“Ah! Ophelia, my destined wife, your hair is so beautiful, just like the eternal snow atop the mountain peaks—”
Ophelia could barely stand another second of this man’s affected, never-ending prattle.
Why did he have to disturb her peace even in her dreams?
She wanted to dream of Anna, not that green-haired Otto, whose mere glance made her physically ill.
So she opened her eyes, but the next moment, she regretted her decision.
What she heard was not dream talk at all. She woke up, turned her face, and at that extremely close distance, she caught a whiff of the rancid, oily smell in that nest-like green hair.
One of her locks was still pinched between his fingers.
Ophelia felt as disgusted as if she’d found a half-eaten maggot in her bread.
“Who allowed you in here.”
Ophelia slapped away the hand playing with her hair and kicked Otto’s waist, trying to put distance between them.
But the result was the opposite—her ankle was seized tightly by Otto.
She watched in horror as those hands traced the bone of her ankle to her arch, then slowly caressed from her arch up to the top of her foot. Her stomach churned violently.
Disgusting, absolutely revolting.
Anna had done similar things before, yet Ophelia hadn’t minded in the least.
Ophelia understood her own heart all the more clearly.
“Get your filthy hands off me.”
Frost climbed up Otto’s hand gripping her ankle, carrying the threat that if he did not let go, the whole arm would soon be frozen solid.
“But you are my wife, Ophelia.”
Flames burst from Otto’s palm, instantly melting the ice covering his arm.
The meltwater slid down his hand onto Ophelia’s instep, then down along her calf.
Ophelia only felt the grip on her ankle tighten like an iron vice; no matter how she struggled, it was useless.
“I never agreed to any of this.”
“But the Grand Duke—my father-in-law—he agreed.”
“Since he agreed, then why don’t you go and marry him?”
With a muffled thud, Ophelia’s world flipped upside down. The back of her head hit the pillow with a dull crash, and Otto forcibly pried apart the arms she had crossed over her chest.
He slowly climbed onto the bed, straddling her waist, a shadow as heavy as a mountain looming over her face.
A darkness like the dead of night engulfed her in terror.
“What are you doing, Otto!”
She shouted sharply, but Otto only stared with wide eyes, the whites crawling with maggot-like blood vessels.
“You are my wife, Ophelia. I told you this long ago.”
His hand moved closer and closer to Ophelia’s chest.
A cough broke the tension, like a ray of dawn piercing into Ophelia’s bedroom.
“So it was you, Captain Yegor.”
Otto showed no hint of guilt at being caught in the act.
He calmly climbed down from the bed, put on his shoes, and strode right up to Yegor, as naturally as if he were a lord inspecting his own castle, as if everything around him was his property.
“I can’t just turn a blind eye, Young Master Otto.”
Yegor pressed into the room past Otto with quiet force.
“What does it matter? Ophelia and I are husband and wife. Please mind your own business, Captain.”
Yegor’s gaze lingered only briefly on his face before shifting to Ophelia, who was now clutching the blanket over her body.
“My Lady, your command?”
“Get that man… out of here.”
Ophelia hesitated for a moment, changing what she wanted to say from “drag him out and execute him” to “get him out.”
“As you wish, My Lady.”
Yegor courteously gestured for Otto to leave, but his right hand was already resting on the hilt of his sword.
“Hey, I called you Captain out of courtesy, but you really think you’re something now?” Otto jabbed his finger at Yegor’s chest. Yegor stood tall, unmoving, which only irritated Otto further.
“You’re nothing but a lowly servant. How dare you speak to your future lord this way? In a few days, you and your mistress will both be mine. I advise you to watch yourself.”
Yegor’s gaze did not soften in the slightest.
“Please leave, Young Master Otto.”
The sword was drawn bit by bit from its sheath.
Otto had no doubt that this man would cut him down at Ophelia’s command.
Otto never let himself suffer in the moment. After thinking it over, he chose to back down.
Yegor resheathed his sword, bowed to Ophelia, and turned to leave the room.
“Wait, Mr. Yegor.”
Ophelia clutched the blanket to her chest.
“What are your orders, My Lady?”
“Thank you… Mr. Yegor.”
“It’s my duty.”
Yegor moved to leave again.
Just as he stepped out the door, Ophelia called to him once more.
“Mr. Yegor… Anna, how is she now?”
Anna. The young lady still depended on her, after all.
“She’s well, My Lady. In my opinion, you can trust her a bit more.”
“What do you mean…? Mr. Yegor, please explain yourself.”
Ophelia hurried off the bed, but Yegor only bowed to her and said nothing more.
Yegor’s bow was like a door closing without a sound. All of Ophelia’s doubts and anxieties were locked inside the room as his figure faded into the distance.
He left behind only a cryptic remark, revealing nothing.
Ophelia stood alone where she was, the cold wooden floor pressing its chill through her feet, but her heart gradually began to warm.
It felt as if she’d drunk a cup of milk warmed to the perfect temperature.
“You can trust her a bit more.”
This phrase dropped like a stone into the depths of Ophelia’s heart, sending ripples outward.
There was no doubt—Anna must be out there preparing something. She had not been defeated, nor had she given in to despair; she had simply hidden herself…
Like a sharp blade drawn in the shadows, she would one day cut through all the chains binding Ophelia.
Ophelia, of course, would not sit idly by.
She was the morning sun at eight or nine o’clock—how could she be covered by a single dark cloud so easily?
She looked into the mirror. The girl in the reflection had messy golden hair, but in her bright blue eyes, a flame seemed to burn.
It was a flame rekindled from ashes—a Resurrecting Flame.
“Karat…” she muttered coldly, her voice sharp as ice, “Stop daydreaming in broad daylight.”
She was not some obedient princess locked away in a castle; she was Ophelia, the newborn sun, the Magical Prodigy of the North, the infamous villainess of the royal capital.
The only one qualified to stand by her side had always been the same.
Her sword, her knight, her Anna.
Anna will surely come to save her—so Ophelia told herself.