Rise of the Unfavored Princess

Ch. 50: Janice?

A fat tear runs down my cheek, but I don’t bother to rub it away. The cry that was about to lunge out of my mouth is wrangled down with herculean effort, leaving my throat aching. I still let out a wince, the air seeping out from my clenched teeth. The empress does not just want to harm me, she wants to cripple me permanently.

In the hand I just extended, specifically my chubby little thumb, an unsightly view that would otherwise make my gorge rise awaits me. The needle I thought the empress was about to hand me is buried deep in the finger, the nail painfully separating flesh from fingernail as it delves deeper and deeper into my thumb.

It’s not that I didn’t expect the empress to get physical with me, I just uncreatively assumed I would get spanked or something. I had thought that my newly discovered royal identity would serve as a shield and save me from most forms of physical harm.

My lips bitterly curl into a grim smile as I stare at the piece of metal jutting out of my tiny doll-like finger. It’s a clever way to harm someone. Even as copious amounts of pain run through my finger and up my forearm, if one blocks the needle out of sight, my thumb looks perfectly normal. Katya’s hold on hand is soft, a hand that has never been met with rough labor or hard work, pampered since she was born.

You see, hands are significant in the Erudian Empire, especially so for noblewomen. Women are fully clothed from head to toe, their only uncovered features usually their face or their arms when it is hot. We must wear gloves for all formal occasions once we come of age and only show our uncovered hands to our future husband.

For magical practitioners, hands are essential for wielding magic. For well-bred noblewomen, deft hands are needed for ‘necessary’ household tasks such as embroidery or playing an instrument. Hurting my hand like this, doesn’t the empress just want to cut off my future prospects? Is this also why she made me hold the boiling hot teacup at Ladies’ Court?

“Aaah!” This time I can’t hold back my sharp cry as the second needle is shoved deep into my index finger, the sudden entry making me jump and giving me even more pain.

“Let’s see...” Katya murmurs almost to herself, the empress’ unmarred hands gesturing over the box held before her and she chooses her next instrument of torture. I don’t understand why she is taking so long to choose as they all look the same, and every moment this is drawn out sends more tears down my cheeks and soaking the front of my dress.

.....

She plucks one up and twirls it with an ease that suggests she has done it many, many times before. Her previous anger bloodthirst is gone, my skin crawling as I unmistakably see joy carve a pure smile on her beautiful visage. The view alone creates a picture worth a thousand words. Her dark blonde brows are relaxed, her eyes crinkling slightly in the corner with her smile. And now I see where Julia inherited her madness from.

The image carries a certain wrongness, as it clashes with the violent view below of my hand being stabbed like a pincushion. Anyone who could find joy in my torment, cannot be sane. And that scares the ever-loving shit out of me. This empress, my stepmother, is a psychopathic sadist. At least, that’s my unprofessional verdict after referencing several binge-watched seasons of Criminal Minds. And they never mentioned this kind of madness in the webnovel!

My hand is help once more in her delicate grasp and I grit my teeth, trying in vain to get my hand to stop shaking from the pain and terror. It is now she looks me in the eye, Empress Katya, her sickening calm piercing my chest.

“No one will ever accept a cripple as the promised child,” she tells me warmly as if we are speaking of the weather. Cloudy with a chance of violent acupuncture.

I sink my teeth into my full bottom lip as she slides the third needle home with her cutting words. Panic seizes my breath, making it difficult to breathe as I digest her words.

Her words, after all, are true. The Holy Church values purity. Pure in spirit, pure in body. That is one of their teachings in the webnovel. During one of her detective side missions that deviated from the main love story, Clara was unable to become an acolyte of the Church for the sole reason that her predecessor before she transmigrated was known to be weak in health her entire childhood.

It is now I unconsciously try to drag my hand away, but cotton turns into steel and her grip becomes viselike. She enjoys watching my young face bloom with alarm as I fruitlessly try to escape. But the worst part is that even if by some miracle I did manage to free my hand at this moment, I would’ve delivered it right back to her in order to right my five so-called wrongs and keep Emma safe.

An awful black color appears around where the needle was planted. My thumb begins to loose outside sensation, no longer feeling the mild temperature of the room and instead solely experiencing the burning, biting pain of the needle. I can only stare in horror as it begins to crawl down my hand and similarly appear on my other fingers, like a cancer that has metastasized. The stark onyx color against my hand resembles frostbite.

I only speak once through the whole ordeal.

“I could... I could tell someone you did this,” I sputter weakly, the annoying huffing that happens when you cry too hard making me stutter.

Katya smiles down at me. “And who would believe you?”

So I just sit through the rest of the torment. In a way she’s right. Even if a few individuals on the streets below the palace whisper that the empress is treating the bastard poorly, a good reputation can not be torn down in a day. After all, people would say that in her defense, what woman would truly welcome a child not of their own into their home?

At most, my intentional rumors have added a chip or two at the sturdy reputation of her image. In fact, since the Holy Church is in her pocket, just like my inspection for imperial blood, Empress Katya could easily turn the situation around get away with sentencing me as a witch. Wouldn’t that just be me foolishly fulfilling Peppermint’s deepest desires?

Curiously, the black poison stops short of the knuckles, although the pain extends from my fingertip to my wrist. Katya takes each needle out carefully one by one and tells me what a good job I’ve done, like a kid who got a shot at the doctor’s office. I don’t respond.

Katya seems just as intrigued as I am by my wound, but not surprised. She must be accustomed to this form of punishment with the needles. My hand, now free from her grasp, shakes and trembles on its own. Any random movement overpowers my average pain tolerance and sends a fresh wave of tears down my cheeks. It makes the boiling hot teacup punishment feel like a pinprick in comparison. I cannot imagine going the rest of my life with such a blight upon my hand.

If I even make it that long, my mind darkly mutters. I’ve mostly taken losses in my confrontations with Empress Katya, and little do I expect the next one about to land in my lap any second.

An innocent knock sounds on my door, the precursor to my future troubles. My heart can’t help but blindly hope the cavalry is about to show up. Sir Finn will kick the door down brandishing his fierce sword and Marie will pull me into a hug to comfort me. But life cruelly laughs at me as one of Katya’s maids sticks her head through the door.

Don’t forget, the vicious voice in my head says again, you’re all alone.

“Your majesty, something has happened down at the royal guard’s barracks.”

Katya smiles and the pit of worry becomes a yawning void in my stomach. She doesn’t look surprised, instead she’s almost... expectant? I’m usually a good read when it comes to people’s faces, but Katya is a tough nut to crack.

“Shall we?” Katya asks me, rising from the chair with all the grace of an empress. Her hands elegantly interlocking below her navel. I follow her lead, crossing my hands as well but with a different intention, to cover my blackened fingers.

The weather outside is beautiful, offsetting my flower-filled palace wonderfully. You would never suspect it had been home to my torment and tears minutes before. Katya moves with her entourage of maids, the orderly procession only enhancing her presence.

This. This is your opponent. Even I am briefly in awe, my hand for a moment not aching as I look at my stepmother. She’s so pretty and looks so warm, her entire aura radiating ‘motherly’ energy even with her youthful image. I was just tortured by her and even I am spellbound. I wish I was reborn as Julia or that she just didn’t hate my existence. I hate myself, cursing myself for being on opposing sides with this goddess.

You can’t win against her. Not unless you’re the main character like Clara, who was beloved by everyone in the webnovel. Even now we are heading to the scene that will seal the final nail in my coffin, and all I can do is gawk at her like a star-struck idiot. I’m so pathetic and unworthy. Someone more qualified should take my place and I want nothing more but to free myself from Winter’s skin.

I’m not really Winter! I’m Maria! You and I don’t have any problems! Yet as I say these words, my heart knows it’s not the slightest bit true. For better or worse, I’ve become Winter. And now I must suffer in her place.

In the time of my chaotic thoughts, we arrive at the familiar grassy fields, a pinch of guilt running through me at the familiar sight. I think it through and I should have nothing to do with whatever problem has occurred. Giving snacks to knights shouldn’t be illegal and if it involved Emma, I believe Katya would’ve brought it up when she was charging Emma with made-up crimes. Just thinking about those snacks makes me realize it is right around lunchtime and I’m feeling low on energy.

Right away, the scenery is different than usual. Since I’ve always visited the royal guard in the earlier morning when the grass is still wet, I write it off as them participating in a different activity at a later part of the day. But the air is somber and different, a hostility in the air that has never been present before. I’ve only sensed camaraderie and friendship amongst these men before.

The knights are fully dressed, their navy uniforms spick and span, the high sun shining off gold buckles and fastenings. The seriousness on their face takes me aback as it is leaps and bounds apart from the carefree mannerisms I am used to. I chide myself again as I look at this elite group of soldiers I took for what, playmates? Acquaintances? They all have blood on their hands and wouldn’t be so easily bought over by a couple of tasty cookies. Hindsight really is 20/20. If I knew at my rebirth what I knew now, the moment I could totter around on my chubby little legs I would’ve run away from Bianca’s hovel!

When the see the approaching retinue, the somber group drops into a synchronized bow, one knee on the ground as a fist covers their heart.

“Your Majesty!” they thunder, the loud male voices making my heart jump slightly.

Katya raises her hand and they all stand at attention. I look around the crowd for a familiar face, but I only see Robbie sulking in the back, kicking the dirt like a child uninterested in the matters of adults. But his hand gives away his anxiety, tightly clenched around the helm of his sword as if he is moments away from whipping it out and fighting off enemies. Sir Gregory, as the commander of the unit now that the other forces are fighting off the rebellion in Avernall, is curiously absent.

After greeting the empress no one says anything, but it is easy to tell there must be some great grievance for no one appears to be at ease. The gathered men strangely keep looking behind them and curling their lip.

“So all of you have gone mute all of a sudden?” says Sir Robbie’s familiar teenage voice. He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Fine,” he scoffs.

Pushing his way to the front, he inevitably forces those crowded in the center to move clean out of his short, but murderous path.

“Pray tell, your majesty,” Robbie spits with a fury I’ve never seen. His face is so red, his freckles almost disappear.

“Who is she?”

And indeed there is someone. Sheltered, or perhaps better said, caged, within the group of men. I see the crumpled body of a young maid on the ground. She is on her knees, fierce tremors running through her body so that even the empress and I from a respectable distance away can see them.

When I see her face, my mouth falls open unavoidably and I swallow back the name I’m about to utter.

Janice?

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