The Abandoned Princess’ Secret Bedroom - Chapter 13: The Midnight Intruder

A young Bastian glanced around his surroundings. Would he meet that girl again today? The girl in question was none other than his half-sister, the princess.

He had used the excuse of needing the bathroom to avoid his “father’s” presence. He figured his absence was more beneficial to them anyway. His mother and father were both individuals who thrived in their separate, impenetrable worlds.

Bastian, however, had a different destination in mind—he headed toward the place where he had first met her.

The princess, adored and doted upon by the queen, had her own private garden and riding arena, gifts from her doting mother.

When he arrived at the garden, it was empty. Without hesitation, he moved toward the riding arena instead. To his relief, Llewellyn was there, riding a horse.

She sat tall on a large horse, guiding it at an impressive speed. Her confidence made him wonder if it was safe to ride so fast, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Bastian had almost fallen off every time he’d attempted horseback riding in the past. Compared to his clumsy efforts, Llewellyn exuded grace and mastery, her movements dignified and captivating.

The way she rode, so self-assured and fearless, struck him as not just beautiful but utterly mesmerizing.

Though they shared the blood of the same king, why did he feel so pathetic in comparison? Was it because his mother’s blood was lowly?

Whenever Bastian saw that girl, he couldn’t help but feel small. He was nothing more than a pitiful bastard child of the king—an insignificant, slumped shadow compared to her.

At that moment, the horse came to a stop. The princess had ceased riding and dismounted with a natural grace, assisted by a servant’s hand, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

“What brings you here?” she asked.

“…….”

She was just thirteen, a small girl. And yet, her face radiated an inherent nobility. Her low, steady voice and detached expression carried a commanding air, even though her cheeks were flushed red from riding. Somehow, it didn’t appear crude or unsightly—it seemed effortless and natural.

“I-I-I just…” Bastian stammered, his words tripping over themselves.

A flicker of disdain crossed her face, but she didn’t lash out with harsh words like his mother would have, nor did she walk away dismissively like his father. Instead, she waited patiently.

“I… I came to see… you.”

“…To see me? Why?”

Her tone was incredulous, as though she couldn’t comprehend his reasoning. Bastian’s confidence crumbled further.

“Well… because… you… you’re…”

“Ah, you wanted to ride the horse?” Llewellyn interjected.

Bastian nodded quickly, grateful that she’d guessed his intention. It felt as though she had reached out to understand him.

“Then, do you want to try riding it?”

“H-h-however… I’ll… fall… I know I will… definitely…”

“You’re falling because you think you’ll fall. Come on, get on,” she said firmly.

For once, Llewellyn, who often ignored him, had extended an unexpected kindness. Guided by her hand, Bastian climbed onto the horse, his heart pounding.

“I’ll help you so you don’t fall,” she reassured him.

She wasn’t impatient or sharp like his mother, nor condescending like his tutors. Even though her sharp mind must have fully understood his position as an illegitimate child, she was the one who reached out first.

That day, for the first time, Bastian managed to ride a horse properly.

He thought to himself: Is it wrong to like her, even for such a small reason? Even if that small girl makes me feel this way, is it really so wrong?

 

*

 

“The Marquis of Gutteringer has never requested my presence before.”

“Have a seat, Duke Hvitserk.”

With the table between them, the young duke and the elderly marquis locked eyes. The Gutteringer family, one of the Five Great Houses, was often regarded as the moral compass of the kingdom. “The choices of House Gutteringer are never wrong”—a saying that solidified the family’s role as a trusted guide among the nobles. Yet, the Marquis himself was known for his cautious nature and rarely voiced his opinions.

“Well then. Did you orchestrate all of this to dethrone the king and the dowager queen, only to place the princess on the throne?”

“…….”

For someone so famously measured, the Marquis’s words were surprisingly blunt. He even addressed the duke without the usual formal respect, though given his age and stature as the head of one of the kingdom’s most prestigious families, such behavior was not considered an egregious breach of etiquette.

The Marquis observed Almandite’s silence with a sly smile.

“The dowager queen is no fool. She will suspect something,” the Marquis added.

“It doesn’t matter. All that needs to be done is the removal of Duke Brion.”

“‘It doesn’t matter,’ you say. I am advising caution, yet here you are, dismissing the words of an old man who has seen far more than you. The careful words of a cautious elder mean little to the impetuousness of youth, it seems.”

“Marquis,” Almandite interrupted, his tone firm.

The Marquis posed his next question with a pointed expression.
“Then, has the princess expressed her own intentions in this matter?”

“…….”

“Is she not already a bird with her wings clipped?”

“She is not broken,” Almandite replied, his tone resolute.

The Marquis’s lips curled into a faint smirk.

“‘Not broken,’ you say. Are you aware of how much she has distanced herself from others? That is a survival tactic, Duke. She isolates herself to make it clear she poses no threat. And yet, you’re putting her in the spotlight? Let’s assume Pamela is a lost cause—what about Duke Brion? When he returns from quelling the rebellion, do you think he’ll allow the princess to remain unscathed?”

The Marquis’s insight was sharp, dissecting Llewellyn’s motives with unsettling accuracy.

“The fact that the princess has survived this long is itself a wonder,” he remarked.

“…….”

“And judging by your reaction, it seems the princess hasn’t yet expressed any personal ambitions. So, what exactly is your plan?”

Almandite’s voice was steady and firm as he replied, “I intend to ensure that she will have ambitions of her own, and soon.”

“Hah. So, you mean to play the queenmaker, do you?”

Despite the Marquis’s frank and biting tone, Almandite’s expression remained calm, almost leisurely. He was well aware of the Marquis’s significant influence as the benefactor of the kingdom’s largest intelligence network.

“And so, Marquis, will you lend your support?”

“Do you think I’ll give you my support? Perhaps you’d be better off approaching Count Sundblen, the princess’s former friend. That young woman managed to surpass her brother and claim the title of count, after all,” the Marquis said with a faint chuckle.

Almandite’s expression didn’t waver—he was already well aware of that information. The Marquis, noting this, smiled leisurely.

“I summoned you here merely to confirm a few things. But I must say, I’m disappointed. The princess still lacks ambition, and it’s only you making moves on her behalf.”

The hint of disappointment in the Marquis’s tone prompted Almandite to smirk faintly.

“You seem quite confident,” the Marquis observed.

“Why ask when you already know how this will play out? You’re the one who passed that information to me, Marquis,” Almandite replied smoothly.

“…You’re no ordinary man, I see. I thought you were just a skilled swordsman, but it seems you’re also quite the strategist.”

“…….”

“Now, about House Mode—when do you plan to act?”

“Soon,” Almandite replied simply.

The Marquis leaned back, his satisfied smile deepening. Almandite, however, returned his gaze with an unreadable expression.

“How could I not take back what was stolen by someone unworthy?” Almandite said, his voice cool and laced with meaning.

The Marquis intertwined his fingers, leaning forward slightly.
“And what drives you to go to such lengths?”

“…….”

Almandite said nothing, simply locking eyes with the Marquis for a moment before standing.

“You’re leaving without any real results?” the Marquis remarked, amusement flickering in his voice.

“Considering how you’ve been mining me for information without offering much in return, I think I’ve had enough,” Almandite replied dryly. “It hardly seems fair.”

The Marquis of Gutteringer, the most influential figure in shaping noble consensus, was someone whose cooperation could be invaluable. Yet Almandite’s demeanor remained light, almost indifferent. It was as though he cared little whether he had the Marquis’s support or not.

“Then, allow me to ask you one final question,” the Marquis said, stopping Almandite just as he turned to leave.

Almandite paused mid-step, turning his head slightly to listen.

“When the late queen was executed, why was there no reaction from her homeland, Thessalia? After all, she was a Thessalian princess. Such an act should have sparked a war.”

“…….”

“Surely Thessalia would not stand idly by while their noble princess was executed. One would expect war to break out over such an insult, wouldn’t they?”

“Thessalia is a minor kingdom, unlike Brizent,” Almandite replied, his tone clipped. “You know this already. Why ask questions to which you already have the answers?”

“Do I really?” the Marquis murmured, a faint but knowing smile playing on his lips.

Almandite’s expression hardened, and without another word, he strode out of the room.

 

*

 

Llewellyn frowned. By now, she should have received a letter from Ernel, but there had been no word. He’d claimed he was investigating the brand, but what if he had simply forgotten? She sighed deeply, sitting alone in the greenhouse.

Life had become unbearably dull lately, perhaps because riding the horse the other day had been far too stimulating. The saying, “humans are creatures of desire,” felt all too accurate.

She should have been thankful that the brand hadn’t caused her body to flare up lately, but instead, she found herself craving movement, activity—anything. It felt almost as if she had returned to the days before everything fell apart.

But things weren’t the same. Every step she took now as the princess was carefully watched and scrutinized by so many wary eyes.

Llewellyn sighed again, watering the plants in the greenhouse, though she knew full well she had no talent for gardening. She tended to kill plants rather than help them thrive.

“Llewellyn, are you in there?”

It was Bastian’s voice. Hearing him call from outside the greenhouse, she set down her watering can. Why was he suddenly here? Grumbling internally, she stepped outside.

As soon as she left the greenhouse, she froze in shock. Bastian stood there with a horse by his side. Seeing her startled face, he smiled gently.

“Your Majesty, what brings you here?” Llewellyn asked, still surprised.

“I was told you were here, so I came looking for you.”

“……”

“After seeing you ride yesterday, I thought you might enjoy this,” he said, gesturing toward the horse he had brought.

“Ah…”

Llewellyn stood there for a moment, looking dazed.

“I’ve already told the staff to prepare the riding arena. You’re welcome to use it as you did before,” Bastian continued.

“…Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The horse he had brought was stunning—a sleek, brown steed with a glossy coat and a mane that shimmered with teal undertones. It was a magnificent creature, clearly of exceptional pedigree.

She felt a twinge of emotion, touched by the thoughtful gesture.

“Your Majesty, thank you very much.”

“This is all I can offer you,” Bastian said apologetically, his tone tinged with regret.

Llewellyn shook her head. When Bastian extended the reins toward her, she accepted them with a smile, gazing at the horse with clear admiration.

“It reminds me of the old days,” she murmured.

“The old days?”

“Yes, when you taught me how to ride,” Bastian said with a warm expression.

Llewellyn hesitated. Had that really happened? She couldn’t quite recall, though it felt vaguely familiar.

“You… don’t remember?”

“……”

When she didn’t respond, Bastian’s face darkened with disappointment. Llewellyn realized her mistake too late—she should have at least pretended to remember, especially after receiving such a generous gift.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t remember much from my childhood anymore.”

“I see. I understand,” Bastian replied, though his face was still tinged with sadness.

Trying to brighten the mood, Llewellyn forced a cheerful smile. For a brief moment, they seemed like ordinary siblings. Her smile, as if contagious, coaxed a faint smile from Bastian as well.

“Brother,” she said suddenly.

“……”

“Brother, thank you for the gift. I’ll treasure it.”

For a moment, Bastian’s expression froze. Had she said something wrong? Perhaps the term “brother” wasn’t to his liking.

Then, he gave her a smile—one so fragile it looked like it might shatter at any moment. Seeing his expression, Llewellyn decided she should give him something in return, if only to soothe whatever had hurt him.

 

*

 

Llewellyn sighed as she wrestled with the question of what kind of gift to give Bastian. What could she possibly give a king, a man who already had everything? She herself had once been in a similar position as a princess, her palace overflowing with gifts. Back then, she had felt so inundated with possessions that she had developed little desire for material things.

Now that she had received such a thoughtful gift—a magnificent horse—surely she should give something in return. She mulled it over for a while.

It surprised her that Bastian remembered that small moment from the past. She herself had only faintly recalled it. On that day, she had simply been in a good mood and decided to show him kindness, not realizing how much it had meant to him.

After some thought, she remembered that Bastian enjoyed tea. Perhaps the rare black tea she had been gifted long ago would make a suitable present. It was stored in the palace’s warehouse. Deciding to place it in a decorative jar and present it to him, Llewellyn stood up.

The night had grown dark, and she briefly considered sending one of the maids to fetch it. But she ultimately decided to go herself; after all, how would the maids distinguish between the varieties of tea stored there? It would be simpler to retrieve it herself.

The palace corridors were unusually silent, though Llewellyn didn’t think much of it—her quarters were always quiet. Moonlight spilled faintly through the long black corridor’s windows, casting their outlines onto the floor.

“They’ve neglected to light the lanterns again,” she muttered to herself, resolving to scold the maids for their carelessness the next day as she quickened her pace.

Finally, she arrived at the storage room.

Guided by the soft light of the moon, Llewellyn managed to locate the jar of black tea. She opened it and inhaled the scent—a sweet yet calming aroma that lifted her spirits. Feeling satisfied, she resealed the jar and exited the storage room.

But as soon as her task was complete, she became acutely aware of how eerie the corridor was. The chill of the silent hallway prickled her skin.

Clutching the jar, she stepped forward, the sound of her footsteps ringing sharply in the quiet. As she walked, she instinctively glanced around.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her footsteps echoed, but something felt… off. Then, she realized what it was: in the moonlight’s reflection, there weren’t just her own shadow but a second one.

A chill ran down her spine.

“Who’s there?!—Mmmpfh!”

Before she could finish, a hand clamped over her mouth.

What’s happening?! Panic surged through her as she clutched the jar of tea tightly. The force of the grip left her head spinning. She tried to struggle, but the strength of the man holding her was overwhelming, rendering her resistance futile.

“Mmmph!” she tried to cry out, but it was useless.

Is this… a dark sorcerer?

She writhed desperately, attempting to break free, but her movements were no more effective than the thrashing of a small animal. Somewhere in the chaos, she heard the shattering of glass, but no one came to help.

Just as she was about to scream again, she felt something press against the nape of her neck—lips.

“…Hngh!”

The man’s lips pressed precisely where the brand of Asmodeus was etched into her skin. At that touch, the dormant brand flared to life, heat searing through her body. Llewellyn’s eyes flew open in shock. Does he know about the brand? Did he do this intentionally?

The intense heat spreading through her slowed her movements, leaving her disoriented. She flailed her arms, but it was no more effective than struggling against a steel trap.

Dragged helplessly into the darkness, Llewellyn was thrown to the ground. Her body hit the cold surface with a thud, and before she could scream again, something was shoved into her mouth—a gag, clearly prepared in advance.

“Mmmph!”

Tears streamed down her face as the horrifying reality of the situation set in. The dim surroundings made it impossible to see the man pinning her down.

With a brutal motion, her loose dress was ripped apart by his rough hands. When Llewellyn tried to shield herself with her arms, he pinned them down forcefully. Then, to her growing horror, his tongue flicked over the mark of Asmodeus, licking it slowly.

The sheer force of his grip, combined with the deliberate, slimy pressure of his touch, sent shivers crawling up her spine. Every hair on her body stood on end in revulsion.

“Mmmph!”

The burning sensation from the brand intensified, spreading through her body like wildfire. Her vision blurred as her consciousness grew hazy, a mixture of fear, helplessness, and the brand’s cursed heat overwhelming her senses.

It was horrifyingly clear what the man intended to do, and the realization filled her with despair.

“You like it, don’t you?” he whispered, his voice low and vile.

Llewellyn shook her head furiously, tears streaming down her cheeks. Even his breath on her neck felt invasive, like it was slithering across her skin.

When his hand trailed down her waist, moving lower, she felt the crushing weight of hopelessness.

“Your Highness, answer me!”

A voice suddenly echoed from the distance.

Hope flickered in her tear-filled eyes as the weight pressing down on her abruptly lifted. The suffocating darkness briefly brightened as the man fled, disappearing into the shadows like a coward.

Llewellyn lay trembling, her body curled in on itself. The fear and shock paralyzed her until the door slammed open, flooding the space with the light of the corridor.

It was Tristan.