Knock, knock.

A sudden rap at the door shattered the charged silence of the room.

Celicia’s “farewell” was cut short, her hand freezing just as it began to tighten around his neck. She shot a glare at the door, her eyes radiating pure, undiluted annoyance.

“Tell them to leave,” she commanded, her voice a low, dangerous whisper.

“I can’t,” Ewan shook his head, the movement frantic. “This room is soundproofed. Aside from a knock, no sound can get in, which means no sound can get out.”

“…” Celicia’s brow furrowed, her icy gaze fixed on him as if contemplating the most efficient way to snap his neck. But in the end, with a sigh of frustration, she withdrew the hand that was moments away from sending him to the great beyond and slowly rose to her feet.

“You are spared. For now.”

“Th-thank you?”

“Get dressed. And answer the door.”

“R-right away.”

Like a man granted a last-minute royal pardon, Ewan scrambled off the sofa, grabbing his clothes and hastily pulling them on. The custom-made, twenty-kilogram suit was an absolute nightmare to put on by himself. If he hadn’t watched the maids dress him from start to finish earlier, he’d probably still be struggling with the first sleeve. Even so, in his flustered panic, he nearly put his undershirt on backwards three times, wasting precious seconds.

As he dressed, the distinct rustle of fabric from behind him sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, his mind shamelessly replaying the… wonderful highlights of the last hour.

“If you dare to turn around and look,” Celicia’s voice, as cold and sharp as a shard of ice, sliced through his reverie, “I will kill you on the spot, regardless of who is at that door.”

“…” Ewan flinched and immediately dedicated his full, undivided attention to his ongoing battle with his trousers.

…

By the time he was fully dressed, the sounds from behind him had ceased. Ewan couldn’t resist sneaking a glance over his shoulder.

Celicia was sitting primly on the sofa, as if nothing had happened at all. She was calmly fixing a few stray strands of silvery-white hair using a small, intricately-faceted hand mirror she had conjured from solid ice. Her simple yet noble white dress once again fit her graceful curves to perfection, radiating a breathtaking beauty without a single crease or wrinkle out of place. If it weren’t for the fact that Ewan’s own legs still felt like overcooked noodles, he might have convinced himself the whole thing had just been a very, very vivid dream.

“Wait.”

Just as Ewan reached for the doorknob, Celicia stopped him. She produced an exquisite bottle of perfume and spritzed it into the air several times. After taking a delicate sniff to ensure the… lingering, tell-tale scent in the air was gone, she gave a curt nod. “You may proceed.”

…

Ewan walked to the door.

After the whirlwind of events—the near-death experiences, the foiled plot, the… main event—his heart had finally begun to settle into a semblance of a normal rhythm. But he felt no joy, no relief of survival. The plot had completely derailed, and he was now hurtling down a one-way track to his own doom. The paths left to him were all dead ends: death by Celicia’s hand, death by the Emperor’s noose, or death by a thousand cuts from some unknown assassin.

“So, protagonist, oh protagonist,” he thought with a bitter sigh, “what’s the point of you showing up now? You’re too late.”

He opened the door.

He had expected to see Ariel, the hero of the hour, finally having found her way.

It wasn’t her.

It was a maid, carrying a tray laden with pastries and black tea. Her face was obscured by the shadow cast by the door, making her features difficult to discern.

“Young Master Ewan, my lady noticed that you and the princess have been conversing for quite some time and thought you might be hungry. She asked me to bring some refreshments.”

“Oh.” Mother? Did she see me invite Celicia to be alone? As expected of her, her timing is impeccable.

Not thinking much of it, Ewan stepped aside. “Just put them on the table over there.”

“Yes, Young Master.”

The maid nodded respectfully and entered the room. As she passed him, the soft light of the room’s lamps illuminated her face.

“Wait a minute.”

A jolt went through Ewan as his brain screamed that something was wrong.

“Why have I never seen you before?”

The maids of the ducal household were all rigorously screened, most having been educated within the estate since childhood precisely to prevent infiltration. Even with his chaotic, newly-merged memories, he should have at least a vague recollection of every servant. But this woman’s face was a complete blank. He’d never seen her before in his life.

“Of course you don’t recognize me, Young Master,” the maid said, not breaking her stride. “I was only hired last night.”

“Last night…” Ewan understood. “To help with the banquet?”

“That’s right. I’m here to help.” The maid reached the tea table in the center of the room and placed the tray down. “I just have one… other task to attend to.”

“Other… task?”

Ewan was still processing her cryptic words when he saw her hand dip beneath the tray and emerge with a dagger, its edge glinting with a cold, wicked light. She drew the blade with such fluid, natural grace that his mind froze for a split second before it could catch up.

His heart seized. Blood roared in his ears. In that single, terrifying instant, his thoughts moved at the speed of light.

Her target isn’t me. She had the perfect chance at the door.

Which means…

“CELICIA!” he screamed.

The maid’s figure blurred, vanishing like a phantom in the sunlight. The next instant, she reappeared directly in front of the princess.

“So fast!” Ewan gasped.

The room was spacious. The table was a good several meters from the sofa. But for this maid, that distance might as well have been nothing. In the blink of an eye, the sharp, deadly dagger was slashing through the air, aimed directly at Celicia’s pale, vulnerable neck.

Death itself had come to swing its scythe.

…

CLANG!

The spray of blood Ewan had braced himself for never came.

Celicia’s expression was a mask of pure, regal ice. Faced with the surprise assassination attempt, her cool eyes betrayed not a single flicker of panic. At some point, she had raised her hand, the ice mirror she’d been holding morphing into a slender, crystalline rapier that had unerringly intercepted the dagger’s path.

An invisible shockwave erupted from the point of impact, blasting the tea table and sofa to splinters and scoring deep, sharp gashes into the surrounding walls.

“Let me guess,” Celicia said, her gaze locked onto the assassin, her voice colder than the grave. “Did my foolish, dear brother send you?”

“My apologies, Your Highness, but my client’s information is top secret.” The assassin leaped back, but there was no sign of retreat in her eyes; she was merely creating distance to strike again.

But Celicia wasn’t about to give her that chance.

With a light tap of her foot, a thin layer of frost shot across the floor toward the assassin, its speed multiplying dramatically as it hit the puddles of tea Ewan had spat out earlier.

As she dodged, the assassin couldn’t help but frown. “Where did all this water come from?”

“…” For the first time, a flush of embarrassed rage colored Celicia’s perpetually stoic face. With an indignant stomp of her foot, the frost on the floor erupted into a forest of razor-sharp ice spikes, thrusting upward toward the now-airborne and completely defenseless assassin.