My sarcastic remark made the First Consort’s lips tremble with rage.
The virginity test involved dripping the fresh blood of an Amua bird onto a woman’s wrist—if it stained,
she was deemed a virgin; if it slid off, she wasn’t. It was neither scientific nor reliable, yet thirty years ago, it was a common practice for verifying chastity.
The one who abolished this custom was none other than the First Consort, now quivering with anger before me.
When she underwent the test before entering the palace, by chance or fate, Amua’s blood slid off her wrist.
This incident later fueled rumors that the First Prince wasn’t the emperor’s son. As soon as she gained power, she eradicated the practice. Though some still conducted it secretly, it was effectively obsolete.
“If you insist so strongly, I have no choice but to believe you.”
The First Consort said through gritted teeth.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I replied, bowing slightly with a faint smile.
Most of the nobles here, as heads of their houses, remembered that scandal.
The First Consort, clearly humiliated, glared at me, chewing her lip.
I turned from her and approached Evan. Sensing my intent,
he raised his clenched right fist to his heart—the salute of a knight sworn to a master.
The nobles watching him widened their eyes in disbelief.
I glanced back at them, my expression mocking.
My message was clear: he is my knight, so discard your filthy imaginings.
If you still see our relationship as improper, then your own knights’ oaths to you are equally so.
As intended, no one dared speak. I shifted my gaze to the nursemaid, her face still twisted in anger.
It was time to end our connection.
At my signal, Evan produced a book from his coat, similar to the one the nursemaid claimed was the marchioness’s diary.
An attendant swiftly retrieved it from him.
“This is my mother’s diary, kept by House Pison. Compare it to the one the nursemaid presented,” I said.
The emperor took the diary from the attendant. For a while, only the sound of turning pages filled the room.
“What do you make of it?” I asked.
“Both are written in the same hand,” he observed.
“Because both are my mother’s diaries,” I replied.
“Didn’t you just say it wasn’t her diary?” he asked sharply.
I nodded. “The one the nursemaid presented is indeed in my mother’s hand, but it’s not entirely her work.”
I’d long known the marchioness kept diaries since her maiden days.
The nursemaid had read them to me, blaming Father and Rant for her death, urging me to see her tragic end. My hatred for them back then may have stemmed from her near-brainwashing words.
The diary I’d seen was chaotic despite its neat handwriting—pages left blank, dates jumbled.
She wrote on whatever page she opened, sometimes recording events accurately, other times dreams or delusions.
But the nursemaid’s diary was different, its events neatly chronological, as if crafted to convey a specific narrative.
“As Your Majesty can see, both diaries share the same handwriting, but their styles are worlds apart,” I said.
The emperor nodded. Even at a glance, the diaries’ formats were starkly different.
“Someone, at the nursemaid’s behest, mimicked my mother’s handwriting to add content,” I explained.
Staging Evan’s injury was partly to trick the cautious First Consort into making this public,
but also to turn their cards to my advantage.
They thought they’d manipulated a betrayed Evan, who played the vengeful lover, secretly relaying their plans to me.
I paused, closing my eyes briefly before opening them. All eyes were on me.
“Hold a candle close to the written pages,” I said.
At the emperor’s gesture, an attendant brought a candle.
The emperor held the first diary to the flame—it singed slightly but showed no change. He looked at me, puzzled.
“Do the same with the other diary,” I said.
He held the nursemaid’s diary to the flame.
Unlike the first, the black ink turned red in places where the heat touched it.
“This is due to a new ink developed by the Pison Guild.
It appears faded black, like old writing, but turns red when heated,” I explained.
Gasps of astonishment rose around the room.
I glanced at Evan, who produced a small bottle of black liquid. At my nod, an attendant took it from him.
“This is the ink used in that diary,” I said.
At the emperor’s command, the attendant wrote with the ink and held it to the flame.
The faded black turned red instantly.
“That diary is proof of her lies,” I said, pointing at the nursemaid.
Her face contorted hideously as she screamed,
“Even if that diary is fake, it doesn’t change that you were born of the marchioness’s affair!”
I ignored her, turning to the First Consort.
She’d shown brief unease but now sat composed.
Whether the nursemaid’s claims were disproved didn’t matter—
her goal was achieved the moment my lineage was publicly questioned.
Unlike before, when rumors stayed in the shadows, no one dared challenge my status then,
lacking evidence and caught off-guard by the emperor’s swift move to hold my coming-of-age and engagement ceremonies.
Now, with my lineage openly debated, failure to prove it here would force my betrothal to Sys to end, branding me a bastard forever.
The First Consort would seize any chance to tarnish Sys.
She wouldn’t let this opportunity slip.
“I cannot hide the truth for the marchioness, who suffered guilt until her suicide,” the nursemaid cried.
My lips curled involuntarily.
I had no desire to disparage the dead, but I couldn’t help the smirk. I knew the marchioness better than anyone.
Like mother, like daughter—I’d been as obsessed with Sys as she was with Father.
She might have taken her life, as I’d believed, but not out of guilt.
She cursed me to her last breath, resenting that I wasn’t a son.
Her suicide, if true, stemmed from resentment, not guilt. I’d trusted the nursemaid’s claims back then—she had no reason to lie, and a madwoman’s actions defied logic. But now, doubts crept in.
Did she really kill herself?
The nursemaid was her sole companion then.
Only she knew why the marchioness fell from that window.
She’d served her faithfully for years—there seemed no reason for betrayal. Yet, as the saying goes, you can fathom ten fathoms of water but not one fathom of a person’s heart. There might have been secrets between them.
But what did it matter now? She was dead, and I’d resolved to eliminate the nursemaid.
I approached her slowly.
She flinched at my sudden movement.
Once, she was my only ally, her words my gospel. I’d trusted her unconditionally.
But now, her eyes burned with greed and deceit.
This was her true face, unseen by the naive girl I’d been.
Poor, foolish Bionne. The world you saw was a lie.
No self-pity or betrayal stung me—I’d suspected as much. But I wasn’t forgiving enough to let it slide.
“Ugh…” A pained groan escaped her as my heel pressed on her fingers, twitching to escape.
“You told me Mother killed herself because of Rant, cursing Father for siring a bastard,”
I said calmly, though someone swallowed hard at my tone. I kept my eyes on her.
“That mouth, which urged me to cast out Rant, now calls me a bastard.”
“Argh!” Her fingers squirmed under my foot, and I pressed harder. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
“I spared your life for raising me, yet you overstep.”
“You’re no different from me!” she spat, her bloodshot eyes glaring as she tried to rise. Guards swiftly pinned her down, forcing her to kneel.
“How dare you hold your head high, knowing whose blood runs in you?” she cursed, thrashing.
“Your father was some brothel wretch! Your mother rolled with who-knows-who—argh!”
A slicing sound cut her off as blood pooled on the floor. Father, expressionless, slowly withdrew his sword from her foot. The blood spurted like a fountain as he pulled it free. Behind him, a stunned guard stood, his sword stolen in an instant.
“Marquis Eliant, what is this?!” a noble shouted.
“Drawing a sword in His Majesty’s sacred hall!” another cried.
The nobles, belatedly registering Father’s actions, erupted in outrage.
Only imperial guards or those permitted by the emperor could carry swords here.
Their accusations were valid—such an act could be deemed treasonous.
But Father ignored them, glaring only at the nursemaid.
“Marquis Eliant—”
“Keep flapping that mouth, and I’ll take your head next,” he said coldly, his voice silencing the nobles, though it was unclear whether he addressed them or the nursemaid.
Before the meeting, Father promised not to intervene unless I wished it.
His reaction was instinctive, his body moving before his mind at her words.
His gaze flicked to me, a flicker of dismay beneath his stoic mask.
The nursemaid’s pained groans broke the tense silence.
“Urgh!” She clutched her bleeding foot, teeth gritted.
Her venomous eyes met Father’s. “Killing me won’t hide your filthy truth!”
Her face twisted in pain, but her gaze burned with malice, like a demon’s.
“Kill everyone who knows, and your base blood won’t change!” she declared, pointing at me with unwavering conviction, as if she truly believed her lies.
Her boldness stemmed from one fact: the empire lacked a definitive way to prove lineage.
As she said, killing her wouldn’t resolve the public doubt about my bloodline.
Charging her with noble defamation could seem like a cover-up.
The First Consort wouldn’t let such an advantage slip—she’d wield it as a weapon against me.
I grabbed Father’s arm as he moved toward her.
Her death could wait until this was settled. I’d never intended to let her live once I learned of her involvement.
Her words held no sway over me. The priority was proving my lineage.
As Father relaxed his arm, the First Consort spoke.
“This is quite a predicament.”
Her face showed no trace of concern.
“If the marchioness were alive, it might be different, but without a way to prove your lineage, this is troublesome indeed.”
“Do you truly believe that, Your Highness?” I asked.
“It’s a pressing matter for you, but the world doesn’t bend to one’s will so easily,”
she said, her smirk radiating confidence that I couldn’t prove it.
The same confidence sparked a similar smirk on my lips.
“Thirty-five years ago, a similar incident occurred. I wasn’t born then, but those here surely recall it.”
