TPBDN 00

Prologue

The Grand Duchy of Reston in the North—renowned for its immense military might and vast wealth. For generations, every head of the Reston family had been immortalized in the Empire’s history as a Sword Master.

And yet, sitting upon that exalted seat now was not a swordsman, but a mage.
Ironically, she was neither born of the North nor of Reston blood.

The aide standing at her side bowed his head.

“Your Grace, what shall we do?”

The air in the council chamber was cold enough to bite through flesh. None of the gathered nobles dared raise their eyes to her, their gazes fixed firmly on the floor.

True to their northern lineage, the nobles were all large men, their hands thick and calloused from years of swordsmanship. They were hardly weaklings—yet at that moment, they trembled like small prey before a predator.

“Must I ask each one of you personally?”

Her voice was as cold as the air around them. Or so they imagined—it was difficult to tell. All they could see was the icy black mask that concealed her face.

The nobles, desperate to find some way to appease her, sneaked glances upward. But the featureless mask only deepened their terror.

“I-it… it grew out of control, unintentionally.”

“Indeed! We never forgot our duties!”

“The situation was simply… difficult to contain!”

As they spoke over one another, their panic feeding on itself, the woman repeated their words slowly.

“Unintentional. Never forgot your duties. Difficult to contain.”

Her voice was calm, but the air seemed to freeze around them.

“You realize you’ve just confessed your own incompetence.”

The nobles fell silent, frozen in place. Her eyes shifted toward her aide.

“And what would you do with them?”

“The incompetent are no better than trash.”

Something in that reply pleased her. Her voice softened faintly.

“Trash, is it…”

The nobles, emboldened by her silence, turned on the aide with outrage.

“How dare a fallen noble speak out of turn!”

“You insolent wretch! Know your place!”

The woman, watching their display with cool indifference, spoke quietly.

“Enough.”

Her tone was barely above a whisper, but the chamber fell instantly silent. Even such a quiet command held the weight of death.

“Your Grace,” the aide murmured, “trash belongs in the trash bin, does it not?”

The nobles’ faces blanched.

“Indeed.”

That single, low-spoken word was a sentence of death.

At once, the knights standing along the chamber walls moved forward.

“Your Grace! Have mercy!”

“No—let me go, damn you!”

“I can’t die here!”

Their pleas echoed through the hall, but the woman only walked forward, utterly unmoved.

“Y-you witch!”

“A lowborn orphan dares! You aren’t even of Reston blood!”

Their final screams were drowned out by the sound of swords being drawn.

“Aagh!”

A single scream rang out—and then silence. One by one, the voices of the nobles were snuffed out.

Thud.
The heavy doors of the chamber closed.

“The hall has been soiled,” she said coolly. “Clean it. I’ll rest.”

The aide bowed, as though accustomed to such scenes.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

As she passed through the corridor toward her chambers, every servant halted. Each one bowed their head deeply, afraid even to breathe wrong in her presence.

“The Witch of the North…”

A trembling whisper slipped out.

“Shh!”

The rash servant’s colleagues turned pale. The woman’s eyes swept the corridor, indifferent and unreadable.

She was the slayer of a thousand beasts—the Witch of the North, whose mere existence inspired dread.

“I’ll rest. None of you need follow.”

Dismissing her attendants, she entered her chambers.

“Haa…”

A sigh escaped her lips as she removed her mask. The face that emerged shone so brilliantly it seemed offended at having been hidden.

Hair like powdered diamonds—silver that caught the light with every breath.
Eyes the cold, sharp blue of the northern sea.
And features so striking that they seemed unreal.

“Those damn bastards.”

The curse was followed by the sound of footsteps approaching behind her.

“El, are you tired?”

Strong arms wrapped gently around her. She let out another deep sigh.

“Kyle.”

Her gaze flicked toward him—complex, conflicted.

Hair black as the night sky, eyes red as flame—the marks of Reston blood.
He was the one who should have been the Grand Duke.
But now, stripped of his title, he was a slave.
And the reason for his downfall was none other than Eloise Reston, the current Grand Duchess herself.

‘People really have no shame, do they? They gossip about us without a care.’

The Witch who stole the Grand Duke’s title and keeps him as her plaything.
The fallen heir, plotting revenge as her enslaved lover.

Such were the rumors whispered in taverns and coffee houses across the Empire.
Yet the two before them looked anything but enemies.

“A lot of loose-tongued servants have entered the mansion lately,” he said lazily. “Shall I take care of them for you?”

His Sword Master’s sharp hearing had caught the maid’s earlier whisper.

“I let them in on purpose. The looser their tongues, the faster the stories of my ‘cruelty’ spread. It keeps people busy—and far from the truth.”

She rubbed her eyes tiredly.

“Go get some rest. You’ll need your strength later.”

“You’re right.”

She pushed his arms away and trudged toward the bed, her steps heavy as soaked cloth.

“I’ll help you change.”

“Sure… wait—what?”

Half-asleep, Eloise had answered automatically before realizing what he’d said.

“To help you undress. I am your servant, am I not?”

His tone was teasing, his movements deliberate. His eyes—red and smoldering—met hers as he drew closer, the same eyes that had once declared love to her.

“You—! Don’t you dare call me that again!”

“But, my lady,” he murmured, voice low and silken, “attending you in bed is a servant’s duty.”

Her composure shattered.

His hand brushed against her arm.
His breath warmed her skin.
His body leaned closer—slowly, deliberately.

‘How did it come to this?’

Eloise stared at him, at the man who had once been the novel’s male lead.
The Grand Duke of the North.
The Tyrant.
Every trope of a dark romance hero wrapped in one man.

And now… here he was.

‘I tried to change the story… but this?’

Why was it that every person who got reborn or possessed in a novel always ended up inside the body of someone doomed to die? It had been her very first thought upon realizing she’d fallen into the world of fiction.

Still, she had managed to avoid her death flag—
only for the original story to twist beyond recognition.

The Grand Duke and the Tyrant had become… a slave.

This novel’s plot had gone completely off the rails.