Chapter 12
The young lady’s remark drew everyone’s gaze toward Lysa, except for a few like Lady Katherina who were already aware of her temperament.
“Y-Yes, indeed. Lady Neyr, could you please tell us what you think of the current situation?”
Voices agreeing softly, like chirping birds, echoed around the table. Katherina’s lips curled into a sly smirk.
“The current situation,” “your insight”… how laughable.
They were all just dying to criticize Ophelia, who had suddenly become close to the Crown Prince—but they didn’t want to take responsibility for it. They wanted someone else to say it first, so they could follow safely under the guise of approval.
Katherina let out a small, sarcastic laugh, about to speak—but then Lysa’s low, chilling voice resonated through the air.
“Other than the fact that His Highness the Crown Prince has taken a new aide, is there any other situation?”
Clack.
The quiet, dull sound of her teacup being set down echoed unusually clearly. Her voice had sunk so low and cold that it sent a shiver through everyone listening.
Lysa lifted the refilled teacup with half-lowered eyes.
“I asked—are there any other situations?”
“N-no! But the aide serving at His Highness’s side was appointed without any verification, so—”
“Since His Highness is such an important person, whoever guards his side must be…”
As anxious, jealous, and trembling words burst out from here and there, Lysa silently drained her teacup again.
Her throat burned, perhaps because she had tested the poison she’d given her mother by taking a dose herself.
She had taken the antidote, of course—but side effects couldn’t be completely avoided.
When she moistened her dry lips and finally spoke, the restless murmur of voices died down.
“Of course. His Highness the Crown Prince is…”
Richard.
What had it been like when she first met him?
She had regressed so many times that she could barely remember when that even was anymore.
Searching through her eroded memories, Lysa slowly opened her eyes.
“He’s more important than anyone.”
Almost all her memories of him—their first meeting, everything afterward—had become nothing but dust. Yet one thing remained true:
Richard was someone Lysa could never do without.
His existence wasn’t about love or infatuation.
He was the key—the condition that allowed her to regress.
“Y-yes, of course, that’s right!”
Her calm, detached tone caused brief confusion among the ladies, but they soon began chattering again.
Their colorful dresses and twittering voices faded from Lysa’s view.
How long had it been since she’d obtained the means to regress?
Was it coincidence?
No—destiny.
Under her skirt, she tightly gripped a small book.
The hard, dry texture against her palm soothed the burning storm inside her just a little.
This was her chance—no, her fate.
She didn’t know what the book truly was, but one thing was certain: it allowed her to regress.
Though the condition was extremely strict, Lysa accepted it willingly.
The condition for regression was simple—
The Crown Prince’s death.
She didn’t understand how it worked, nor how the book came into her possession. But none of that mattered.
“Useless thing. You ruined everything with your greed.”
If only she could take back the life that had been stolen from her with those words from her mother.
Born into House Neyr, she had been raised solely for one purpose—to overthrow the royal family.
She was greedy, yes—but wasn’t ambition necessary for a ruler?
Yet her mother spat her out like filth.
Because Lysa’s ambition had gone “beyond her station” and endangered the family.
Thus everything she had was stripped away, and she was stabbed to death dozens of times by those loyal to her mother.
Crunch.
The sound of her teeth grinding escaped her lips, making the other young ladies shrink back in fear.
But Lysa wasn’t seeing the present anymore.
Her mind wandered endlessly through the past before regression.
Even after countless regressions, she could never erase the memory of her mother sentencing her to death.
Her hatred boiled to the point of madness—but Lysa planned carefully.
Her greed remained, but she’d learned discernment through her many failures.
She understood now: nothing she had ever owned was truly hers—it had all been borrowed from her mother.
So, when she regressed, she decided—
To take everything from her mother.
The Neyr estate, her title, her ambition for rebellion—all of it.
That’s why Richard was indispensable.
Her regressions only occurred when he died—never otherwise.
He was both her means and her end: his death triggered her regression, and his head would be the final key to the royal family’s downfall.
Lysa’s expression darkened as she imagined Richard and her mother’s lifeless bodies. But then she shook her head.
It was too soon.
Just yesterday, she had watched her mother collapse after drinking poisoned tea, coldly observing without a shred of emotion.
If she failed, she could always regress again—but there were limits.
Just as she didn’t understand how regression worked, she didn’t know what would make it stop.
She could choose when to begin—but not how it would end.
Still, it didn’t matter.
Before each regression ended, she usually achieved most of what she wanted anyway.
And if a plan failed by the time regression ended, it was better to abandon it altogether.
If her mother survived again this time, she’d have to scrap the plan.
After all, the Marchioness had spent decades building resistance to poisons.
“It’s just a headache. Leave me.”
“I won’t die so easily. Don’t get your hopes up.”
That was why her mother always brushed off Lysa’s attempts at poisoning her tea or food.
But even birds in the sky fell eventually.
This time, the poison worked—her mother had collapsed, unconscious.
“Then die already.”
Lysa muttered under her breath.
Thankfully—or perhaps unfortunately—no one heard her.
Still, she knew her mother wouldn’t die easily.
Ever since the day she’d been executed and regressed, Lysa had always prepared for the worst.
Even this time, just in case, she had already set assassins and traps ready to kill the Crown Prince to trigger another regression.
But hopefully, this time, she wouldn’t need them.
“My lady.”
A familiar voice came from behind her. Lysa’s expression froze over instantly.
“The Marchioness has awakened.”
She had suspected as much since her mother’s servant approached—but hearing it aloud filled her with disgust.
Her hand clenched so tightly around the book that her knuckles turned white.
She whispered to the servant:
“It’s time to regress.”
“Wh—what, my lady?”
Ignoring his confusion, Lysa turned and walked away without another word.
Meanwhile, while the noble ladies gossiped noisily in the tent about Ophelia—
The subject of their chatter, Ophelia herself, was working.
“This bundle contains beans infused with holy power and several emergency herbs. In a crisis, do not hesitate to use them—they may save your precious life…”
While the attendants repeated their mechanical explanations, a shadow fell across Ophelia’s face.
“Lady Aide.”
When she looked up, a knight greeted her with a bright smile, teeth gleaming.
“Yes?”
“It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
It was random, but since the sky was perfectly clear and the wind pleasant, Ophelia gave a short, polite answer.
“And…”
The knight continued speaking, but Ophelia replied only with curt “yes” or “no” responses, maintaining the bare minimum of courtesy.
“Then, would you wish me good luck?”
As he finally turned to leave, Ophelia unconsciously spoke her mind:
“Safe return!”
It wasn’t quite the answer he expected, but the knight seemed satisfied enough.
Once he left, Ophelia had to keep dealing with people who stopped in front of her—each one staring at her with curious eyes as they received their bundles.
“I can’t believe the Crown Prince’s new aide was chosen so quietly.”
“Bolshaik, was it? I’ve read that name in history books, but not in any recent records.”
“She was engaged once, but after becoming the aide, all her matches were canceled…”
At that, everyone’s eyes glimmered.
Yes—their goal was clear: to use Ophelia as a bridge to the Crown Prince.
If they could win favor with the aide who was always by his side…!
“Not as strict as Lady Phillite, perhaps, but she leaves no room for approach.”
“Maybe she’s just not into young ladies’ chatter.”
“Then maybe she prefers—”
But the person in question, Ophelia, showed not the slightest bit of interest in any of them.
She only grew more anxious, forced to deal with each visitor in turn.
Such idle conversations were a complete waste of her precious time.
She still needed to speak with Richard—before the hunting competition began—to tell him to kill any assassins that appeared.
But why wasn’t this endless work wrapping up?
“Good afternoon, Lady Aide. Today—”
“Yes, yes.”
Even as more knights and young nobles came to greet her, every attempt at conversation hit the solid wall of her short replies.
After some time, the distribution finally ended.
And Ophelia—at last—was free.
