Chapter:40
You Seem Hurt, But Not Quite—Like Someone Who Might Be Hurt
“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
Yvette answered hastily, her bloodshot eyes wide with urgency.
“Nothing happened. Truly, nothing. I simply need to undress Her Majesty the Empress.”
“No, I’ll have my measurements taken another time. Everyone, leave.”
“You mustn’t, Your Majesty! We must take your measurements!”
Yvette lunged forward, clutching at the outer layer of the Empress’s gown.
Riiip—
The fabric tore loudly along the shoulder seam.
“Lady Shurayden!”
“Just stay still, Your Majesty!”
RIIIP—
The tear extended, louder this time, as more of the dress came apart.
“Stop this at once! What are you doing?!”
“I need to undress you!”
It was impossible to restrain her with strength alone. Even after pulling her hands away, Yvette clung desperately to the torn fabric like it was a lifeline.
“Sir Sigres!” Rasilia called toward the drawing room doors. “Come in and remove these people at once!”
What happened next was even stranger.
At the sound of her voice, Sir Serven entered the room. But before he could approach, the imperial tailor stepped in front of him and spoke as if possessed.
“Her Majesty must have her measurements taken. We can’t make the dress without them.”
“Ah… is that… so?” Serven murmured, lowering his arms.
“Sir Sigres?” Rasilia’s voice was uncertain now.
“She must, Your Majesty. Please, stay still.”
“What are you saying?”
Something was terribly wrong. It was too wrong.
Yvette approached again, forcibly pulling down the Empress’s gown.
“See? Even Sir Sigres agrees. All you need to do is remain still, Your Majesty. I’ll take care of the rest.”
They all looked hypnotized—entranced. That was the only word that fit.
Rasilia yanked the torn fabric back and looked Yvette square in the eyes.
“Lady Shurayden—no, Yvette.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
Though her eyes were bloodshot, her gaze was unflinching—calm in the most unnatural way.
And Rasilia understood in that moment.
Yvette had no intention of harming her. Something beyond comprehension was happening. Something unnatural.
She took a deep breath. She had to bring Yvette back to her senses.
“I find your actions deeply disturbing. Forcing me to undress in front of others, against my will—this is unforgivable.”
“But… but we have to take the measurements. You must undress for that.”
“And you’ll continue to make me uncomfortable like this? Is that what you want?”
“Wha…? No, I just… I just want Her Majesty to wear something beautiful…”
“If that’s the reason you ignore my wishes, then I have no need of your service. You need not attend me any longer.”
Yvette’s pupils quivered.
Rasilia then noticed something strange—Yvette’s eyes, red with irritation one moment, seemed to clear, then redden again. Almost like… it wasn’t true redness. Not real bloodshot eyes. Something else.
“I just… I wanted to make you a dress, Your Majesty… that’s why I…”
“Take your hands off me.”
“I… I can’t. I—No! Please don’t say that! If you do, I—huh?”
Suddenly, Yvette’s expression twisted in confusion. She shook her head violently.
“Why… why am I…? What am I doing? Your Majesty’s dress… Gasp, I tore it! I did this…!”
She had finally realized what she’d done—and was horrified.
It was clear now. None of this had been normal.
Which meant the tailor… and Serven… were not in their right minds either.
“Stand up. Stay behind me.”
Rasilia stepped in front of Yvette, shielding her while keeping a watchful eye on the others. Yvette still looked disoriented, unable to accept what had just happened.
“Why did I…?”
“I think that tailor is the cause.”
Thump.
Before she could finish, Serven stepped forward.
His eyes, too, were bloodshot—just like Yvette’s.
“Your Majesty, I don’t understand your resistance. We must take your measurements to create your garments.”
Clink.
As he spoke, Serven’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword.
Rasilia reached behind her, shielding Yvette, and locked eyes with him.
“So? Are you telling me you’re going to draw your sword just to undress me?”
“It’s necessary. For the measurements.”
“Ridiculous. Why do we need measurements again?”
“To make your clothes, of course…”
“Right. And must those clothes be made by violating my dignity?”
“…Huh?”
Serven tilted his head, confusion dawning.
“If it displeases you, I suppose we could—no, no! We must measure. Without measurements, the clothes cannot be made.”
“Focus, Sir Sigres. Are you really going to threaten me with a sword… to make my clothes?”
“Well… of course not, that would be… Huh?”
“WE MUST TAKE THE MEASUREMENTS!” the tailor suddenly screamed.
And just like Yvette before, Serven’s eyes grew vividly red once more.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Shing!
He unsheathed his blade.
“If you continue to resist, I shall undress you myself. Don’t worry—I won’t so much as scratch a single hair.”
Swish—
The blade glided lightly over the dress fabric.
“No! Stop!” Yvette leapt in front of him, attempting to block the sword with her bare hand.
“Yvette, no!” Rasilia pulled her back.
Slice!
Blood sprayed through the air.
“Ah…”
Yvette collapsed, her arm slashed from palm to forearm.
Oblivious to what he’d done, Serven held his bloodied sword toward Rasilia.
“I will now undress you, Your Majesty—”
“Enough! I told you to stop!”
Rasilia’s voice, though not loud, was deep and resonant. It echoed strangely, even in her own ears.
“Ah…”
Clatter.
The sword slipped from Serven’s grasp.
Knock knock.
Just then, the chief chamberlain knocked on the door.
“Your Majesty, His Imperial Majesty has finished his meal. May I open the door?”
There was no time to explain.
“Open it.”
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
Thud!
As the double doors opened—
—the tailor suddenly leapt toward the chamberlain to block him.
“Close the doors! Her Majesty must be undressed for measurements!”
“Hmm? Ah, if that’s the case…”
The chamberlain started to close the door again—
Whoosh!
At that moment, Lescal’s hand shot out, grabbing the tailor by the back of his neck.
“Y-Your Majesty! Why are you—?!”
Everyone froze as Lescal lifted the tailor off the ground and hurled him to the floor.
“Seize him. I won’t allow him to die by my hand.”
“Y-Yes, Your Majesty?!”
Lescal stepped to Rasilia’s side, surveying the scene—Serven on the ground, Yvette bleeding, the sword lying uselessly on the floor.
“You alright?”
“I’m fine. Just torn fabric. But…”
Her carefully held composure crumbled as Lescal took her hand. She leaned against his shoulder, finally letting herself falter.
His hand trembled as it stroked her back—and she wasn’t imagining it.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I am. No injuries. It’s just… oh, Lady Shurayden. She’s hurt.”
Yvette clutched her bleeding arm, shaking her head.
“I’m fine. It’s only a little scratch. I’ve had worse before.”
“That’s no excuse. You need treatment.”
But as Rasilia turned to her, Lescal gently turned her face back toward him.
“You.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t need treatment?”
“I… I wasn’t hurt.”
“You were.”
“No, I—”
“You were. Even if I can’t see it.”
With that, Lescal scooped her into his arms.
“Y-Your Majesty, you don’t have to—!”
“You’re shaking. It means you’re hurt.”
“No, I was just startled—”
“Same thing. Still means you’re hurt.”
Cradling her, Lescal opened the door to her bedchamber. As he passed Serven, he gave a short order.
“Bring Liyan.”
He was finished dealing with Serven.
“…Yes, Your Majesty,” Serven whispered, looking as if he might collapse at any moment.
Cleaning up this mess would now fall to Liyan.
“The tailor’s condition is… not good, Your Majesty,” Liyan said, his voice taut with restraint.
“Was that my doing?”
“No, not at all. He collapsed foaming at the mouth with purple froth. It resembled a backlash from sorcery, but Dekan says there’s no trace of magic. He’s barely breathing. Honestly, I doubt he’ll function as a normal person ever again.”
“Then it wasn’t sorcery?”
“It resembled it, but… no. We’ve concluded it’s something like sorcery, but not actual magic.”
Lescal responded not with words but with a fierce pulse at his temple.
Someone had used the imperial tailor to lay hands on the Empress.
He didn’t know exactly why. Only that the attempt had involved forcibly stripping her—under the absurd excuse of “taking measurements.”
“Who did he come in contact with before arriving?”
“Dekan is investigating. We’ll report the moment we know.”
“Tell him to hurry. I’m not patient.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. Dekan understands.”
“Have you selected the Empress’s personal guards?”
“We’ve narrowed the list. Would you like to review it?”
“Tonight.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Lescal had stationed himself in the Empress’s bedchamber ever since the incident. He wasn’t planning to leave anytime soon.
Meanwhile, Liyan’s thoughts were tangled—calculating what to reveal to the Empress and what to hide.
“What will happen to Sir Sigres?”
The soft question came from Rasilia, who had been silently lying on the bed all this time.
“…I thought you were asleep,” Lescal said, turning to her.
She had been pretending to sleep. Being near the Emperor was uncomfortable—and she was supposed to still be recovering from her cold.
Still, she couldn’t ignore what was happening.
“I woke up. Will Sir Sigres be punished?”
“Yes.”
Lescal gave a single nod.
Yet that small motion felt terribly heavy.
“He raised his blade to you. You will not encounter him within the palace again.”
Rasilia looked at Liyan. He turned away to hide his grim expression.
Serven had foolishly fallen under the influence of that sorcery-not-sorcery. The consequences were severe. If nothing else, being spared execution was Lescal’s final mercy. For siblings, the guilt was inevitable.
“I don’t want Sir Sigres to be punished,” Rasilia said calmly.
Liyan’s head whipped around in disbelief.
“Your Majesty… what did you just say?”
