Charlotte - Chapter 3

Eleven-year-old Charlotte sat in the reception hall of the royal palace, her heart trembling.

She was there to meet her betrothed, personally chosen by her father, King Diandel of Ignator.

The seat in front of her was still empty—not because the other party was late, but because Charlotte had arrived unusually early.

She was curious. Excited. Without realizing it, her steps had quickened on their own.

There was still about half an hour left until the appointed time. Short if short, long if long. Charlotte spent that time filling her mind with imaginations about her fiancé.

Which noble house was he from? Could he be a prince from a neighboring kingdom? How old would he be? Around her age? Or perhaps a young man who had already come of age? What kind of personality did he have? Was he intelligent? Since he was to be the future king, it would be best if he were wise and astute.

Her endless stream of thoughts was abruptly wiped away at the precise moment the knock on the door echoed through the room, leaving only one lingering question behind.

Will he… like me?

But even that final curiosity vanished in an instant.

As soon as the boy stepped into the reception hall, introduced himself in a calm voice, and spoke his name—

“I am Leo Kartenon, second son of the Duke of Kartenon.”

Charlotte, who had been watching the boy approach her with wide, astonished eyes, suddenly felt as if she were plummeting off a cliff.

His dark hair, faintly tinged with brown, dipped as he bowed, then slowly lifted. That motion scraped across her vision in excruciating slow motion.

What…?

Who did he say he was…?

“I am Leo Kartenon, second son of the Duke of Kartenon.”

As if answering the question forming in her mind, the boy’s polite greeting echoed in her ears.

“I am Leo Kartenon, second son of the Duke of Kartenon.”

A dull pain throbbed at the edge of her hearing.

“I am Leo Kartenon, second son of the Duke of Kartenon.”

It felt as though a sharp needle had pierced through her.

“It is an honor to meet you.”

The boy finished his greeting with composure.

Charlotte said nothing in return, only stared at him.

At the duke’s illegitimate son.

A bastard as the fiancé of the crown princess—the future ruler of Ignator.

Even if one were to search through the vast archives of the royal library, renowned as the largest in the kingdom, there would be no record of such a precedent.

Charlotte had known for some time that her position was shifting ever since Mia was born. She had been aware. But this—this was different.

This was nothing less than a declaration that she would not be entrusted with Ignator’s future.

At some point, Charlotte bit down on her lip so hard that the skin tore. The metallic tang of blood seeped between her lips.

If despair had a taste, it would be this.

The thought drifted hazily through her mind.

It was then that something soft brushed against her fingertips.

—

A handkerchief. Offered by the very bastard who had pushed her into this abyss. Even as he looked upon the wounded princess, he did not make a fuss. Instead, he simply did what he could. As if he was merely doing what needed to be done.

But a mere scrap of cloth could not mend the wounds she bore.

Charlotte glared at him in response to his gesture of kindness.

She knew, of course, that it wasn’t his fault.

In the social circles of Ignator, bastards were shunned, but Charlotte had never believed that those born under unfortunate circumstances should bear responsibility for their birth.

Had he not been presented to her as her betrothed, she might have welcomed him without hesitation.

They might have enjoyed tea together, paired with sweet confections. If their temperaments aligned, they might even have become friends.

If only he were not the proof of her abandonment.

Perhaps then…

Charlotte snatched the handkerchief from his grasp, pressing it not to her lips but to her eyes.

The once-dry fabric quickly grew damp.

The boy said nothing and simply waited. He stood still, unwavering, as the cold princess refused to acknowledge his greeting or offer him a seat—until, at long last, her storm of tears subsided.

“Your Highness.”

Only when her sobs began to quiet did the boy finally break the silence.

Charlotte, who had kept her face hidden behind the handkerchief, lifted her gaze to meet his.

His eyes were green. Like young leaves just beginning to sprout.

“I will become the Duke of Kartenon.”

That small sapling declared that one day, he would be a forest. As if telling her that she need not cry.

And on that day, the girl abandoned by her father—fell in love.

***

Lies.

It had to be.

This was Leo Kartenon, the man hailed as the Light of Ignator.

If something like that had truly happened to him, there was no way the palace—no, even a secluded annex—would have remained this silent.

She had no idea what Diandel was trying to gain by saying such things, but it was nothing more than nonsense.

Charlotte recalled the unwavering green eyes that had once gazed at her so steadfastly. With that, she slowly began to rebuild the walls of her crumbling heart.

“…You must have finally lost your mind.”

Cutting down Diandel was part of that process.

“You should have summoned a physician, not me.”

She reinforced the walls, brick by brick.

“Have you deteriorated so much that you can no longer distinguish reality?”

She hid herself behind them.

“Right here.”

Tapping her temple lightly with a fingertip, she convinced herself she was safe within the fortress she had built.

It was a cruel mockery. Inappropriate, both as words directed at a king and as words directed at her father.

Diandel’s expression twisted sharply.

Charlotte felt a faint sense of satisfaction, and the stiffness in her lips—frozen from his absurd claims—slowly began to ease.

Thud.

That was when a crumpled bundle of paper landed at her feet.

“A letter from Baron Erik Moore.”

The name alone made it impossible to ignore.

Even Charlotte knew Erik Moore well—Leo Kartenon’s most trusted confidant.

“If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.”

For a lifetime, she had sworn she would never bow before this man again.

Yet, without even realizing it, Charlotte bent down and picked up the crumpled letter.

She wanted to read it immediately.

She wanted to see nothing at all.

Those conflicting desires made her hands tremble as she unfolded the page.

Finally, her eyes caught the opening lines of the letter.

Holding her breath, Charlotte read every word written upon the fragile sheet.

An unexplained fever.

The subsequent loss of his vision.

One after another, the sentences within the letter validated Diandel’s seemingly senseless words.

“……”

Her fingers slackened, the letter slipping from her grasp.

It felt as though she had swallowed a solid shard of ice, unmelting, lodging itself deep within her chest.

The audience chamber—where the king spent a significant portion of his day.

No matter how bitter the weather outside, cold never seeped into this place.

And yet, she was freezing.

A bone-deep chill, unbearable and relentless.

Why…? How could this happen…?

The walls she had believed to be unshakable, the ones she had painstakingly built to protect herself, crumbled in an instant.

Charlotte could do nothing but watch in stunned silence. Then, hesitantly, she opened her mouth.

“Mia… What about Mia…?”

Mia adored Leo Kartenon—she lived and breathed for him.

“She… She cares for Leo… the Duke of Kartenon, deeply.”

Even when Leo Kartenon had been Charlotte’s fiancé, Mia had wanted him.

Whenever she saw him, she would blush. She had never even tried to conceal the shy affection behind that flushed expression.

And in the end, she had taken him.

No matter what had happened to him now, Mia would never let go of Leo Kartenon so easily. She would never allow him to belong to Charlotte.

Mia would never. Not Mia de Ignator.

“…What did she say?”

No answer came.

Not now, not even as the silence stretched to its very limit.

Charlotte turned on her heel and walked away.

The face of Mia—the girl who had stolen what was hers, dressing it in the sweet words of love—was vividly burned into her mind.

She wanted to ruin that face.

To crush it, twist it beyond recognition.

It felt like a mission—one of absolute importance.

“—Ugh…!”

But before she could take another step, her world spun.

Diandel had seized her by the throat.

The king—who had thrown aside his throne to lunge at her—was now strangling his own daughter.

A father, possessed by the desperate need to protect his other child.

“How dare you… you lowly… thing…”

“……!”

“How dare someone like you—someone worthless—”

Through her fading consciousness, she saw Diandel’s face, grotesquely contorted with rage. His voice, dripping with venom, seared into her ears, reminding her just how insignificant she was.

Yet, there was always one thing—one single thing—that remained distant and faint. Something she had longed for so desperately, only to give up on entirely.

Love.