Chapter 15

She felt a slight tension at the soirée, her first in a long time. Luxurious music, jewels sparkling in the light, and the lingering scent of sweet perfume. —It hasn’t changed. But it isn’t something one gets used to, either. At the center of the venue, the area around the First Prince was exceptionally brilliant. Young ladies aiming for the seat of the Queen. A “magnificent army” armed with lineage, wealth, and beauty surrounded him so tightly there were no gaps. Their smiles were perfect, and their conversations were calculated to the last detail. On the other hand, in a slightly distant location. A different atmosphere flowed around the Second Prince. —Not as much as the First Prince. But that is exactly why. “With the Second Prince, the possibility of becoming the legal wife is high.” Young ladies who read the situation that way pushed their individuality and charm to the forefront, closing the distance quietly but surely. Practicality over flashiness. They were a beautiful yet formidable group that did not hide their ambition. And then, around the Princess. Young nobles were gathered there. Trying to be remembered, even if just by a glance or a single voice. Dressed to the nines, puffing out their chests, their voices occasionally cracking with nervousness. While gazing at all of this, she thought. (…The usual scenery.) Once the First Prince‘s partner is decided, the flow will move all at once. Assessing the power map, the remaining two will likely decide their partners shortly after.

Her name was Lydia Crawford. She was the only daughter of the medium-sized Count Crawford family. Due to continuous flood damage, her territory was exhausted. Levee repairs couldn’t keep up, harvests became unstable, and the numbers lined up in the ledgers grew thinner year by year. Even so, she could not choose to easily raise taxes or force the people of the territory to overexert themselves. —Because it is the territory I will inherit, I cannot fail. Born as the eldest daughter, there is no escape. She needs to take a husband. A noble with financial power, or perhaps someone knowledgeable in finance. She had told herself many times that this was the optimal solution to protect the territory. However—. Lydia involuntarily turned her gaze toward the figure of the Third Prince, who was matter-of-factly stating his opinions at the soirée. Without realizing it, Lydia was biting her lip. (…Management of the territory is painful.) Continuous flood damage. Exhausted finances. There is no leeway to spend any more budget on the farmers. (That is exactly why—) Isn’t there value in introducing an insurance system for farmers? It wasn’t just once or twice that she had thought so. A mechanism to disperse the pain. She had thought it was a realistic means to support a weak territory. However. The Third Prince‘s words fell quietly. “That is, originally, the role the feudal lord should bear.” —It was a shock like being struck on the head. Her breath caught for a moment. Deep in her chest, it stung. (…How can he say it so simply?) Shame came first. She felt as if he had seen through the fact that she was trying to escape into a “mechanism” somewhere. And then, delayed, anger welled up. (He can say that because he doesn’t know the reality.) How heavy the aftermath of flood damage is. How merciless the numbers in the ledger are. One cannot protect a territory with ideals alone. If he knew the reality—surely, he wouldn’t be able to say the same thing. …Or so it should be. Words of denial rose to her throat, yet they did not come out. Because there was neither lightness nor evasion in the Third Prince‘s voice. Without inciting emotion, without blaming anyone, he organized “what can be done” and “what cannot be done.” That attitude was the very reason she had stopped in front of the ledger so many times. Imagining the responsibility of the path she didn’t choose, her feet would stop. That was her weakness.

She made up her mind. —If it’s the Third Prince, he might consult with me about the territory. The moment she thought that, her body was already moving. Feigning a natural stroll, she began walking in the direction the Prince had left. She spotted the Third Prince standing in the courtyard. …Wait. There, she suddenly came to her senses. If I chase after him like this, wouldn’t it be too blatant? (…Calm down. I need a reason.) The soirée venue is stuffy with heat. There are plenty of reasons to go outside, but… —That’s it. Alcohol. I just drank a little too much and came to sober up. If it’s that, it will look natural to anyone. Lydia turned on her heel and returned to the venue. She picked up a glass from a nearby table. One glass. Two glasses. Her cheeks loosened slightly at the heat of the liquid passing down her throat. (…Okay. I should be moderately drunk.) Telling herself that, she headed quickly toward the previous location again. However—the figure of the Third Prince was not there. Only the night breeze was blowing, quieter than before. As if nothing had happened. Lydia stood rooted to the spot. She had no energy left to chase him, nor any leeway to search for an excuse. The emotion that should have been heating up deep in her chest had, before she knew it, completely burned out.

Overthinking delays the initial action. That hesitation can sometimes invite irreversible results—while biting down on those words. She was alone in the courtyard, looking at the empty darkness.