Chapter -02
Lidel was born into the royal family of the great kingdom of Ephirante — the youngest princess of the house.
Her parents, unusually for royalty, had married for love. Even after more than twenty years together, they remained deeply affectionate.
Above Lidel were two older brothers and three sisters — all intelligent, beautiful, and kind. The people admired them, calling them “the pride of our nation.”
But the youngest princess, Lidel, was different. From a young age she was frail and often fell ill, spending much of her childhood confined to bed.
As a result, she had never once appeared at an official event, and there were even palace maids who claimed they wouldn’t recognize her face if they saw her.
Her parents worried deeply for their sickly daughter. For her recovery, they had a small villa built in the quietest part of the palace grounds — Lidel’s own secluded residence.
There she lived with a handful of gentle maids who tended to her daily needs.
Though her family visited often, such an isolated life slowly turned her into a painfully shy and withdrawn girl.
Of course, Lidel’s absence from public life was not only because of her shyness.
She could still remember when she was around ten years old.
It was her sister’s birthday, and a small tea party was to be held. When Lidel heard of it, she asked if she could attend.
Back then, she was quiet but not as fearful of others as she would later become.
Her health had been relatively stable, and she wanted to celebrate her sister’s birthday — to present a bouquet of flowers she had lovingly grown in the garden, while wearing her finest dress.
Her kind, sisterly sibling readily agreed after consulting the royal physician.
But Lidel was so excited that she barely slept the night before.
She could feel a faint fever coming on, but she ignored it, fearing that if she told her maids, they would forbid her from attending.
So she went to the tea party pretending to be fine — and collapsed midway through it.
Overwhelmed by the heavy scents of perfume, she grew dizzy and nauseated, vomiting several times.
At that moment, one of the invited ladies covered her mouth with a fan and said clearly:
“How disgusting.”
She wasn’t the only one to frown at Lidel.
Though no one dared speak loudly out of respect for her sister, Lidel could hear their whispers.
“The tea party’s ruined.”
“How shameful for the princess. If she’s so weak, she should have stayed in her room.”
Her sister’s furious voice rang out, followed by the hurried footsteps of maids rushing to her side.
Then Lidel lost consciousness — and when she awoke, she realized that she could no longer speak normally with anyone except those very close to her.
When she apologized to her sister for ruining the tea party, her sister gently told her not to worry.
“I was happy you came. No one has the right to criticize that. If anything, I should be the one apologizing — for not noticing you weren’t feeling well.”
Her sister even severed ties with several of the friends who had attended that day.
When Lidel later learned of this, she was overcome with regret — realizing that her presence had caused trouble for the sister she loved so dearly.
From that point on, her shyness worsened dramatically.
It became, one might say, a kind of social phobia.
In front of anyone unfamiliar, her hands and feet turned cold, and her voice caught in her throat.
Even when someone spoke kindly to her, she couldn’t manage more than a nod — and her racing heartbeat screamed that she must be annoying them.
Each time, the memory returned: those eyes filled with disgust, looking down on her as she knelt on the floor, sick and trembling.
The thought that she might once again make someone uncomfortable terrified her.
So Lidel avoided being seen in public as much as she could.
By the time she turned thirteen, her health had improved considerably, yet she continued to decline invitations — the annual founding ceremony, the goddess’s prayer ritual, the royal balls — claiming illness each time.
When attendance was absolutely unavoidable, such as at her sister’s wedding, she would stand hidden behind her maids, praying for the moment to pass quickly.
If she had to greet someone, she kept her eyes down, never meeting theirs.
And so, always timid and downcast, she came to be known among the people as—
“The royal family’s burden.”
“The gloomy, plain failure.”
“The useless princess.”
Such was Lidel’s reputation throughout the kingdom.
That was why, when her father told her that Oscar had gladly accepted the proposal of marriage, Lidel was overjoyed — from the depths of her heart.
For Oscar was the man she had secretly admired for years.
They had first met at her eldest sister’s wedding.
When Lidel had grown faint from the crowd and turned pale, it was Oscar who cut through the ring of onlookers — those who merely watched from afar — and strode swiftly to her side.
Clad in a black uniform with silver cords, he was clearly a knight. Without hesitation, he lifted her into his arms and carried her back to her villa.
Lidel must have looked dreadful — her face ashen, drenched in cold sweat.
But when she apologized for being unsightly, he widened his eyes and said, almost angrily:
“That’s nothing worth worrying about.”
Though blunt, his words sounded tender to her ears.
Later, her maids told her who he was:
Oscar Arling, heir to the Count of Ashen — the noble knight of the silver cord.
With his cool gray eyes, noble bearing, and early knighthood, he was admired across the nation as the Ice Knight, the very image of chivalric perfection.
And Lidel was no exception.
She hung on every rumor she heard about him, attending jousts despite her frail health just to catch a glimpse of him.
Each time she saw him astride his horse, spear raised high, her heart fluttered with adoration.
As thanks for rescuing her, she sent a letter along with a pair of elegant cufflinks.
Some days later, a neatly bound book arrived with a reply — short and formal, but it filled her with joy. She read it over and over, day after day.
Of course, her father — the king — noticed the way his youngest daughter’s eyes followed a certain knight.
Perhaps he thought this:
“She has been sickly since birth and has endured so much. Let her at least marry the man she loves.”
