Chapter 2
Common Wisdom and Uncommon Dangers
The advice itself was nothing more than a common superstition, but drinking a hundred bottles of dew wasn’t going to magically give me powers. Deep down, I already knew the answer.
Yet for a desperate ten-year-old, doing nothing was unbearable.
I couldn’t involve the servants—they would’ve ridiculed me for believing such nonsense. Most likely, they wouldn’t have listened anyway. If anyone reported to my father that “the princess has finally lost her mind,” it would’ve been the least of my problems.
So, I snuck into the garden late that night. By morning, I had slipped while collecting dew, hit my head on a garden stone, and was found unconscious.
That incident made me the laughingstock of the entire country.
“Not only are you not a mage, but you’ve also proven yourself to be an idiot,” they mocked me in the harshest terms.
Unsurprisingly, the news enraged my father.
“You fool! You can’t even behave quietly, and now you sully your father’s name?!”
That time, only one person calmed my father down as he raged about sending me to a convent in the wall.
“My dear, please, calm yourself. This happened because I failed to properly care for the child—blame me.”
My mother.
Holding the hand of my father’s young, favored second wife, my mother soothed his anger. I couldn’t help but think:
‘How is this even possible?’
My mother was the complete opposite of me in every way.
Born a commoner, she awakened extraordinary magic, and by her own strength, earned her current position. Even in a world where social advancement through magic was easy, very few had reached the heights she had. Despite marrying my father when he was over forty and entering as a second wife, she was the Duchess of Ricard.
And me?
‘A useless, powerless child.’
Yet, by sheer luck, I held the title of princess—a title I was unworthy of.
People mocked me, claiming my lowborn mother’s blood was the reason I was born like this. I was the only blemish on her otherwise perfect life. Yet my mother never blamed me.
Even though my father and brother could barely hide their sighs and contempt when they looked at me, my mother remained kind.
“It’s alright, Riche. Not being able to use magic is a serious flaw, yes, but that doesn’t make you completely useless.”
“Really?”
“Of course. I trust that you’ll prove it.”
Her words were right. Following my mother’s guidance, I gave up on magic and poured myself into other endeavors.
I learned ancient languages and various foreign tongues, mastered proper etiquette so flawlessly that no one could find fault, and studied accounting to manage the household finances.
I didn’t want to be a shameful person. I wanted to help my mother, the only one who shielded me from scorn.
Soon enough, I was translating magic books written in ancient languages for her, and assisting with household matters in her stead.
“My dear, clever Riche,”
My mother would beam like a blooming rose, delighted.
“I knew you could do it. See? You found your usefulness already.”
Each drop of her sweet praise made me feel that being alive was worthwhile.
‘I may never be a mage, but I can support the greatest mage, my mother.’
A fragile little pride began to grow inside me.
The outside world was still harsh, but thinking of my mother made it bearable.
By the time I reached adulthood, I was managing most of the household affairs of the Ricard family. Every day, I translated ancient spellbooks, moved and drew magical circles in my mother’s stead, until my hands were calloused—but I didn’t mind; the fingers twisted from constant pen work were my badge of pride.
Seeing even a faint smile of satisfaction on my mother’s occasionally sharp face was my reward. I even took care to style my hair, adjust my makeup, and keep my clothing perfect for her sake.
“See? The only one who works to my satisfaction is my daughter!”
When my mother, dressed elegantly, left a kiss on my cheek as a token of thanks, my pride peaked.
Yet…
Whenever I watched her carriage depart and was left alone, a deep unease settled in my heart.
‘I’ve done well enough. Things are much better than before.’
Why was I still anxious, so utterly afraid?
Looking back, I think I had begun to sense, however faintly, the dark truths inherent in life.
The cracks in daily life began a few months before my twentieth birthday.
Around then, my mother grew unusually irritable and would seclude herself for days, claiming she wasn’t feeling well. Yet she refused to see doctors or healing mages, which left me increasingly worried.
“Riche, are you there?”
“Yes, mother.”
One day, after a long while, she called for me. She intended to attend the emperor’s birthday celebration.
I helped her prepare meticulously, though my own attire as a guest came second.
At the palace, I attended to her every need—fanning her, bringing cool drinks, massaging her feet when she grew tired.
On the return home, she seemed in much better spirits, and I was relieved, thinking the outing had brightened her mood.
But the truly strange events began after that.
“Mother?”
As if last night’s joy had been a dream, she now barricaded herself in her study. The door was locked even more securely than before.
“Are you there? Please answer me, okay?”
No matter how I called, there was no response.
Days passed fruitlessly, the weather persistently gloomy.
But looking back, it wasn’t just the weather that was odd. The house, which should have felt familiar, seemed strangely alien, and the shadows pooling in the corners were darker than usual, enough to make me shiver.
My mother occasionally appeared. She always looked tired, and no matter what I tried to do for her, she clearly found it bothersome.
‘Is it because she’s tired? Or is something seriously wrong?’
Even when I brought her food, she barely ate. I offered to tidy her room, but she never let me in. I could do nothing.
Eventually, unable to endure it any longer, I grasped the handle of her study door for the first time.
‘Huh?’
The handle, which I expected to be firmly locked, turned with no resistance.
“…It was unlocked?”
When it had become unlocked, I had no idea. I had never once tried before, for it would have gone against my mother’s wishes.
But the door was open, and almost as if possessed, I stepped into her study.
“Mother…?”
No answer. No sign of her presence.
Had she left for a walk?
If so, I thought I might as well tidy the room. I opened the door to the inner chamber—unaware that I was about to confront the anxiety lurking at the core of my life.
“Wait…what is this…?”
How could I explain it?
Though it was broad daylight, her study was pitch dark. It wasn’t just a typical midnight darkness—it felt as if the shadows inside were alive, writhing, swallowing all light in the room.
Nothing could be seen. Not even holding my hand in front of my nose did any good.
…Had I lost my sight?
The thought startled me, but I shook my head and steadied myself.
‘Mother must be experimenting with a new spell…’
Yes, that had to be it.
Even this desperate, rational explanation failed to convince me.
Instinctively, I sensed danger. Darkness this impenetrable couldn’t just be natural. Something far more sinister was lurking within.
‘No… it can’t be.’
I scolded myself for thinking such things, attempting to feel my way to the wall to exit. Soon, something touched my hand. But before I could retrace my steps, a bright light suddenly burst from my fingertips.
“…!”
For a moment, it seemed as if the light itself was leaving my body.
‘What…?’
Before I could ponder further, dizziness hit.
Staggering, I realized I had collapsed onto the floor, a wall blocking my view. The darkness had receded slightly, leaving a dim ambient glow, but I was too shocked by the scene before me to notice.
Like a bonsai twisted and bound by wire to stunt its growth, the walls were covered with grotesquely contorted dry roots.
“What… is this…?”
Among the twisted roots, a faint light caught my eye.
It wasn’t strong, but a soft glow seeped through the tangled roots. Somehow, this light allowed me to barely make out my surroundings.
‘Did I trigger it somehow?’
Suddenly, a churning pain gripped my stomach.
“…!”
It felt like invisible hands squeezing my insides violently. My back bent as nausea surged.
“Ugh…”
The smell wasn’t of sour stomach acid, but a strange metallic tang. My hand, pressed over my mouth, was covered in red.
“…Blood?”
I couldn’t understand what was happening. Staring blankly at the blood I had vomited, darkness closed in again.
“…!”
Looking up, a pearl-like object embedded among the roots blinked faintly, like a dying magical lamp.
For some reason, I knew I had to retrieve it before the light disappeared completely.
Driven by that thought, I reached out, finding a blade on the experiment table—an ornate silver dagger.
