MFWSP 72

Chapter 72

A smile crept onto Grace’s lips as she watched the scene unfold.

What she had said about the Penton family had been impulsive, but seeing how quickly the rumor spread, she felt reassured that her judgment had been correct.

Yes, she couldn’t possibly be wrong.

The way she could manipulate an enemy’s reputation with something as trivial as a rumor made her feel quite exceptional.

And thanks to Balthazar, the rumor grew even larger. She hadn’t even needed to add anything more to it herself.

“Well, no. Didn’t the young lady say they’d never be seen in the capital again?”

“Ah, that’s right.”

Hearing Louis and Damon giggling and chatting made her feel at ease.

Iris, don’t blame me.

You’re just a side character—and you just happened to catch my attention. A side character who dared to rub me the wrong way.

It’s all your fault.

“So she’ll come alone, act all high and mighty, and then leave, huh?”

“Whatever the case, her true nature is—”

Click—

Their idle chatter was interrupted by a heavy sound coming from the stairs.

Reflexively, everyone turned toward the source of the sound—and saw the doors to the banquet hall slowly opening.

“Looks like someone’s arriving late.”

Louis craned his neck to get a better view.

Creeeaak—

The velvet-covered doors opened slowly, and a servant’s voice rang out powerfully across the hall.

“Entering now—the 28th Duke of Apellemion, Lady Iris Apellemion!”

As people lifted their heads at the announcement, their eyes slowly widened.

Iris appeared at the top of the stairs, not looking the slightest bit anxious.

Her cold, unwavering gaze held a faint smile, and her red-and-black dress radiated a strange beauty.

She seemed to be enjoying the new nicknames she’d been given—“witch,” “villainess,” and so on.

“Ha…”

Everyone stared as if mesmerized, and Louis let out a breathless sigh of admiration.

“What’s with that expression?”

Céline asked sharply, and Louis quickly slapped his cheeks and shook his head.

“N-No, I was just thinking, so that’s what a witch looks like…”

“Y-Yeah. I was just looking, that’s all.”

One by one, others began averting their gazes, as if feeling guilty. Some even glanced nervously at Grace.

“Nothing new here. Judging by her expression, looks like she’s going to pretend none of it ever happened.”

Damon sneered.

“Of course she would…”

“And with Lady Apellemion is…”

Just as they were about to turn away from Iris, the servant raised his voice again.

“Miss Demaira Penton is also entering!”

“What?”

“Who did he say?”

“No way…”

Everyone’s eyes widened in shock as they turned back toward the staircase.

A familiar silhouette appeared behind Iris.

Thick brown hair, upturned eyebrows, golden-brown eyes. A subtle yet elegant purple dress that enhanced her seemingly plain appearance.

“Demaira…?”

It was unmistakably Demaira Penton.

She was a little more beautiful than before, a little more elegant, and her complexion was visibly healthier. She descended the stairs slowly, not even remotely resembling the broken image some had expected.

All eyes shifted to her.

Anthony Morin froze like a stone statue, unable even to blink.

“W-What the… she’s alive?”

“She doesn’t look tortured. No chain marks, nothing…”

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she did something she’d never done before.

She met Iris Apellemion’s eyes and gave a small smile.

“She looks perfectly fine… Is she really back in society?”

“R-Right, but Lady Serbé said she’d never set foot in the capital again…”

“Didn’t His Highness Balthazar say he was sure of it too?”

Bit by bit, everyone began looking at Grace.

She, however, stood pale and frozen, staring at Iris.

What on earth did she do?

A storm of confusion swirled through her head.

She had only started the rumor about the Penton family’s imprisonment yesterday.

Yet here was Demaira, previously vanished without a trace, now proudly revealing herself less than 24 hours later.

Where had she been hidden? Why hide her at all? How did they respond so quickly?

No, the real question wasn’t that.

The real problem was that the original storyline had changed drastically.

The flow, completely independent of Grace’s will, filled her with deep unease.

Until now, she’d felt like a god among people. But ever since Iris became her opponent, she felt like the one being toyed with.

Her gaze met Iris’s as Iris looked up casually.

A faint, cold smile spread across Iris’s face.

Grace shivered. The way Iris looked at her—as if she knew everything—was terrifying.

Just as she instinctively began to avert her eyes, a familiar face appeared before her.

“This isn’t what we discussed.”

His violet-red eyes blazed with fury.

“Y-Your Highness Balthazar…”

“Didn’t you say you saw it yourself? Swore on your role as Serbé’s prophet?”

Balthazar’s eyes burned with barely restrained madness.

Grace swallowed hard.

He was truly furious. The novel had described him as someone who would explode the moment his pride was wounded—and it was true.

“You made me look like a liar in front of hundreds. You’ve committed a grave crime against the Imperial Family.”

“I-I only shared what I saw in my dream. I don’t know anything else—”

“Silence, unless you want your mouth torn open.”

Grace’s face turned pale.

“If you’ve done wrong, you should apologize. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Balthazar asked with a twisted, cruel smile.

“No other punishment, just an apology… His Highness is being merciful.”

Damon, who had just been praising Grace and mocking Iris earlier, now slithered to Balthazar’s side and backed him up.

“Apologize, Lady Grace.”

“Wh-What?”

“Kneel and bow your head.”

Balthazar commanded coldly. Grace broke out in goosebumps.

“…No.”

But she refused firmly.

Even in the face of fear, she knew one thing.

The nobility of the social world were always harsher to the weak.

If she knelt now, the reverence for Serbé’s prophet would never be restored.

More than anything—she would rather die than apologize.

Here, I was a god. I had to be.

I was meant to rule over them, not bow to the likes of Balthazar.

“Lady Grace, should I make you kneel by force? I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Balthazar threatened.

The atmosphere had turned icy.

Everyone watched the two in silence, whispering only in hushed tones.

Balthazar’s reason for humiliating Grace publicly was obvious.

He didn’t want to take the fall for spreading baseless rumors about Iris. So he pinned the blame on her.

It was also a form of vicious revenge.

“No, maybe I should just draw my sword and cut your tongue out—so you’ll never deceive people again.”

“……!”

Grace, trembling with a pale face, suddenly snapped her head up.

Like lightning, an idea struck her—an escape route.

“Your Highness?”

“At fourteen, didn’t you tear the mouths of three old servants just because they talked back? Then framed a page boy?”

She whispered, just loud enough for only Balthazar to hear.

“……What?”

As she expected, Balthazar’s face went ashen.

“At sixteen, bored during a hunting trip, you fired arrows at a gamekeeper’s family and called it ‘human hunting.’ At seventeen, you broke the arms and legs of knights who bested you in training.”

“W-What are you!?”

Balthazar trembled in shock.

What she had just listed were things only his closest attendants knew.

No—he had never told anyone about tearing the servants’ mouths. And those servants were long dead.

How could a girl raised in far-off Serbé know all this?

“I know even more. What you said and did to Lady Tarven. Who the real thief was that stole the emperor’s prized horse last year.”

“I-I didn’t do that!”

Balthazar protested desperately, glaring at Grace.

But Grace stared right back, eyes burning with certainty.

They locked eyes for a long moment, with expressions full of horror and disgust.

In the end, it was Balthazar who backed down.

“Hmph. I don’t see the point in continuing this conversation.”

He spat on the floor in disgust.

Then he pointed at Grace for all to see.

“Regardless of what anyone says, this woman deceived me—and everyone here.”

“……”

Grace clenched her jaw, unable to deny it.

“From now on, I will refer to her as the con artist of Serbé. The Imperial Clown.”

He declared coldly.

It was a petty, desperate act of revenge—but his gaze held relentless cruelty.

“……”

Grace gritted her teeth and endured his mockery.

In her mind, she imagined dozens of ways to repay this humiliation.

And for some reason she couldn’t quite explain—the first name that came to mind for revenge wasn’t Balthazar.

It was Iris.