HSDOE 39

Chapter:39

 Saint Malik

“…What did you say?”

The voice was languid—so languid it seemed to melt into the air.
Though the tone was youthful and melodious, the relaxed and lazy quality made it impossible to guess the speaker’s age.

“The Marquis has withdrawn?”

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

“Tch. Just because of a little bird droppings?”

The young man, addressed as Saint, wrinkled his nose.
His face was as refined as his voice. One could easily lose themselves just by looking at him.

“So what now? Without the Marquis, we have no clear path to uncover the Empress’s secret.”

The ones standing respectfully before him, hands clasped, were none other than High Priests.

It was a strange sight.
There were few institutions stricter in hierarchy than the temple.
After leaving their families at a young age and serving over ten grueling years as temple pages, one might become a priest. Then, after another twenty years of hardship, they could finally hope to rise to High Priest.

There were only thirteen High Priest seats. Unless one of the thirteen died, there would be no room for newcomers.
Thus, most High Priests were old and stubborn men who treated their junior clergy like nothing more than footstools.

Yet, in front of this young man, they themselves resembled worn-out rugs.

“…I more or less know what the secret is. But this is the temple, and you’re all clergy, right? We can’t just barge in and strip a woman’s underclothes. What if people think I’m a pervert?”

“P-pardon? D-did you say… underclothes?”

The young man smiled smoothly, like oil poured on silk, as he observed their flustered expressions.

“Yeah. Once we take them off, we’ll know. Isn’t there some way to do it?”

The High Priests exchanged troubled glances, then bowed their heads.

“Well… such tasks are beyond us…”

“I know. I didn’t expect much from you anyway. Still—tell me one thing. How do you get a royal to take off her clothes?”

“Well… she must change every day, at least…”

“Tch. Not regular changes. I mean an occasion where she has to undress.”

“Well… hmm… perhaps when new clothes are being tailored?”

After much huddling of old heads, they came up with a single idea.
When tailoring new garments, a noble might undress for accurate measurements.

And conveniently, it was rumored the imperial seamstress had been visiting the palace frequently, to prepare the Empress’s new wardrobe.

“That’ll do.”

The young man’s eyes sparkled.
Usually a pale green like young spring leaves, his irises now flickered gold for just a brief moment.

But the room was too dark, and the aged High Priests—afraid to look him in the eye—missed the fleeting change.

“Bring me the royal seamstress. Quietly, and as quickly as possible. Make sure the palace doesn’t notice.”

The High Priests looked even more distressed.

“We will do our utmost, but… it may be difficult unless the seamstress herself agrees to cooperate… And it feels as though the Emperor may have eyes watching us.”

“Really? You prove your uselessness the moment I say I don’t expect anything from you. Fine. I’ll handle it. You may leave.”

“Your Holiness… What do you mean by ‘handle it’…”

The young man’s oily smile vanished. His expression transformed instantly.

“Must you ask?”

“Ah—n-no, Your Holiness. Forgive me.”

With the smile gone, he no longer looked lazy or gentle. He seemed as cold and terrifying as a beast sculpted from ice.

“Leave. And summon my children.”

“…As you command.”

The High Priests backed out of the room in fear.

Moments later, figures dressed in stark white armor entered.

“You summoned us, Father.”

“Yes.”

Their appearance—white boots, white cloaks, and a blood-red cross embroidered over their left hearts—looked less like knights and more like religious fanatics.

“Bring me the imperial seamstress. Make her cooperate. Use her family as leverage. One hostage is enough—kill the rest in front of her. She’ll comply that way.”

“We obey.”

The knights dropped to their knees.

“Father of those who know the truth, Saint Malik.”

“His Majesty has returned to the palace for now,” Yvette said softly.

Publicly, it was said that the Empress was suffering from a severe cold. After two months of residing next door, the Emperor had been half-forced to return to his palace.
He seemed to instinctively sense it was no longer the time to insist on staying.

And yet, he visited the Empress’s palace five or six times a day.
Under the pretense of checking in on her health.

Each time, he was turned away.

The imperial palace was abuzz with whispered stories of the poor, pitiful Emperor.
Yvette was among those whisperers.

Based on appearance alone, the Emperor seemed like the type who’d sever the heads of anyone who dared reject him.
But every time the Empress refused to see him, he simply drooped his shoulders and walked away silently.

His face stayed expressionless, but the droop in his eyes was heartbreakingly visible.

“Um… Your Majesty seems to be coughing much less now,” Yvette said, mustering courage.

“So, perhaps… if His Majesty visits again, it might be okay to receive him…”

“Not yet.”

Rasilia cut her off coldly.
Now was not the time to see the Emperor.

“O-oh… I understand.”

Yvette lowered her head, her expression crestfallen. It hadn’t been her intention, but Rasilia felt a pang of guilt seeing it.

“You should leave too, Lady Yvette. You might catch this cold. I’ll be fine alone.”

Yvette flailed her hands in protest.

“W-what are you saying, Your Majesty? You’re ill—someone must care for you! If it’s my words that bothered you, I’ll keep my mouth completely shut!”

“You may speak. That’s not it—I just… don’t feel comfortable right now. I’ll call for you if I need anything. Don’t you need time to care for your siblings as well?”

“Ah… I see. Thank you for your consideration, Your Majesty.”

Rasilia nodded.
Even as she left the room, Yvette kept glancing back.

“But please, Your Majesty—if you need me, call immediately, no matter what. Promise me.”

“I will. Don’t worry.”

“Really. Don’t forget.”

With that, Yvette finally left, albeit hesitantly.
Left alone, Rasilia tried to settle the storm in her heart.

“I have to leave before this gets worse… I can’t just wait here for the temple envoy from Dellarta.”

Now she had a way to contact them.

If she asked Pipi, perhaps the birds could carry her message.

But she didn’t like the idea.
Even for birds, a two-month journey by carriage was exhausting.

And more than that, asking Pipi to help her escape felt… wrong.

“He won’t like it. Not once he realizes what kind of letter it is. But I can’t lie to him either.”

What would Pipi do if he found out she was a fake?
Would he be angry? Sad? Or try to find his real mate?

It hadn’t even been a month since she’d begun living in someone else’s body, and yet there were already things she didn’t want to let go of.

If she went back to that dark, windowless room, she would remember the things here.
Even knowing they weren’t hers—she would still long for them.

“…Still, it’s the only way.”

Pipi was clever. One day, he’d understand her position.

Resolving herself, Rasilia began to rise from bed to write her letter to the High Priest of Dellarta—

Knock knock.

“Your Majesty.”

Yvette had returned.

Her cheeks were flushed. Something had clearly made her happy.

“I know you’re still recovering, but… the imperial seamstress is requesting an audience. Says the previous measurements might be wrong.”

“…Hm?”

Rasilia tilted her head slightly.

Was that really so urgent?

Yvette stood with her hands tightly clasped, looking hopeful. Almost like she didn’t want Rasilia to decline.

“Did you tell him I’m still sick?”

“Of course, but… without proper measurements, the clothes can’t be made. And that means Your Majesty’s new wardrobe will be delayed.”

“…Very well.”

It was only a brief measuring session.

She’d exaggerated her illness for the Emperor’s sake, but Yvette was right—she was nearly recovered.

“I’ll see him in the drawing room.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!”

Yvette’s voice was noticeably brighter. She truly seemed delighted that Rasilia had not declined the seamstress.

“Your body has changed quite a bit, Your Majesty.”

The imperial seamstress spoke while unwinding several measuring tapes wrapped around his arms. He began to measure her thoroughly.

“With this, the clothes won’t fit properly. I’ll have to start from scratch.”

“I see.”

If he said so, then so be it.

“Forgive me, but may I ask you to remove your outer garments? I need precise dimensions.”

“My outer clothes…?”

He hadn’t asked that last time.

Rasilia gave him a curious look.

It was the same face—but something felt… different.
His cheeks, too, were tinged red, just like Yvette’s.

“Ah, of course! Your Majesty, if you’d kindly raise your arms, I’ll help you take it off,” Yvette offered quickly, stepping forward.

Rasilia shook her head.

“Wait, Lady Yvette. Is that really necessary? And doesn’t it go against imperial etiquette?”

“Uh… A-ah, you’re right. The only ones allowed to touch a royal’s garments would be…”

The seamstress interjected.

“No, Your Majesty. It’s essential for tailoring.”

Yvette nodded enthusiastically.

“He’s right! Your Majesty’s new outfit is what matters most! Even if it breaks protocol, it’ll be just between us. Now, I’ll undo the buttons—”

“Lady Shuraiden. I haven’t agreed to—”

Snap!

Yvette’s hasty hands pulled too hard, and a button popped off near the neckline.

“Oh my. If you’d just stayed still. Please raise your arms, Your Majesty.”

“Lady Yvette…?”

At this point, it was impossible to ignore that something was off.

This wasn’t how the usual Yvette behaved.
Even if it was just a button, the real Yvette would’ve been overwhelmed with guilt.

“Put the clothes down. Look at me. Tell me what happened—before you brought in the seamstress.”

“…What happened?”

Yvette’s eyes, meeting hers, were bloodshot.
Too bloodshot for it to be from sewing…