Chapter 2
“My lady, please allow me to handle this. You must focus on your recovery first.”
Erwin extended his hand toward Ramberta, asking silently for the letters.
Half of them contained propositions so shameless that one could not tell whether they were meant as mockery or serious intent — noblemen who desired her as compensation instead of gold.
Those were, without doubt, more troublesome than the ones simply demanding money.
It had already been some time since word spread that Hastien Coronis, Ramberta’s only brother and heir to the Coronis estate, had died on his wedding day.
The news had swept through the kingdom like a storm, turning a royal ceremony into a tale of tragedy.
Now, every noble who was short on funds wrote letters regarding her hand in marriage — each of them hoping to seize the leash of Coronis through her.
The Coronis domain, sitting upon the only road connecting the northern and southern territories, could amass immense wealth from tariffs and tolls alone.
Moreover, it was a land that had to be crossed to control the North militarily. Possessing it meant political dominance as well.
‘As if they needed more reasons.’
Ramberta — a noble lady untainted by gossip, unmarked by the slightest scandal or fleeting romance — had become an object of conquest in the eyes of southern nobles.
To take as one’s own the woman once destined for the North gave them a sense of victory that needed no justification.
Her reputation alone was enough to make them covet her.
And beyond that — those long, slender limbs, the graceful lines of her body, her tall frame carrying just enough softness in the right places — all of it could drive any hot-blooded young noble to ruin.
Even the older ones, moved by avarice rather than lust, would find themselves ensnared by her beauty.
“Even if Ramberta Coronis truly is cursed to devour her husband,” Erwin thought bitterly, “there would still be no shortage of men willing to risk their lives for a single night.”
She had inherited the face of her mother, Eudora Coronis, the famed jewel of the Homien family.
Thus, Ramberta was less a woman than a masterpiece — a sacred offering of the North, preserved behind glass so no one might touch her.
“Damn them all.”
Erwin trembled with anger. The veins on his clenched hand stood out.
He had never once looked at his pupil — the lady he had trained since childhood — through the eyes of a man.
He was a man who measured worth in numbers, who evaluated everything by value alone.
Even now, his thoughts were nothing more than an appraisal.
Had he truly looked upon her as a man, he might have admitted that no price would have been too high.
But the suitors — those despicable, hollow men — were not even worth the trouble of investigation.
One had caused so many scandals at banquets that he would have been better off seeking a bride in a brothel; another was nearly Erwin’s age, proposing to make her his second wife.
The thought was sickening.
“It’s all right, Erwin. You said yourself that moving around would help me recover,” Ramberta said, her voice calm yet resolute.
While he still struggled to contain his fury, she rose from her bed and took a seat by the window.
Her gaze met his — unwavering, demanding honesty.
“And I believe… there’s much I can do to help,” she said softly.
“So please, tell me what’s happening. I have the right to know, don’t I?”
Erwin ran a trembling hand over his face.
No matter how carefully he chose his words, the truth remained brutal.
Yet he could not remain silent.
He slapped his own cheek once and drew a deep breath.
He could only pray that the young lady’s strength — both of body and spirit — would endure the tale he was about to tell.
“That day… more than fifty people were killed instantly inside the hall.
And we still do not know who the attackers were.”
His voice faltered, thick with grief. He could not even meet her eyes.
“Madam Eudora has left to seek aid from House Homien.
But…”
Ramberta’s mind grew hazy. His voice sounded distant, as though sinking underwater.
A dull ache filled her head.
Then, through the ringing silence, his final words pierced her consciousness.
“My lady… please understand — you are now the last surviving Coronis.”
At that moment, darkness swallowed her vision whole.
When Ramberta awoke, she found herself back in her bed.
This time, at least, she remembered the exact moment she had lost consciousness.
‘Perhaps I should be called not the kingdom’s fastest widow, but the woman who faints faster than anyone else,’ she thought wryly.
The self-mockery made her feel a little better.
From outside the room came a booming voice:
“I said she could walk about, not that you should tell a half-dead woman things that would make her faint!”
It was Rönsten, shouting at Erwin.
Judging by the tone, not much time had passed since she collapsed.
Ramberta wanted to rise and defend Erwin — to tell Rönsten it wasn’t his fault — but her body refused to obey.
“And what good would it do to hide it from her?” Erwin’s voice shot back.
“We have no idea what might happen next. She needs to be prepared — the sooner, the better!”
“Even if it costs you your neck when she collapses again?”
“Then I’ll die without regret! If fear of that stopped me from speaking, I’d have begged to be cast out as useless long ago!”
The two men — both of high standing among the retainers of House Coronis — continued to argue, their voices echoing through the corridor.
Servants nearby quietly slipped away, afraid to be caught in the crossfire.
Erwin was right. The loss at the wedding had been far greater than Ramberta had imagined.
Her future had been shattered; the alliance with the North lay in ruins.
Her father, Lord Avian, lay unconscious with no promise of recovery.
And her brother — her dearest guardian — was gone.
She remembered now: Hastien’s body, sent away without a proper funeral, laid to rest with the other dead in the cold northern range.
That was where her memory ended — where she had fallen again into darkness.
“…Have you awakened, my lady?”
It was Emma, the head maid, her white-streaked hair tied neatly back.
She was calm as always — never one to fuss or panic.
She had not rushed to announce her mistress’s recovery; instead, she waited patiently until Ramberta’s breathing steadied and her eyes regained focus.
She knew that calling the men in too soon would only bring them storming into the room, faces flushed with guilt and anger.
Ramberta smiled faintly and nodded.
Though she had collapsed, she felt no lasting weakness — only a strange sense of clarity, as if she had rested enough to bear what came next.
“Seeing you smile, I suppose I won’t need to summon Sir Rönsten just yet,” Emma said kindly.
“Are you in pain anywhere? Shall I fetch you something?”
“No, I’m fine. How long have I been asleep?”
“About four hours, my lady. Are you feeling hungry?”
Emma rose and moved closer, studying Ramberta’s face carefully.
Her gaze softened — maternal, protective — the same eyes that had watched over Ramberta since birth.
Ramberta reached out, clasped the woman’s hand briefly, and let go.
“I’m a little hungry,” she admitted with a faint laugh.
“But I feel like if I eat now, I won’t even taste it.”
“Then I shall bring something light,” Emma said gently.
“Enough to tease your appetite, not burden it.”
Ramberta tilted her head toward the door.
Outside, the men’s quarrel had softened but not ceased; faint, muffled words still slipped through.
“And of course,” Emma added dryly, “I’ll make sure those gentlemen don’t disturb your meal.”
She knelt gracefully before Ramberta, then rose in one smooth motion.
Her stride was long and confident, her poise unshaken even in haste — the very image of composure.
Then, without hesitation,
—BANG!
She flung the door open with a resounding crash, the very opposite of her calm demeanor moments before.
