The Price of Loyalty

The intensity of that gaze made Ophelia instinctively glance down at her shoes.

Black sheer lace stockings paired with delicate leather shoes – she had scoured the Queen’s wardrobe to assemble this, her most satisfying ensemble. Why were they looking at her shoes as if they were a delicious meal? It was truly odd.

Ophelia grumbled to herself, deep within her thoughts.

She turned her gaze to the assembled nobles.

Each person’s gaze was complex, a medley of scrutiny, anticipation, and suspicion mingling within their eyes. Yet, they maintained polite smiles, much like the hypocritical adults at banquet tables. It was precisely this loathing for such social interactions, a disgust so profound it made her nauseous, that had turned Ophelia into a social recluse.

A punishment must be meted out here.

A punishment that everyone would deem reasonable, and, no matter what, it had to satisfy Hizeta, who stood before her; otherwise, she would certainly not let the matter rest.

After all, she was a Queen without real power; she had to lie low and bide her time until she gained actual authority.

‘What was to be done?’

Ophelia suddenly recalled how Marta had twice tried to kiss the back of her foot last night, but had failed both times. Ophelia had thought Marta was joking, but a sudden inspiration struck her.

“Then… then let Marta… kiss the back of my foot… How about that?”

‘Damn it,’ she thought, ‘her voice lacked conviction. She had been a social recluse for far too long.’

“Kiss her foot?” Hizeta pursued, her tone aggressive. “Why kiss yours and not mine?”

Ophelia took a deep breath.

“Because I am the one to whom she swore allegiance, and it is against me that her loyalty was found wanting. Therefore, as a sign of humiliation and punishment, let her kiss the back of my foot to beg for forgiveness. How does that sound?”

Hizeta furrowed her brow.

She felt something was amiss, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint what. Carefully, she observed Ophelia’s expression, noticing a profound reluctance lingering within those melancholic eyes.

She was reluctant to let Marta kiss her foot.

That made sense. Who would consider kissing the foot of another of the same gender a reward? It was certainly humiliating enough, a fitting punishment.

“Very well, Marta must kiss it in public!” Still not reassured, she maliciously cut off Ophelia’s escape route.

Ophelia sighed.

She had hoped for some leeway, perhaps allowing Marta to kiss it later, in private, which would have meant Marta wouldn’t have to kiss it at all. But now, it seemed there was no escaping it; Marta simply had to do it.

Crossing one leg over the other, she extended the back of one foot towards Marta.

Marta cradled that foot in both hands.

Slowly, she lowered her head, then bent down to slowly press a kiss upon it. The kiss was warm and moist, as if laden with an intensely fervent emotion.

Ophelia’s heart gave a sudden leap.

‘Kissing with such force, yet so slowly,’ Ophelia mused. ‘Was she perhaps venting some emotion of her own?’

“Hahahahaha, I told you that you were hideous!” Hizeta leaned closer, mocking her. Her laughter was grating.

“Look at you, truly like a dog, hahahahaha.” She roared with laughter, and a host of noblewomen followed suit, erupting in laughter. Ophelia, feeling a surge of anger, looked towards the male lead, but to her surprise, that corner was now empty.

The male lead had left.

Marta lifted her head, her face flushed, most likely from anger. Her expression was taut; Ophelia dared to assume that if it weren’t so tightly controlled, Marta’s expression would surely betray intensely fierce emotions.

‘Marta…’ Ophelia thought, ‘such a pure and righteous character in the book, to be inexplicably hated for a baseless accusation, targeted to such an extent…’

Marta took a deep breath, and she finally seemed to calm her mind, once again adopting the demeanor of an ice-cold beauty. She silently resumed her position behind Ophelia, making Ophelia feel profoundly sorry for her.

****

The banquet continued.

After the tumultuous farce had passed, it seemed a few nobles finally bothered to inquire who had attempted to assassinate Ophelia. Ophelia shook her head, indicating she hadn’t remembered either, causing the nobles to depart in disappointment.

“It seems we must heighten our vigilance!” a noble remarked, his tone subtly sarcastic. “After all, the conservatives will stop at nothing to prevent reform!”

“Indeed, vigilance must be heightened!” another noble immediately retorted with equal sarcasm. “The reformists are meticulously plotting for their reforms, and this assassin, after attempting to kill the Queen, managed to retreat safely. They must be intimately familiar with the palace layout, just like the reformists who frequently move about the palace! Everyone, you must be wary!”

Ophelia felt a headache coming on.

They cared not whether she lived or died, nor who had attempted to kill her; they cared only for their own interests.

It was true; the palace was a vortex, a deep, murky pool, and being within its walls often brought with it the sensation of drowning.

Looking up, no light could be seen; looking down, no solid ground could be found. One lost all sense of self, unable even to breathe.

She was like this, Marta was like this, and all the future female leads would be like this.

They did not wish to drown in the palace.

They wanted to live.

Thus, the male lead became the one who would pull them from the depths.

Yet, why had the male lead not intervened this time?

Ophelia turned back, a hint of worry in her glance. She wanted to see Marta’s expression, as the nobles’ hypocritical theatrics had shifted from her to other topics, affording her a moment to check on Marta.

She turned.

Her gaze met Marta’s blue eyes.

The blue eyes had lost their luster, replaced by a sickly dullness. Marta was a Holy Knight, and Holy Knights believed in light, yet she stood amidst the shadows.

“Marta…?” Ophelia whispered, her voice soft.

Marta remained unresponsive, seemingly staring blankly at something. Ophelia initially thought she was glaring at Hizeta, but upon closer inspection, the vacant gaze was focused intently on Ophelia herself.

This startled Ophelia.

‘Why was she looking at her with such a sickly gaze?’ Ophelia wondered, her thoughts racing. ‘Was her way of handling things also a humiliation for Marta?’ Ophelia was too frightened by the look to speak, fearing she might say the wrong thing again.

Yet, for some unknown reason, Marta’s ‘cultivation value’ (TL Note: A term often used in web novels, referring to a character’s development or affection score towards another) had increased again, now standing at 35.

“Marta!” she called out, her voice slightly firmer.

Marta seemed to snap out of her reverie, a glint of awareness returning to her vacant eyes. She took two steps forward, drawing close to Ophelia.

“I’m sorry, Marta,” Ophelia began, “I don’t have real power, so I can’t contend with Hizeta. This was already the best solution I could manage…”

“I’m truly sorry for making you kiss my foot in public…”

Marta tilted her head, her gaze upon Ophelia peculiar.

Soft, yet morbid, unlike her usual ice-cold blue eyes. There was a possessive, almost sickly tenderness, as if looking at a treasure that belonged only to her.

“You need not apologize, Your Majesty. This was unavoidable.”

‘A Holy Knight believes in light, even if it means descending into darkness herself. And the moment I bent down to kiss your foot, I smelled the scent of light. You are the light I glimpsed from beneath the water, and thus you shall become the faith of this Holy Knight. Ah, Queen, my light, my faith. You have completely gained your subordinate’s loyalty, and from this day forward, I shall offer my body and soul. I am your sword; your enemies are my enemies.’

‘I will protect you.’

‘Therefore, please allow me to possess you—’