I let out a slow breath.
On the way back earlier, I’d heard the whispers too:
"Did you see Lady Alice? She didn’t even flinch."
"Such dignity..."
"Even after that humiliation."
"That’s a real noble."
"Unlike the Prince—running after a commoner saint."
"Shh! She’s still a saint, don’t say that too loud."
The servants had been split between shock and sympathy.
The nobility?
They were already rewriting the narrative.
"This is important," I muttered.
Amelia looked at me. "What is?"
"She didn’t lose face."
"Not just that," Amelia said quietly. "She gained it."
I nodded.
If Alice had lashed out, the rumors would’ve destroyed her image:
jealous fiancée
unstable noble
vulgar behavior
lack of grace
Instead?
Now the rumors were turning into:
dignified
wronged
patient
honorable
composed
And the Prince?
Publicly disrespectful.
Emotionally impulsive.
Dishonorable.
Indecisive.
Even the so-called "declaration of a duel of honor" played in her favor.
It reframed the entire incident.
Not as jealousy.
Not as rivalry.
But as principle.
Honor vs. dishonor.
Noble conduct vs. emotional impulse.
Her image as a noble lady who valued dignity and tradition was now perfectly set.
"...Typical Alice," I murmured.
Amelia gave a small smile. "You’re weirdly proud of her."
"I gave her advice," I shrugged. "Didn’t think it would actually work."
"Neither did I."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Amelia said quietly, "She’s changing."
"Yeah," I replied. "But not in a bad way."
Not colder.
Not crueler.
Not harsher.
Just... stronger.
More controlled.
More aware of how the world actually works.
Political, not emotional.
Strategic, not reactive.
A noble learning how to survive among nobles.
"...A few hours ago," Amelia added, "she would’ve confronted him in front of everyone."
"And destroyed herself in the process," I said.
"Exactly."
"You know what the funny part is?" I said.
"What?"
"The Prince probably thinks he humiliated her."
Amelia scoffed. "He humiliated himself."
"Yep."
Silence again.
Then—
"...You think this is over?" Amelia asked.
I shook my head.
"Not even close."
A public rejection.
A saint involved.
A noble house insulted.
A royal reputation damaged.
This wasn’t a scandal.
It was a political fracture.
And Alice—
Whether she wanted it or not—
Was standing right at the center of it.
Still... I couldn’t help feeling proud.
She’d held herself together.
She’d endured it with dignity.
She hadn’t given them the spectacle they wanted.
But pride didn’t mean the danger had passed.
A familiar chill crept up my spine.
A translucent indicator flickered into view.
---
[Alice’s Descent Index has been recalculated.]
[Current Risk Level: 36%]
[Re-evaluating variables...]
[Adjusted Risk Level: 32%]
[Minor fluctuation detected.]
[Final Projection: 34%]
---
"...Still not good," I muttered.
The number wavered like a wounded heartbeat—up, down, then back up again.
No matter how composed Alice appeared on the surface, the undercurrents hadn’t changed.
If anything, they were growing more unstable.
Her fall from grace was still very much on the table.
And worse—
Now more people were watching.
"So," Amelia said suddenly, arms crossed as she gave me a sharp look, "where exactly have you been wandering off to?"
I stiffened.
"You have any idea how long Alice’s been looking for you?" she continued. "She nearly dragged half the palace guard with her."
"Cough—!" I cleared my throat a bit too loudly. "I had my reasons."
She narrowed her eyes. "Uh-huh."
I carefully did not mention the hidden dungeon.
Or the sealed passage beneath the old capital wing.
Or the fact that I’d nearly lost my life, and tied my lifespan to two absurdly dangerous beings.
Of course those two are Alice and Velra.
But still.
Details. Minor details.
And besides—
Now that I was in the capital, it would be a waste not to take advantage of it.
This place wasn’t just politics and scandals.
It was a treasure trove.
Relics buried beneath centuries of history.
Forgotten contracts.
Ancient vaults sealed behind noble authority.
If the world was already pushing Alice toward the edge—
Then I’d make sure we had something to stand on.
Be it power.
Be it leverage.
Or be it secrets no one else was meant to uncover.
I straightened slightly, forcing my back upright despite the dull ache that still lingered deep in my bones. My body protested, but I ignored it.
At that moment—
Knock. Knock.
The sound was light, polite, almost measured.
"Hm? Who could it be at this hour?" I muttered, glancing toward the door. "Alice?"
Amelia, who had been hovering nearby with thinly veiled concern, visibly brightened. She even took half a step forward before stopping herself.
But the presence on the other side of the door felt... different.
Deliberate.
Expected.
"I’ll get it," Amelia said quickly, smoothing her hair as she opened the door.
The woman who stood there was unmistakable.
A dancer-like silhouette wrapped in a flowing, layered dress that swayed even when she stood still. The fabric shimmered faintly, dyed in deep desert hues—amber and dusk-red—foreign to the north. Pinned neatly over her right chest was a badge shaped like a scorpion, its tail curled upward in quiet menace.
"Lady Amelia," the woman said, bowing with practiced grace. "Pardon the intrusion at such a late hour."
Her eyes shifted past Amelia almost immediately.
Straight to me.
"...And long time no see," she added, lips curling faintly. "Julies Evans. Or should I call you Faceless Imposter now?"
I sighed.
"Just Julies," I replied. "That name causes fewer headaches."
Her smile widened, amused rather than apologetic.
"As you wish."
She stepped inside without waiting for further permission, her heels making barely a sound against the floor. Amelia closed the door behind her, clearly unsettled but too polite to object.
Only then did I fully take her in.
Emaa.
My contact from the west.
An daughter of the Duke of Voss family.
And, if rumors were even half-true, a woman who survived court politics the same way scorpions survived deserts—by being patient, venomous, and impossible to crush.
"I didn’t expect you to come personally," I said. "Especially this fast."
Emaa shrugged lightly. "When a letter mentions your mother and uses the phrase ’enemy still breathing,’ I make exceptions."
That earned her a sharp look from Amelia.