Chapter 121: Shameful and Worthless
The event continued far more smoothly after the arrival of the royal princess.
It had been arranged for her, after all. From the moment Camellia Van Skargardia stepped into the throne hall, the center of the evening shifted entirely around her. The music, the noble conversations, the careful smiles, glances, everything bent toward the princess as naturally as flowers turned toward sunlight.
Accompanied by a knight, Camellia moved through the hall with grace, greeting the nobles one after another.
Or rather, she barely even needed to move.
They came to her on their own.
Like a swarm drawn toward sweetness, nobles flocked around the young princess, eager for a word, a glance, a remembered name. Every house wished to leave some mark on her memory. Every ambitious parent watched closely. Every unmarried nobleman with more hope than sense tried, in his own way, to impress her, as if by some miracle she might remember him years from now and choose him above the others.
Of course, everyone knew the truth.
The future husband of the royal princess would almost certainly be chosen according to politics, not sentiment. Her parents would seek the greatest advantage possible for the crown, and that likely meant a high-ranking foreign noble, perhaps even royalty if such an alliance could be secured. Still, men dreamed because there was no law against dreaming, even when the dream was absurd.
And Camellia, at only fourteen years old, handled them all remarkably well.
Until now, she had only been greeting the elder nobles, the ones who mattered most in the hierarchy of appearances, yet not once did she falter. Her speech was clear. Her tone never slipped. Her smile remained gentle and composed, neither too warm nor too cold. She moved as though she had been born knowing exactly where to place her hands, how to turn her head, when to lower her lashes, when to allow the smallest expression to touch her face.
She showed more visible emotion than Queen Kaliantha ever did.
That much was obvious.
But even so, anyone with eyes could see the queen’s influence written all over her daughter. The calm restraint. The grace. The way she revealed only what she chose and never a fragment more. Camellia had learned well.
And Queen Kaliantha herself seemed entirely unconcerned.
She remained seated upon her throne, watching with patience, not bothering to accompany her daughter from one conversation to the next. That alone said much. She trusted Camellia to manage herself, trusted her to bear the eyes of the kingdom without stumbling.
The three sisters watched her too.
Each of them in a different way.
Esther looked at the princess with the most open admiration, her earlier hurt softened for the moment beneath genuine wonder. Hermione’s gaze was more curious, sharper, always comparing. As for Airam, she stared at Camellia as if trying to force herself to hate her.
She wanted to.
She wanted to look at the daughter of that cursed royal family and feel nothing but disgust. But it was harder than she expected. Camellia was barely older than they were. She had done nothing to them with her own hands. She stood there beneath the chandeliers, smiling carefully at old nobles, and looked less like a symbol of the kingdom’s crimes and more like a girl carrying a burden she had not chosen.
That did not make things easier.
If anything, it made them worse.
Because Airam still hated Skargardia.
She hated what it had done. What it continued to do. She hated what it had taken from them. Yet at the same time, standing here beneath noble banners, dressed in silk, bearing the name Rubenhart, she was now part of the very world she despised.
A noblewoman of Skargardia.
That was what she had become.
She knew how it had happened. She knew every step that had led them here. But understanding a thing did not make it easier to accept. It still lodged somewhere inside her like a stone she could neither swallow nor spit out. Even so, she had no right to collapse under it. She had to endure it. She had to do her best for her sisters.
"This is boring," Hermione said suddenly.
Without waiting for agreement, she began to move away from the cluster.
Airam and Esther were about to follow at once when Astrid’s voice stopped them.
"Where are you going?"
Hermione turned only halfway, enough to throw a glance over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked pointedly toward the group of young nobles behind Astrid, the same ones who had mocked them, appraised them, and laughed at them as though they were something dragged in for amusement.
"Somewhere else," Hermione replied.
Her gaze hardened.
"Somewhere people are educated and know what respect is."
The snarl in her voice was warped into something elegant, but the contempt underneath it remained impossible to miss.
Astrid stiffened.
"Please," she said, "I apologize for their behavior. But this is the first time they have seen witches this closely. And it is the first time in the history of Skargardia that three witches have been elevated to such a rank."
"Is that meant to excuse it?" Airam cut in sharply, turning her full glare on Astrid.
Her voice was not loud, but it stopped the air around them all the same.
Astrid faltered.
Hermione stepped in right after her.
"They spoke about us like cattle," she said. "Like products laid out for selection. And you still expect us to stand here and play along as if they are worth befriending?"
Astrid opened her mouth, but nothing came.
Because there was nothing to say.
Witches or not, what had happened had been plainly disrespectful. No amount of noble speech could soften that truth. The boys had treated them like possessions. The girls had looked at them like filth dressed in jewels. Even Astrid, proud as she was, could not defend that without cheapening herself further.
She drew in a breath, clearly about to try anyway.
Then she stopped.
Her eyes lifted past the sisters, and the color shifted slightly in her face.
"L—Lord Rubenhart..."
Airam, Hermione, and Esther turned at once.
Ulrich was standing there.
Under Ulrich’s gaze, Hermione’s expression shifted at once.
A moment ago she had still been bristling with indignation, her chin raised, her temper ready to bite at anyone in reach. But the instant his eyes settled on her, that confidence cracked. She looked, for one brief and almost childish second, like someone caught doing something she knew might earn reproach.
"W—We did our best," she said, the words stumbling out faster than she intended.
"Sorry..." Esther mumbled beside her, her voice small and subdued.
Airam said nothing.
She only looked at Ulrich with that same cold stare, as if trying to force the entire ugliness of the situation into a single glance. There was accusation in it, but not toward him. More like a blunt demand that he see for himself how disgraceful this had been.
Ulrich did not answer immediately.
He let the silence sit long enough to make Hermione shift where she stood and Esther lower her eyes further. Then, without any visible change in expression, he lifted his gaze away from the three sisters and turned it toward the young nobles gathered behind them.
The future of Skargardia.
Boys with old names and empty arrogance. Girls wrapped in silk and manners, their malice only barely hidden beneath breeding and etiquette.
Under Ulrich’s stare, they all reacted at once.
Several flinched. One boy who had been standing too straight a moment ago suddenly found the floor terribly interesting. A girl who had looked openly disdainful before now lowered her eyes behind her fan. Others turned their faces aside as if not meeting his gaze might spare them from being seen clearly.
It did not.
"If you tried," Ulrich said at last, his voice calm, "and they still refused to acknowledge you, then they are not worthy of your notice."
His eyes remained on the gathered heirs.
"Nor are they worthy of Skargardian nobility. Shameful. And worthless to its future."
The words landed hard.
Not because he had shouted them. Ulrich did not need volume to humiliate. His tone stayed level, which only made the judgment feel colder.
Then his gaze lowered, only briefly, toward Astrid.
He had not aimed the words directly at her.
Even so, Astrid stiffened.
She knew the condemnation had been meant for the gathering as a whole, but standing among them, having brought the sisters there, having failed to stop the scene before it soured, she could not help feeling that some part of that disgrace had brushed against her as well.
She felt as expected ashamed.
"Hmph. Exactly," Hermione said, crossing her arms.
There was immediate satisfaction in her face now, almost triumphant. Ulrich had taken their side. That alone soothed some of the sting still burning in her chest and made her surprisingly very happy.
Esther, however, did not brighten nearly as quickly.
She still looked wounded.
The apology she had murmured had not come from guilt alone, but from disappointment. She had truly wanted this evening to go well. She had hoped, in her earnest way, that there might be girls her age she could laugh with, boys who would speak kindly, people who would see them as more than witches dressed in noble silk.
Instead, she had been ogled, dismissed, and spoken of as though she were not even properly human.
Ulrich noticed it quickly.
His eyes rested on Esther just long enough to catch the hurt she was trying and failing to hide. He seemed about to say something but another voice cut through the moment before he could.
"Shameful and worthless."
The words came with an amused edge.
"That is a bold speech coming from you, Ulrich."
Ulrich turned his head, and the expression on his face hardened before the newcomers had even fully come into view.
There they were.
The two men he had least wished to face tonight.
Crown Prince Albert Van Skargardia.
And beside him, Julian Van Gravenberg, heir to Duke Markus and Astrid’s elder brother.
They stood together as if drawn from the same stain.