Charlotte - Chapter 31

Mona hurriedly fled through the door that Charlotte had left ajar in her rush. She felt she had to leave before Charlotte returned.

It was an act of avoidance—an attempt to escape the intense premonition that, if she faced Charlotte again, she would have to confront a truth she did not want to know.

She walked without any clear destination. An unknown fear weighed on her, hindering her hurried steps, but she did not stop.

By the time her ankles ached from walking for so long, Mona finally slowed her pace, believing she had put enough distance between them.

Where was she?

Lifting her head, she surveyed the corridor… It was still near Charlotte’s room. Had she really only gotten this far? Or had she unknowingly circled the castle, ending up right back where she started?

Crushed by the weight of an invisible force, Mona held her breath. The silence brought no comfort—only the echo of Charlotte’s desperate shouts as she worried about Leo.

Why?

Why her, of all people?

Charlotte was the last person in Ignator who had the right to feel that way. If she had ever been truly concerned for Leo, she had long ago squandered her chances to show it.

She had thrown it all away, and now, after all this time—why?

Pushed by the relentless tide of questions, Mona found herself back where she had fled from.

And there, collapsed on the floor like a lifeless body, gasping for breath, was Charlotte.

Startled, Mona instinctively recalled what the physician had advised for such situations and moved to follow those instructions.

She intended to loosen Charlotte’s suffocating dress, freeing her breath. She had no idea that this decision would shake the very foundation of her world.

Charlotte’s skin, pale as if it had never seen sunlight, looked as fragile as a piece of delicate glasswork—something that might shatter at the slightest touch.

And that was why it stood out all the more.

[SLAVE]

The stain that marred her skin.

“What… What is that?”

Mona kept her words brief, knowing that any longer sentence would be swallowed by the sob welling up in her throat.

“Who… Who did this to you, Princess?”

She shut her eyes tightly, unable to bear the horrifying image that had branded itself into her mind. But still, she asked—

“Was it… the king?”

Who else could have done something like this to a princess of the kingdom?

She knew, even as she spoke, that the idea made no sense. But what she had seen with her own eyes was beyond reason. Seeking logic now was meaningless.

It was then that Charlotte, who had been frozen like a taxidermied beast, lowered her trembling feet to the floor, as if trying to flee once more.

The moment her pale feet bore her weight, a harsh, rasping sound escaped from her throat—proof that her breath had yet to steady.

And yet, Charlotte stood tall, facing Mona directly. Mona couldn’t even begin to imagine the immense effort it must have taken to mask herself with such chilling composure.

People only ever pushed themselves past their limits for one reason—because they had something they desperately needed to protect.

Like keeping a secret entirely to themselves.

“A naïve nursemaid like you wouldn’t understand, but there are men with rather… interesting tastes. If you end up sharing a bed with such men, do I really need to spell out what happens?”

Mona could tell—this cruel, cutting remark was nothing more than a means to an end. It was clear as day now.

So?

Was it the same back then?

Had Charlotte been fighting her own battles in places Mona had never seen?

It was too late now. But even so, she had to look deeper—at least now.

“I see.”

Mona wiped her damp eyes with the back of her hand and forced herself to match Charlotte’s cold composure.

“Then the lord must be told. It would be far too great a… flaw to let him unknowingly take you as his wife.”

The words felt vile on her tongue, but she forced them out. Then, taking a step back, she turned away without hesitation.

“Mona!”

Charlotte called out, her voice breaking, as if she had crumbled from within. As if the words she had spoken moments ago had been nothing but a lie.

“Mona!”

Barefoot, she ran over shattered glass, grasping Mona’s hand with trembling fingers.

She didn’t have to say it.

Don’t tell Leo.

It wasn’t just a plea. It was something far more desperate.

***

“Who do you think your father is? A wretched slave’s bloodline, and yet—”

A slave’s… bloodline?

The words were beyond Charlotte’s ability to comprehend. She couldn’t even demand an explanation, because an alarm was ringing so loudly in her mind—warning her not to listen, not to know.

The shadow of Mia had loomed over her for as long as she could remember. Any resentment she once felt had long since faded.

She clung to her father’s wrist, the same hand that seemed ready to tear her scalp from her head, and pleaded.

“Please… don’t do this. I’ll apologize to Mia… I’ll apologize to her….”

“Apologize?”

Her father let out a laugh—one far more chilling than outright rage, as if the very idea was absurd.

“A slave girl dares to create a situation where a royal must be apologized to? Then she must receive a punishment befitting her crime.”

With that, he flung her aside. Her head struck something hard.

That was the last moment Charlotte believed that King Diandel was her father.

Then, darkness.

—

When she opened her parched eyes, she was in an unfamiliar place.

Her wrists and ankles were bound to a wooden restraint. A gag was forced into her mouth.

Later, she would learn what this place was—a secret chamber, where the king disposed of criminals whose executions could not be made public.

“You are awake.”

A voice came from somewhere nearby.

Charlotte flinched violently, like a startled bird flapping its wings, and jerked her head to the side. In her current state, even the slightest noise sent waves of terror through her.

A familiar face came into view—the steward, who was always at her father’s side.

He glanced down at the small dagger in his hand, inspecting it idly as he spoke.

“I will tell you something you may find… interesting.”

Charlotte knew—without a doubt—what he was about to say.

It would be about the blood of a slave.

“Mmm…! Mmmh!”

Unintelligible sounds escaped from behind the gag. She didn’t even know what she was trying to say—only that something inside her was desperate to speak.

“Mmm!”

The steward paid no mind to her muffled cries, continuing in a calm, measured tone.

“His Majesty and Her Highness the Queen remained without an heir for over seven years after their marriage.”

Charlotte knew this story well.

Her nursemaid had often recounted how the entire palace erupted in joy when the queen finally became pregnant.

She had loved hearing that story. It was one of the few tales that made her feel special, as though she had been born into a world that eagerly awaited her arrival.

Like a fairytale.

“It was strange, considering how well the royal couple got along—unlike most arranged marriages.”

Step. Step.

The stewardes slow footsteps overlapped with his voice.

“Countless royal physicians came and went. Even foreign doctors, with names no one had ever heard before, were summoned. Yet they all said the same thing—there was nothing wrong with either of them.”

Step. Step.

The dagger remained in his hand, its small blade gleaming faintly.

“Then, after nine years—finally, a blessing. The same nobles who had been clamoring to depose the queen, urging His Majesty to take a concubine, suddenly fell silent.”

Step. Step.

Bound and helpless, Charlotte could do nothing but tremble as the approaching blade loomed over her.

“But that blessing did not last four months before it was lost.”

The steward spoke in a solemn voice, his words almost mournful. By now, he was standing right beside her, gazing down at her restrained form.

“That day, His Majesty ordered the deaths of everyone who knew about the queen’s miscarriage—physicians, handmaids, all of them.”

His calculating gaze lingered on her for a moment before the tip of his dagger traced down the length of her back.

“And then, he commanded me to find a child who looked exactly like the queen.”

Shrrrip!

The sound of fabric being torn apart echoed in the chamber, unbearably loud to Charlotte’s ears.

Her bare back was exposed beneath the stewardes cold stare.

“Hhngh! Mmmh!”

Overwhelmed by humiliation—and an even greater terror—Charlotte screamed, but with the gag in her mouth, only feeble, strangled gasps escaped.

“So, you see,” the steward said, stepping back as if his work was done.

“It was I who made you a princess—the wretched child born from a lowly slave’s womb.”

Charlotte’s ragged breathing broke into pitiful sobs.