Beneath the Surviving Princess's Joyful Facade - Chapter 115

As Miesa entered the office, Tilberg and Cullen, who had arrived promptly, were already standing there with stern expressions.

“Manere will join us,” Miesa announced.

“Is it alright for Viscountess Manere to be present?” Tilberg asked cautiously.

“It’s fine. Manere has pledged her loyalty to me and won’t speak out of turn,” Miesa reassured him.

“No, that’s not what I meant… Can Viscountess Manere handle it?”

Tilberg glanced at the gentle-looking Viscountess Manere and asked cautiously, but Miesa waved a hand dismissively. “That’s nothing to worry about. Today, she’s only here to observe.”

Despite her assurance, Tilberg still looked uneasy. Miesa, however, seemed pleased as she rubbed her palms together.

The Duke of Salachez had done the same thing earlier when he was excited. Rubbing her hands seemed to lift her spirits even more.

Miesa glanced around the office and walked briskly toward one wall. Hanging there was a portrait of the first King of Esquillir, larger than life. As she stood before it, Tilberg quickly opened the heavy safe set into the wall beside the portrait.

Why is Her Majesty standing before the painting, and why is Tilberg opening the safe? Viscountess Manere, watching from behind, stood on tiptoe with curiosity, only to find the safe empty and open at the back, revealing the wallpaper. Inside the safe, she glimpsed what looked like a long rod.

Her question was soon answered. Tilberg grasped the handle hidden in the safe and pulled it down forcefully, causing the portrait to swing open like a door. Viscountess Manere, who had spent several years in the palace, widened her eyes at the sight she had never seen before.

Miesa entered the secret space behind the portrait as if she were familiar with it. The Captain of the Guard held the portrait open for the others and cast a worried glance at Viscountess Manere.

“Are you alright, Viscountess Manere?”

“Yes, well…” she replied, clearly nervous.

The queen had assured her that nothing was amiss. Besides, if she wanted to back out now, she would have needed permission or, at the very least, to declare her intent not to enter. However, the queen had already vanished from sight. Reluctantly, Viscountess Manere stepped into the dark space.

The Margrave’s attendant followed, and finally, Tilberg entered, and the sound of the door closing echoed, plunging them into darkness.

“I can’t see anything,” Viscountess Manere exclaimed in alarm.

“You can keep walking; I’m right here,” came the queen’s voice from ahead.

As she continued walking toward the direction of the queen’s voice, Cullen, the Margrave’s attendant, urgently tapped her shoulder.

“I’ll go ahead,” he said.

While Viscountess Manere hesitated, the queen’s voice echoed down the corridor, “Hello, Dialle.”

“Oh no.”

The Margrave’s attendant, Cullen, hurriedly pushed past Viscountess Manere and rushed forward. Behind her, Tilberg supported the staggering Viscountess Manere.

She moved forward, relying on the faint light, and groped along the wall as she navigated the twisting passage. She emerged into a bizarre space.

Viscountess Manere’s gaze traveled along the grim stone floor and the walls lined with torches, prickling with dread at the weapons scattered about. They were not just simple weapons; their mysterious forms were neatly arranged on tables and workbenches.

It was a torture chamber, and as Viscountess Manere shivered in unease, the queen was crouched beside someone next to four large boxes.

“You look healthy, and that makes me happy.”

Though Viscountess Manere could only see the queen’s back, her voice carried a smile. She took a few steps closer and saw Mrs. Dialle, bound and kneeling with her hair crudely cut, trembling like a prisoner.

“Mmm, mm.”

“I’ve been well,” the queen replied cheerfully.

“Mmm, mmm.”

“Yes, just wait a moment.”

After the brief exchange with Dialle, Miesa stood up, dusted off her skirt, and glanced around the hidden chamber before asking Tilberg, “Is that skewer new?”

“The previous one had too much soot that couldn’t be cleaned off…”

“How do you use this coffin-like thing?”

“When a person is placed inside and the door is closed, spikes protrude,” he explained.

“And this one? What happens when you tie the wrists here and the ankles there?” Miesa continued, pointing.

“It stretches the person’s body vertically,” Tilberg answered.

“It hasn’t been long since I left the palace, yet so much has been brought in,” Miesa remarked, examining the items in the room before bursting into laughter.

As her laughter grew louder, she could see the faces of everyone around her, including the gagged Dialle, contort with unease, but she couldn’t stop herself.

Miesa couldn’t tell if her laughter was due to the lingering traces of blood that hadn’t been cleaned away or if it was because she was genuinely happy.

“Oh, my box. I must open it quickly,” she exclaimed with a bright smile, gesturing to Tilberg as if she were a child eagerly unwrapping a birthday present. “Tilberg, quickly, open it.”

Tilberg brought out a chisel from somewhere and wedged it into the seams of the box. As each lid opened with a dull thud, it fell to the floor with a clang.

From inside the boxes, Count Carlisle, Count Sellas, Viscount Maleca, and Chief Lady-in-Waiting Namirea, heads emerging as each lid was lifted, peered up fearfully.

Bound and kneeling, unable to escape the boxes, the four looked a mess. Their heads were shaved, and even in the dim torchlight, their terror was evident.

Admiring their faces one by one, Miesa gestured for her entourage to take a seat. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. This will take some time, so you may sit and wait.”

Viscountess Manere glanced nervously at the strange chair in front of her, fearing spikes might shoot out like the sarcophagus the captain had described. She shook her head and tried to stand quietly, but her trembling legs forced her to lean cautiously against the wall. Tilberg and Cullen, in his attendant’s attire, stood a little apart, watching with grim expressions.

“There are five of you, including Dialle,” Miesa continued, her actions inscrutable. She muttered something while looking at Carlisle, hummed incomprehensibly as she glanced between Dialle and Namirea, and then paused to gaze at Viscount Maleca inside his box.

“Viscount Maleca, you were responsible for monitoring Celia Palace,” she said, leaning her elbow on Maleca’s box. As she moved closer, Viscount Maleca paled.

“You caught everyone who tried to sneak me out of the palace. I’m curious what kind of reward you got from Vermel for that.”

Turning slightly, Miesa gestured to Tilberg. “Remove Maleca’s gag. Let’s hear what he got for betraying the attendants and maids of Celia Palace.”

“Understood. But Your Majesty, please step away from the box first,” Tilberg advised.

As Miesa stepped back, Tilberg removed Viscount Maleca’s gag. Freed, Viscount Maleca glared and shouted, but his ire was directed at Tilberg.

“Captain of the Guards, you, who were little more than Vermel’s slave, have no right to treat us as criminals.”

“Silence him. Gag him again,” Miesa commanded.

Viscount Maleca’s demeanor turned desperate, and he cried out urgently. “Your Majesty, it’s not like that. I did everything just to survive.”

“Oh, really? I’ve done many things ‘just to survive,’ too. Like ‘licking the floor before the enemy who killed my mother,’” Miesa retorted.

Viscount Maleca’s eyes widened in shock as Miesa repeated the words he had once spoken, almost singing them. “‘Miesa? Oh, that thing has a name? More like an animal than a human, it seems.’”

Miesa giggled and, once her laughter subsided, murmured, “Viscount Maleca was quite generous, wasn’t he? To see me as a person even back then. Isn’t that right?”

As Viscount Maleca, flustered, began to stammer a defense, Miesa irritably tapped the box. “So, how much was my attendants’ and maids’ lives worth? What did you get in exchange for having them burned and sliced?”

“Your Majesty, whatever reward I received can’t compare to the torment I endured. That damned Vermel—”

Viscount Maleca quickly shifted his stance, aligning himself with the queen, but Miesa was not pleased by his badmouthing of Vermel.

“Enough. I’m no longer curious about your reward. Gag him again.”

As Tilberg silenced Viscount Maleca, Miesa turned her attention to the Count of Carlisle. “Carlisle. I don’t have many special memories of you.”

“He’s the one who built this room,” Tilberg hinted.

“Oh, did Carlisle furnish this room?” Miesa inquired.

The implements in this room were certainly not furnishings one would call household items, but Tilberg nodded. “Ah, yes. Now that you mention it, it was someone who put various things in Vermel’s hands, who was otherwise just using his fists. I couldn’t tell who it was then, with blood blurring my vision and ringing in my ears.”

Miesa nodded, recalling the situation. “Come to think of it, isn’t Countess Carlisle the one who incited Marchioness Crispin to try to kill me while I was quietly living in the Cladnier estate?”

While the lip rouge had come from Marchioness Crispin, it was Countess Carlisle who persuaded her to do so. It was Viscountess Maleca who presented the rouge in front of Miesa.

“And now, it’s just the two of them, isn’t it? Tilberg, capture Countess Carlisle too. Make sure she doesn’t run.”

Leaving those words, Miesa wandered around the room, inspecting the metal implements hanging on the torture chamber walls.