I—Franz von Schletter—was born the heir to a duke. Though I was the duke and duchess’s only child, I had little memory of being loved. My parents’ marriage was a political one, and their relationship was so glacial that the word “estranged” sounded too warm a descriptor. It was for the best that they only saw each other a few times a year. And on the rare occasions they met, they would never even hold a proper conversation.
My father favored a hedonistic lifestyle and hardly ever visited our home in our domain. His wife and retainers were saddled with the management duties that should have fallen to him, the rightful feudal lord. Meanwhile, he passed his time being served by his followers and drowning in alcohol and young women.
My mother was a talented woman of renown who had married into the Schletter family to support it in place of my debauched father. She was strict on herself and other people, and she treated me not as her child but as the successor of the duchy.
Though I was lonely at times, I respected my mother and wholeheartedly endeavored to be acknowledged by her. I poured all my efforts into my studies, swordplay, and even socializing and etiquette—which I loathed. Fortunately, I was a fast learner, and I began to attract more and more attention.
However, any praise I received was always accompanied by pity.
Poor child, brilliant but unloved. He has a promising future. However, if he’s anything like his father, then who knows how he’ll turn out.
Since I was the son of a duke, no one dared to insult me to my face, but I knew people were saying whatever they pleased behind my back. I was still a child and hadn’t yet learned how to fend off their malice, so each little comment stung. Despite my frustrations, there was nothing I could do about it. I could only plug my ears and endure.
Those gloomy days passed one after another, but one day, I heard a different rumor. The gossipmongers who adored other people’s misfortune and scandals had found prey more tempting than I.
“I’ve never seen her talk to her parents before.”
“Apparently, the brothers are brilliant, but I haven’t heard a single thing about the eldest daughter.”
“Perhaps she rarely makes appearances because she has some sort of horrible defect.”
Remarks steeped with curiosity and malice were, with all due respect, directed toward the princess of our nation. Her Highness Rosemary von Velfalt hardly ever participated in social events and showed her face only minimally at official functions. That became the seed of speculation for garrulous gossipers to sow.
They’re so impudent, I thought indignantly, but I knew nothing of Her Highness’s character either. I’d heard she was beautiful just like the queen, but that was all. Though we were second cousins, I had never exchanged a single word with her. Her beauty and royal blood birthed jealousy. Nobles with too much time to spare gleefully fabricated lies about how her only redeeming feature was her appearance and that her parents had forsaken her.
Regrettably, I regarded this as someone else’s problem. Just as I could never rid myself of the label “poor child” no matter how hard I worked, she would always be called a “pitiful princess.” That was what I had assumed, but Her Highness skillfully changed her image completely.
First was the Dew of the Sea. It was a sort of preserved vegetable product rumored to prevent disease among sailors, and it debuted with explosive sales. Apparently, its efficacy had been proven. Its inventor was a certain noblewoman—a blonde-haired, blue-eyed lady who was the origin of the product’s name. Furthermore, the seller was a member of Marquis Eigel’s family, which had friendly relations with the princess.
That narrowed down the candidates considerably. Everyone wondered whether it was truly her, though there was no conclusive evidence. Then, as if to corroborate this speculation, a second piece of information accelerated the rumors.
When an epidemic spread in the Kingdom of Vint, our nation’s princess was the one to lend them her services to resolve the situation. This time, it wasn’t a dubious rumor of unknown origin—Vint’s royal family publicly announced it themselves.
The masses went wild and lauded the princess for her achievement. The gossip-loving nobles were forced to button up. No matter how imprudent they were, they couldn’t call someone who had accomplished a grand feat—one they could never have managed, even if they spent their entire lifetimes trying—a “pretty face with no talent.” Lady Rosemary had proven her own worth and silenced the twittering riffraff.
How exhilarating. How refreshing. It’s like the epic tales I used to secretly read as a child. My heart beat wildly as if it had happened to me, and for the first time in my life, I was too excited to fall asleep. I absolutely adored Lady Rosemary. She was a hero I admired.
When I heard she was returning, I couldn’t contain myself and secretly slipped out of our residence to see her. The main road leading to the castle was overflowing with people. Upon learning what our princess had done in the neighboring country, the citizens had rushed to catch a glimpse of her, and it was impossible to move freely.
As I watched the celebration unfold before me, I bitterly thought, None of you took any notice of Her Highness before. How superficial. And in the end, I’m the same as you.
Before long, a carriage drawn by two horses surrounded by knights rolled down the road. It was a sumptuous carriage engraved with the royal family’s crest. A girl waved at the mob from the window. It wasn’t my first time seeing her, but I was once more struck by her beauty.