Doubts that she might never come kept surging up to smother her heart, but Staria clung stubbornly to Cassanna’s words—that she would follow after her. She couldn’t afford to lose hope.
Even if there was no chance, even if her heart kept thumping with anxious unrest, she had to believe. She had no choice but to believe. Without even that, she would not be able to endure.
On the verge of tears, Staria opened the window. When she lifted her gaze, the sky dressed in darkness was waiting for her. After the terrible events she had stopped looking, but the stars were still there, shining in their places.
‘So many.’
Her mother used to say that the more stars that filled the night sky, the deeper the darkness was. On nights when the stars shone, no darkness could last forever; the harder the hardships, the brighter the light of hope would shine.
‘But why does it feel like the darkness will never end for me?’
With no mother left to ask, she found herself questioning the empty air.
‘What if the light of hope goes out?’
She often spoke to the heavens like this, and her mother used to say it was a habit born of talking to the stars since she was a baby.
‘Nonsense.’
And indeed, how could anyone communicate with stars? She had tried speaking to them, just in case, but never felt anything special. It was probably just a story her doting mother had made up—just as she had exaggerated in her descriptions of “Him.”
And then it happened.
The quiet sky sparkled. In the south, as if saying look at me, light began to shimmer—where the constellation Libra hung, the scales carried by the goddess of justice, Astraea.
It was the constellation Staria had once loved dearly, but no longer.
‘Why did you stay silent?’
She knew the blame was misplaced. Yet she would not apologize. For a wounded child, it was struggle enough merely to hold herself together.
Closing the window, Staria forced herself into bed.
On that especially lonely, desolate night, she dreamed.
The Kasio Empire—nation built on the broadest expanse of land across the continent.
Its explosive growth, fueled by abundant resources, had brought immense wealth. Especially the capital, where science and magic coexisted, stood as the heart of politics, culture, and power. The salon that served as the secret retreat of the Fourth Prince lay in this very center.
Ha-ha-ha!
At the boisterous laughter spilling through the doorway, Becky nearly dropped the tray she was carrying. Luckily, she managed to enter the private chamber without shattering the teacups. But what awaited her inside was far more frivolous than the laughter itself.
“Swing your hips a bit more… yes, yes, just like that. Perfect!”
“Like this?”
“My goodness, you’re so flexible. You dance even better than me—that’s not fair.”
“Really?”
The wandering minstrel clapped his hands in delight, showering praise upon the woman dancing before him—Nancy, the mistress the Fourth Prince had secretly taken in.
Becky, who had once worked in the household of a renowned marquis before transferring here, could not fathom how to regard her master, who was coyly swaying her hips. Mistress or not, Nancy was a woman far outside the bounds of propriety.
Her dainty beauty made her look like the daughter of some noble family, yet her behavior was no better than that of a commoner. To watch her was to be daily shocked into disbelief.
What, indeed, had captivated the Fourth Prince? Her pretty face? Her voluptuous figure? Her free-spirited nature? Or was it her airheaded charm?
“I’ve brought refreshments.”
She had been ordered to fetch every type of cookie, and now that she had, Nancy did not even glance at them.
“Becky, how do I look? Am I good?”
“Y-Yes, very good, my lady.”
“Do you think Lord Borhard will be pleased?”
The swaying hips were certainly sensual. Most men would have stared with fiery eyes, but the Fourth Prince? Unlikely.
More likely he would explode in fury. For the prince had a sister—born when his mother, the consort, abandoned the palace for a free life. That sister had become a wandering dancer, and once attempted to seduce the emperor himself—only to be killed by the empress.
On another occasion, a certain viscount tried to “teach” the prince about worldly pleasures and brought in a dancer—who ended up crippled for life, never to dance again. For the Fourth Prince, dance was a trigger like no other.
Do I stop her? Or not?
In the end, Becky decided she must stop her. A mistress’s place lasted only so long as her lover’s affection; once dismissed, the mistress was discarded too. And if Nancy were cast off, Becky herself would lose her position. She did not want to return to job-hunting—she wanted to stay here in the salon.
So Becky discreetly recounted these stories to Nancy. Yet rather than heed the warning, Nancy only reacted as though amused.
“As thanks, shall I tell you a story instead? Do you want to know how Lord Borhard and I first met?”
“Out of nowhere?”
“Shall I not, then?”
“N-No, please, go ahead.”
“Good. The prince and I… well, it was in the season when the winds grow still. Like a decree from heaven.”
From an early age, Nancy had always thought this: God must have made a mistake in creating her. To grant her such beauty, bound only to drag her into strife, and then have her born to such insignificant parents? The Creator must have dozed off.
That resentment toward her bloodline reached its peak when she stumbled across an ancient text. The parchment recorded the founding of her village:
[The Prophet bestowed grace upon our clan, granting us the gift to glimpse the heavens and hear the voices of the stars. And he warned us: until the appointed time, never reveal these powers. When asked when that time would come, the Prophet answered: when the one chosen by heaven and selected by the stars appears.]
In that instant, Nancy’s mind cleared.
It’s me. I am the chosen one.
While others struggled for years to succeed in fortune-telling, she succeeded instantly. Her readings were broad, precise, and never wrong. None could rival her.
So the anger she always felt toward her fellow villagers—that was justified. They were frauds daring to lecture and interfere with the true one.
Most infuriating of all was Staria’s mother, Cassanna. She wielded more influence than the village chief, and everyone bowed to her, watching her face for cues.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t spend so much time with my daughter.”
The moment she heard those presumptuous words, Nancy vowed to take back every shred of grace that had ever been bestowed.
God Himself must have agreed—for He led her to Borhard, collapsed from dehydration.
Had he looked like an ordinary man, she would have walked past. But even in rags, his noble air could not be hidden. Nancy fetched water and poured it gently between his lips.
Before long, he stirred weakly and spoke to her:
“Sister?”
He had clearly mistaken her for someone else, but she did not correct him. He seemed to want to remain in that illusion.
“I know, I know. My sister was not some base woman. If I cut out the tongues of those who insult her, would her honor be restored? No… it would never end. What should I do?”
Nancy knew what had to be done. To be the prince who had come to rescue her, Borhard had to be remade. He must stand tall, not only to match her, but to stand proudly at her side.
“You must rise to a place where you can silence the entire world.”
“To place the world beneath my feet? Impossible.”
“Take me into your arms, and it will be possible.”
When Nancy finished her story, Becky was overwhelmed with emotion.
“Oh my… oh my…”
If you thought the tale wasn’t all that moving, you’d be right. Nearly every part of it—aside from the characters’ names—was Nancy’s invention.
Still, swept up in the fantasy, Becky sighed with envy.
“The prince must be lucky, to have someone who loves him so deeply.”
“That’s not true.”
“Pardon?”
“I don’t love him.”
What? With that single statement, she shattered the entire romance.
Becky nearly swore outright, forgetting her place. And who could blame her? If a novel were written like this, readers would howl about its utter lack of coherence.
