducal seat.
The relatively easy life Alperil had enjoyed as a serf favored by the previous duke was now a thing of the past. With a single whim of the young lord standing before her, her future could change completely.
“I know it well, and I play well too. I’ve studied for seven years.”
Alperil replied with the brightest smile she could manage. Though she hadn’t never considered life after the duke’s death, her head now spun at the sudden reality.
Her serf father had been beaten to death for attempting to escape before she was even born. She had heard that her pregnant mother sickened with grief at the news and died shortly after giving birth to her.
The ones who had told her that story and cared for her, orphaned as she was, were the Müller family—Pascal’s father and brothers. They were her only family and friends.
If she were cast out miserably as a serf, there would be no chance of ever seeing them again. Hiding her trembling hands behind her back, Alperil forced a smile.
“Come to think of it, you really are beautiful.”
Leopold suddenly stared at her face intently and murmured the observation as if it were new to him. At the compliment that hardly felt like praise, all Alperil could do was smile nervously.
“Don’t worry. Everything depends on what you do.”
His tone was relaxed and indulgent, as if he could see straight through her thoughts. As Alperil lowered her gaze and bit her lip, Leopold leaned close and whispered into her ear.
“At dawn, come to my bedroom. Knock three times, and the door will open.”
