It was silver hair that seemed to hold the sunlight all to itself.
Contrasted against Tarkan’s black hair sitting just beside her, it looked all the more vivid.
No way…
Aristine forced herself to deny it, but in this situation it was clear whose silver hair that was.
“Why are you standing there? Aren’t you coming in?”
The king asked the three who had stopped abruptly. Only then did they recover and move toward the tea table.
Their hearts churned uneasily the closer they drew to Aristine, but they pressed the feeling down. It was just an unexpected sight, nothing more. They told themselves this over and over.
It’s just silver hair. There are black, red, and blonde heads in the world—silver is no stranger. It’s just ordinary silver hair.
But this color, this shine, was anything but ordinary. It was the kind of hue that might smell of flowers just from looking at it.
R-right. It was silver all along. I must have thought it was dull ash. Well, she did wash it… hair is just hair…
Sure—but no matter how clean it gets, that face won’t ever be pretty.
As they whispered among themselves, their shoulders straightened with renewed confidence. Embarrassed pride made them harbor poison for Aristine, and they spat empty flattery in her direction.
“We came to pay our respects to His Majesty, but I didn’t expect to see the famed princess here as well.”
“It startled me, truly. I had no idea you’d be here.”
“It’s an honor to meet you in advance. As princess of the Thousand-Year Empire, I expected you to be every bit as graceful and intelligent as your reputation.”
“Brother, just tell the truth. You must have been looking forward to seeing how beautiful she is. The Silvanus court is famous for handsome men and women, after all.”
“Ha—was it that obvious? Tarkan is a lucky man indeed.”
Their only purpose in praising Aristine so lavishly was to elevate her ever higher, to throw her down in the mud later.
“The Silvanus line is the oldest bloodline, after all. Noble blood blessed with both beauty and talent…”
First Princess Paelamien, who had been drifting toward the tea table with a soft laugh, froze when she saw Yenycarina’s face. Yenycarina smiled as always, but the corners of her mouth were slightly tense, and her complexion had gone pale.
Why would she be happy…?
Something was wrong. Since the moment she saw Aristine’s hair, the uneasy flutter in her chest had grown steadily stronger, now swelling beyond control. It was unmistakable—something was very wrong.
At that moment, Aristine turned to face them. Silver hair whispered free, revealing her small face. Under long lashes, mysterious violet eyes; cheeks smooth as whipped cream; lips sweet as sugar confections. Unlike the strong features of the Irugo, her slender neck and limbs were like those of a fairy.
That wretched princess…?
A soft gasp escaped their lips without realizing it. They had expected her cleansed, dressed in finery, still pretty perhaps—but nothing prepared them for this: a beauty so striking it could command every gaze at once.
She looked like a filthy beggar before!
I don’t know!
Their silent exchange rang loud.
“Who?”
When Aristine’s lips parted and her voice emerged, it felt surreal. Beauty alone is one thing—but a living, breathing person reacting to you is something else entirely.
“I-I am Prince Marten of Irugo, son of the late King. It is an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”
Marten—who had always fancied himself a charmer—introduced himself to Aristine as though under a spell. He didn’t even notice that her tone was no different than if she were addressing a servant.
The idiot’s brain must be between his legs, not his head.
Paelamien frowned and snapped her fan open with regal disdain.
“I am First Princess Paelamien, Your Highness. I’ll overlook it this time, but mind your manners in future.”
She snorted as if the concept were absurd.
“Who, indeed. We hardly look like handmaidens come to serve.”
“Exactly. You’re supposed to be a Silvanus princess, yet you can’t even observe basic etiquette?”
Fourth Princess Stalina glared at Aristine in disbelief. But Aristine’s expression didn’t change—no reaction at all. Paelamien flinched first, realizing her attack had landed without even a flinch from the target.
After a brief pause, Aristine spoke quietly.
“I think you misunderstood me…”
“Misunderstood? How so?”
Paelamien, certain she had a brilliant retort, lifted the corner of her mouth, only to be silenced by Aristine’s next words.
“I wasn’t asking who you are. I was murmuring to myself, ‘Who was that?’ It just felt like a face I’d seen somewhere.”
…
Paelamien couldn’t find a single reply. She fanned herself, feigning composure.
I can’t believe she remembered my face in all that chaos…
Both Paelamien and Marten had been among the royals gawking at Aristine’s arrival, yet here she was pretending not to recognize them. If anyone realized her jest, she’d look foolish—especially before the king. Paelamien bit back further protest. She can’t really know who I am… she was isolated, uneducated…
Paelamien settled her nerves. It must’ve just struck her as familiar. She fluttered her fan, hiding her face and avoiding Aristine’s gaze—only to hear a quiet laugh from Tarkan. Watching the proud First Princess rendered speechless was entertaining, even for him. I never expected this.
Aristine was of the purest Silvanus line, centuries old. Naturally, Tarkan had expected to despise her. Even her half-siblings had scorned her. Still, he had wondered if meeting her might change things. If she kept producing scenes like this, he might reconsider.
“Ha! What excuses. Muttering as if to yourself, refusing to admit fault—makes me doubt you’re even royal.”
Stalina snorted and glared.
“Oh, right. You’re that half-wit who wasn’t fit to be treated like a princess.”
Stalina’s smirk grew at Aristine’s silence.
“Why do you care? I was just talking to myself too.”
At her sister’s words, Paelamien pressed her palms to her temples. Not again! she thought. But if Aristine truly didn’t remember, then no harm done. And after all, it was the queen who had sent them here to torment the princess—perhaps this outcome was for the best.
Besides, how many people were there? In all the confusion she couldn’t recall every face.
Paelamien glanced at Aristine again. Her impassive mask gave nothing away.
“Prince Marten.”
Ignoring Stalina, Aristine addressed Marten. Stalina’s cheeks flamed bright red. Marten himself looked dreamy, gazing at Aristine.
“Have we met before?”
His eyes, a mysterious mix of blue and red, curved into an eye-smile as he nodded.
“Yes… I think so. No, I’m sure we have. I visited Silvanus once…”
In a heartbeat he beamed, babbling stories no one asked for.
“Your Highness, I’m honored you remember me. I suppose I have one of those unforgettable faces! Ha!”
Of course, Marten had never been to Silvanus—but what man could resist a beauty flirting, “Haven’t we met?”
Better me than Tarkan! Marten puffed up with pride in his own delusion.
“I think I met you somewhere else, not Silvanus.”
Aristine smiled at him.
“Oh? Where? In a dream? I think I’ve seen you there too. Hoho!”
Paelamien longed to silence him. She knows we were at Tarkan’s palace!
Now she was certain: Aristine was playing them. I heard she was uneducated and mad…but she’s terrifyingly clever.
She’s letting us know she holds all the cards.
Better to keep watchful until she played her hand. Paelamien glanced at the king. He showed no sign of intervention—yet.
He’s watching her.
Even if he feigned ignorance of her arrival, once she spoke, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t know. He might punish her mildly or side with her—depending on how this went. Best not to give her cause to use her cards.
No sooner had she thought that than Stalina spoke up.
“What is this? Standing before your betrothed, flirting with some other man? How utterly base…”
“Stalina!”
Paelamien raised her voice to cut her sister off. Stalina blinked, startled to hear the usually patient elder scold her.
“Your Highness was merely asking a question. To accuse her of flirting—what do you see, exactly?”
“But sister, she was batting her eyelashes—”
“Still with that? Everything looks the way you want it to.”
“What? Sister, what are you—”
“Go on, keep talking.”
At Paelamien’s low challenge, Stalina fell silent, ashamed.
“You don’t admit your fault, yet you demand answers from me?”
Stalina hung her head without replying. Paelamien clicked her tongue. That should keep her in line.
“Let this be an opportunity to reflect on your conduct and correct yourself.”
Stalina pressed her lips tight, stung and resentful. She could scarcely believe the sister who once let her cross any line was now angry with her. Why me?
“Stalina.”
Paelamien urged her for an answer. Stalina clutched her fists. She could not persist in stubbornness.
“…Very well. I will reflect, First Princess.”
Though her heart burned with injustice, Stalina lowered her head to Paelamien.
Clean shot.
Tarkan felt like applauding. Aristine had hunted her enemy perfectly—without moving a finger. Even he, uninterested in human machinations, was impressed. A true warrior’s prowess, he thought, and if this were a beast hunt, he’d have taken her into his service at once.
Through his golden gaze, Tarkan studied the delicate strength hidden in Aristine’s refined features. The more he looked, the less he understood her.
She could be his bride—but he’d rather make his fortune.