Chapter 6
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Translator: Diva
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: They Say an N-Year Age Gap Doesn't Even Check Compatibility
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“I heard the maids and manservants eat in a separate place.”
Elhart said this while lightly rubbing the end of my arched eyebrow with his fingertip.
“You want me to go eat the good stuff by myself?”
“That’s exactly what I want.”
A voice that pleasant and soothing would make anyone want to do whatever he asked.
But I can’t just let this slide.
I quickly averted my gaze from him.
“I’ll swap it out. For something actually edible.”
It looked like he’d been getting this kind of treatment all along.
“How they treat you is how they treat me, and that means how they treat Bardia.”
“……?”
It might seem like a logical leap, but it wasn’t wrong.
Who was I, after all?
The inaugural Knight Commander of Bardia, laden with treasures bestowed by the Founding King himself.
Starting today, I was going to eat proper food alongside this prince I’d sworn to protect.
“I’ll be right back.”
As I turned to leave the room, he grabbed me in a panic.
“Don’t push yourself. I’m really fine with this.”
There was a certain attitude possessed only by those who’d been beaten down time and again, expecting nothing more from life.
I caught a glimpse of that quiet resignation in Elhart.
And yet…
“Thank you, Ser. For taking my side.”
I couldn’t help wondering why it felt so reassuringly solid, so familiar.
He didn’t rely on others or hope for a reversal of fortunes, yet he never collapsed in despair either.
It reminded me of someone who endured every injustice with a smile, waiting patiently for an opportunity to arise.
“…Yeah.”
I decided to handle this matter in a far more aggressive way.
First things first, I’d shove this stinking garbage right down the throat of the bastard who brought it.
***
‘Damn it, how long do I have to put up with this crap?’
Osman ground his teeth as he slipped out of the annex where Bardia’s deposed crown prince was confined.
He was in an utterly unreasonable situation right now.
All because his mother was Bardia-born, forcing him to play hostage keeper.
‘I’m a full-fledged imperial citizen.’
Like most of the palace manservants, he hailed from a noble house.
Sure, just the third son of a baron with no connections to speak of.
But being lumped in with Bardia’s deposed crown prince—who wouldn’t be subjugated for much longer—was downright absurd.
Messing with the perfectly fine meals had been his way of venting.
The prince, once hailed as Bardia’s guardian deity and a major obstacle in Cradion’s conquest wars. His reputation wasn’t empty; even living on slop like garbage porridge once a day, he showed no signs of weakening.
Every time Osman carried in that bowl, it felt like stepping into a tiger’s den—chills running down his spine.
The sensation was utterly revolting.
‘Just hurry up and drop dead.’
Stuck with this loathed duty everyone avoided, his resentment toward the prince had festered into outright hatred.
‘I can’t for the life of me understand why they’re keeping him alive.’
Dying would be the best thing for everyone.
Especially for himself— the prince needed to vanish from this palace, and fast.
‘Guess I’ll have to put in some extra effort.’
He’d mixed in toxic herbs that induced vomiting, stomach cramps, and diarrhea. Today, the prince would suffer properly.
With his mouth shut, he wouldn’t have a prayer of sourcing more antidote.
‘Let’s see if you can tough this out.’
Imagining that noble face twisted in agony as he clutched his gut brought a slight smile to Osman’s lips.
His day had seemed a bit better than usual—until the summons from the head steward arrived, turning everything ominous.
‘Why is Barik calling for me…?’
Standing beside the notoriously foul-tempered head steward was a woman Osman had never seen before.
‘A new maid, huh.’
The moment he glanced her way, Osman unwittingly swallowed hard.
Her hair, tied up for ease of movement, was a rare silver.
Her skin was so pale, as if untouched by sunlight for years, it almost glittered coldly like fresh snow.
Even in a plain maid’s uniform without adornments, she seemed to draw all the light around her.
Then, her gaze suddenly turned to him.
“…….”
Those clear sky-blue eyes swept over him appraisingly, sending an inexplicable chill down his spine.
He felt as if his hidden ugliness would be laid bare in an instant.
Suddenly repulsed, Osman hurriedly looked away from her and toward the head steward.
“You called for me, sir?”
“Yes, Osman. I need to confirm something.”
“Of course, what is it?”
“Is it true that the guest in the annex hasn’t been receiving proper meals?”
Osman flinched inwardly but betrayed nothing.
“What are you talking about? Did the hostage complain? What, am I being accused of abuse now?”
In this Cradion palace, no one would side with a hostage anyway.
They hadn’t even sent a single servant or maid along—leaving poor him to handle all this.
“It’s honestly regrettable. To think he’d accuse me of this out of sheer delusion, ungrateful for the empire’s grace.”
Osman poured out words of genuine-seeming indignation, though fabricated.
“I don’t know who fed you what, but I’ve done my absolute best.”
“Then what’s this bowl of porridge?”
Only then did Osman notice the bowl in the head steward’s hand.
“Beats me. Not sure what it is. Dog food from the palace kennels, maybe?”
The contents peeking out were unmistakably the toxic porridge he’d brought the hostage that morning, but Osman brazenly denied it.
Whoever had found it didn’t matter; as long as he played dumb, how could they prove anything?
“Did a dog die from it or something?”
No one here would hold him accountable anyway.
One hostage croaking wouldn’t change a thing.
He was inwardly chuckling at how apt the dog comparison was when the woman, who’d been watching him silently, gave a faint smile.
“……!”
In that instant, what washed over him was sheer terror.
‘Wha…? Wh-what…?’
Would it feel like this, lying before a temple statue or blaspheming a god?
A piercing chill stabbed through his core, his heart plummeting, cold sweat beading on his skin.
‘S-something’s wrong…’
He couldn’t twitch a finger. Couldn’t even blink.
Any sudden move, and it felt like some colossal being would crush him flat right then and there.
“…Osman, aren’t I the one asking the questions right now?”
The head steward seemed to be saying something to him, but it didn’t register.
Right now, he had to spew out every filthy thing inside him.
If he didn’t, he had no right to live—someone seemed to scream it in his head.
“Osman!”
The pressure choked him, like he was suffocating.
‘If I don’t talk, I’ll die. I’ll die. The most wretched, cursed death in the world—die, die, die…!’
In the throes of that horrific fear, his reason shattered.
“I-I’m sorry!”
Finally, Osman flattened himself on the floor.
“I-I tried to harm the hostage. I tampered with his meals out of resentment for the assignment. Today, I even added toxic herbs that cause stomach pain…”
He spilled it all from his own mouth—what he could’ve denied to the end—yet he had no idea what was happening.
No time to think; he just begged and begged.
“I hoped he’d suffer and die miserably. I, I dared to…”
In the heavy silence, only Osman’s mutterings continued.
“…….”
He confessed everything without a shred of concealment: his motives, his irreverent thoughts.
Once his confession ended, someone plunked the porridge bowl down before him.
Osman snatched it up like it was holy water absolving his sins and gulped it down.
The rancid stench numbed his nose; the spoiled chunks clung stickily to his throat.
“Cough!”
Not from the poison, but revulsion at swallowing inedible slop—it surged up violently.
“Drink every last drop.”
A soft voice pierced his ears.
“Lick the bowl clean.”