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Chapter 09
The Masquerade Ball
The black carriage sped forward and passed through the main gates of the royal castle. The guards holding halberds stepped aside at once at the sight of the carriage—one of the few of its kind in the entire kingdom.
The banquet hall was not far.
The carriage followed the well-paved road along the castle walls and soon came to a stop before the fountain in front of the hall.
Anastasia slowly rose from her seat.
Artorius had yet to follow, but she felt no concern.
He was a monster who had endured two centuries within Aquila Castle. If he had truly fought with intent, even Anastasia would have been killed before she could utter a single spell.
If he had struck her throat instead of her chest that day—
‘…I might not have come back at all.’
Anastasia gently traced the faint scar at the center of her chest.
What had returned to her were the wound… and her hair.
“May I ask which noble lady you are?”
A guard at the entrance began the routine identity check.
Anastasia had nothing to prove her identity. Until now, she had been no different from one of Sorban’s accessories.
“Which house, you ask…”
Instead of presenting anything, Anastasia lightly traced the air with her fingertip.
A soft breeze stirred, and with a snap of her fingers, a single branch of osmanthus appeared in her hand.
This was no mere trick.
In this kingdom, there was only one lady who could present such a mystical feat with osmanthus in hand.
And if she arrived in a black carriage, it made it all the more certain.
“We confirm the arrival of Lady Anastasia Etrange, Second Daughter. The honored guests of House Etrange are—”
“That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”
Anastasia casually tossed the osmanthus branch toward the guard’s chest and stepped into the banquet hall.
The harmonious music of the orchestra and pipe organ grew clearer.
It was time for dance and music.
* * *
Diana’s fingertips trembled.
Although she had followed behind Duke Etrange, the image still lingered vividly in her mind—
Anastasia effortlessly deflecting the duke’s overwhelming attack with a single clean motion.
Yet, more than the changed Anastasia of recent days, Diana feared the duke who might dismiss her at any moment. That was why she had risked her life to carry out “that act.”
While Sir Hothongel and his staff were busy dressing Anastasia, she had snapped the heel of her shoe and fled with the duke’s party.
Though she had roughly glued it back together with plaster, it would surely break during a dance.
The heels were high—once they snapped, Anastasia would twist her ankle and fall hard enough to become a laughingstock.
With everyone wearing masks, it was difficult to identify people.
But Diana knew the dress Anastasia was wearing.
There.
At the far end of the hall, drawing the gaze of noble youths all at once, entered a beautiful swallowtail butterfly.
Her brilliant golden hair, as radiant as her signature drifting osmanthus petals, captivated countless men.
“Did you do as instructed?”
At that moment, a slender voice spoke from behind.
It was Janice Etrange, the eldest daughter.
“O-Of course. I’ve done exactly as you ordered, my lady.”
Diana nodded deeply.
Anastasia had arrived after the music began, so she wouldn’t know the sequence of the dances.
After this slow piece played by the pipe organ and orchestra, a waltz would follow—and then a faster piece.
Whoever took her hand to dance would witness her heel breaking in front of their eyes.
For a lady, such a scene was a grave disgrace.
It would destroy her value.
Just a little longer.
Just a little.
* * *
With everyone wearing masks, it was impossible to tell who was who.
But one thing was certain—Anastasia knew well that she was not particularly skilled at dancing.
She had not come here to dance.
She had come to find reliable allies.
‘To restore the Chantrie Dynasty… I need power.’
Simply humiliating someone would not build her faction.
Of course, she would have her revenge—but she could not violate her greater principle for it.
She needed power—power that would ensure no one could look down on her again.
Making her family pay was secondary. First, she had to solidify her position.
Were there any houses still loyal to the Chantrie royal family?
Honestly—
No.
There couldn’t be.
Two hundred years was enough time to change the world twenty times over. How much more easily would people’s shallow loyalties shift?
No one even remembered the Chantrie of that time.
So she would have to build her own faction from the ground up.
Just then—
“My lady.”
A man approached her. His voice felt both unfamiliar and strangely familiar.
It sounded like something she might have heard once, long ago.
“…My lady?”
Lost in thought, Anastasia only noticed him when he called again, hand extended.
“Ah, I’m sorry. I was momentarily distracted.”
She lifted the hem of her dress lightly in apology and took his hand.
“May I have this dance?”
“If you can endure my lackluster dancing for an entire piece.”
A modest reply that tempered expectations—Anastasia rarely misspoke.
Such was the nature of a mage.
“I’ll guide you well.”
He took one of her hands and placed the other at her waist.
Anastasia allowed it.
The slow tempo of the waltz was perfect for organizing her thoughts.
And the dance itself wasn’t difficult.
“My lady… you are so delicate. Like a flower blooming alone.”
This man didn’t stop talking.
Each time she heard his voice, something in her memory stirred.
Something she would rather forget.
“Do you see me as a flower?”
A slight frown creased Anastasia’s brow. The man’s lips dried.
Such outdated notions were not to her liking.
“…My apologies if I’ve offended you.”
“Are you familiar with oleander?”
“Oleander…?”
His hair was a deeper shade of gold than hers.
“Yes. It blooms beautifully, resembling roses or peach blossoms.”
“I see.”
“And so people sometimes use its branches to skewer meat… and children, by mistake, pluck its leaves and put them in their mouths.”
Silence lingered between them, filled only by the elegant waltz.
“…And what happens then?”
Unable to resist his curiosity, the man asked.
“They die. Oleander is poisonous. So be careful. Its meaning is ‘danger—never let your guard down.’”
As the waltz ended, Anastasia released his hand and stepped back, gently pushing away the one at her waist.
And then—
Crack!
The heel of her shoe snapped.
“…Ah.”
So that was it.
Now she understood why Diana had left earlier.
She had run away.
The man rushed forward in shock, abandoning all decorum. Anastasia considered lifting herself with magic—
But stopped.
Instead, she decided to use this situation.
Soon, his arm wrapped around her waist and steadied her.
“…Are you alright, my lady?”
But in the process, his mask had already flown off.
Golden hair, deeper than hers. Emerald-green eyes shining brighter than gemstones.
A symbol unmistakably tied to the Yanpots line.
Only then did Anastasia realize the source of that familiarity.
“…Louis?”
Louis Yanpots, the First Prince.
The strongest pillar of the kingdom—and the confirmed heir to the throne.
The boy who had once shown interest in her ten years ago.
“…You know me?”
Anastasia removed her mask.
Removing one’s mask at a masquerade was forbidden—except for the host.
And the host of this royal night ball…
Was Louis Yanpots, the First Prince.
“Anastasia?”
He hadn’t forgotten.
Those deep blue eyes, like lapis lazuli without a single speck of gold.
They spoke naturally, as they had in childhood—
Like when they had been ten years old, playing together in the side room prepared for noble children.
“Of course I do. You talked to me a few times, and it made Janice furious.”
As Louis removed his mask, others began to reveal their faces as well.
Only then did Anastasia notice someone standing awkwardly beside her—clearly trying to support her.
Just a moment too late.
She looked at him.
With a snap of her fingers, his mask flew off.
It was Aslan.
“…How amusing.”
Her expression turned cold.
Behind him stood Janice, her father, and her mother—all wearing expressions of shock.
Her fate was cruel.
Only one of the two princes would sit on the throne.
“Louis. Let me go.”
Among all the nobles raised with strict etiquette, Anastasia was the only one in ten years allowed to speak casually to Louis.
Enough to provoke Janice’s jealousy.
“But Anastasia, your shoe—”
Anastasia removed it.
Then she lifted the broken heel.
Between the adhesive, something white and hardened was visible.
Plaster.
The shoes were newly given today—and only a few people could have tampered with them.
Sir Hothongel, his staff…
And Diana.
“Sir Hothongel.”
“Y-Yes, my lady…”
His face was pale.
If blamed in front of the royal heir, he could lose everything.
“At Esteban Hothongel… do you use plaster to attach heels?”
“…Plaster?”
He shook his head.
“All our shoes are fixed using fish glue made from swim bladders. The same quality used for royal guard bows.”
“…Then there’s only one person who used plaster.”
Anastasia turned toward her family.
The crowd’s attention followed.
No one would dare disrespect a lady under the First Prince’s protection.
“Sister.”
“Anastasia.”
Her deep blue eyes met Janice’s tense gaze.
“Did you order this?”
A faint smile curved her lips.
It sounded like a question—but in a gossip-filled society, it was nearly a declaration of guilt.
Janice was startled by this cunning side of her sister—but quickly composed herself.
“I was actually going to accuse my maid, Diana… but it seems you’re trying to protect her.”
Janice turned to look at Diana, who stood trembling behind her.
Despite her appearance, Janice moved with flawless elegance.
“Anastasia.”
When she looked back, her face carried clear pity.
“You mustn’t falsely accuse someone just because you bear ill feelings toward them.”
Janice was a veteran of high society.
“Even if Diana once made a small mistake toward you.”
