CHAPTER 04
It was on a pleasant afternoon when Franz Ravello received the news of his sister’s death.
She had died suddenly, without any sign or warning. By suicide, no less.
At first, he couldn’t believe it. He thought someone had sent a cruel prank letter.
But when he saw the headlines splashed across every newspaper in the Empire, he knew it was real.
“The Dutiful Duchess’s Double Life!”
“How the Mutan Duchess Committed Adultery!”
“Adulterous Duchess: Suicide or Evasion?”
The world condemned his sister.
They said she betrayed her husband and took her own life to escape disgrace. Franz couldn’t believe a word of it.
“Priscilla… Why would you—”
She was not the kind of person to betray others. She wasn’t the type to act dishonorably or cowardly flee from her mistakes through death.
Yet everyone but Franz believed in Priscilla’s infidelity.
Even the Ravello March family, whom he met at the funeral, thought so.
“I always knew Priscilla would cause trouble one day. That girl was no good from the start,” said the Marchioness, waving a black-feathered fan. She was Franz and Priscilla’s stepmother, not their birth mother.
Their mother, the first Marchioness of Ravello, had died 29 years ago when the twins were only five.
Before that, the two had lived comfortably as the eldest children of a prestigious noble house.
But their lives turned upside down just a year after their mother’s death, when their father remarried.
“Oh my, you must be Priscilla. How lovely you are,” the new Marchioness Phoebe had said, gently stroking Priscilla’s hair during their first meeting.
But once she became pregnant, her attitude changed. She became cruel, oppressing the twins to ensure her own son would inherit the title.
Their father, the Marquess, was no better.
“You’ve never done a single thing right. You tormented me even while alive, never listening to your father,” he scolded.
He never protected his children from their stepmother’s abuse. He had shown the same apathy toward his first wife’s illness.
The twins were thoroughly isolated, and Priscilla fought desperately to survive.
She endured their stepmother’s malice, accepted unfair treatment, and swallowed her pride again and again.
Franz knew why his sister never fought back.
“Won’t you regret it? Franz will have a harder life because of this.”
It was because of him.
He had been sickly since birth—he’d inherited their mother’s frail constitution.
People gossiped cruelly about the disparity between the twins’ health.
“This is why twins are bad luck. One always takes all the nutrients.”
“Just look at Priscilla—so healthy. Will Franz even live long?”
“Tsk, if only they had been born separately, maybe Franz would’ve been strong too.”
Perhaps because of this, Priscilla carried a guilt Franz couldn’t fully understand.
She felt responsible for his weak body, as if she had stolen his strength in the womb.
Their mother’s dying wish—that Priscilla look after her brother—was a heavy chain around her neck.
Yes, I have to protect Franz. Mother asked me to. He’s weak because of me.
Franz once overheard her whispering that at night. It broke his heart. But he was too powerless to help.
He wished desperately to grow strong. To become an adult and live independently.
He sent her off to a duke’s household with that goal in mind. And by the time he secured his own place to live, news of her death had arrived.
“…Father, do you really believe Priscilla did those things?”
Franz asked, clinging to a shred of hope.
“We don’t even have a body. They say it hasn’t been found—”
“Franz Ravello!”
The Marquess roared, silencing him. He glared at his eldest son with disdain.
“She killed herself after being caught doing filthy things! Have the decency to keep your mouth shut!”
Unfortunately for Franz, the Ravello family had already received a hefty consolation payment from the Duke of Mutan.
The meaning was clear:
Don’t go around claiming Priscilla was innocent. Don’t object to the lack of a body. Don’t question her death.
The March family had no intention of defying that. Priscilla and Franz had always been thorns in their side—this was a convenient end.
As Franz slumped in despair, his half-brother Alex spoke with a carefree tone.
“Um, how long do we have to be here? I’m tired and want to lie down…”
“My dear Alex, just a little longer. Even if she was a duchess in name only, they’re still giving her a proper funeral.”
“Ugh, why couldn’t she just live quietly? Now she’s gone and made everyone miserable.”
Franz clenched his jaw at the heartless words. How could they speak so cruelly when someone had died?
Monsters—cold and merciless.
As he stood alone, head bowed in the funeral hall, someone approached him.
“It’s been a while, Franz.”
“…Ah, Duke Mutan.”
Franz forced a polite bow, suppressing his discomfort.
He’d had a falling out with the Duke years ago after intervening in an argument between the duke and Priscilla. Since then, the duke had banned him from the household.
He hadn’t seen his sister in person for years—only exchanged letters. If only he had visited her anyway…
“It pains me to see you again under such circumstances,” the Duke said.
“…Is my sister truly dead?”
“Yes. She left a note and jumped off a cliff,” the Duke replied, his voice filled with certainty.
To him, the matter was closed. No ordinary civilian could survive such a fall—no more than he could regain his lost divine powers.
“Then… was it really true that Priscilla committed adultery? Could there have been some mistake—”
“Ah, that matter disappointed me greatly as well. I never imagined my wife would be with another man.”
“My sister wasn’t that kind of person. Please investigate again,” Franz pleaded, grabbing the Duke’s hand.
But the Duke coldly pulled away.
“Enough, Franz. She’s already gone. What’s the point of digging further?”
“Still, if you could just—”
As Franz persisted, the Duke’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you intend to disgrace your sister’s name even more?”
“…”
“For her sake, let the matter rest. At least she’ll be remembered as someone who felt guilt and took responsibility.”
With that, the Duke turned his back and walked away.
Franz sat in a corner of the funeral hall, stunned.
As he sat quietly, voices around him murmured.
“The Duchess seemed so prim, but she was quite the sly one behind the scenes.”
“Must’ve had a guilty conscience—that’s why she acted so high and mighty.”
“What’s the use of a pretty face when you have no character? Just look how it ended.”
Their cruel words pierced Franz’s heart.
He wanted to defend her, but he knew nothing of the truth. Speaking out might only damage her name further.
His green eyes welled with tears behind thin silver glasses.
And then—
“Enough idle gossip. This is a funeral.”
The voice was deep, echoing like it came from a cave, firm and commanding.
The noblewomen blushed and fell silent. Franz looked up, startled.
Why is the Crown Prince here…?
Theodore sat beside him as if it were natural.
Idly spinning a white lily between his fingers, he suddenly asked:
“Are you planning to stay here?”
“…Pardon?”
“It’s uncomfortable. You should leave.”
It was blunt and rather rude. Franz blinked in confusion.
The Crown Prince, whom he had never met, sat with flawless posture, his profile like a sculpture.
Why was he here, and why was he speaking to Franz?
“…I’ll stay. I want to see my sister’s funeral through.”
“If it were me,” the Crown Prince said, turning his head.
His icy blue eyes met Franz’s directly.
“I wouldn’t attend a funeral without a body.”
“…”
“What meaning is there in such a farce?”
His words were sharper than the nobles’ gossip.
Franz looked around. For all it was a duchess’s funeral, there were few mourners. No one truly grieved for Priscilla.
…He’s right. What’s the point of this?
Even if Priscilla had sinned, a funeral should still be a place of mourning.
This one wasn’t. It meant nothing.
Realizing this, Franz no longer wished to remain. He rose and bowed.
“I’ll take my leave.”
The Crown Prince gave a small nod, saying nothing more.
He watched Franz’s departing back for a moment, then turned away, his expression bored.
Franz returned home to his house on the western edge of the capital, near the Alyan Forest.
It was already late, and rain had begun to fall. Shaking off the drops, he stepped inside and tousled his golden hair.
Seeing strands fall through his fingers reminded him of Priscilla, and sorrow filled him.
“Priscilla…”
He called out her name in a pained whisper.
“…What?”
To his shock, a voice answered from thin air. Franz’s eyes widened.
CRACK!
Lightning flashed, flooding the house with light.
Near the kitchen stood a woman. Franz screamed.
“Ahhhh!”
He collapsed to the floor, pointing a trembling finger.
“A… a ghost!”
One that looked exactly like his dead sister.
