My burdens hadn't even begun to ease, yet more problems kept piling on. I was already drowning in secrets and limitations—each passing day felt like another stone tied to my ankles, dragging me deeper into the abyss.
Even after receiving the letter from King Harriet himself, I found no comfort. His words, though well-meaning, offered no true solution. No advice. No help.
I felt like a lone soldier deployed to a war I wasn't meant to survive—exhausted, unsupported, and disposable.
My letter to the King had been about Xyra. I only wanted one thing: her safety. Just to keep her out of Sebastian's reach. That wasn't too much to ask, was it?
But instead of aid, all I received was a new mission.
I was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of dancing for approval—especially from Rebecca, who mocked me with every misstep. Every move on that ballroom floor felt like a battlefield.
Celio sent word that he'd finished surveying the land on Cion Island. Just as I suspected, forty-five people lived there, surviving through planting and fishing. There was no mention of formal healing services—Emelia still traded her homemade medicines for food, and Emily chopped wood in exchange for supplies. It confirmed one thing: trading had finally reached the island. That was progress.
But I needed more. I couldn't cultivate the land without funds, so I wrote back, asking Celio to find three skilled individuals to become my representatives. People who could help train the locals, expand our plans, and eventually think of me as their benefactor.
The thought made my head spin. Benefactor. Would they really call me that one day?
I hoped Celio would reply soon. The selection couldn't wait.
I also sent another letter—to Evan—inquiring about Xyrone's health. I warned him that Rebecca's friend Ares would be arriving in two days to start a business. A hair salon. It was perfect—women frequented those places, and no one would ever suspect a straight man was hiding in plain sight among them.
Unfortunately, I hadn't arranged the necessary documents to tie me legally to my aunt's husband. I'd been captured before I could, declared dead, and now I couldn't forfeit this new identity.
King Harriet insisted I remain patient, that I hadn't even been at the palace a week. He told me to stay the course and revealed Sebastian was keeping a close watch on Jared's movements. Apparently, this worked in the King's favor.
But even before my own life was sorted, he assigned me a new mission.
What about my friends' protection?
How could he not see the unfairness in that?
Fiora sat beside me, her brow furrowed in quiet thought. She stared ahead, burdened by her own grief.
"I still can't believe Sir Sebastian killed my friend," she whispered, voice trembling. She bit at the hem of her sleeve, trying to steady her emotions.
If only you knew, Fiora… if only you knew that I'm Rowela—your childhood friend—you'd understand everything. But I can't tell you. Not yet. Not when revealing my identity could unravel everything. If Jared or the King found out, they'd never trust me again. The mission would be over.
So I stayed silent.
That was all I could do—stay strong, endure, and keep playing this exhausting part.
I let out a sigh and collapsed onto the bed, letting my thoughts wander.
Was Xyrone recovering?
---
Later that night, I informed Fiora that I needed to speak with Jared. She offered to accompany me, but I politely declined, asking her instead to prepare what I'd need for tomorrow. She hesitated, then nodded and left to carry out her duties.
I limped down the staircase, my leg aching from Rebecca's earlier abuse. She'd forced me into a painful split, deaf to my screams. Something had cracked—I was sure of it. A bone, maybe. What if I couldn't dance at the festival?
As I reached the landing, I froze.
Myra. And… my stepmother.
A chill ran down my spine. I bowed my head quickly, pretending to adjust the hem of my black petticoat skirt.
"I don't want this, Mom. I love Gerald more than anyone," Myra said, her voice soft but defiant.
"Don't say anything to Gerald if you don't want to break him," my stepmother whispered, her tone laced with cruelty. "The King is in his chamber now. He needs… entertainment."
Entertainment? My blood ran cold.
Was she… offering her own daughter to the King?
Horror clawed its way up my throat. I couldn't let this happen. Too many lives depended on what I did next.
I followed them at a distance, hiding in the shadows. They stopped in front of a large, ornate door. Myra trembled, frozen in place.
Her mother leaned close, whispered something I couldn't hear, and then disappeared down the hallway, leaving her daughter behind.
Myra stood there, torn, unable to knock.
I stepped out.
"Good evening, young lady," I said gently. "What brings you here?"
She flinched. "I… I just came to speak with the King."
"At this hour?" I asked calmly. "It's already 9 p.m. He only just returned from Vermin—surely he's resting."
"You're right…" she murmured.
She turned to leave, legs shaking. But then she stopped and looked back at me.
"Please… may I ask a favor?"
I nodded.
She pressed a key into my hand. "My mother wanted me to enter that room. But I can't do it. Please… don't tell anyone."
"I won't," I promised.
She fled, disappearing into the darkness.
I stood before the chamber door, heart pounding. This was the opening I'd been waiting for. I had to act.
I slipped the key into the lock and turned it slowly. The door creaked open.
Removing my gloves, I tied them to the doorknob as a signal—just in case things went wrong.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a single lamp. Shadows danced across the floor. I stepped inside.
It was silent.
Was he even here?
I moved toward the bed, reaching out to feel the sheets. I sat down—and froze.
A hand. I had just sat on the King's hand.
Panic surged through me as his fingers brushed against my waist—lower.
I stiffened, horrified. He didn't speak. Didn't move.
I reached for the lamp and adjusted its light toward his face.
He was asleep.
I sighed in relief. He hadn't woken. He didn't know.
Still, I couldn't leave yet. I needed to make this intrusion count.
I lay down beside him, watching his peaceful face. His features were boyish—gentle even. But behind those closed eyes, I knew danger lurked.
Then, he shifted.
His leg draped over mine. His foot pressed against my hip. His nose brushed my forehead, his breath warm.
My face burned.
I couldn't stay. This would cause a scandal. What was I thinking?
I tried to move, slowly easing myself out of his grip. But his arm tightened around me.
Does he do this often? Sleep with a woman beside him? He's the worst.
I gently pried his arm off, inch by inch, moving like a thief in the night. Eventually, I slipped free and rose from the bed.
I scanned the room.
On the desk was a photograph—King Henry III as a boy, with Viscount Henry II and Viscountess Serena. Strange… how did they ascend to the throne, if King Harriet was first in line?
Then, I noticed a letter.
I leaned close to the lamp to read it.
Vermin Residency Demolition.
So that was his plan. He was destroying homes to build his royal resort. Heartless.
In his drawer, I found another document—my file as "Diana Swan." It was blank. He hadn't had time to review it yet.
I spotted an ink pen and smirked.
Time to help him out.
I scribbled in my details:
Candidate No. 50
Name: Diana Swan
Age: 22
Country: Heart of Steel
Passion: Crafting and Writing
I filled in the rest with care, making it believable.
"Pweh… that was close," I whispered, placing the paper back exactly where I found it.
I tiptoed toward the door, holding my breath with every step.
Once outside, I allowed myself a quiet smile.
One day, I'll make that place real.
And I'll give these people a future worth fighting for.