Sidrain brushed his lips against the nape of Iris’s neck and glanced at the attendants surrounding the queen. Among her maids stood a young woman whom he hadn’t seen before. She held a rather prominent position, yet Sidrain couldn’t fathom how she had come to occupy it. Catching Sidrain’s cold gaze, Elena averted her eyes ever so slightly, intending to provide a report later.
“Yes, I’ve been well.”
Iris responded with a slight delay. However, that didn’t necessarily mean everything was fine. Sidrain, with a quizzical expression, drew Iris into an embrace and tenderly caressed her bare shoulder. Her delicate, round shoulders seemed so fragile as if they could shatter at the slightest touch.
What had transpired in his absence?
Sidrain glanced at Elena, silently urging her to provide a report as soon as possible. Understanding his unspoken command, Elena obediently lowered her head.
For a brief moment, Iris felt a pang of melancholy as Sidrain returned to Lula after casting Count Surah’s third son into a dreadful fate. Why was it that perpetrators always seemed to live well while victims suffered? Must the roles always remain the same, with only the identities of the victims changing? After pondering these thoughts for about a day, Iris’s reflections gradually converged into a single realization.
“The magic tower is not mistaken. Do you know the famous saying?”
Leiden let out a weary sigh and flapped her wings as Iris vigorously pounded the base solution and additives into the boiling pot, her eyes shining with determination.
“The law may be distant, but magic is close,” Leiden said, her voice tinged with wisdom.
“Yes, that’s it!” Iris exclaimed, a spark of realization igniting within her.
Why should she be discouraged by that annoying girl? After enduring a childhood of destitution, she was still in her twenties—no, twenty-three! Yet she found herself caught up in such matters even now, well into adulthood. It was absurd! She couldn’t help but express her frustration.
Iris gulped down a mouthful of milk tea, chilled with magic. She made peculiar sounds reminiscent of a tipsy individual, then proceeded to toss her final additions into the pot.
“Me!” she proclaimed, making a splash.
“Very!” another splash.
“I will put an end to it!” yet another splash.
Iris’s gaze turned towards Leiden.
“No mercy,” she declared resolutely.
Leiden sighed and shook her head.
“Why must all wizards be so eccentric?” she mused.
“They say good is good.” Leiden’s words trailed off.
The house elves, ever desiring things to go smoothly, grumbled as they began tidying up Iris’s beakers. While the glassware was being wiped clean and made pristine, Iris started chanting her incantation. The house elves exchanged bemused glances as dark and lengthy spells poured forth from her lips.
“Such a dreadful curse,” one commented.
“Looking at Iris, it seems she’s quite skilled at cursing, isn’t she? How curious,” another chimed in.
And thus, Margaret’s ill-fated life began its tragic tale.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
The scream bore a striking resemblance to the one Frederick, the third son, had once uttered—a cry filled with bitter astonishment.
Trembling, Margaret gazed down at the bed, witnessing a scene eerily reminiscent of another’s experience. There were no repulsively tempting sausages this time, though. Instead, she discovered a handful of reddish-brown hair.
“What is this?” Margaret exclaimed, her voice laced with disbelief. She picked up the hair, examining it closely. This couldn’t be happening. She hurriedly approached the mirror to inspect herself.
“Is my hair disappearing?” she murmured, her voice filled with dread.
Though it wasn’t yet evident, she could discern the sparse emptiness that had taken over her scalp overnight. If this continued upon waking tomorrow…
Her heart raced, a surge of panic coursing through her. How could a bald woman like herself ever marry Duke Zenith? It seemed inconceivable. And what kind of life awaited her without hair? She wouldn’t be able to step out of her home, let alone navigate social circles. Her existence would be utterly shattered.
What should she do? The thought sent tremors through her hands. She had to find a solution, no matter what it took. But what options did she have?
“Hey, prepare the carriage! Hurry!” Margaret’s piercing screams reverberated throughout the count’s mansion.
Sidrain brushed his lips against the nape of Iris’s neck and glanced at the attendants surrounding the queen. Among her maids stood a young woman whom he hadn’t seen before. She held a rather prominent position, yet Sidrain couldn’t fathom how she had come to occupy it. Catching Sidrain’s cold gaze, Elena averted her eyes ever so slightly, intending to provide a report later.
“Yes, I’ve been well.”
Iris responded with a slight delay. However, that didn’t necessarily mean everything was fine. Sidrain, with a quizzical expression, drew Iris into an embrace and tenderly caressed her bare shoulder. Her delicate, round shoulders seemed so fragile as if they could shatter at the slightest touch.
What had transpired in his absence?
Sidrain glanced at Elena, silently urging her to provide a report as soon as possible. Understanding his unspoken command, Elena obediently lowered her head.
For a brief moment, Iris felt a pang of melancholy as Sidrain returned to Lula after casting Count Surah’s third son into a dreadful fate. Why was it that perpetrators always seemed to live well while victims suffered? Must the roles always remain the same, with only the identities of the victims changing? After pondering these thoughts for about a day, Iris’s reflections gradually converged into a single realization.
“The magic tower is not mistaken. Do you know the famous saying?”
Leiden let out a weary sigh and flapped her wings as Iris vigorously pounded the base solution and additives into the boiling pot, her eyes shining with determination.
“The law may be distant, but magic is close,” Leiden said, her voice tinged with wisdom.
“Yes, that’s it!” Iris exclaimed, a spark of realization igniting within her.
Why should she be discouraged by that annoying girl? After enduring a childhood of destitution, she was still in her twenties—no, twenty-three! Yet she found herself caught up in such matters even now, well into adulthood. It was absurd! She couldn’t help but express her frustration.
Iris gulped down a mouthful of milk tea, chilled with magic. She made peculiar sounds reminiscent of a tipsy individual, then proceeded to toss her final additions into the pot.
“Me!” she proclaimed, making a splash.
“Very!” another splash.
“I will put an end to it!” yet another splash.
Iris’s gaze turned towards Leiden.
“No mercy,” she declared resolutely.
Leiden sighed and shook her head.
“Why must all wizards be so eccentric?” she mused.
“They say good is good.” Leiden’s words trailed off.
The house elves, ever desiring things to go smoothly, grumbled as they began tidying up Iris’s beakers. While the glassware was being wiped clean and made pristine, Iris started chanting her incantation. The house elves exchanged bemused glances as dark and lengthy spells poured forth from her lips.
“Such a dreadful curse,” one commented.
“Looking at Iris, it seems she’s quite skilled at cursing, isn’t she? How curious,” another chimed in.
And thus, Margaret’s ill-fated life began its tragic tale.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
The scream bore a striking resemblance to the one Frederick, the third son, had once uttered—a cry filled with bitter astonishment.
Trembling, Margaret gazed down at the bed, witnessing a scene eerily reminiscent of another’s experience. There were no repulsively tempting sausages this time, though. Instead, she discovered a handful of reddish-brown hair.
“What is this?” Margaret exclaimed, her voice laced with disbelief. She picked up the hair, examining it closely. This couldn’t be happening. She hurriedly approached the mirror to inspect herself.
“Is my hair disappearing?” she murmured, her voice filled with dread.
Though it wasn’t yet evident, she could discern the sparse emptiness that had taken over her scalp overnight. If this continued upon waking tomorrow…
Her heart raced, a surge of panic coursing through her. How could a bald woman like herself ever marry Duke Zenith? It seemed inconceivable. And what kind of life awaited her without hair? She wouldn’t be able to step out of her home, let alone navigate social circles. Her existence would be utterly shattered.
What should she do? The thought sent tremors through her hands. She had to find a solution, no matter what it took. But what options did she have?
“Hey, prepare the carriage! Hurry!” Margaret’s piercing screams reverberated throughout the count’s mansion.
