Chapter 6: ③ Girls Who Dream of Favor, and Resolve

Ophelia stopped in front of the classroom.

Outside the window, early-summer leaves swayed in quiet ease.

This was where “the consorts chosen by Lord Karou” were raised.

Of course, not everyone would be chosen.

In truth—this was nothing more than an “academy” that trained ladies to serve the state.

She quietly set her hand to the door.

Crimson carpet spread within, and the air of the classroom tightened, straightening spines.

“Over there—it’s open.”

“Yes. And it gives us just the right distance from her, too.”

Ririka answered with a small breath.

She kept her voice low, but the thorn buried beneath it hadn’t budged.

“Are you still bothered by that?”

When Tina tilted her head, Ophelia followed suit and glanced at Ririka.

Ririka shrugged and sighed, deliberately theatrical.

“Very. It’s piled up like the Araratos Mountains.”

“My… In that case, cross the mountains, then the desert… Persistent even more than the hot winds of the Free City Alliance, is that it?”

Tina laughed modestly.

“Exactly. At this point—it’s a righteous war.”

As if a switch had flipped, Ririka declared it.

She put on a justice-mask, wearing a shell of jokes over it.

(Honestly… just like a child.)

Ophelia let out a small sigh, and yet found something faintly endearing in the exchange.

“How long will this little theater go on? Prepare yourselves before the instructor arrives.”

The very moment the three took their seats—

From beyond the door came a single step, then a second in leather shoes—

The door opened slowly, and the instructor appeared.

A shadow fell across the classroom, and the air tightened further.

“Today we will study the history of the inner palace harem system. …Are you prepared?”

The instructor’s voice at the lectern spread through the room in a low, clear tone.

As the lecture began, that voice spun each word, stacking them one by one.

He pressed charcoal to the paper tacked upon the board, writing the histories of the Kingdom of Oltania and the inner palace harem.

With the faint rasp of charcoal, chairs creaked, and quills slid over parchment.

(…I don’t dislike this atmosphere.)

Ophelia quietly straightened her back.

“The inner palace is not merely a place of splendor.
You may have only heard it as rumor, but—
—Once, one of the Six Flower Consorts, denied favor, slew the king and died alongside him.”

Ophelia’s pen stopped.

Before she could take notes, the weight of those words sank into her chest.

(…I could never forget her.)

Ten years ago, when she was still an apprentice maid.

She burned incense, arranged hair, and practiced smiling in the service of one of the Six Flower Consorts.

…And yet, she was never once called to the king’s bed.

As a girl, she had no way of knowing.

Why that woman wept.

But now, the heaviness of that silence stabbed straight into her heart.

“After that tragedy, the inner palace changed.
Order over sentiment. Courtesy over desire. —For the kingdom’s peace.”

The instructor’s eyes wavered, as if looking far away.

Not in cadence, but in the depth of his breathing, something shifted.

“Since then, the inner palace harem has been a place to serve at the king’s side, a pillar supporting the order of the state.
The ranking system, the selection of favor… all are extensions of the kingdom’s machinery.”

For a heartbeat, a shadow crossed the instructor’s voice.

It was what she had left behind—an imprint of pain no one could erase.

(Peace, is it…)

It was quiet bought by locking up someone’s feelings.

Pasting on smiles, shelving desire, and sitting there as nothing but a “vessel of the royal house.”

(If that is what we call pride…)

Just then, a student raised her hand.

“Sir. Regicide may be a grave sin. But—what if that consort only wished to be loved?”

A murmur ran through the room.

“It’s wrong to let someone else decide who gets favor.
We’re here working hard, dreaming of being loved…”

That question struck a quiet spark.

From seats around the room, small voices began to leak.

“Did you hear? Lord Karou has finally entered the inner palace.”

“They say he’s a hero from another world, and his magic rises with night visits…”

“If you’re chosen, you can grow stronger. —It’s fate, right?”

Heated longing and expectation stirred the classroom air.

—Only Ophelia alone did not move.

She was watching her fingertips.

(“If you’re chosen”? Then if I’m “not chosen”… what am I?)

A cold wave fell into the depths of her heart.

(If favor is power and someone else chooses it… I’m no one’s pawn.)

She closed her eyes and took a breath.

(I want “meaning.” Not someone’s convenience—meaning as “me.”)

“Quiet, all of you.”

A calm voice, stripped of all sweetness, cut through the room.

“There is no such thing as a perfect system. Even so, it must be upheld.
So we do not repeat ruin. So feeling does not shatter order.”

At those piercing words, the girls drew breath as one.

Chapter 6: ④ Girls Who Dream of Favor, and Resolve

Then, the instructor’s voice softened.

“Favor is light. But light casts shadow, and heat will cool.
That is why beauty, intellect, dignity, and—
—the resolve to uphold order must be learned by a consort.”

He slowly swept his gaze around the room.

Reflected in those eyes were girls, lost and uncertain.

“A consort is not one who ‘desires’ favor.
She is one who ‘waits’ for it.
She wishes, and yet sits in silence.”

The instructor’s voice fell quietly.

Ophelia couldn’t move, pen still in hand.

Those words were so quiet—and so cold.

(…‘One who waits,’ is it.)

The words stirred memories she had sunk deep.

(She waited more than anyone. And then—she broke.)

A woman noble, graceful, who embodied the consort’s virtues—a true paragon.

Even so—by the time that last door opened, her heat had long since burned her away.

The scent of night hung heavy, laced with sweat and flowers.

One of the Six Flower Consorts and the king slept, folded together, steeped in a cloying, honeyed haze.

No matter how Ophelia called out, that bell-cricket voice did not answer.

Like a magical automaton with its strings cut, she simply crumbled, quietly.

No one could do anything but watch.

And then.

As if to split the silence, the classroom door opened without a sound.

As though the very air had been cut.

A black silhouette stepped in from the world outside.

At the sight of the entrant, every consort sat up straight.

Silence turned to fear—and a second tension was born in the room.

“…Silence.”

A clear, commanding voice.

A woman in an ink-black dress—Margaret von Predi.

Chief Lady-in-Waiting of the Inner Palace, the “shadow commander” who moved for queen and princess.

She gave the instructor a single nod and walked straight to the center of the room.

“There is an important notice for all lower consorts.”

A moment’s hush.

And then—that single line became a spark.

“We are seeking three personal ladies-in-waiting to serve Lord Karou.”

The classroom stirred.

All the taut air began to vibrate at once.

“Personal… ladies-in-waiting?”

“In other words, right at Lord Karou’s side…?”

“Um, but wouldn’t that mean… not a consort anymore…?”

Voices crossed in the room.

Adoration, curiosity, unease, calculation—

Every feeling collided, and the air grew heated once more.

(Personal ladies-in-waiting—standing right by the king. Certainly… an alluring station.)

But it was not “consort.”

A path of service as a mere “lady-in-waiting,” never ranked as a consort.

(He might take them to his bed. But that would not make them ‘favored consorts.’)

As concubines, with luck they might bear a child.

But there would be no “rank” for it.

(Not me.)

She said nothing.

She only fixed her gaze—more coolly than anyone—on the path she had chosen.

Soon enough, someone in the front row stood.

“…I volunteer!”

The one who raised her voice so brightly was Fiona von Sunbreeze.

A lively smile, eyes brimming with curiosity.

“Right? It sounds fun, doesn’t it?
Serving at Lord Karou’s side will be full of chances!”

At her guileless tone, the classroom air softened.

(So like Lady Fiona… straightforward, without a flicker of hesitation…
—Almost enough to make me jealous.)

Next, another rose—quietly, but with firm poise.

“Fiona… truly, your mouth and feet move before your head.
I’m going too. I can’t trust you alone not to make a mess.”

Chloe von Nightshade.

Her name had barely left her lips when a ripple of understanding ran through the room.

(Heh… Lady Chloe can’t leave her alone after all.)

She could be sharp and scathing with Fiona, but she was more doting than anyone.

A reader, a quiet one—and yet her words always had warmth.

(In that case…)

At last, a petite girl stood, careful not to scrape her chair.

A small sound of breath swept through the classroom.

“I-I’ll… um, if those two are going… th-then… I-I’ll do my best…!”

Lily von Edelweiss.

Her voice was small. But the core of it did not shake.

(…Yes, Lady Lily too. For all her looks, she’s stubborn.)

Margaret quietly swept her gaze over them and spoke a single line.

“Very well. Fiona, Chloe, Lily—come with me.”

At her words, Fiona all but hopped to her feet, beaming,

while Chloe nodded with the faintest smile.

Lily, nervous but straight-backed, set off on small, steady steps.

Ophelia closed her eyes and sighed in her heart.

(Even with fear and doubt, they can still stand—
That’s their strength.)

When she opened her eyes, the three backs were already receding.

Feeling something like a radiance in their figures—

Ophelia curled her hand into a quiet fist.

(But I…)

It was a small vow no one could see.

(I am here to restore House Claudius and reclaim our name.)
(I will not sit and wait to be chosen.)

The heat that had risen at Lord Karou’s name still hung faintly in the air.

No matter how sweet, how tempting it looked—

Beyond the three departing backs, the figure at the end of her gaze was—Margaret, Chief Lady-in-Waiting of the Inner Palace.

(I will go—beyond that.)
(Not to be chosen, but to strike true—this is my story.)

Straight to that summit, like an arrow.