The Miracle's Price
Thalia, who had been drifting through the lingering afterimages of memory as if buoyed on clouds, gradually returned to reality.
As she lifted her heavy eyelids, the flickering candlelight came into view. While she stared at it blankly, her blurred senses gradually sharpened. Enveloped in a strange sense of emptiness, she slowly raised her upper body. For a while, she could not comprehend where she was. Only after several seconds did she realize she was lying on a strange bed in an unfamiliar room.
With vacant eyes, Thalia slowly surveyed the lavishly decorated bedroom when suddenly an alien sensation drew her gaze downward. Her two legs lay fully exposed beneath the short shorts. No—these could not be her legs. Such hideous things could never belong to her body.
With trembling hands she touched the uneven knees, as if they were encrusted with candle wax. The shape of her legs was wrong. The shins and kneecaps twisted subtly out of alignment, and across the pale skin spread stiff, rough scars like tree bark. Long marks ran from calf to knee to thigh like cracks in broken porcelain. She began to scratch at them with her fingertips, convinced that if she could peel away the bumpy discoloration, her original pearly skin would shine through once more.
Ignoring the burning pain, she tore persistently at the reddish, swollen dark marks until red blood trickled down. Staring at it in a daze, she heard a creaking sound from somewhere. Thalia jerked her head up and found Senebier seated askew on a velvet-draped chair, her eyes widening.
The Empress gazed at her with blue eyes that shone clearly even in the darkness. Parting crimson lips that seemed stained with blood, she let out a sweet voice. “Must you reopen wounds that have barely healed? It would be troublesome to summon the healer again.”
She set the small booklet she had been holding onto the table and furrowed her delicate brows. Thalia, who had been staring without blinking, moved her parched lips. “What… what have you done to my body?”
At the disbelieving question, the Empress’s eyes widened slightly before curving into crescent moons. Senebier let out a soft laugh as if hearing an amusing joke and shook her head. “That is not something you should say to a mother who even summoned the ‘Eternal Clan’ to try and heal you.”
“……”
“Do not look at me like that. I know you distrust me, but… this time, I did everything I could for you. That the result is only this much is disappointing even to me.”
A serpentine gaze slowly crawled down her body and lingered on the bloodied scars. Thalia hurriedly pulled the blanket over her legs, her fingertips trembling at the look, as if seeing something repulsive. She let out a small sigh and continued. “I considered confronting them, but it seems they did their best in their own way. Even though the bones, as well as some muscles and nerves, were damaged, they said it was a miracle that it recovered this much.”
Toward her daughter, who was on the verge of collapsing from shock, the Empress continued in an eerily calm tone. “It seems they could do nothing about those scars either. They tried incising the wound area several times and casting magic again, but the ugly marks regenerated as they were. It must be due to the degeneration of skin tissue from leaving the wounds unattended for so long.” A soft sigh escaped her lips. “It would be difficult to blame the imperial healers either. If they had healed the wounds immediately, the skin might have been cleaner than now, but the legs would have been permanently unusable. Still, at least now you can walk, so that must be some consolation.”
The words pouring out matter-of-factly felt like iron skewers jabbing into her stomach. Turning to her daughter, frozen in bewilderment, Senebier drove the point home. “I am truly sorry.”
Thalia slowly lowered her head. Watching her with a thoughtful gaze, Senebier rose from the chair and approached. Soft fingers scented with flowers touched her cheek. “Thalia. Do you remember when I once said that the beautiful and the weak become targets of plunder?”
Thalia struggled to meet her eyes with a hazy gaze. The face, as if sculpted from pearls, gold, and sapphires, blurred through tears. Senebier continued gently, as if telling an old tale. “Then, what becomes of the weak and the ugly?”
“……”
“The ugly, you see, become objects of ridicule and contempt. Such things do not even become targets of plunder. They are merely trampled upon meaninglessly, mocked, and ostracized. Because people have a habit of constantly seeking something to hate and despise in order to prove their own superiority. Having a flaw means becoming good prey for such people.”
Though she tried her hardest not to cry, a rough sob finally escaped her throat. The words the Empress poured out hurt more than the bleeding legs. Looking down at her daughter’s face distorted by weeping, Senebier clicked her tongue in pity. “But there is no need to worry. I have no intention of allowing my daughter to be placed in such a position.”
Cold fingers, like insect legs, brushed the disheveled hair from her cheek. Her eyes, like bottomless pits, narrowed slightly. It was a smile that seemed to promise even greater despair.
Within the grand temple located inside the imperial palace, thirty-four coffins were neatly arranged. While priests circled them, pouring holy water and reciting prayers, the mourners took turns placing flowers on the coffins.
Seated on the believer’s stone, watching the long and tedious procedure, Asros rolled his eyes to spy on his half-siblings. His elder brother sat in the upper seat with his usual arrogant expression, putting on airs, while Ayla Roem Guerta was elegantly mourning the deceased, befitting her nickname of the “Perfect Princess.” It was a scene no different from usual. However, he felt a strange sense of incongruity.
As he pondered the reason, Asros soon realized that his half-sister was in a state of considerable anger. Though she had crafted a fairly plausible sorrowful expression, her eyes were as cold as ice, and her mouth was noticeably stiff. What could she be so angry about? Unlike his elder brother, who expressed all emotions as they were, she was someone who always hid herself behind a serene smile. It was quite intriguing that his sister, who never showed any vulnerability at any moment, was revealing her emotions in front of so many people. Was she that upset that the wedding was postponed?
Asros’s gaze naturally turned to her fiancé. Barcas Laedgo Seorkan stood beside the altar with his back straight, quietly observing the funeral rites. He looked more like a statue erected in a cathedral than a living person. Feeling interest in his excessively static appearance, Asros examined him from head to toe.
The next Duke Seorkan was dressed in a doublet tailored sleekly from shoulders to waist without any excess, breeches that fit his body like armor, and a long navy-blue cape draped over his left shoulder. Though his attire was somewhat plain, to Asros’s eyes, his clothing looked far more splendid than that of the nobles who had dressed themselves up to the nines. He could understand, at least a little, why his half-sister was so upset about the postponed wedding.
……With an accident like this having occurred, we won’t be able to depart on the pilgrimage again until next year. Then, that would mean Ayla Roem Guerta and the next Duke Seorkan’s wedding would also be postponed until next year. Having thought that far, Asros suddenly frowned. His chest suddenly felt stuffy. He wished his half-sister, who always looked at him as if he were bothersome, would hurry up and leave for the ducal territory. Perhaps they might break imperial tradition and proceed with the wedding as scheduled.
He looked at Sir Seorkan with an earnest wish. Please, take Ayla Roem Guerta to the East. At that moment, as if hearing his ridiculous prayer, the man turned his head. Asros flinched and lowered his eyes. His heart sank at the gaze that seemed to see right through his mind.