Chapter 1 - The Grand Duke’s Pet
It was at the very center of a vast and magnificent hall.
Amidst the crowd of black-clad mourners whispering in hushed tones, a lone woman stood with perfect posture, singing in a beautiful voice.
It was the memorial banquet for Grand Duke Heron, who had passed from a sudden heart attack not long ago.
Given the nature of the gathering, the grand hall carried a faintly restless air, yet the one person who remained unshaken in her place was the singer, opening her lips with grace.
As though she had taken root on the stage from the very start, not a hint of disruption could be found in her presence.
~Now, at the very hour our death has come to claim us…
Her voice was as exquisitely pure as her appearance. Noblemen, forgetting their own decorum in the midst of this solemn assembly, could not help but steal glances at the dignified beauty, their eyes lingering upon her.
As she finished the short memorial song and bowed, a smattering of polite applause followed. Her slender legs moved as if dancing to the sound, carrying her away.
Hair as dark as the feathers of a raven slipped through the narrow passage offstage.
The color of a woman, black as midnight yet as pale as snow, lingered in their vision.
And then, just at that moment, a pair of legs stepping into the hall wavered and came to an unsteady halt.
The dress, designed to accentuate the curves of the body, cinched the waist so tightly that merely sitting in it was a torment.
“Alperil! Are you all right?”
A man, who had been watching her anxiously from a distance, quickly rushed over to support her.
Alperil leaned into him, her collapsed posture clinging to his frame as she caught her breath, offering a faint smile as though to say there was no need to worry.
But rather than easing his concern, it only deepened it. The young man, with brown hair and brown eyes, gathered her limp arms and legs with a pained look.
He was Pascal Muller her only friend and fellow serf bound to the same fate.
Catching the clear worry in his eyes, Alperil swiftly opened her mouth before his fretting could grow into scolding.
“Why so fussy? I’m fine. Have you ever seen me not be fine?”
“You…”
“And look, today’s performance was perfect. Everyone thought so. Thank you for worrying, Kal.”
With a steady stream of chatter, she successfully silenced Pascal’s words. A grin even tugged at her lips. Pascal could only let out a long, resigned sigh.
Alperil was a serf of House Heron, born and raised within the Grand Duke’s estate. A person, but never truly a person like a marionette, a doll.
Long ago, following the fall of the ancient empire, the Kingdom of Triberar emerged from its remnants, claiming through countless wars the most fertile lands of a divided continent.
The Grand Duke’s house, her master’s, was a faithful vassal to the royal family.
Heron had always maintained the closest of ties to the throne, making them one of the wealthiest and most powerful noble families in Triberar.
Naturally, the Grand Duke’s manor became a hub of inland pleasure and social activity. And as such, amid the endless banquets and gatherings, there grew an inevitable need for amusements that could bring the nobility ceaseless delight.
It became a frequent custom for noble houses to select particularly talented serfs from among their own to be schooled in painting, music, architecture, and the like.
Among the hundred thousand serfs belonging to House Heron, it was inevitable that Alperil, with her exceptional appearance and voice, would catch the late Grand Duke’s eye.
The Grand Duke, who prized rare talents and beauty in life, lavished her with refined opera education, parading her at his side like a treasured plaything, a prized ornament for display.
So now, with the Grand Duke gone, it was little wonder that Pascal fretted over Alperil as if she were a newborn chick. She was a woman forever claiming she was fine, yet never once revealing the truth of her heart to another.
“Really, don’t mind me. And you, you should…”
“Pascal Muller, have you fallen for that filthy harlot too?”
Just then, a voice cut between them like a sharp blade.
A few house servants, who had approached unnoticed, burst into vulgar snickers upon seeing Alperil leaning against Pascal. Among them, one even went so far as to hurl a crude insult.
“If you’re going to finish what you started, take it to the stables out back. Give us something worth watching while you’re at it!”
Pascal sprang to his feet, livid, but Alperil swiftly grasped the hem of his garment and held him back.
Weariness was plain in the pale blue of her eyes as she whispered sharply, like a quiet shout.
“Don’t. There’s no need to cause a scene over something like this. It’s not the first time.”
There were, of course, female serfs who were forced into the beds of their masters, powerless to refuse, but Alperil had never once been summoned for such things by the late Grand Duke.
Fortunately, he had prized her more as a costly ornament than as a woman to be taken.
Even so, those envious of the favor she enjoyed frequently spread rumors, most of them baseless and spiteful. Few in the household did not either join in or silently stand by.
Aside from Pascal and his family, his two brothers, both tailors, and his father, a blacksmith bound to House Heron, there was hardly a soul worth trusting. It was a slight too low to be worth rising to, yet irritating enough to gnaw at one’s nerves.
“…You must be tired too. Go rest.”
Accepting the situation, Pascal muttered through clenched teeth, frustration thick in his voice.
Alperil gently patted his shoulder a few times before quickly turning to leave. Hundreds of noble guests had gathered at the Grand Duke’s manor today. In the midst of it all, Pascal had likely made time to come see her.
She quietly watched her childhood friend’s retreating figure.
Maybe I’ll sneak out a few leftover pastries at dawn… If I gather his brothers and uncle, we might even manage a little tea party of our own. They’d be so happy.
The idle, bittersweet thought had only just crossed her mind when a low voice brushed against her ear.
“Is he your lover?”
A whisper, spoken without a hint of approach. Every hair on her body stood on end.
The tone was oddly tender, but Alperil recognized its owner without needing to turn.
“…Master Leopold.”
“Answer me. Is he your lover?”
Leopold Taschilo Solman Belkthold Heron.
At twenty-four, the direct heir of House Heron, and now, a son bereft of his father. A flicker of unease rippled through the eyes that had remained so placid until now.
Leopold was known for his handsome, easygoing charm and generous nature. Even among the servants, he was well-liked.
Yet Alperil had no idea why a man who ought to be occupied with receiving mourners had appeared in this quiet corner of the hall.
“Of course not. He’s just a friend.”
Alperil answered with an awkward, brittle smile. A lover? It was a word that might apply to an ordinary serf, but it was one forever denied to someone like her. The hollow of her throat quivered slightly.
For reasons she couldn’t name, she found the young heir, lauded by all as a kind master, deeply unsettling.
Perhaps it was the way he always spoke to her with an air of familiarity, though they had rarely exchanged more than a few words.
“Hm… Doesn’t seem that way to me.”
His tone softened, but the question pressed again. Alperil gave a quiet, firm nod.
Then, a broad, calloused hand landed on her shoulder, and with barely any effort, her slender, light frame was spun around.
Alperil bit down on the urge to cry out, planting her heels firmly against the floor.
Leopold’s deep red hair and green eyes gleamed in a way eerily reminiscent of the late Grand Duke’s.
The strikingly handsome young man let his gaze travel slowly, lingeringly, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.
“That elegy you sang earlier was excellent. I finally understand why my father was so fond of you.”
“Th-thank you, my lord.”
The words spilled out, half from habit. Leopold seemed pleased by the submissive, docile reply, the corners of his lips curling upward. He was a young man who, for all his charm, left a chill in his wake.
“When the Grand Duke was alive… aside from opera, what other training did you receive?”
At the man’s sudden, inscrutable question, Alperil cautiously studied his expression.
For a moment, it seemed as though he might wait for an answer, but then her lips parted obediently. After all, it wasn’t as though she had any choice.
“I’ve studied the basics of Triverar history, and the languages of Ritnian, Grutian, and Nymelian three or four times a week. Besides that… painting, etiquette, and music.”
“Oh?”
The low murmur of surprise cut her words short. The corners of his eyes, which typically softened his handsome, easygoing appearance, now cast a shadow that felt oddly menacing. Leopold took another step closer to her.
“Impressive. Must’ve cost a fortune.”
His large, rough hand brushed the back of Alperil’s pale, slender neck. The cold touch of his fingers made her skin flinch involuntarily.
A necklace, strung with glittering jewels, immediately caught his eye.
“I’m not sure a serf girl is worth all that, but it seems my father thought differently.”
The indolent tone unmistakably carried a trace of hostility. Thump. Thump. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst from her chest.
Flustered beyond reason, Alperil froze, unsure of what reaction was safe to show.
“The piano?”
“…I beg your pardon?”
“Is your piano playing as fine as your singing? Or rather… Do you play well?”
Understand, I know next to nothing about music.
He lifted his hands from her entirely and stepped back with a light, guileless smile. Instinctively, Alperil sensed that this was an opportunity being laid before her.
Before long, this man would claim his rightful title as heir of House Heron.
The ease and modest comfort Alperil had known, thanks to catching the late Grand Duke’s eye, belonged firmly to the past.
From this moment on, her fate could twist in any direction depending on the whim of the young heir standing before her.
“I both know it well… and play it well. I’ve been learning for seven years.”
Alperil forced the brightest smile she could manage as she answered. She had not, of course, gone this long without ever imagining what might follow the Grand Duke’s death, but now, with everything happening so abruptly, her mind spun.
Her father, once a serf, had been flogged to death for attempting to flee before she was even born. And her mother, heavily pregnant at the time, had wasted away from grief before giving birth to her, dying soon after, or so she’d been told.
The only ones who’d ever shared those stories with her, who had offered a semblance of warmth and protection, were the Muller family– Pascal’s father and brothers. They were her only family, the only friends she had in the world.
If she were cast out now, stripped of what little protection she held as a serf under this house, she would have no hope of ever seeing them again.
Alperil hid her trembling hands behind her back and forced a smile.
“Come to think of it… you truly are beautiful.”
Leopold’s gaze fixed upon her face, his tone one of casual, passing observation, as if it were a detail that had just now occurred to him.
There was nothing in it that sounded like praise. All Alperil could do was offer a tense, anxious smile in return.
“Don’t fret, It all depends on how you handle yourself.”
He said, his voice light and unhurried, as though reading every thought in her head.
As Alperil lowered her gaze and bit her lip, he leaned in, his breath grazing her ear.
“Come to my chambers at dawn. Knock three times, the door will open.”
