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Chapter 52
She had barely made it through the day, hiding her anxiety the whole time. That was why she felt all the more wronged, why she was now bursting with such helpless fury.
Erne stared blankly at the setting sun, beyond the anguished expression of Wynthurd, who was filled with guilt. Everything felt like a dream.
Even when she heard of the queen’s death, she remained composed—so Wynthurd knew just how hollow Erne’s heart was as she swallowed her sobs.
To an outsider, her dry eyes might have seemed cold and unfeeling. But to Wynthurd, it was clear—she was crying without tears.
Whenever he saw the fading light in her glassy eyes.
“Are you all righ—”
Even that clichéd question, “Are you okay?” merely lingered on his lips and refused to come out. Wynthurd felt like a sinner before Erne.
He had promised. Sworn that everything would be fine. And yet, the result was nothing short of tragic. Raised within the prestigious Douglas family, Wynthurd found it unbearable to face how utterly powerless he was now.
Erne stood, barely holding herself upright, lips pale from being pressed together so tightly, looking like she could dissolve into the wind at any moment. Wynthurd opened his mouth in a rush.
“Erne.”
Her name was all he could manage to say.
Erne, who had just barely calmed the storm of emotions within her, responded faintly at the sound of his voice.
Her eyes, just barely, turned to him. Her tightly sealed lips slowly parted.
“Is this also… their doing?”
He couldn’t answer with certainty. He didn’t know.
The death of Marquis Demian was suspicious in more ways than one, but with Erne in front of him, Wynthurd found it impossible to remain calm.
Especially while staring into her dark, lifeless eyes.
It felt like just days ago that he had looked forward to seeing her, heart fluttering with joy.
Now, upon hearing such tragic news, she looked as though she might collapse at any moment.
“By the time I arrived after hearing that the Marquis had collapsed, he was already…”
Even uttering a single syllable felt heavy. He feared that speaking the truth she might already suspect would only deepen her pain.
At Wynthurd’s words, Erne wavered, biting her lip and bringing her clenched fists together solemnly at her chest.
“You told me to use it.”
“…Yes. I did.”
Wynthurd waited in silence as Erne’s determined gaze revealed her growing resolve.
“Then I think I’ll become queen.”
The death of Marquis Demian had brought a massive storm upon her. For Erne, who had merely struggled to escape the trashy clichés of the original story, to now declare her intention to become queen—this was a massive shift.
The once-calm breeze had turned into a windstorm strong enough to make one close their eyes.
The surface of the lake shimmered wildly from the ripple of a small stone.
Wynthurd couldn’t say for sure whether this change in Erne was good or bad.
Yet there was such unwavering determination in her sparkling eyes—so bright against her hair that looked like it might melt in the sunlight—that it made her look extraordinary.
Just like the day they first met, when her eyes had first captivated him, Wynthurd found himself saying “yes” again—an answer he only gave to Erne.
“It’s the natural course of things.”
As that calm response left his lips, Erne lifted her head and asked,
“Why do you support me so much?”
“Even if I remove personal feelings, the truth remains—there is no one else in Nesheld fit to be its queen but you, Princess Erne.”
“Is that because I’m the queen’s legitimate daughter?”
“Perhaps. But what I do know for certain is this—if you had said you wouldn’t become queen, I would’ve tossed this country aside long ago.”
His words, delivered with firm conviction, left Erne speechless.
Amidst the chaos, Wynthurd’s unwavering belief in her only left her more confused about where she stood.
As she looked at him—so often casually spouting dangerous things—Erne muttered softly, just under her breath.
“…He really is the final boss.”
＊＊＊
“What do you mean my father’s body is missing?”
A corpse doesn’t grow legs and walk away. How could someone steal a dead body?
Erne groaned and sat back down.
She had planned to map out her next steps after declaring her intent to become queen upon hearing of her father’s death.
With the mighty Douglas family offering their full support, she had nothing to fear. But this was something she had never even imagined.
“Find it. Immediately.”
Wynthurd, too, looked exasperated at the absurd message.
As stunned as Erne was, he forced a bitter laugh before turning to comfort her now-stricken face.
“We’ll find it soon.”
“I hope so.”
Erne’s voice was lifeless with resignation.
After all she had been through, her mind and body were both near their limit.
She felt utterly drained—like she couldn’t take even one more thing. And now, of all things, news of grave robbery?
Mumbling her frustration, Erne suddenly stiffened.
“No, no. The opponent here is a K-writer!”
This was a novel that had thrown in every cliché from Korean drama and fiction imaginable—and written by a K-writer, no less.
The realization sent a chill down her spine. Erne shivered and shook her head to dispel the dread creeping up her back.
Once she remembered where she was, it was even more shocking to realize how unfazed she was by a missing corpse.
“Erne. Are you feeling unwell?”
Wynthurd had been quietly watching her bizarre reaction and now asked in a concerned voice.
His tender voice, so different from her tangled thoughts, suddenly made Erne tear up.
He always noticed the slightest shift in her mood. He cared. Truly.
Yes, he might be the villain in the shadows, but to her, he was gentle and kind.
And right now, he was her only shield in a world where she had no backing.
“Wynthurd. I have a favor to ask.”
“Name it.”
Erne’s tone was stronger than ever, and Wynthurd responded with a rare smile.
Seeing the fierce determination in his eyes, Erne found the courage to speak the words she had wrestled with for so long.
“Help me fake my death.”
Death?
Wynthurd’s brows shot up sharply. He clearly didn’t like the sound of that word.
Seeing his displeased expression, Erne hurriedly waved her hands.
“I said fake death. Fake.”
This man clearly had a bad habit of hearing only what he wanted. Erne sighed softly and explained again.
“Princess Erne died. Today.”
“……”
“Make sure not a single person in Nesheld doubts that I’m dead. In fact, the more dramatic, the better. And since Erne’s dead, I obviously can’t live as some nameless wanderer. If I’m going to become queen, I need legitimacy. So… I’ll need a new identity.”
“Do you already have one in mind?”
“Yes.”
If her enemy was a K-writer, then she’d have to match fire with fire. Erne had made up her mind.
To reclaim Nesheld and avenge herself on those two leeches clinging like cockroaches, she would out-trash the original plot.
And if she could bring true peace to Nesheld, founded on proper morals and values? All the better.
To pull this off, she couldn’t rely on the country-bumpkin image that the people of Nesheld had of Princess Erne.
She needed a fresh public image, a new identity from which to shape public opinion and rewrite history.
“I heard I had a twin sister. I’ll assume the identity of Princess Eshe.”
“Of course…”
“If Princess Erne is dead, Derek Babylon can no longer exploit that engagement status. His position is gone.”
“Can’t I just kill him? I guarantee he’ll never utter the word ‘fiancée’ again.”
Wynthurd was grinning now. He clearly liked her bold plan. His gaze deepened, and he even added fuel to the fire with a casual suggestion. Erne let out a long sigh and firmly shook her head.
“…It’s fine to fight violence with violence. But no killing, Wynthurd.”
She spoke in a scolding tone, like a mother correcting a child. Wynthurd pouted, but eventually nodded.
“Since Eshe and Erne are identical twins, there’s no need to change your appearance. No one will suspect a thing.”
With his killing instinct (for now) subdued, Erne found it easier to continue laying out the rest of her plan.
“Exactly. It’ll help me avoid suspicion. As for questions about how she survived…”
“We’ll manipulate public opinion. Political spin is what the late queen did best. First thing is to buy out the press.”
“Still, I’ll need to distinguish myself somewhat. There should be a few changes.”
Erne picked up a mirror from the table and scrutinized her features. After a moment, she seemed to make up her mind.
“I’ll draw a beauty mark under my left eye. If I use magical ink, it won’t come off, right?”
“I’ll procure it right away.”
As expected, Wynthurd responded with prompt reliability to even her subtle hints.
Erne smiled faintly, imagining the mark under her eye.
Just wait, Derek, Pasina. I’ll return—marked and ready.
At this rate, Erne should’ve been the one writing this K-novel.
