The man who had shone like he belonged to a different order of being entirely. The man who, alone among everyone there, had extended his hand toward her while all the others trampled over her without a second thought.
She had only thought him dazzling then. She had not known what pain he was quietly carrying inside himself.
She had not known, not even close to knowing, that she herself was the cause of it.
But today will be different, Leon. I’m not going there to be rescued by you — I’m going there to rescue you.
Attending the ball was not simply a matter of confirming that Leon was still alive.
I have to find a way to avoid being condemned as a villainess and dying a wretched death.
The best approach would be to uncover the mastermind’s identity and reclaim the magestones — but there was no way to do that yet.
So instead, I’ll work from the other direction. I’ll find the victims of the curses first, and break those curses myself.
If the victims of the curses ceased to exist, there would be no grounds to brand Kasha as a villainess.
She would free Leon — the first victim of the first magestone — from his curse, and from there forge an alliance with him. Together they would search for the clues that might reveal the identity of the mastermind now holding the magestones.
Leon was a man who possessed many things in abundance: power, ability, beauty, and the trust of those around him. If she could make him her ally, many of the obstacles ahead would become easier to break through.
For that to happen, though, I’ll have to get past the first obstacle.
The first obstacle Kasha expected to face today: Odette Tyrot.
The only daughter of the house hosting this evening’s ball. The pride of society — beautiful, elegant, and insufferably arrogant.
Kasha had not left the social world of her own accord. She had been expelled from it. By Odette Tyrot herself. Because she had somehow offended her.
And tonight, Kasha intended to face that particular titan head-on.
To win the fight against her, and claim Leon as the prize.
The Tyrot ducal manor, set in the heart of the capital, was exactly as lavish and extravagant as she remembered — not a detail out of place.
The family’s wealth was on full display. They owned prime agricultural territory in the central region and a trade network that stretched like a web across the entire continent.
Even after passing through the front gate — engraved with the house’s emblem, a golden ivy — one had to cross a considerable stretch of garden before the manor itself came into view.
Towering marble columns wrapped the four-story façade in a display of sheer grandeur, and every room blazed with lamplight, bright as stars scattered across a night sky.
Inside the ballroom, the chandelier suspended from the ceiling would be throwing off a brilliance dazzling enough to make the eyes swim.
Recalling that place so vividly, she felt as though a blade had been drawn lightly across her chest.
And thinking of Odette — who would be standing at the entrance right now, welcoming guests with her most radiant smile — made something close to nausea rise in Kasha’s throat.
Odette’s behavior back then had been bewildering, maddening, impossible to make sense of.
But now, having died and come back, she thought she understood. Why Odette had been so cruel.
Simply because she could be.
Kasha smiled bitterly to herself.
Odette Tyrot had the power to do whatever she pleased — and on that particular day, Kasha had caught her eye at the wrong moment. That was all it had been.
Perhaps, in sinking a debut-making young noblewoman from the very first night, Odette had even taken a moment to admire the sheer reach of her own influence.
⁂
The nightmare of that day had begun just before the first dance, when Daryl stepped away. A young man — the son of Baron Penileton, a friend of Daryl’s — had appeared from nowhere and hauled him off without warning.
“Just a quick word.”
“No, at least wait until after the first dance—”
“I really need you now. Ah — Miss Rüschino, you don’t mind, do you? I’m just borrowing your brother for a moment.”
There was no graceful way for Kasha to refuse the slick little request.
She hadn’t wanted Daryl to leave. Not one bit.
At her debut, too, the moment he disappeared, she had found herself completely alone. And being alone would have been the lesser misfortune. She had been easy prey — the kind that didn’t know how to fight back, the kind made for hitting.
At the Duke of Tyrot’s ball, the situation had deteriorated the instant Daryl vanished.
Without a partner, Kasha had tried to leave the ballroom quickly — but she couldn’t. People kept shouldering into her, blocking her path, herding her steadily toward the center of the floor, the way hunters drive game into a corner.
All around her, paired couples — every one of them baring white teeth as they sneered at her.
And when the music started, they began to circle. Around and around, keeping her penned in the center, spinning and laughing as she was buffeted between them, stumbling, losing her footing, losing herself.
Malicious dark eyes stabbed at her from every direction.
“Even so — she’s a count’s daughter. Is it really all right to treat her like this?”
“Count’s daughter? Please. She’s a bastard. They say she’s not quite right in the head.”
“I heard she was unhinged.”
They were young, most of them — fresh to society, heady with their first tastes of wine and the nearness of the opposite sex, and grown bolder with each moment she failed to push back.
The older nobles who might have had the sense and authority to put a stop to it had retreated to the edges of the room, deep in conversation. Or they had seen what was happening and turned away.
Thud. Thud.
Jostled on all sides, Kasha fought not to fall. She emptied her mind to keep from crying.
It’s all right. The moment Daryl comes back, I’ll get out.
But escape was impossible. The couples spinning around her moved too fast, too close, too relentless. The swirl of colored skirts began to blur. By the end, she was nearly seeing things.
When the music finally stopped, she was soaked in cold sweat.
She had gathered her trembling arms around herself and begun pushing through the crowd — and then someone shoved her hard from behind.
“Ah—!”
She went down ungainly, one foot catching her own hem. Her skirts flipped up, baring her undergarments and the pale skin of her legs.
Snickers. Sounds of contempt.
She scrambled to collect herself, but her legs were shaking too badly to get up quickly.
“Excuse me.”
Then — a white hand appeared before her face, extended from someone wearing a pale sky-blue dress.
Kasha reached for it without a word.
“And where do you think you’re going, Miss?”
A voice, sweet and refined — and in the same instant, the white hand withdrew.
She looked up, startled.
Standing there, smiling at her, was the most dazzling creature in the room. Odette Tyrot, beautiful as a blade.
The shame of being found crouched on the floor before that radiant face was visceral. Kasha hauled herself upright on unsteady legs. Standing, she found that she and Odette were nearly the same height.
Similar height. Similar build. Similar age.
And yet the two of them, facing each other, were as different as day from night.
Kasha: pale skin, lusterless dark hair, a flat green dress the color of shadow, the hunched posture of a cornered mouse, fear written plainly across her face.
Odette: luminous, elastic skin, hair the color of sunlight, a breathtaking deep-pink dress blazing with ruffles and gems, and an attitude that said she was surveying everything from above.
Odette issued her command with the ease of someone born to give them.
“Just stay there.”
“…I’m sorry? But I can’t dance — I don’t have a part—”
“What is she even saying.”
Pft. Snicker, snicker. Laughter bloomed obediently around them, fawning on Odette’s dismissal.
Odette kept her beautiful smile in place as she issued her next order, sweet as poison.
“I was getting a little bored tonight, you know. You’ve been rather entertaining. Just stay there.”
“B— but—”
“Stay there.”
At those words, the blue eyes were no longer beautiful. They were cold. Vicious.
And in that moment, Kasha finally understood.
Ah. She’s the one behind all of this. Every person here is just a pawn doing what her mood requires.
The son of Baron Penileton who had spirited Daryl away the moment the dancing began. The people who had funneled her into the center of the floor. The rough hands that had shoved her down. All of them.
Odette looked back at Kasha’s frozen expression and smiled wider.
“Now then. Why has the music stopped? Keep playing.”
The music had been about to begin again — when Leon appeared.
Step. Step.
A man in a white uniform, walking toward them.
The crowd that Kasha had been unable to push through parted for him without effort as he moved into the center.
He stood a head taller than everyone around him. His gaze was fixed precisely on Kasha and Odette as he approached.
“Lord Leon.”
Odette’s face lit up the moment she saw him — visibly, unmistakably. She had clearly been waiting for him for some time. A glance at her current partner, and he released her hand and stepped aside without a single word.
That was how it worked with everyone at this ball. A look from Odette and they all moved, quick and obedient, like attendants who dared not displease their queen.
But Leon, meeting her eager expression with a glance of perfect neutrality, walked past her and came to a stop in front of Kasha.
“You have no partner?”
“…Pardon?”
Taking her confusion as confirmation, Leon extended a gloved hand toward her. The gesture was composed, courteous.
“Then would you dance with me?”
Silence fell over everyone — not just Kasha. Every person standing nearby.
He was aware of it. He didn’t flinch.
Those steady violet eyes looked at Kasha, and only Kasha.
Leon Milojonif Aranias.
His full name. The eldest son of Grand Duke Oscilote, younger brother of the Emperor. The youngest person ever to rise to the rank of Vice-Commander in the Order of Holy Knights. The man every young noblewoman — and no small number of young noblemen — looked upon with admiration and longing. Beautiful, faultless, radiant.
And he had just asked the outcast — the bastard, the madwoman — to dance.
In the exact moment that Odette had been making a spectacle of her isolation.
