Chapter 2
Act 1 - The Villainess Charlot, or the Maid Juju
“Daughter of a mistress.”
On the day Charlot was born, one of the maids at the Morden Viscount’s estate spat out this insult. Even before she received a proper name, it became a curse branded on her like a baptism.
Because of it, she understood from a very young age that she had two mothers. The woman she knew as her mother was the Viscountess, but she realized someone else had given birth to her.
Not that she needed anyone’s scorn to figure it out. Charlot was no beauty like the Viscountess. Her hair was straw-like, and her nose was dotted with freckles.
Why had Viscount Morden strayed from his lovely wife to seduce her attendant?
Maybe that day he just felt like doting on a stray dog instead of his cherished pet.
Or perhaps he would never have left a woman carrying his child to die in childbirth.
The only bit of decency he showed was legally recognizing Charlot as his child. Whether he gave a second thought to the burden his wife would bear in suddenly acquiring a second child was anyone’s guess.
And so, thanks to her father’s sliver of pity, Charlot did not fall to the rank of a maid, as other noble bastards might.
She was officially a lady. But, unlike other young noblewomen, she had a miserable childhood.
The Viscountess treated her as though she were equal to her half-brother, but her coldness was unmistakable.
And if her stepmother looked at her coldly, it was unlikely the servants would be any kinder.
Charlot was left out of the usual noble upbringing, where young ladies were instructed in manners and refinement from a young age. Though the Morden Viscount’s domain was rural, the neglect was obvious.
Friends were out of the question. Charlot’s only hobbies were dancing alone in the garden or secretly watching her half-brother’s sword lessons.
She had a knack for physical activity. No matter how much her lace ribbons and shoe laces bound her as a lady, nothing could stifle her reflexes, sharp enough to catch even a falling petal. She impulsively snatched her brother’s practice wooden sword one day, and from then on, it became her favorite toy.
On gloomy days, she would take the sword and head to the garden. In truth, even on days that weren’t gloomy, she’d be out there. Spinning on her toes, swinging the sword in circles, she found a little relief from the weight of the constant stares.
And when she grew tired of that, she’d hide beneath the flower vines and indulge in bittersweet daydreams. These fantasies were usually plucked from fairy tales.
“I am cursed to be trapped in this house. Someday, someone will come to open the door of this cage.”
Whether that someone was her mother’s spirit or a fiancé chosen by the family, it didn’t matter. She was sure that someday…
“Lotte. His Highness, the Seventh Prince Albert, is here. Is it fitting for a lady to stare blankly?”
…someone appeared sooner than expected.
Compared to rural Charlot, Prince Albert, who was two years older, was a striking and melancholic boy!
He was the thirteenth son of the former emperor, who had fathered him in his seventies, politically outcast by his brothers and exiled to this rural province.
Such complicated matters were beyond Charlot’s understanding. If she were a crow, Albert was a star. Indeed, his blond hair looked like the first star glimmering in dawn’s mist.
“Your… Your Highness Prince Albert. I am Charlot. It is an honor to meet you…”
“Don’t be nervous. Just call me Albert. We’re close in age, after all.”
And to be so kind! Not a trace of coldness or sharp words!
“There’s nothing here, so it must be dull. Come by and visit often.”
Did Albert know how much those words felt like salvation to Charlot?
From that day on, Charlot became a butterfly chasing the star named Albert. She no longer wanted to cling to a dusty corner of the Viscount’s house. Every time she felt lonely at home, she went to find him, until it became a daily routine.
Even for an exiled prince, the unwavering affection of a young girl must have been a welcome distraction. Albert was always kind, occasionally showing more concern than her parents ever had.
“So you’ve never had formal training, yet you’re this skilled? Lotte, join my lessons at once! Some of my sisters are skilled with the sword, but you surpass them. You might even be able to wield aura!”
Me, the daughter of a rural mistress?
Charlot had heard of aura: the soul’s power drawn out by harnessing one’s breath. It required years of discipline and exceptional talent. Albert’s enthusiasm was baffling to her.
In the end, Albert’s judgment proved correct.
If he hadn’t been so discerning, he wouldn’t have bested his elder brothers to become emperor.
In his teenage years, Albert grew tired of being confined to the palace and eventually took to slipping into town in plain clothes.
Albert befriended people regardless of status in that rural domain, discovering and nurturing their talents.
One by one, they formed a loyal group around him. Adults called them the local troublemakers, but even their unsupervised mischief was fun.
Charlot was always there among them, and for the first time, she had friends. That band became more precious to her than family.
Sometimes, when she felt overwhelmed with gratitude, she’d tell him:
“Albert, you could be emperor one day.”
By then, she’d started to grasp how the world worked.
The emperor was far past eighty and refused to die. Inflated by his success in unifying the continent, he had no desire to release his grip on power and was seduced by nonsense about eternal life.
The struggle for succession had grown fierce, a deadly competition where siblings could turn on each other at any moment.
The youngest prince, exiled to the countryside, wasn’t exempt. To survive, he would have to become emperor.
Encouraged, Albert looked down at Charlot with an expression she could not describe. What it meant, she would never know.
“Lotte. When I’m emperor, I’ll place a crown of pearls on your head.”
Time after time, such ardent promises followed.
Even though it wasn’t the first time he’d said it, their friends whistled in amusement.
“There it is! Albert, the romantic poet!”
“Her Majesty, the Empress, won’t forget her humble friends, will she?”
“Come on, enough already!”
Even as Charlot cried out in embarrassment, Albert would continue seriously.
“I’m not joking. You’ll always be beside me, and beside you will sit the emperor.”
It was an expression of affection no one had ever shown to a mistress’s daughter. With teary eyes, Charlot made a vow in her heart.
“I would do anything for Albert.”
One night, while alone in his chambers, she thought:
“For Albert, I would give anything.”
Even a single lock of her lowly hair, if it could be offered to him, would be wonderful.
But it wasn’t about the crown of pearls. Even Charlot thought that was too grand a desire.
She was only the daughter of a rural viscount, her origins uncertain, her looks plain. She lacked the sophistication of nobility due to the neglect she’d endured.
The only thing she was confident in, then and now, was dancing alone.
At some point, she began to dance with a sword, dancing only for Albert.
With a singular, simple goal, she left no room for stray thoughts and grew naturally stronger.
Starting with the assassination of the Second Prince who plotted against Albert, she became infamous for countless political assassinations and ambushes.
Anyone who posed a threat to him, she killed. By cutting them down, one after another, she paved Albert’s path to the throne.
Others’ contributions were also great. In the public eye, the abilities of their friends shone brightly.
Historians would likely record it like this:
Irene, the butcher’s daughter, displayed an extraordinary knack for finances, funding their cause.
Pascalina, a minority woman, served as a rare and distinguished commander.
Jonathan, once a nuisance in the temple, won the support of the clergy.
Dietrich, the third son of a court noble, united the nobility.
However, if not for Charlot’s role, the secret struggles would have been far more challenging. By merit, she was the foremost of all loyalists.
“Charlot, your contributions have been invaluable. I’ll forever be in your debt.”
One day, after his coronation, Albert spoke while gazing out of the window of his office.
Even as she sensed he’d grown distant, Charlot smiled and replied.
“All of it was for you, Albert. Call me Lotte, just like you did when we were young.”
“…The others have all received titles. Is there anything you desire? Many of your achievements cannot be publicly acknowledged, but I’ll honor them as best I can.”
For a moment, she thought of the pearl crown, but Charlot shook her head.
“I don’t need anything. I… I just want to keep supporting you.”
“…Very well.”
Albert responded without looking back. His blond hair, shadowed by the light, took on a hazy, misted color.
A few months after that conversation, her world was turned upside down.
“A posting to a remote province…?”
Dumbfounded by the sudden command, Charlot protested.
“Let me see Albert—His Majesty! What is this nonsense about going to some barren land with hardly any buildings?”
She hadn’t wanted anything, but this treatment was unfair. However, every time she tried to meet the Emperor, she was turned away under the pretense of him being busy, so Charlot repeatedly sought help from others.
“Irene, Pascalina, Jonathan, Dietrich! You know this is unfair, right? I was there with you every step of the way to make Albert emperor… you all saw it yourselves!”
But all she received was chilling silence.
Now honored by their association with the new emperor, her friends acted as if they had never known her, refusing to answer.
Rumors soon spread in the palace that “Charlot openly resents the Emperor.”
Amid the mounting confusion, a disaster unfolded.
“Charlot Morden. Do you confess to the delusion of becoming Empress, driven to attack Lady Bathilde in jealousy?”
“No! I did no such thing!”
“Had Lady Bathilde not been so fortunate, imagine the tragedy. Isn’t this just your usual method?”
“I didn’t even know she’d been chosen as Empress!”
“Testimonies from your subordinates, including Hilarion. The incriminating plans found in your quarters. Do you still deny it?”
“It’s a lie! I’m being framed! You all know—I never once acted for my own gain…!”
But none of her former friends looked at her with warm eyes as they once had.
“Charlot, always disrespecting His Majesty. Even to the end, you refuse to know your place.”
“We warned His Majesty about your viciousness. Perhaps he’s finally realized the truth.”
“Greed got the better of you. You really thought you could aim for the Empress, with your background?”
The daughter of a mistress.
“Even if she’s a villainess, killing a loyalist would not set a good example. Render her crippled and imprison her. Her entire family will be executed to set a proper example.”
Albert, once so kind, so like a guiding star, pronounced her sentence with cold eyes.
Charlot could only stare up at him, stunned, unable even to cry.
Why? How?
What did she do to make him hate her?
She had only ever loved him.
And the friends she once trusted carried out her punishment.
Irene restrained her. Jonathan read her sentence. Dietrich gave the signal. Pascalina broke her knees.
Screaming and wailing, Charlot, no longer able to walk, was bound in a small, box-like cart and carted off to the icy northern prison.
During the first year, she wept, believing it to be a tragic misunderstanding. By the second year, she begged for forgiveness.
In the third year, she entertained fantasies of a miraculous release, and by the fourth, she accepted it was over.
Enduring constant abuse and humiliation, Charlot replayed every event endlessly, wondering where things had gone wrong.
But the answer was so obvious that it was almost too painful to confront.
Her abilities made her too dangerous, her loyalty too burdensome in the new emperor’s world, and her past achievements too heavy a debt to bear.
She was expendable.
Used and discarded.
That was all.
Finally, one day in her fifth year, she accepted it.
“I won’t die here. I’ll get out of here. I won’t die here. I’ll get out of here. I will…”
When she left this place, there was only one thing she’d do.
“I’ll kill every last one of those bastards.”
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