Chapter 3
The Swan and the Snake
Lady Ophelia: Lady Chaeri, what is the meaning of this? Where are all the other ladies?
Lady Chaeri sipped her tea slowly, the fine porcelain clinking delicately against her ring. Her tone was light—almost airy—but the glint in her eyes was anything but.
Lady Chaeri: What other ladies? I merely invited you, Lady Ophelia. Just a quiet gathering between friends."
Her eyes drifted over Ophelia's gown—the celestial gold embroidery, the imperial tiara glinting in the sun.
Lady Chaeri: Though I must admit, I wasn't aware this was to be a royal procession. I feel... humbled in the face of such grandeur.
She placed her cup down gently.
Lady Chaeri: I suppose modesty is something not taught in every duchy. Simplicity has its own elegance, wouldn't you agree? The Emperor himself often praises restraint— grace, mindfulness, and above all, the virtue of representing the Empire with dignity, not… displays.
A pause.
Lady Chaeri: After all, the imperial jewels are not to be flaunted, even by a future Crown Princess—unless the Crown has changed its stance on propriety?"
Lady Ophelia's smile faltered, just slightly. Her voice was calm, practiced—the voice of a ruler-in-the-making, but her hand tightened around her fan.
Lady Ophelia: I meant no offense, Lady Chaeri. I only wished to honor your invitation with respect. If I've overstepped, I apologize.
She offered a graceful incline of her head.
Lady Ophelia: We are, after all, friends. And I would never want you to feel overlooked or unappreciated.
But the words, however perfectly spoken, hung awkwardly in the air—insufficient against the storm cloaked in silk across from her.
Chaeri smiled. Sweet. Sharp.
Lady Chaeri: Of course. We're very close, aren't we?
Lady Chaeri: And because of that, I thought you'd appreciate being the first to hear… something curious.
She plucked a sugar cube and dropped it into her tea. One. Two. Stir.
Lady Chaeri: It seems Lady Juliette Rowen has found herself at the center of quite the… whirlwind. The whispers are everywhere. Apparently, she's been engaging in… intimate affairs with her betrothed.
Chaeri sighed as if heartbroken.
Lady Chaeri:To think—Lady Juliette, the very picture of chastity. Never once seen walking beside a man unchaperoned. She always kept her eyes lowered, her skirts proper, her voice soft. The pinnacle of virtue.
Her eyes flicked up to Ophelia, sharp and glimmering.
Lady Chaeri: And yet… even the most perfect flowers seem to wilt when no one is watching. Don't you find that strange, Ophelia? How can such a spotless reputation can… collapse so suddenly?
A delicate sip of tea. Silence. Then, gently, too gently.
Lady Chaeri: You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?
Her father, Count Rowen has been incredibly furious and enraged and he wants to find the culprit behind this scandal.
Lady Ophelia placed her teacup down with a soft clink, her serene expression barely shifting—except for the unmistakable edge in her voice.
Lady Ophelia: Are you doubting me, Lady Chaeri?
Lady Chaeri blinked once, slowly, as if surprised by the bluntness. Then she gave a soft, measured laugh—
Lady Chaeri: Oh, not doubting, my dear. But… all the evidence does seem to point to you. I've looked into it—discreetly, of course.
The breeze stirred.
Birds chirped in the distance.
The garden seemed to quiet in anticipation.
Lady Chaeri's fingers tapped once against her teacup. Gone was the airy grace—her eyes now glinted with sharpened intent.
Lady Chaeri: You know, Ophelia, there comes a point when subtlety becomes exhausting.
She rose slowly, her dark gown trailing behind her like a serpent's tail. Shadows clung to her, the lace catching the golden light like spider webs spun from secrets.
Lady Chaeri: You spread it, didn't you? About Lady Juliette. Don't bother denying it now.
She stepped closer.
Lady Chaeri: You knew the weight of her reputation. You knew how easily it would shatter. And you, Crown Princess-to-be, couldn't resist reminding the court that power doesn't only wear a sword—it wears a smile, a halo, and a tiara.
Her eyes narrowed.
Lady Chaeri: Tell me—was it jealousy? Fear? Or did you simply want her gone from the playing board?
She leaned in ever so slightly, her voice low and intimate.
Lady Chaeri: You can dress yourself in gold and diamonds, but thrones aren't built on innocence. Not yours. Not mine.
Lady Ophelia stood tall, chin lifted, her gaze unwavering. Her voice was smooth, but it cut like glass.
Lady Ophelia: If you doubt me so much, then allow me to present a witness. Marchioness Devon was with me that day. She can confirm everything.
Lady Chaeri's smile didn't falter. It deepened—cruel and radiant like a crown of thorns.
Lady Chaeri: Marchioness Devon?
How predictable.
She turned away, taking a slow step, her black skirts trailing like smoke behind her.
Lady Chaeri: Isn't that the second time the good Marchioness has defended you, Ophelia?
What was it last time? Ah yes—the matter with the Lady of House Feroux. You remember, don't you? The carriage 'accident'? The scandal that nearly ruined her family?
Chaeri looked over her shoulder, her voice now sharp enough to pierce bone.
Lady Chaeri: Devon vouched for you then too. Said you weren't anywhere near the scene. And everyone believed her because you were the poor, gentle thing with a flower in her hair.
But tell me, if your innocence is so clear… why does it always need to be defended so vehemently?
She took a step closer.
Lady Chaeri: I don't want half-hearted lies from your devoted little friend, Ophelia. I want truth. Cold, clean, undeniable. Something I can't rip apart.
Her smile turned razor-sharp.
Lady Chaeri: And sadly, your Marchioness isn't quite that.
The silence hung heavy in the air, scented with roses and tension.
Lady Ophelia tilted her head slightly, gaze flicking toward Marchioness Devon, who stood poised behind her. A whisper passed between them—soft, imperceptible, just enough to make Chaeri lean forward in suspicion.
Then, without looking back, Ophelia extended her hand.
Devon, without a word, placed a sealed bundle of parchments into her palm.
Ophelia's lips curled into the faintest smirk. Not arrogance—certainty.
Lady Ophelia: If you want evidence, here it is.
She stepped forward and let the documents fall onto the carved marble table with a satisfying thud. Scrolls unfurled, seals gleamed, and handwritten testimonies, dates, and witness records lay bare under the sun.
Lady Ophelia: Signed. Stamped. Verified.
By nobles from three different houses, including a witness you once personally endorsed.
Her eyes met Chaeri's, unblinking.
Lady Ophelia: Would you like to keep doubting me, Lady Chaeri, or shall we call this…concluded?"
The wind caught the corner of a parchment. The garden, once serene, now thrummed with silent power.
Lady Ophelia's expression remained calm, but her voice cut through the garden air like a blade wrapped in silk.
Lady Ophelia: If it unsettles you that the evidence is genuine, then perhaps it's not me you should be worried about.
Her gaze swept across the lavishly set table, then slowly rose to meet Lady Chaeri's.
Lady Ophelia: But I find it curious, that a lady of equal birth would presume to summon her superior to tea. Social courtesy dictates that invitations must follow rank. Unless, of course, you don't consider me part of the Imperial Family.
Lady Chaeri's eyes narrowed beneath the lace of her veil, a smile teasing her lips like a knife's edge.
Lady Chaeri: You speak of duty, Lady Ophelia… and yet here you are, draped in half the Imperial treasury, tossing accusations like confetti, before you've even earned the crown.
She took a dainty sip of her tea, the clink of porcelain sharp in the silence.
Lady Chaeri: The Emperor lies ill. The Empire watches. And the one who would be Crown Princess parades around as though she already rules.
Her gaze swept down Ophelia's figure.
Lady Chaeri: White and gold. Sunset diamonds. The Phoenix sigil. All symbols reserved for blood heirs. Don't you think it's a little… presumptuous?
Then came the syrupy smile, honeyed and hollow.
Lady Chaeri: Or is this your way of reminding us all who you intend to be, even if the Sky Throne has yet to speak?
Her tone softened, condescendingly sweet.
Lady Chaeri: Humility, Lady Ophelia, is a crown in itself. One you seem to have misplaced in your sea of silks.
Ophelia tilted her head, ever so slightly, and replied in the same velvety calm.
Lady Ophelia: And yet, I am the Crown Princess. By law, by decree, and by bloodline. Betrothed to His Highness. Granted full access to the Imperial Treasury. My name recorded by the Council of Lords as a member of the Imperial Family.
She withdrew a parchment from her purse, unfolding it to reveal the imperial seal pressed into the paper. She also showed her seal as the crown princess. As well as the brooch of the Sovereigns of the Sky Throne.
Lady Ophelia: And I didn't simply choose Baroness Cher, I visited His Majesty myself. I brought him tea. I tended to his health. I asked him—formally—if I might wear the Phoenix sigil and Imperial jewels for today's engagement.
She smiled softly.
Lady Ophelia: He was pleased. He said it was time I stopped hiding, time I began asserting the power I've held quietly all these years. That I should no longer shy from who I am.
Lady Chaeri's face froze for the briefest moment, porcelain-cracked and rigid.
But Ophelia wasn't finished.
Lady Ophelia: And tell me, Lady Chaeri…when you addressed me in your invitation—why did you call me only the Swan of Seraphim?
The air between them tightened.
Lady Ophelia: The title granted to me by His Majesty himself is The Swan of Seraphim and the Solciel Star of Dusk. A symbol of union between the noble houses and the imperial bloodline. Leaving it out… was that an oversight?
The smile she offered was sharp as a cut crystal.
Lady Chaeri gave a brittle laugh, standing abruptly.
Lady Chaeri: You dare overdress in my manor and make it about virtue?
You flaunt power you have yet to truly wield. So I'll say this once—leave. And take your crown of arrogance with you.
Ophelia stood as well, the gilded hem of her dress catching the sun like flame on water.
Lady Ophelia: Of course, but do remember this—when a star rises at dusk, it's not arrogance. It's a warning.
She turned without another word, her silks flowing behind her like a storm dressed in light.
Lady Ophelia exits
Rudolf Estate, Private Drawing Room
The porcelain cup shattered against the wall, splintering into sharp white fragments that mirrored the storm behind Lady Chaeri's eyes.
Lady Chaeri:She dares—she dares.
She seethed, pacing in slow, measured strides across the velvet rug. The sunlight spilling through the stained glass windows was too bright, too golden, and it made her feel like the entire Empire was mocking her.
The documents were real. Every signature, every seal, every detail. It was too perfect—too orchestrated. Ophelia had planned this. No, she had plotted this.
Lady Chaeri: And to say I was lower than her.
Chaeri hissed under her breath, hands clenching at her sides.
Lady Chaeri: As if a coronation makes the crown.
She turned abruptly, eyes narrowing toward the gilded mirror. Her own reflection stared back—composed, beautiful, powerful—but simmering with indignation.
Lady Chaeri: She walks around in gold-stitched arrogance, daring to use the imperial treasury as if it were her dowry. She flaunts that serpent Baroness Cher, and pretends humility while dressed like the Empress herself.
Chaeri's voice dropped, laced with venom.
Lady Chaeri: She may wear the jewels, but I wear the Empire's secrets.
She sank into her chair, fingers tapping the carved wood in rhythmic fury. She could still hear Ophelia's voice, cool and clipped:
'I was addressed not just as the Swan of Seraphim… but as the Solciel Star of Dusk.'
Chaeri bit the inside of her cheek, hard.
Lady Chaeri: She thinks she's won.
But this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.