So I Was the Persecuted Grand Duchess Destined to Die? Chapter 3

Chapter 3

That last part was a lie.

…Was it obvious?

Asking them to pass along my regards had been nothing more than polite nonsense.

Some “young lady,” whatever—who cared?

What mattered was this:

I wanted to warm myself by that fire right now.

It was cold enough to kill, and my patience had already hit rock bottom.

“…Then we’ll take our leave.”

Maybe they’d finally realized it.

After a brief hesitation, the two maids bowed so deeply I could barely see their faces, then hurried away.

I closed the heavy door behind them and let out a small breath.

With the biting wind shut out, the interior was blissfully warm—and my heart seemed to thaw along with it.

Yes. Campfire vibes the moment I get home.

I’d zone out by the fire and fall asleep.

Possession really was the best.

✦ ✦ ✦

By the time dawn began to creep in, the man still hadn’t slept a single wink.

He sat upright, posture immaculate, staring out the window.

The sky—once as black as his hair—slowly shifted into the same blue-violet hue as his eyes.

Or rather—

his gaze was fixed beyond the window.

On the small, distant annex.

The old, narrow outbuilding now housed his new bride.

The man—Xavier Celeste—let out a quiet, self-mocking murmur as his thoughts spiraled.

“…This is ridiculous.”

Renée Blanche.

No—now Renée Celeste.

She was exactly as rumored.

No.

Far more beautiful than he had expected.

Proof of the Blanche bloodline, her silver hair cascaded in soft waves, smoother than the finest silk…

And those vivid red eyes—

so striking against her otherwise gentle features—were impossible to ignore.

They gleamed like master-cut rubies set into pale skin, damp with a strange, lingering sheen.

“……”

Wide eyes, rounded with fear.

An unwelcome addition to the household—sent off in a cargo wagon even servants avoided, dragged all the way to the desolate northern lands.

Her small, fragile frame hadn’t been hidden even beneath layers of a lavish wedding dress.

Perhaps because she looked delicate to begin with—

it was hard to believe she had already come of age.

“…A foolish woman.”

Trembling about like the tragic heroine of her own melodrama.

In every sense, she was utterly incompatible with him.

He had deliberately returned ahead of her in his own carriage, intending to crush her spirit from the very start.

But Renée’s choice had been something he never anticipated.

A marquess’s daughter riding with servants? In a cargo wagon, no less?

Did she have no pride at all?

What exactly was she plotting?

House Blanche was a leading supporter of the Second Prince, born of the current Empress.

That alone placed them in direct opposition to House Celeste, which had long stood behind the Crown Prince—the son of the late Empress.

Yet beyond political alignment, there was a far more pressing concern.

Ever since taking a new Empress, His Majesty had clearly lost his edge.

The current Empress—

Isabella Rembrandt.

She made no effort to hide her ambition.

Not long after her coronation, she gave birth to the Second Prince.

From that moment on, the once-robust Emperor began to weaken.

Delaying state affairs.
Spending late afternoons shut away in the Empress’s bedchambers.

Worse still, he had begun making destabilizing remarks—

suggesting he might “give the Second Prince a chance” at the position once firmly held by the Crown Prince.

How many could truly claim Isabella had no hand in that?

With the weakened Emperor tucked securely beneath her skirts, the Empress showed no restraint.

She allied herself with the Temple—a political force in its own right—and steadily reinforced both her own position and that of the Second Prince.

Today’s marriage was part of that effort.

He had no choice but to obey the Emperor’s command and go through with the ceremony…

but it was clearly a move by the Empress to keep House Celeste in check.

Even setting politics aside, House Blanche itself was rotten—

a family driven purely by greed and self-interest.

The thought alone made anger surge in his chest.

And layered atop that anger—

was the image of the woman who looked like a rabbit.

Red eyes, said to bring misfortune.

There were even rumors she was the marquess’s illegitimate child…

Judging by the atmosphere at the wedding, those rumors didn’t seem entirely unfounded.

“…Hah.”

Xavier, who had been standing rigidly in place, turned away from the window with a sharp, irritated motion.

In aristocratic society, spouses were often little more than strangers.

And she was a woman from House Blanche, no less.

There was no reason for him to grow attached to her.
No possibility of forming any bond.

So he would never allow her close.

More importantly, Xavier had a far more urgent problem than Renée.

Knock, knock.

“Your Grace, it’s Karl.”

“Come in.”

At his reply, the head butler entered the study. Karl was impeccably dressed as always, a tray balanced in both hands, several potion vials arranged neatly atop it.

“As expected… you’ve been awake all night again.”

“Sleeping is more painful.”

“Even so, you should try to rest, if only for a short while.”

“That medicine doesn’t work, Karl. Just like every other one in this world.”

Behind the monocle perched on his nose, worry flickered unmistakably in Karl’s eyes.

Suppressing another sigh, Xavier seized one of the vials and drained it in a single gulp.

The thick potion burned as it slid down his throat, leaving bitterness behind—both in his mouth and in his chest.

“…There’s no cure for madness.”

It was a condition that had manifested since his father’s generation.

No one knew its true nature, let alone its proper name.
They simply called it madness—and perhaps that was the most fitting term.

If anything, this arrangement worked in his favor.

There would never be a reason for that woman and him to become a real married couple.

Xavier intended to end everything with his own generation.

The blood flowing through his veins.

Every last trace of it.

✦ ✦ ✦

One week since possessing an unnamed novel.

“Wow. The sunlight’s actually coming in.”

Surprisingly, each day had been peaceful.

I gazed at the sunlight spilling gently through the window and took a slow sip of my herbal tea.

The small garden, settled into winter, lay quiet and still.

Against a world painted white, distant mountain birds chirped softly in the morning air.

Snow-laden evergreens and long icicles hanging from the eaves glittered faintly in the light.

Nearby, logs crackled in the fireplace, steadily pushing back the cold.

I set my teacup down with a satisfied smile.

“Perfect.”

It really was the picture of pastoral bliss.

The kind of countryside life every burned-out city worker dreams about at least once.

A luxury I’d never been able to afford before transmigrating.

After several days of unhurried rest, both my body and mind had grown pleasantly loose.

But…

Still, doing this every single day is starting to get boring…

Peaceful—

which was just another way of saying there was absolutely nothing to do.

And as a certified work addict even in my previous life, a life of total idleness felt deeply unnatural.

Honestly, even those endless hours spent waiting in a rental car to pick up my advisor’s son—
when he treated me like a personal errand manager—had been more stimulating than this.

“Is there really nothing I can do?”

I stretched, shaking off the sluggishness clinging to my limbs.

They’d said the cabin was clean, but since no one had lived here in a long time…

There were still plenty of small things that needed fixing.

Of course, compared to the tiny studio apartment I’d lived in during my previous life, this place was outrageously luxurious.

And maybe because I’d put my own hands to it, I’d grown even more attached to the cabin.

Whenever I found myself needing something, the chubby-cheeked maid Betty would appear as if she could read my mind, delivering exactly what I wanted without being asked.

With time to spare and nothing better to do, I’d spent the past week sweeping, scrubbing, and airing the place out.

The problem was—

today, there was nothing left to clean.

It was winter, so gardening was probably out…

Still, once spring arrived, I could spend my days tending a beautiful garden.

Just imagining myself finally living the life I’d always dreamed of made me hum softly.

As I wandered around the yard, humming to myself, something caught my eye.

A small shed stood tucked away in the back.

Guess I’ll clean that up today.

“Oh?”

Right beside the shed lay several short logs, neatly stacked, with a hand axe placed nearby.

It looked like it was used for chopping firewood.

“…Should I try it?”

A burst of completely unfounded confidence surged up out of nowhere.

We did burn through quite a lot of firewood every night.

I didn’t have many complaints about life here, but maybe this was just one of the drawbacks of a medieval setting.

Heating relied entirely on the fireplace, and the pile of logs I’d started with was shrinking faster than expected.

It felt strange to order someone around… and it wasn’t like I had anything better to do.

Might as well do it myself.

Decision made, I sprang into action.

I opened the shed, selected the sturdiest-looking log, and cheerfully set it on the chopping block.

Already, I felt proud.

Today’s activity: firewood chopping.

Ha! I’ll chop firewood all day!

I took a deep breath and gripped the axe with both hands, lifting it with dramatic determination.

And then—

“Ugh!”

The axe was heavier than I’d expected.

Much heavier.

The weight pulled my body forward, momentum taking over, and I flipped backward like a clumsy gymnast.

“Ughhh…”

It hurt.

So bad.

Tears immediately welled up in my eyes.

“My goodness, Your Grace!”

From a distance, I saw Betty scream and drop the tray she’d been carrying.