Chapter 6: ① Girls Who Dream of Favor, and Resolve

The woman in the mirror was playing the part of a thoroughly plain, unglamorous palace consort, and Ophelia von Claudius let out a sigh.

(How pathetic…)
(After Father died, my brother gambled away our title, my sister was married off to a merchant house, and I was sent to the inner palace harem… Some “noble house.”)
(Mother writes the same single line every time from home: “Mother is doing well.” And that’s it…)

Even so, she wasn’t at an age to cry about it now.
At the very least, careful not to ruin the shape of her brows, Ophelia masked herself in a blank expression.

“Admiring yourself in the mirror again, Ophelia-sama? You’ll have the poor thing blushing.”

“Truly. That glossy black hair, those amethyst eyes… and above all, that scandalous décolletage…! The gods are playing favorites!
I mean, how are we supposed to accept such a gap between palace consorts?”

Here we go again, she shrugged inwardly.
The ones calling out were her roommates. Today again, half to kill time, half as a greeting by way of one-upmanship.
Tina murmured.

“…Our instructor did say grooming is part of a consort’s refinement. Well, for us lower consorts, that’s a bit of a fairy tale.”

Ophelia blinked once at that.
What skimmed her chest was a faint ache—neither quite sympathy nor quite resistance.

(…Refinement, huh. Some are born with it; some can’t reach it no matter how they struggle.)
(No matter how perfectly you’re adorned, if you’re not “chosen,” it means nothing—)

Then she touched her eye lightly and smiled as if nothing had happened.
Tina, dreamy-eyed, gazed at Ophelia in one long look.

“But you’re no fairy tale, Ophelia-sama.
That back of yours, it feels… like a “goddess loosing her arrow,” doesn’t it? It gives me chills…”

A small laugh slipped out. Ririka cocked one eyebrow, smiling only with her lips.

“The chills are in your brain. Still, I’ll admit, the way you draw that bow is a little sinful.”

She moved only her eyes, giving Ophelia a meaningful look.

“If you were granted an audience with Lord Karou… well, that would make the rounds.”

(Lord Karou…)

At the name, Ophelia’s chest gave the faintest stir.
Still distant, untouched by her. Yet just hearing it seemed to change the density of the air.

Ophelia slowly smoothed her skirt and lifted her gaze.
In the movement lay a hint of shyness—and more than that, a caution to herself.

“…You call it a silly daydream, and yet I must commend your imaginations.
If you aimed that fervor at dance practice, I daresay you’d become all the more charming.”

(Lord Karou is a dream of a dream… There’s no way we can meet someone that far above so easily…)

“What are you doing? We’ll be late for the lecture at Reitoku Hall.”

Calling out, she started walking. A small “Ah” from Tina chased her back.

“Right! Today was the history of the inner palace harem system. The lecture that smashes dreams…”

Ririka grumbled, but there was a glint of amusement in her narrowed eyes.

“…Call it “practical,” if you please.”

Tina gave a wry smile, combing her long hair with her fingers.

“Even so, I do like history. After all, the consorts of old must have gone “oh no” just like we do, right? It makes them feel… close.”

“Yes, yes—before you empathize with the tragedies of your predecessors, turn in today’s assignment.
Each “oh no” costs you points.”

Ririka shrugged and laughed, then walked on with an elegant step.
The three left Keika Court, where the lower consorts lived, and headed for Reitoku Hall.

Orderly white-stone corridors stretched on. A rustling breeze faintly lifted the hems of their modest dresses.

The inner palace harem’s layout was symmetrical, split east and west.
Keika Court was the same, the east aligned with the Queen’s faction, the west with the Noble faction.
Of course—within, twisted subfactions, rumors, and invisible lines lurked everywhere.

It happened just as they were about to reach the east wing’s entrance.
A familiar figure appeared on the opposite staircase.

“Well… good day, current young lady of House Claudius.”

At that voice, Ophelia slowly lifted her face.

Standing on the upper steps was Camilla Eldina Breigrand.
A lower-ranking consort of the ascendant Noble faction, daughter of Count Breigrand.
Once, that house had been considered below the Claudius line, but now their positions had fully reversed.

“Let me see… was it a baron’s house now? I do so hate mixing it up with your former name.”

Ophelia merely narrowed her eyes and smiled.

(That name—far too soon to erase from memory.)

Chapter 6: ② Girls Who Dream of Favor, and Resolve

Looking up at Camilla on the stone steps, Ophelia’s nails pressed faintly into her palm.

(Camilla Eldina… In my memory, she was always the girl peeking out from the shadows.)
(And now she looks down on me this brazenly.)

Camilla’s lips moved smoothly, as if reading from a prepared line.

“Off to your archery practice? So diligent, as ever. …But no matter how much you practice, your earldom won’t return. What keeps you trying so hard?”

She was smiling. Yet at the back of that smile, something thin and barbed was mixed in.

A breeze slid through. Ophelia lowered her eyes, long lashes casting a shadow.
Yes, this was Camilla.

(Back then, I didn’t understand what that gaze meant.)

“Indeed.”

Ophelia stepped up one stair. Her skirt fanned softly. Only her eyes stayed calm as a still sea.

“My title and my house—those are gone from me. But at least my arrows are still in hand.”

“…My, how poetic.”

Camilla knit her brows. The smile still stuck to her voice.

“Are you really aiming for the top through the archery contests? Do you think becoming a “Virtue Consort” would change anything?”

At her words, a startled bird shot into the sky.

The “Artistry Contest”—a glittering yet cruel stage where consorts-in-training vie in talent and skill.
Formally called the “Twelve Blossoming Arts Contest,” it is held monthly among the lower consorts, a trial that sets their standing.
“Virtue Consorts.” Only one hundred eight can claim that title, standing atop those left behind.

(A “Virtue Consort”—that’s only the first rung I’ve finally set foot on.)
(My aim is not above that, nor the next beyond that.)
(The Star Consorts. The twelve seats named for the night sky—those alone.)

(You must have everything to reach them. Talent, beauty, lineage, backing—)

…Yet to let an arrow fly, no one’s permission is needed.

“Quite so. Perhaps nothing would change.”

Ophelia smiled.

“But at the very least—I can pierce the target with an arrow loosed not from someone’s shadow, but by my own hand.”

For a heartbeat, something flickered deep in Camilla’s gaze.

(Whether she knows her footing is shaky, that her “count’s daughter” is unsteady… I don’t know if she realizes she needs to look down on me to feel sure of herself.)

“If you want reasons to try, I have them by the handful. Ah, but they don’t concern you. I—I have no intention of ending as the backdrop to someone else’s “story.””

“…”

Camilla’s eyes sharpened. The attendants’ caught breaths rippled through the air.

But Ophelia let a small laugh escape.

“…Or are you so unsure you can even beat a “fallen noble’s daughter” that you had to call out from the top of the stairs?”

At that, one of the attendants coughed into her hand.

“If you needed to check your standing that badly—then perhaps you’re not so composed yourself, Camilla-sama.”

For a moment, Camilla’s smile split.

“Fufu… You’ve become rather amusing, Ophelia-sama. Someday, when that “arrow” of yours snaps on stage, what face will you show me, I wonder. I look forward to it.”

Leaving only that, Camilla turned on her heel and left.
Her heels rang out—kat, kat—fading along the cold stone corridor.

Ririka shrugged.

“…You know, she looks like a princess on ice, but inside she’s thoroughly charred.”

Tina clutched at her sleeve, worry creasing it so tightly the seam might have come loose.

“Ophelia-sama, are you… okay?”

Tracing the crescent indents on her palm, Ophelia smiled faintly.

“Yes. This much—I’m fine. Though when I draw, I must be careful not to tense up. It’ll throw off my aim.”

Ririka folded her arms, tapping the stone with the toe of her shoe—tok, tok.

“True. And if it comes to it—just nudge the arrow a hair off and give Camilla-sama a fashionable slit. Show a bit of leg, and the chill might cool that charred interior.”

At that, Tina gasped, sprang up, and flushed bright red.

“T-That’s… far too improper…! If there were gentlemen present, it would be ruin!”

Ririka chuckled.

“Which is why it works. That mask of hers looks terribly vulnerable to shame.”

She laughed, but her eyes stayed fixed ahead, holding a quiet anger.

Catching that in the corner of her eye, Ophelia let her gaze soften just a little.

(Hehe, Ririka’s more upset than I am. …When someone else gets angry for you, it’s oddly calming, isn’t it.)

She drew one steady breath. The heat roiling in her chest straightened into a single, quiet line.

“My aim will not waver. —The target alone is plenty to hit.”

At that, Tina exhaled in relief and patted her chest, while Ririka lifted a shoulder.

“Well, if that’s the case. …Still, if it does hit, it would be a little satisfying, wouldn’t it?”

“True. In that case, we should prepare a spare dress for Camilla-sama, just in case.”

(I’ll pin her dead center where there’s no escape—nailed in place by “my arrow.”)

The three continued on into the hall.
Beyond the “dream-smashing lecture” Ririka had mocked, they had no idea a new “reality” awaited them.