Reinhard arrived back at his residence much faster than usual, his stride slightly more hurried than anyone who knew him had ever seen.
When he opened the dining room door, what he found was a scene that, under other circumstances, might have made him smile—Merope sitting on the floor with several maids, laughing cheerfully while learning how to fold napkins into shapes far from neat.
Noticing his presence, Merope immediately looked up, her face lighting up.
“Reinhard! You’re back!”
”Merope,” he called out, his voice more serious than usual, enough to make Merope’s smile slowly fade as she caught something unusual in that tone.
Felt, sitting on the sofa near the window reading a report, also looked up.
“Oi, why does your face look like you just saw a ghost?”
Reinhard let out a long sigh, stepping fully inside, closing the door behind him before answering.
“There is something we need to discuss. With both of you.”
Merope stood up, leaving the half-folded napkin on the floor, approaching with an anxious face.
“Did I cause trouble again?”
”No,” Reinhard answered quickly, trying to soften his tone.
“This is not your fault. But this… will change a lot of things.”
He took a deep breath, gathering the words he had strung together all the way home, yet they still felt difficult to voice.
”The Council of Elders just received a new prophecy from the Dragon Stone,” he said finally.
“The prophecy states that the royal candidates now total six, instead of five as before.”
Felt lowered her report slowly, raising an eyebrow.
“Six? Since when—”
”And,” Reinhard interrupted, his eyes shifting to look directly at Merope, “the description of that sixth candidate…
a young girl with deep blue eyes, platinum hair.
The sister of one of the witches from 400 years ago.”
The room fell into total silence.
Merope stood stiffly, her eyes widening, trying to digest those words one by one—candidate, sixth, witch’s sister—as though every word needed separate time to truly sink into her head.
”…That’s me?” she whispered finally, her voice barely audible.
No one answered right away.
Felt and Reinhard exchanged glances, neither knowing how to respond to a question already answered by the silence itself.
Merope looked down, staring at her own hands like her habit that had surfaced repeatedly since day one—as if answers about who she was might be hidden there, if only she stared long enough.
Then, slowly, she looked up again, her eyes now gazing at Reinhard with something deeper than mere shock—a long-buried confusion finally finding an opening to escape.
”Reinhard,” she said, her voice shaking slightly, “why are witches portrayed so terribly?
Even yesterday the villagers were afraid of me.”
The question dropped simply, yet its weight was far heavier than it looked—the question of a young girl just realizing she belonged to a category hated by everyone, without ever knowing why, without ever feeling she deserved to be hated.
Reinhard paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully, like someone who knew full well his answer could wound or heal depending on how he delivered it.
”400 years ago,” he began slowly, “there were seven witches—known as the Witches of Sin—who brought great disaster to the entire world.
One of them created a plague that killed millions of people.
Another created terrifying monsters that still exist today.
And another one…” he paused briefly, hesitating.
”And another one what?” Merope pressed, though a small voice inside her was already beginning to guess the answer.
Felt, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke up, her tone softer than usual.
“Another one created a cult. People who followed her to the point of killing and sacrificing themselves for her sake. That’s why many people to this day are still terrified when they hear the word witch—not just because of their powers, but because of what their followers did.”
Merope fell silent, her chest feeling heavy with something she didn’t fully understand—a dark premonition hanging at the edge of her consciousness, like a name she almost remembered but kept slipping away every time she tried to grasp it.
”So…
people are afraid of me,” she murmured, “because another witch once did terrible things.
Not because I myself did something.”
”Right,” Reinhard answered, gentle yet firm.
“Their fear isn’t your fault. But it also won’t make that fear vanish just because you say you aren’t bad.”
Merope stared at him for a moment, then looked down again, her fingers twisting the edge of her dress.
”In that case,” she whispered, “I have to prove it.
Not just saying I’m good—I have to actually show it.”
Reinhard looked at her for a long time, something in his eyes softening at a resolve so simple yet steadfast.
“And the Royal Selection,” he said softly, “might just be that opportunity.
Other candidates fight for power, for revenge, for their own reasons.
But you—” he paused, choosing his words, “—you can be the only one fighting not for yourself.”
Merope looked up, her eyes watery, but this time not out of sadness—rather, from something that felt like a tiny spark of hope newly lit amid the fog of ignorance that had long surrounded her.
”So,” she said, her voice slowly regaining its confidence, “I’m really going to be a royal candidate?”
”If you agree,” Reinhard replied.
“The council has approved it, but the final decision remains with you. No one will force you.”
Felt, who had been listening quietly, finally chimed in, crossing her arms with her signature casual style.
“Well, if you really intend to show everyone that witches aren’t always bad, this is the biggest chance you can get.
But remember—” her tone turned a bit more serious, “—the other candidates aren’t ordinary people.
There will be those digging for your faults, those suspicious of your origins.
You have to be ready for that.”
Merope nodded slowly, swallowing the remaining fear deep in her chest, but letting her new resolve take the wheel.
”I’m ready,” she said finally, her voice steady despite a small tremor inside.
“I want to be a royal candidate. Not for power—but so that people like yesterday’s villagers won’t have to be afraid anymore when they see a face like mine.”
Reinhard smiled faintly—a rare smile that rarely appeared on his face—and gently patted Merope’s head, a simple gesture that somehow made the girl feel far stronger than any encouraging words.
”In that case,” he said, “we have a week to prepare you.”
”Prepare me how?” Merope asked, tilting her head, her usual curiosity slowly returning amid her new resolve.
Reinhard and Felt exchanged brief glances, as if each waiting for the other to answer first—the list they needed to assemble was clearly much longer than could be explained in a single simple sentence.
”A lot,” Felt answered finally, sighing as she rose from the sofa.
“First, you have to learn court etiquette—how to sit, how to talk to nobles, how to eat properly so people don’t think you were raised in the forest.” She glanced briefly at Merope, who technically, had indeed just come out of the forest yesterday.
“…which, yeah, is actually true.”
”Second,” Reinhard continued calmly, “you need to control your power.
Not to hide it completely—that would be impossible before the Dragon Stone—but to understand when and how to use it without panicking people like in the village yesterday.”
”Third,” Felt added, raising three fingers, “you need to know about the other four candidates who will be your rivals.
Who they are, what they want, and—this is super important—who might become a problem for you.”
Merope listened closely, nodding at every point though her eyes began widening slightly at the sheer number of things she had to learn in such a short time.
”And lastly,” Reinhard said, his voice softening, “you need to think about who you are in public.
Not who you truly are—that’s a secret that must remain guarded—but a story you can share without opening up the truth about your origins.”
Merope fell silent for a moment, digesting it all, before finally letting out a long sigh and smiling slightly, a mix of nervousness and unbreakable resolve.
”Alright,” she said, “if that’s what I must do to stand there without making things more dangerous for the two of you…
I will study as hard as I can.”
Yet before that serious atmosphere could last any longer, a mischievous smile crept onto Merope’s face, replacing her previously earnest expression.
”But, Felt,” she said, turning to the blonde girl, “even when you ate earlier, you had no table manners at all.”
Felt, who had just risen from the sofa with a confident posture, froze in place.
”…What?” she said, her voice rising an octave, clearly not expecting a counter-attack this fast.
”Yeah,” Merope continued, growing more enthusiastic, imitating Felt’s earlier posture chewing bread with her elbows propped on the table, “you ate like this, then talked with your mouth full, then—”
”OI!” Felt cut in quickly, her face flushing between embarrassment and annoyance, “that’s different!
I’m not the one running for Royal Selection—wait, actually I am running too—BUT IT’S STILL DIFFERENT!”
Reinhard, who had been standing calmly watching, couldn’t hold back a faint smile at the corner of his lips—a rare smile that hardly ever surfaced in front of anyone, let alone over a joke as simple as this.
”Merope is right,” he said, his tone flat yet clearly enjoying the moment.
“Felt-sama’s table manners indeed… need improvement.”
”REINHARD!
You’re supposed to take my side, not join in!” Felt shouted, pointing accusingly between the two of them, though behind her annoyed face, laughter was beginning to break through her struggle to hold it back.
Merope burst into laughter, her cheerful sound filling the room that only minutes before was thick with tension—and for a moment, amid the heavy burden she had just accepted, there was this small, simple moment, enough to remind her that despite the uncertain world ahead, at least she wouldn’t face it alone.
…..
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