MFWSP 68

Chapter 68

“Watch your mouth, Young Lord Biezé.”

Grace snapped coldly.

“You don’t even know how prophecy works.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean to pick a fight.”

The man who had introduced himself as Andar, second son of the Viscount Biezé family, raised both hands in the air and offered a lazy smile.

“I was just curious, that’s all.”

Grace didn’t like his smile.

Perhaps it was because he came from a family of moneylenders, but even as he pretended to be friendly, she could see him calculating everything in his head.

And whether intentional or not, he kept teasing Grace.

Even earlier, while discussing the prophecy of the sea wolf, when she described its appearance incorrectly, he had gone out of his way to point it out and embarrass her.

Grace preferred people like Louis Dican—those who nodded along to her words without question.

“Pay him no mind, Lady.”

As if reading her thoughts, Louis sat beside her and said,

“He’s just like my sister—knows nothing but money. He wouldn’t understand the nobility of a prophet, even if you explained it.”

“That’s right. You already saved the Serbé territory, and now you’re going to save the Empire, aren’t you?”

Céline Wimer, daughter of Baron Wimer, said as she sat across from Grace.

“He doesn’t know what you see, my lady. That guy wouldn’t understand anyway.”

“Hmm, true. I’m sure you know something I don’t.”

Andar nodded.

“Of course I do,” Grace replied.

“I understand the Empire’s past, present, and future better than anyone. Not that I expect you to understand.”

Just as Grace was debating whether to forgive Andar or have someone take care of him after the banquet, he added irritatingly,

“Could I ask just one more thing?”

“What is it?”

“The Empire’s future. Even a small detail. My sister said she didn’t really believe your prophecy…”

Andar went on as if genuinely curious.

“But I kind of believed it might be true, so I ended up betting money with her… and thanks to what you just said about the First Prince, I might lose.”

“How unpleasant. Gambling on someone’s prophecy? People might think you’re street merchants.”

“Haha, well, the Biezé and Adelon families both originated from merchants.”

Grace tried to rebuke him, but Andar simply laughed it off, unfazed.

“How vulgar.”

Anthony Morin, who had been observing, scoffed.

Grace instinctively straightened her posture.

Anthony, the most handsome among the gathered men, was someone Grace had marked in her mind. This was the first time he had spoken.

“Do you have nothing to talk about besides money?”

“Have you forgotten you borrowed money from this vulgar man? The cost of the mero flower for taming a Pegasus—you still haven’t paid me back.”

“You bastard…!”

Anthony twisted his face in irritation toward the grinning Andar.

“Oh, by any chance, can you tell me when I’ll get that money back? That would make a great prophecy.”

“Now you’ve crossed the line!”

Louis barked, acting all manly toward Andar.

“Exactly! That’s no way to speak to the person who predicted the Empire’s curse…”

Céline chimed in.

“Then what would be worthy to predict? Do we have to wait until the curse is lifted? We might not even live to see it. Isn’t that true for the rest of you as well?”

Andar muttered as though truly disappointed.

“Ugh… what a nuisance.”

Louis sighed and turned to Grace.

“At this point, why not just show them something? Anything?”

“Huh?”

Grace blinked, surprised. Louis smiled as he tried to persuade her.

“You know the Empire’s past, present, and future. Just tell him one thing he doesn’t know—he’ll shut up.”

“That’s right. He’s getting more annoying by the minute. Just tell us something.”

Céline also glared at Andar.

“W-Well…”

Grace hesitated.

She saw the eager gleam in the eyes of nearly ten people around her.

She swallowed dryly.

She knew, deep down, that even if people smiled and praised her, it didn’t mean they truly believed her prophecies.

People’s patience was short. Some had already begun to doubt her after hearing what Iris and Carciel said earlier.

If she wanted to win their hearts, Grace had to show them something—now.

“A prophecy…”

Grace began to think fast.

The events in the Serbé territory had already been used. And in the original storyline, there was supposed to still be a war going on.

Should she use information she learned after transmigrating?

The problem was, there wasn’t much of that. All she really knew post-transmigration was that Iris had driven out the Fenton family and something about the war.

Wait… what happened to the Fentons after they were expelled?

She recalled the maid’s words—that they had disappeared without a trace, losing both title and land, with nowhere to go.

Grace quickly dug into her memory.

She vaguely remembered the original story mentioning their end: driven from the capital by war and curse, the Fentons were ambushed by bandits and killed while trying to flee to another country.

So this was still similar to the original plot?

Dead or not, once they were cut off from Apellemion, it was like they no longer existed in this world.

Even if they were alive, there was no chance they’d reconnect with Iris or return to the capital.

Yes— the main framework of the story hadn’t changed. The only one who could change it was Grace.

Even Iris’s changes, she had just said herself, were all due to Grace’s transmigration.

Grace felt her confidence return.

“Fine. I’ll reveal one thing—something no one else could know.”

“Oh? What is it?”

The crowd leaned in toward Grace.

Straightening her back, she reminded herself—she was special.

And Iris, who dared to challenge someone special, would have to pay the price.

“Has anyone heard from the Fenton family after they were expelled from the Apellemion duchy?”

“The Fentons…? Didn’t they return to their hometown? Or maybe ended up on the streets…?”

Louis asked with wide eyes. Grace shook her head slowly.

“That’s not what I saw. In my dream, I saw chains.”

“C-Chains?”

“They couldn’t escape from Apellemion… Perhaps they’re still trapped there… Maybe even tortured.”

Of all the possibilities of what might’ve happened to the Fentons, Grace chose the one that would tarnish Iris’s name.

“What?!”

Everyone listening opened their eyes wide.

“I doubt we’ll ever see them again. They’ll never show their faces in high society again.”

Grace tilted her head 45 degrees and stared into the air as she spoke solemnly.

She had done this several times in the Serbé territory and knew exactly how to make her words carry weight.

“T-Then, the Duke of Apellemion…?”

“……”

Grace responded with silence—her affirmation.

“Wait, weren’t they relatives? Weren’t they at least nominally engaged to Bartholt?”

“Even so, torturing one of your father’s vassals… that’s…”

“No wonder we haven’t heard anything about the Fentons.”

“I thought there might be bad blood, but still… nobles have dignity.”

The atmosphere shifted in an instant.

Moments ago, they had looked at Grace with suspicion. Now, they were shaking their heads in disapproval—at Iris.

Even Anthony, usually calm, and Andar had joined the gossip with blank expressions.

“…Is that true?”

Just as Grace was savoring her triumphant smile, a man’s voice came from behind her.

“Who…?”

She turned her head—and her eyes widened.

The man resembled Carciel, but was even more handsome, with a dangerously intense aura as he looked down at her.

Beside him stood a young noble who had earlier introduced himself as Gideon, trailing like an attendant.

“The third sun of the Empire, His Highness the Second Prince!”

A voice rang out from behind Grace, confirming the man’s identity.

But the prince ignored the greetings and looked at her.

“Iris Apellemion tortured her own kin?”

A dangerous smile played on his lips.