Chapter 3.2

[Princess Portia is so small and delicate, but her younger sister… Her Highness is rather tall, isn’t she?]

[Tall? She’s practically a man at that height.]

[And don’t her upturned eyes simply make you uncomfortable? She seems stubborn too.]

[She’s too big, it’s off-putting. Her chest as well. There’s nothing modest about her at all…]

[How could anyone hold a woman like that? It’d feel like I’m holding a man.]

Esha stared blankly at the ceiling.

She could still remember the countless noblemen and women at her first debutante ball, their eyes flitting to her as they mocked her, always comparing her to her sister.

Edmund had long planned to send his useless second daughter off to a convent.

In Elendor, a woman without value as a wife was no better than an unprofitable commodity. Many unmarried women were quietly sent to convents by their families, where they spent the rest of their lives out of sight.

But then the empire’s most valuable “commodity,” his eldest daughter, had died, just two months after her engagement, of a sudden and unnamed fever. The daughter he had raised like a rare jewel, the one who was meant to give him the heir he so desperately craved, was gone.

And now, Esha had taken her sister’s fiancé for herself. Portia Elendor’s fiancé, no less.

The moment she entered her room, she threw herself onto her bed and rolled from side to side. It felt like a dream. Guilt pricked at her, but deep down she felt a brazen, shameful gratitude to her dead sister.

⋆༺˖° ♛ °˖༻⋆

Attending bridal lessons each day wasn’t much of a hardship for Esha. Even the lessons on marital duties held a certain intrigue.

What weighed on her more heavily were the murmurs of the servants and knights.

Three days ago, Atlan’s reply had arrived. They demanded a reduction in the tribute originally promised as part of the engagement, additional dowry payments, and the return of three port cities Elendor had seized during the war.

In simpler terms, it meant this: compared to the original bride, the replacement—Esha—was worth less. And so, Elendor was expected to offer greater compensation.

It was a humiliating comparison, one that stung not only politically but personally.

Edmund ground his teeth in fury, calling Atlan’s behavior insolent for a mere vassal state. But in truth, even he couldn’t deny that Esha’s “value” was far less than Portia’s.

Because of this, Esha had to endure the subtle, scornful glances of the palace servants whenever she passed them in the corridors.

After Elendor’s victory in the conquest war, its citizens had grown fiercely nationalist, steeped in a sense of superiority over their vassal states. The thought that their empire could be insulted like this by Atlan only deepened their indignation.

And naturally, all that anger turned on Esha.

“You’ve brought nothing but shame on us!”

The moment Esha stepped into Edmund’s drawing room, a stack of papers came flying at her face.

She couldn’t lift her head in front of her father, who was seething with rage. Strictly speaking, none of this was truly her fault, but keeping quiet and avoiding his temper was the safest course.

“If Portia were alive, none of this would have happened.”

“I’m sorry…”

Esha flinched, bracing herself for another object to come hurtling toward her. Thankfully, nothing else followed.

“Not that it matters now. It’s my misfortune to have a useless daughter. Low-born blood always reveals itself sooner or later.”

Esha’s head snapped up.

Edmund rarely spoke of her birth.

In both Elendor and Atlan, bastards were considered a mistake of God. If word of Esha’s illegitimacy were ever exposed, she wouldn’t just lose her engagement, she would almost certainly be thrown into prison for deceiving the empire.

“You carry only half my blood, so I can’t expect perfection. But at the very least, try to be half as good as your sister.”

“Yes, Father,” Esha forced herself to reply.

Her hands clenched tightly around the folds of her dress, trembling violently. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks.

Sister. It was a word that felt like a noose tightening around her throat. Even in moments when she felt as though she were walking on air, hearing that name made it impossible to breathe.

The moment she stepped out of the drawing room, she broke into a run down the corridor. She needed air, something to shake this suffocating feeling from her chest.

The knights she passed instinctively slowed their steps at the sight of her tear-streaked face.

‘Father wouldn’t grieve for me if I died.’

At last, she reached the back garden.

She sank onto a swing chair nestled between the bushes and tilted her head back. Still, the tears wouldn’t stop, and she had to bite down hard on her lip to hold back the sobs threatening to spill out.

Dusky moonlight cast its pale glow over her bowed head.

Then, the sound of rustling leaves reached her ears.

Startled, she whipped her head toward the noise.

“Who’s there?”

Emerging from the shadows was the boy she had seen earlier at the funeral. The black-haired prince who, before long, would become her fiancé.