One Year Left

"…What?"

Regita had been struck speechless by an answer she never could have imagined. Arabella, in turn, twisted her puffy, swollen face into something resembling a smile.

"Well then, if you'll excuse me — I'm rather busy. There's someone I need to go collect."

She bowed once more at the waist, then turned on her heel and hurried down the stairs, her retreating figure radiating an almost comical good cheer.

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"…You're actually taking me with you?"

Rattle and jolt. Staring out the carriage window at the receding Imperial Gladiatorial Arena, Eusilif asked with a bewildered expression.

"I told you, didn't I? From now on, all you have to do is trust me. Now — let's get rid of this."

I declared grandly as I undid the ropes that had bound his wrists tight.

Regita had always loved leading Eusilif back to the Imperial Palace like a leashed dog after every match. It was a childish display, nothing more — parading the fact that she was the master of the arena's victorious champion.

"The Princess won't have let that go quietly."

Eusilif murmured, rubbing his bruised wrists.

It must have been a long time for him — riding in a comfortable carriage like this, sitting at ease without any restraints, meeting someone's eyes and simply holding a conversation.

So please, just let go of your grudge against me, Eusilif.

I answered him with the gentlest, most trust-inspiring expression I could muster.

"Of course she didn't take it quietly. But don't worry — she won't be taking you back. You're legally my slave now."

"I see. Your possession."

For an instant, Eusilif's eyes turned cold and dangerous.

"That's right. Ownership simply moved from one hand to the other — from my side of things, nothing's actually changed."

So saying, he glared at me.

"The only difference is that my master has become someone even more unreadable and suspicious."

"What's that supposed to mean! Did you forget I just saved your neck back there?"

"Anyone would think you helped me out of pure, selfless goodwill, expecting nothing in return."

His retort shut my mouth. Naturally, I wanted a great deal from him. I hoped he'd soften the grudge he held against me, that he'd protect me from unforeseen threats. And I hoped that, just maybe, he'd become a little less hollowed-out inside — that when he eventually met Dorothea, he wouldn't go doing something stupid that only twisted his own fate. Because if he didn't, the apocalypse would be postponed as long as possible, and I'd get to survive that much longer.

And truthfully, there was one more thing… a certain expectation I'd quietly placed on him. But that was still nothing more than wishful thinking, so I'd set it aside for now.

At my honey-glued silence under his sharp accusation, Eusilif let out a dry snort of laughter, crossed his arms, and shut his eyes entirely.

Whew. I knew this wouldn't be easy, but the man is a fortress.

There wasn't the tiniest crack to pry into on that stubborn face. I shook my head.

How on earth am I supposed to melt a wall of ice like that?

But as I mulled it over, studying his face, I found my focus drifting in a very different direction.

Up close, he's even better looking. He hasn't washed in days — why is his skin practically glowing?

Maybe protagonists really were born different. A face carved as if some sculptor of the century had poured his very soul into it — perfect features, a flawless jawline, broad shoulders and a solid chest, a slim waist and thick thighs, long, well-proportioned legs.

I was gazing at him, starstruck, feeling like a fan who'd spotted a celebrity in person — when suddenly a migraine struck, sharp as an awl boring into my temple. The pain mounted steadily, and before long it came with violent dizziness and a prickling itch, as though my skin were catching fire.

"Ah…."

The moment I slumped against the seat with a pale-faced groan, Becky — who had been anxiously watching me the entire ride — gasped and pressed her hand to my forehead.

"My lady! Are you all right? Good heavens, your forehead is burning hot!"

"I'm fine, Becky. I'll rest once we're home — it'll pass."

That was what I said, but I had to grit my teeth to keep the moans from spilling out. The sedative the apothecary had mixed for me had only dulled the pain temporarily. The aftereffects of the poison I'd been fed at the palace were finally crashing down on me in earnest.

"Just hold on a little longer, my lady. We'll reach the manor soon. Oh, my poor, poor lady…."

Becky kneaded my clammy, sweat-slicked hand, her face on the verge of tears.

"Noblewomen do love their theatrics, don't they. Carsickness, perhaps?"

At some point Eusilif had opened his eyes, and now he drawled the words out with obvious mockery. Becky rounded on him before anyone could stop her, snapping back with all the pent-up resentment his behavior toward me had apparently been stockpiling.

"Don't open your mouth about things you know nothing about! Our lady is genuinely ill! My lady, lean on me if it's too much. Tell me if it's hard to breathe, like before!"

Hmph.

Eusilif gave a derisive little snort.

"What an abundance of fuss. The family physician will see to her the moment we arrive anyway. What's with all the hysteria?"

"I told you not to run your mouth!"

Becky cried out, indignant.

"You idiot. Our lady is ter—!"

In that instant I flung out my hand with every ounce of strength I had left and barely clamped it over Becky's mouth. She, too, seemed to realize she'd nearly blurted out her mistress's secret, and she bowed her head low, her face full of apology.

Turning away from Eusilif, who was regarding the two of us with narrowed, suspicious eyes, I struggled to hold together my consciousness, which kept folding in on itself like wet paper.

That's right. Arabella Miona had one more secret.

She was living on borrowed time.

All that gossip among the nobles at the palace — the Curse of House Miona — had been no idle rumor.

Each generation, one direct descendant of House Miona was born with an incurable disease. And that child, without exception, died within a single year of reaching adulthood.

This generation's bearer of the curse was Arabella. And she had come of age barely half a month ago.

Which meant I had, at most, a year and change left to live.

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Arabella had been frail from infancy, unable to keep down even her mother's milk. She'd taken her first steps a full year later than other children, and learning to speak and write came slowly to her as well.

A child who was going to die anyway.

That was how the family treated her. No one was outright cruel to her, but neither did anyone hold out the slightest hope that she might grow into a member of the house who could actually be of use.

Arabella was all but left to raise herself. Her grandparents tore her from her mother's arms before she'd even formed an attachment, hauling her off to the countryside — they had judged it better for a girl who might die at any moment to be weaned early from any bond with the Countess and her little brother.

Her father, Roderick, had adored her sincerely, but he was always away at war, and visits were rare.

Even so, the letters that flew to her from him were her one and only joy.

Then, a year ago, even the letters ceased entirely, and half a year later came the sudden news that Roderick was dead. Her grandparents had passed away in quick succession not long before, and so Arabella found herself utterly alone in the world.

The capital's manor, returned to after more than a decade, felt like a stranger's house. Her mother and brother treated her like a guest they'd never met. And the uncle serving as interim head of the house until her brother came of age acted as if she simply did not exist.

One hope alone remained to her — a story Roderick had once whispered into the ears of a weeping little girl torn from her mother's bosom, enduring the agony of her fragile body.

The Emperor, Roderick said, had made him a promise for his years wandering the battlefields, guarding the empire. The promise that his daughter would be wed to the Crown Prince as the Empire's Crown Princess.

And the imperial family possessed the Elixir, crafted by the Empire's sole Saint — a miraculous potion said to cure every disease known to man.

She had to become Crown Princess. Entering the palace and seizing the Elixir was the only way she could stretch out her life.

And so she had flattered the throne with every tool at her disposal, cast her pride aside, and served like a groveling dog.

But the result, as anyone could see, was ashes. She had been cruelly eliminated — and then, by pure chance, I had taken up residence in the hollow shell she left behind.

A maximum of one year remained to me. Everything I had to my name amounted to a count's-daughter's title that was pure facade, and the hopelessly twisted original male protagonist. Could I really, in a situation like this, extend my life and stop the end of the world?

Rattle and jolt.

In the deep darkness of the carriage, I stole a glance at Eusilif's impassive profile — he didn't so much as turn his head toward me — and swallowed a heavy, rueful sigh.