Chapter 101
‘Still, this manor is strange…’
That thought surfaced, but Guillen quickly shook his head, scattering the nonsense like dust.
Pointless. Every place has its secrets. Just because the Marquisate of Ribandt carries a strange undercurrent, or because the family’s treatment of Iora — who you’d think had been raised on a pedestal as a saint candidate — is off in some undefinable way…
Watching that silent expression, Shana thumped her chest in exasperation.
“That’s only because you’ve been waiting outside this whole time, Guillen. You haven’t seen it. It’s not just strange — it’s wrong. Sniff. Our Lady Iora is being mistreated, you know…!”
“Mistreated?” he repeated flatly. “By them? That’s rich. Even the mutts on the street would laugh at that one.”
Mistreated? By who, exactly? Guillen snorted again, unconvinced. Shana stared at him, scandalized, then shot back, sharp as a blade.
“Why do you hate Lady Iora so much?”
“There are more people in this empire who despise her than you could ever count.”
And that, at least, was undeniably true. Guillen said it without shame.
But the next question… he couldn’t seem to answer.
“But most of those people have never even met Lady Iora themselves.”
“…”
“Did you hate Lady Iora even after seeing her in person, Guillen?”
“…That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
Even if the Marquis and Marchioness Ribandt weren’t exactly warm-hearted, every family had its own way of raising children.
Not all discipline came in the form of soft words and gentle affection. Sometimes, it was cold, distant, and devoid of comfort. And considering what kind of daughter Iora was, he could hardly blame them. She’d dragged the family name through more than enough mud to earn that chill herself.
‘But the rumors about her and the Crown Prince had been completely off, too.’
That nagging contradiction kept jabbing at his thoughts, until Guillen grew irritated with himself. This was all because of her. Iora, the girl everyone claimed to be a saint, the girl who’d ruined the one dream he clung to: to wield his sword for Arcanda, the gentle and true saint.
And now, this girl with the soft voice and the sullied name clung to his thoughts like a thorn under the nail.
‘What an utterly troublesome assignment this guard duty has become.’
Shana huffed and muttered as if she had given up now.
“Stubborn. Stupid. Lady Iora’s not some wicked woman, and if you say that again, Sir Guillen, I really will make your life miserable…”
“……”
And then it happened. A sharp slapping sound, like something striking flesh, rang out — clear enough to reach even outside through the open window. Shana and Guillen’s eyes met instantly.
“You heard that, didn’t you?”
“…Yeah.”
Bodyguards usually didn’t step foot inside the manor. There was no reason to. Nothing ever happened inside, not in a place like this. And Guillen, of all people, was too valuable to be stationed inside all day. His duties were mostly to be an outside escort, with the rest of his time devoted to training.
‘Could there really be something going on in there? Was this girl right… Did that woman get hit—?’
He dashed into the manor after Shana, boots heavy against the stone. The moment he crossed the threshold, Guillen halted, taken aback by the scene before him.
Thankfully, the one being struck wasn’t Iora. And he hated that his first reaction had been relief.
Shana had already squeezed between the onlookers, eyes wide. Guillen followed, pushing his head past the crowd to ask:
“What’s going on…?”
“What do you mean, what’s going on? Shana, sit down and keep your voice down. Madam is setting an example.”
“An… example?”
The maid beside them muttered, her expression twisted in a grimace. “Putting a stop to the daughter’s indulgent behavior, obviously.”
The words were so bitter, so casually spoken despite the fact that it was another maid being struck, that Guillen couldn’t help but widen his eyes. Shana looked equally appalled. There was something deeply wrong in this manor. With the people in it. With all of them.
Just as neither of them could find words to speak, a sharp clack of heels echoed down the staircase.
A woman descended, each step composed and deliberate. Her long silver hair shimmered as it swayed. The violet eyes — deep as dusk and cold as polished amethyst — settled briefly on the trembling maid being struck. Even her languid movements drew the eye in a way that felt… intentional.
Her name was Iora. The girl everyone called a villainess.
At her entrance, the air seemed to pause. Breath hitched and voices vanished.
And even without a single word exchanged, both Guillen and Shana understood it at once.
The Marchioness, hand raised in a perfectly practiced slap, was never aiming at the maid.
The one she truly wanted to strike was the daughter standing still behind her, silent as dusk.
“Mother. What are you doing?”
The voice was graceful and almost indulgently polite, but the Marchioness did not answer. Instead, there came another sharp smack.
The maid whimpered, finally breaking into sobs. Blood streaked down from her lips, diluted by saliva, likely from where the inside of her mouth had split. Guillen winced at the sight — an instinctive reaction from someone who believed in rules and order. A few other servants looked away, ashamed to witness something so degrading.
And yet, among them, Iora stood as the sole unshaken figure — eerily composed, back straight, poise intact, as if the cruelty unfolding before her wasn’t meant to reach her. She tilted her head, her doll-like face remaining expressionless, save for that subtle, chilling curiosity.
“I asked what you were doing. Can you not hear me? If you’re not interested in conversation, I can simply return to my room.”
The raised hand froze in midair.
The Marchioness turned her gaze to her daughter, and in it swirled something darker than disdain. It was the kind of look one might expect in battle, not at the breakfast table. Who in the world looked at their own child like that?
“…You!”
“Your hand’s bright red,” Iora murmured, as if noting the weather. “It’s torture for the one being struck, of course, but I imagine it must sting for the one doing the hitting as well.”
“That—that’s what you’ve chosen to say right now?”
“Oh dear, was my concern offensive to you?”
Her voice, lilting like a song, made it all the more terrifying. She acted as if this kind of scene had always been a part of her life — cold, detached, and dreadfully serene. Guillen clenched his jaw.
It looked, for a moment, as though the mad Marchioness might launch herself at Iora and strike that pale cheek.
He didn’t want to see it. If it happened…
‘It would be unacceptable. This is abuse.’
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