Beneath the Surviving Princess's Joyful Facade - Chapter 88

6

The embroidery on the dress was only completed on the morning of the banquet. As Miesa lay sprawled across the sofa, scratching its leg absently, the head maid continued her detailed explanation.

“Five maids and I worked two nights straight. You specifically asked us to focus on the sides, so we covered them meticulously with large leaves. As a result, the vine on the back turned out a bit asymmetrical, but the parts you wanted covered are all hidden. It’s been a while since I did embroidery, and now my eyes are not just strained but my hands have stiffened into the shape of holding a needle. This morning, I couldn’t even hold a spoon properly and dropped it…”

Once the head maid left, Miesa sprang up and shook her head. “I’ve never met anyone who talks that much. Are there many people like that in the world?”

“There shouldn’t be too many,” Gella laughed. “But look at this…”

The embroidery was as exquisite as the head maid’s experience suggested. Although Miesa felt guilty that the elderly woman had hurt herself while making it, Gella giggled.

“The maids actually enjoyed it. They had a peaceful few days without her scolding them.”

Miesa stood in front of the mirror. She had owned a few dresses from the palace, but this one was special. Someone had poured time and effort into making it just for her, and she felt both grateful and happy. Though the effort was somewhat coerced, it was still appreciated.

However, the thought of the banquet made her spirits sink. No matter how beautifully she was dressed, she knew she would have to smile awkwardly and behave oddly at the event. While other young ladies would smile gracefully and speak elegantly, she would be compared unfavorably.

How must she look in her husband’s eyes, next to those refined women? The thought made her feel despondent.

“Are you ready?”

Eirik entered the bedroom, his face lighting up with a smile at her radiant appearance, but he quickly noticed her gloomy expression.

“What’s wrong? Is something bothering you?”

“No matter how I dress up… I’ll always be…” Miesa’s voice trailed off.

Sensing her distress, Eirik gently wrapped his arm around her shoulders and spoke softly to her reflection in the mirror.

“Don’t worry. You will be the most beautiful person there.”

“……”

“You will be the most beautiful, intelligent, and vibrant person there. Everyone will be fooled by your outstanding acting.”

Miesa lowered her head. Eirik gently lifted her chin, making her look at him.

“Have I ever told you that I love you?”

“What?”

“It’s such an obvious thing that I might have never actually said it.”

Miesa blushed deeply.

Looking at her shy face, Eirik reflected on his thoughts. While he often felt compelled to serve abstract notions like country, family, and honor, sometimes feeling as if he was chasing illusions, his wife was different. She was full of life and desire, a living, breathing person whom he loved deeply.

In Miesa, he saw a vibrant vitality that made his loyalty feel more tangible and real.

“Go out there and create a stir. Show me how wonderfully you can do it,” Eirik said with a warm smile.

Since attendants were prohibited from accompanying them to the royal banquet, only the former Margrave and Margravine, Eirik, and Miesa boarded the carriage.

Miesa closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, stealing glances at Madam Cladnier. The carriage was quiet.

When they arrived at the central palace, Eirik gently woke Miesa. The former Margrave and Margravine disembarked first, followed by Eirik and Miesa.

Miesa wrinkled her nose, forcing a smile as she took unsteady steps. By the time they reached the hallway leading to the banquet hall, the doors opened, and a servant announced the arrival of the Cladnier family.

All eyes turned towards them. Miesa scratched her neck and belly, making a determined effort to walk. She kept her leg tense and her toes curled as she moved forward.

The gazes of the people in the banquet hall were filled with curiosity, whether they were friendly or hostile towards the Cladnier family.

The former Margrave, who had stepped down due to illness, looked significantly thinner than when he last appeared at the royal wedding. Beside him stood the elegant former Margravine.

However, the people’s attention was captured by the young couple that appeared behind them.

The new Margrave and Margravine made an unlikely pair, leaving many with their mouths agape.

The new Margrave had a striking appearance that was impossible to forget. His sharp features, reminiscent of the precipitous mountain ranges of the northwest, exuded an intimidating coolness. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a lean build and an upright posture, he commanded attention.

Clinging to his arm was the new Margravine, equally unforgettable but for entirely different reasons.

Her noble features, said to resemble the king, went unnoticed by the onlookers. With her nose scrunched up and her head tilted at an odd angle, she giggled strangely and scratched her side, completely inappropriate for such a formal setting. Her unsteady, stumbling steps further indicated that her health was far from perfect.

Only the faint sound of chamber music filled the silence, as no one in the banquet hall dared to speak. The sight was too shocking for even whispers.

“My goodness—”

“Oh…”

“Heavens…”

People couldn’t even bring themselves to sneer; they could hardly look at the Margrave and his wife. Elderly ladies, visibly shaken, sought the support of their husbands to steady themselves.

She didn’t seem this bad at the royal wedding, did she? Or has she always been like this?

The severity of her condition was worse than the rumors had suggested, leaving many men exchanging bewildered glances. Some even shut their eyes tightly, as if they had seen something they wished they hadn’t.

In the quiet, a servant announced the entrance of Duke Salachez.

Duke Salachez’s appearance in a garish outfit adorned with flamboyant ruffles brought a collective sigh of relief. People began to smile, and discreet laughter and whispers resumed.

It was easier to mock the ill-suited attire of a bastard who had claimed the title of a Duke than to discuss the pitiful marriage of the nation’s hero.

“Didn’t we send our tailor to him?” Madam Cladnier asked, equally curious. Eirik merely raised an eyebrow, choosing to remain silent.

Miesa was doing her best to play her part. After teasing an elderly lady thoroughly, she moved on to a young nobleman, showing him various antics until he was nearly stumbling with laughter.

As she turned to find her next “victim,” her eyes met those of a young lady. The girl, meticulously dressed, wore a horrified expression and clutched her mother’s hand with trembling fingers, as if letting go would mean being seized by a monster.

Miesa’s face momentarily hardened. What must she look like through that girl’s eyes? And how must her mother feel, shielding her daughter protectively?

But Miesa didn’t have the luxury of feeling disheartened. She quickly composed herself and plastered a silent, wide grin on her face just as a servant announced the king’s entrance.

“May the goddess’s glory and blessing be upon the highest,” the crowd intoned, raising their voices in unison to greet the king. The doors to the banquet hall opened, and Vermel entered with his favorite concubine, Anika, by his side.

With his radiant platinum blonde hair and dazzling looks, the king seemed almost unreal, like a figure stepped out of a painting. Those seeing him up close for the first time couldn’t help but be struck with awe.

Those positioned at the front, eager to catch his eye, showered him with praises and cheers. But the king, with an indifferent gaze, simply looked around the room.

Vermel slowly made his way to the throne, taking the seat that had been his by birthright. His mistress, Anika, with her sensuous grace, naturally settled at his feet, resting her head on his knee.

Anika, from the Principality of Sidate, drew eyes with her exotic beauty. While her deep brown hair was common enough in Esquillir, her almond-shaped eyes, delicate lips, and long limbs marked her as a northerner.

“Begin,” the king commanded. The servant signaled the musicians, who began to play a lively tune. Vermel idly stroked Anika’s brown hair as the nobles began to laugh and chat, raising their voices to match the festive atmosphere.

In the end, it was all a show. The nobles laughing, chatting, dancing, mocking, and backstabbing each other was nothing more than entertainment for the king, albeit not his favorite kind.