005. The Prince of the Tower
“Please leave that dress behind. I will keep the measurements fixed so it can be worn at other gatherings.”
At that moment, a heavy clapping sound was heard.
The head of the household, Sorban Etrange, was smiling as he applauded.
“How splendid, Anastasia.”
Instead of replying, Anastasia looked straight up at her father.
She didn’t know what he would say, but he was a man like an old raccoon—always hiding a blade in his heart while coating his tongue with honey.
“There is, however, one less-than-splendid matter.”
Sorban’s smile was not directed toward his own happiness.
“Estevan Hothongel never accepts anything without proper compensation—even from royal blood. Isn’t that right, Sir Hothongel?”
Sir Hothongel brushed back his snow-white hair and nodded.
“Indeed, but…”
“Unfortunately, I did not come here today to purchase clothing. I only stopped by at the urging of my wife and children to look around.”
“That means…”
“I’m not carrying a purse of gold coins today, Sir Hothongel.”
He could not pay.
And this was not something Sir Hothongel could choose to waive on his own.
Because it was a tradition passed down since the previous king.
The former monarch, revered as a sage king, believed that failing to pay proper compensation was a near-sacrilegious insult to art.
The current king held the same belief.
The principle that Estevan Hothongel must be paid according to the value of his work was, in half measure, a decree of the royal family itself.
The king’s reverence for art representing the nation.
It was not something a mere knighted old man could casually dismiss.
“…My lady.”
Anastasia, however, was smiling.
Sorban was taken aback. The girl atop the tower should have nothing.
Not a single gold coin had been given to her.
So why was she smiling?
“From my emptiness.”
Anastasia softly began her incantation.
Magic is a poem and a song offered to all things in the universe. Those who wield such mysteries are naturally born with beautiful voices and a talent for song.
So much so that all eyes were drawn to her in admiration.
“Joining hands with the devil.”
Sorban himself realized he was acknowledging that profound beauty, and shook his head in shock.
That is a witch.
But Anastasia’s verse was not yet complete.
“With the need that longs for the reverse side.”
Then her right hand sliced through the air. The void cracked open like the narrow eyes of a beast, splitting wide, and Anastasia willingly reached her pale hand inside.
“That… that is the magic of Golden Osmanthus…”
Magic had vanished a generation ago.
The young ladies and gentlemen gathered here had never seen real magic before.
They had only witnessed strange and powerful relics imbued with inherited power within noble families.
Anastasia drew out a handful of gold sand from within.
They sparkled brilliantly under the dazzling light, and she placed them into the wrinkled hands of the old knight.
“Would this be enough, Sir Hothongel?”
The subspace had returned with her across time, and within Anastasia’s possession were precious materials prepared for grand magic, accumulated in anticipation of the hardships at Aquila Castle.
Among them were high-purity precious metals.
Sir Hothongel smiled.
At that moment, the future of House Etrange was visible in the eyes of the wise man.
Greed would fade, and strength would come.
“It is sufficient, my lady.”
Anastasia returned to the black carriage she had arrived in, escorted by Sir Hothongel and under the cold stares of her family.
They were not the only ones.
Everyone inside Estevan Hothongel’s shop was watching her.
Diana was fidgeting anxiously, while Enoch was half-enjoying the situation.
“Let’s go, Enoch.”
At the edge of Sorban’s tightly sealed lips was a twisted rage. Yet, strangely enough, he felt a sense of relief.
Back to the tower.
It was time to return to her cold, high tower.
“Did you close the door properly, my lady?”
Enoch asked casually, and Diana answered in his place.
“Yes. Please depart quickly… If I keep looking at those eyes, I feel like I’ll burn up.”
Enoch chuckled and pulled the reins. The black carriage lurched forward again.
But Anastasia felt at ease.
With this, she had declared herself.
To the world—she would stand tall.
At the top of the tower.
A small chamber belonging to Anastasia Etrange.
Someone sat on her bed.
Through the wooden window, the crimson glow of twilight filled the sky and reflected off his armor.
A distorted silver armor.
Black hair spilling out from beneath the helmet.
A long, elegant sword strapped to his back.
In his hand… a small cloak, far too small for him, stained with blood and pierced through.
The same cloak Anastasia had worn when she first met him.
The towering figure over two meters tall was hunched over. The room was small, too cramped for him to stand upright.
But as the sun set and moonlight poured through the bars…
The curse binding him began to melt like bread dissolving in boiling soup.
His grotesquely elongated, emaciated body returned to its original form. He understood his condition better than anyone.
The monster of Aquila Castle.
He sat calmly on the bed, waiting for the girl he could never forget—even after returning from the brink of death.
He had followed the scent deeply embedded in her cloak all the way here.
The wait was not long.
The sound of footsteps on the railing. Perhaps she had leapt up rather than using the stairs.
Creak.
The door opened.
“…Ah.”
The fragile body froze the moment she peeked inside. Her deep blue eyes trembled.
Anastasia recognized him instantly. Though slightly smaller now… she could never forget that distorted silver armor and the gleaming sword.
The day he had pierced her chest.
A thin, long scar still remained around her sternum.
“…Do you remember me?”
There was no way she wouldn’t.
Moreover, what he held in his hand was the cloak she had worn the first and last time they met.
It had a thin tear matching the scar on her chest.
“…Did you come to kill me?”
Anastasia realized he, too, had returned.
And the intruder in the tower understood that she had defied death and time to stand here as well.
“No.”
The blue glow within his helmet was gone. That was different from before.
He had no reason to lie.
So Anastasia silently hung the cloak on a wall hook.
“Then why have you come?”
He quietly rose from his seat. A small table, tea leaves, and a teapot—somehow prepared in the corner.
A brazier filled with kindling.
“Would you care for tea?”
The same words he had spoken when they first met.
“…Yes.”
“I’m glad.”
Even in full silver armor, his movements were not clumsy as he retrieved a flame from the fireplace and placed it into the brazier.
Anastasia pulled out a chair and sat. Soon, the sound of boiling water filled the room.
His tea-making was refined. It was evidence of noble blood.
“What did you do… in life?”
Unable to suppress her curiosity, Anastasia asked first.
“I was a prince.”
“…What?”
The tea steeped gently. He removed the helmet he had seemed never destined to take off and set it on the floor.
Deep ocean-blue eyes, the same as Anastasia’s.
“How much do you know about the Chantrier dynasty?”
As she reached for her tea, her hand froze.
The founders of magic. Those who learned from dragons—now extinct—and guided human civilization with their power.
They were the Chantriers.
“…About two hundred years ago, they performed forbidden grand magic, were cursed, and all members of the royal bloodline perished. The dynasty was replaced by the current Yanpotz royal family.”
“That’s what they teach, is it?”
His lips twisted bitterly.
“…So that’s not true.”
“I am Artorius Chantrier. The last Chantrier, and one of the survivors of that time. It was not us who nearly brought disaster upon the kingdom with forbidden magic.”
“Then who was it?”
Artorius pointed far out the window.
Beyond the forest surrounding the estate.
In the distance stood the towering spire of the royal castle.
“Yanpotz.”
Anastasia bit her lip.
“They attempted to usurp the throne. The dragons who had granted us magic warned that they had awakened the forbidden of forbidden powers—the Abyss.”
“The Abyss…”
A lost branch of magic. No—something that could barely even be called magic.
The source of all evil and darkness in the world.
“But they were merely human. Yanpotz failed to control the Abyss, and the rampaging power began slaughtering everyone within the court.”
“And you…?”
Artorius nodded.
“My father, the former king, had grown old. My mother… was not one who carried the Dragon Mark of the Chantriers. I was the only one.”
Anastasia set her teacup down. Most records of the Chantriers had already been lost to time.
The Dragon Mark? This was the first she had heard of it.
“I had to bear it.”
“…How?”
“I embraced the Abyss and hid within the long-abandoned Aquila Castle. The dark power within me corrupted the surrounding forest, turning beasts into monsters.”
Now she understood.
Why that forest had been so terrifying.
“But it was fine. Because of that, the kingdom’s people could not approach me, and I could harm no one.”
“They must have sent multiple expeditions…”
“Even if I had to live as a monster, I preferred survival.”
A monster?
Only now did Anastasia fully realize that the man before her had once been a monster.
Then how was he now like this?
“You’re wondering.”
“To be honest, yes. It’s like an archaeologist discovering a lost civilization.”
Those who wield magic were naturally hungry for knowledge. Anastasia was no exception.
“It’s a curse. By day, I take the form of a grotesque monster. By night, I return to my original form.”
She had no words.
“…You still haven’t answered my first question.”
Why had he come here?
“Would you change fate with me?”
“…What do you mean?”
Artorius stood. He brushed back his black hair and looked down at Anastasia with ocean-deep eyes.
Then he knelt before her.
“When I drove a blade into your chest, I felt it. That I wanted to stop. If only I had realized sooner… I would have gladly let you kill me. I regret how much suffering it must have caused you.”
“Y-you’re saying that now?”
“I wanted you to live, so I protected you from the lightning. And… for reasons I do not understand, I awoke ten years in the past at Aquila Castle, holding your keepsake.”
Anastasia quietly allowed him to take her hand and press a kiss to its back.
“…So that’s why I survived until my family arrived.”
Those deep ocean-blue eyes looked at her.
“The true nature of the curse lies with Yanpotz. Help me. I do not wish to die again as a disgraced monster. Is that not why the universe has brought us here across time?”
Chantrier. The mages who inherited the Dragon Mark. Anastasia closed her eyes briefly in thought.
“…I have a condition.”
“What is it?”
She was not doing this out of hatred for her family or for revenge. It was to never again bow her head and live in unjust submission.
For that, she needed power.
Power close to omnipotence.
“Become king.”
“…What?”
“Reclaim the throne.”
Anastasia pulled him to his feet. Her deep ocean-blue eyes burned like surging currents, like a beast hungry for opportunity and power.
“And I will sit by your side. That is my condition.”
Outside the window, beneath the moonlight, lightning struck.
