‘DO NOT THINK YOU CAN WALK BACK ON YOUR SIDE. YOU KNOW WHAT IS AT STAKE’.

  Clara read the letter again, as she’d done several times throughout the night—sleep hadn’t come easily. There was no sign of who the sender was, and when she asked others at the von Rhenia estate who’d put it there, they gave her the cold shoulder. If she made it through the trial, she’d really need to work on this pariah thing; it was getting very inconvenient.

  Her best guess was that someone had made some sort of deal with Stella. Whatever that deal was, Stella had yet to uphold her part in it, and the mysterious sender wanted to make sure she didn’t falter. Maybe they’d even heard of the suicide attempt—or maybe whatever this deal was had been so bad it was what motivated the suicide in the first place.

  Clara wanted to understand Stella better. This innocent person whose life she'd taken over, who’d apparently been completely replaced like some sort of damned memory or contrived plot device, and who Clara only really knew from a few brief chapters of a webnovel. Stella was supposed to be resourceful, bright, and humorous, and if the story’s blurb and title were anything to go by, she’d been meant to rise far above her station as a maid. So what kind of shady deal had she gotten into? And why had she tried—or well, succeeded—to kill herself?

  But there weren’t really any clues about her in the tiny servant’s bedroom. No stored letters, no keepsakes, no trace of a personality outside of the items she would have needed for work and the hung key symbolizing the Church and the Goddess. Clara would need to investigate this further. But as she saw dawn’s first rays pierce the thin curtain that covered her window, Clara knew time had once again lived up to its bad habit of making itself known.

  It was time to get ready for the trial.

  Today, her fate would be decided. Not just hers, but also Iris’s—the girl was putting on a brave face because of the danger to Clara, but there was nothing light about expulsion and house arrest. Iris was a prideful young lady with a promising future ahead of her, and this trial could snuff that life out before it even began. The least Clara could do was make sure she did everything she could, that she left no stone unturned. For both of them.

  She took off her nightgown and put on her maid’s outfit. For someone so used to carefully tailored corporate outfits meant to project a specific image, the loose-fitting servant’s dress, with several hidden interior pockets, ironically felt somewhat freeing.

  She headed to the kitchen and asked the cooks to prepare Iris’s breakfast while she ate some porridge. At least they’re professional enough not to ice me out when it comes to work, she thought, recalling some unpleasant experiences with attorneys who had very much not been.

  After a brief wait, they handed her a tray with tea, fresh bread rolls, soft cheese, apricots and honey. Clara carefully took the tray to Iris’s room and let herself in after knocking. Surprisingly, Iris was already awake, wearing a modest dark gray one-piece dress.

  “Good morning, my lady,” said Clara. “You must let me dress you tomorrow, at least.”

  “Tomorrow,” Iris repeated. “Right.” She was even paler than usual, and her eyes were reddened.

  “Yes, tomorrow. Don’t lose hope, my lady. It’s not over until we decide to stop fighting.” Clara put on her best smile, trying to give Iris at least a tiny bit of reassurance.

  Iris ate modestly, taking small, careful bites of honeyed bread. Clara, relieved, noted that she at least seemed to enjoy the apricots. When she was just about finished eating, there was a heavy knock on the doors. They were pushed open confidently but not recklessly, and a man walked into the room.

  His short silver hair was neatly combed back, and his eyes were the same purple as Iris’s, but somehow felt much colder. He wore a high-collared black suit with golden epaulettes, and a burgundy sash ran diagonally across his torso. It was as if someone had created an exact match for the description ‘handsome fantasy father’.

  Duke Maximilian von Rhenia.

  Clara bowed deeply and instinctively, avoiding eye contact. He approached Iris with soft footsteps, grasping her shoulder with his gloved hand.

  “Iris, how are you feeling?”

  “I’m alright, Papa. Of course I’m worried, but… I won’t embarrass the von Rhenia name by despairing publicly.” There was a hint of determination in Iris’s expression now, which ended up creating quite a cute contrast with her puffy cheeks and teary eyes. It made Clara want to pat her head.

  “I will always protect you, my dear. There is nothing for you to fear. You are a von Rhenia.” If the duke was nervous about the trial, his calm expression and his measured, deep voice certainly didn’t show it. Was he the type of overprotective father who wouldn’t mind if his daughter was put under house arrest, since it’d let him keep an eye on her? Clara hated that overbearing archetype, but it certainly seemed popular with a subsection of readers.

  “Yes, Papa.” Iris nodded.

  “And you… Miss Casewell, correct?”

  Clara bowed again. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Your loyalty to my daughter will be remembered. The von Rhenias do not forget.”

  Was this his way of saying they would honor her in her death? Take care of her family? Wait, did Stella even have a family? Nothing like that appeared in the novel, at least as far as Clara had read.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “The carriages should be ready to take us to the High Court of Magic by now—I will wait for the both of you downstairs. Take your time to finish eating, Iris. They will wait for us for as long as they have to, after all,” he said. Was that a bit of dry humor Clara could hear in his tone?

  The duke left the room, and Clara and Iris soon followed.

  The von Rhenia estate was in the suburbs of the capital. There was, of course, an even larger estate in their domain in the east, but it was convenient for important noble families to have second homes at the capital. Five white carriages were lined up outside the main entrance, all of them emblazoned with the two-headed eagle that was the sigil of the von Rhenias. Surrounding each carriage were half a dozen fully armed knights.

  In front of the first carriage were Duke von Rhenia and two others—a woman who looked to be in her mid-forties, and a man around Clara’s age.

  The man bore more than a passing resemblance to Iris and the duke. He had serious, cold eyes, though his were crimson rather than purple, and his black hair had a silver streak towards the front. He was probably the duke’s eldest son and heir, Lord Conrad von Rhenia. Which meant the woman, with the same black hair and red eyes as Conrad, was his mother, the Duchess Adelheid von Rhenia.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  When Iris approached them, it struck Clara how impeccably beautiful everyone in that family was, as if they were all Hollywood actors. Where are all the novels with ugly characters, damn it? This is making me feel self-conscious. They all looked gently at Iris, though Clara could tell from Conrad’s rigid posture that there was some tension in the air. The escorting knights, too, seemed nervous, though that might just have been the weight of the heavy armor under the sun. What season are we in, anyway? I should’ve looked at a calendar… Based on the pleasant temperature and the full green trees surrounding the mansion, Clara guessed it was spring.

  A knight approached her—though this one wasn’t wearing armor but a burgundy dress uniform. His dark olive skin and thick brows reminded Clara of the classic Southern Mediterranean type, in contrast with most others in the von Rhenia household, and there was a tension in his shoulders as he moved.

  “Miss Casewell, I’m Knight Captain Ricardo. You will travel with me,” he said, directing her to the third carriage.

  Clara stepped into the coach and was surprised at how comfortable it was. The cushions were soft and plush, and the seats themselves were quite wide; she could picture eight or so people fitting easily inside.

  A few moments later, another passenger boarded the carriage: a familiar, gray-haired woman with a severe look. Head Maid Priscilla.

  “Miss Casewell,” she said.

  Clara gave a short greeting nod. It was tempting to stay silent—after their first interaction yesterday, she was in no rush to engage with the head maid. But the woman might have information on the threatening letter, and Clara couldn’t afford to pass up an opportunity. She’d have to be cautious, though, to account for the possibility that the head maid herself was behind it.

  “Head Maid, I wanted to thank you for your assistance yesterday. It was good to be reminded of my duty to Lady Iris even in this… difficult time.”

  “It gladdens me to hear that.” Priscilla’s face softened, and for a flash, she didn’t look as severe as she usually did. It only lasted a moment, though, and Clara soon felt the same scrutinizing gaze peering at her.

  “If I may, I have a question. I’ve been waiting for a letter from an acquaintance. Who can I speak with to check if it’s arrived at the von Rhenia estate?”

  “Shouldn’t you already know this?” She clicked her tongue. “There’s a dedicated post boy who serves the estate. You should be able to find him in the morning by the stables. Though I suppose, given your situation… If you don’t return with us today, I will check for your mail and have it sent to you.” Her eyes narrowed. “I hope you aren’t getting into trouble with men. That’s the last thing you need right now, Miss Casewell.”

  Clara quickly shook her head. “No, of course not, Head Maid. Thank you.”

  After a brief yet highly uncomfortable silence, Captain Ricardo climbed into the carriage.

  “Excuse me, Madam Priscilla, Miss Casewell. We’ll be departing now.”

  The carriage soon started moving. For someone used to modern cars, the ride was surprisingly bumpy, and Clara discreetly held onto the seat, feeling somewhat nauseous. The captain and the head maid didn’t seem bothered, and soon started chatting.

  “Captain, how goes your brother? I heard there’s been some trouble up north,” asked Priscilla.

  Ricardo looked downcast. “I wrote to him when one of the other knights told me about the Duchy of Albion’s troubles, but I’ve heard nothing back yet.”

  “That is regrettable. I do hope you hear from him soon, Captain. Don’t hesitate to let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.”

  Clara raised an eyebrow. Was the head maid being… nice? Had Clara been too quick to judge her based on their initial interaction?

  As the pair continued chatting, Clara turned her attention to the window, watching as the large suburban estates gave way to denser clusters of buildings. Soon, the towering walls of the capital came into view. They were far taller than any city wall Clara had ever seen—she had to stop herself from complaining about the implausible logistics and material costs—, and behind them lay the city of Elysia, former capital of the Elysian Empire, and now the center of the Holy Kingdom of Arcadia.

  When they passed through the city gates, Clara didn’t know what to feel. Not because the capital wasn’t beautiful or impressive—it absolutely was—but because it felt like a monumental contradiction, carved from stone and marble. It was an impossible mishmash of half-timbered medieval buildings pressed up against what looked like Georgian townhouses, which somehow neighbored soaring Gothic spires. And threading through it all were streets that almost looked like cobblestone, except the stones glowed faintly in the shadows, pulsing with a soft blue-green luminescence.

  Magic. Right. This world had magic.

  She wanted to step outside and look at it, try to figure out how it all worked. But she didn’t think the head maid and the captain would appreciate that—not to mention the knights escorting the carriage.

  As they drew closer to the city center, the streets grew more crowded. Clara watched people going about their morning routines. Vendors set up stalls, children ran between buildings, and a woman hung laundry from a third-story window. They looked so real, so full of life. Not at all like background characters in a story, but actual people with lives and concerns that had nothing to do with villainess plots or poisoning trials.

  A group of people in colorful robes had gathered near what looked like a fountain. Except the water wasn’t simply flowing down, it was floating, forming beautiful geometric patterns above the basin. A small crowd had gathered to watch, tossing coins into the levitating pools of water.

  “First time seeing a water mage’s morning practice?” Captain Ricardo asked, following her gaze.

  Clara realized she’d been staring. “It’s quite something.”

  “My cousin Marco has been performing there for years. The children love it.” Ricardo smiled gently, but it faded quickly. “Though I suppose we have more pressing concerns than street entertainment. We are almost at the High Court.”

  Clara swallowed.

  The carriage turned onto a wider avenue, and suddenly the architecture became uniform: all white marble and towering columns. Clara couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Government buildings look the same even in a fantasy world, huh? ‘What have the Romans ever done for us’, they ask.

  In between two fountains lay an ornate, temple-like structure. It dominated the plaza like a cathedral. Surrounding it were twelve white pillars, each one carved with a distinct figure—judges? Historical persons? She couldn’t tell.

  And atop its massive domed roof was a statue that looked like Lady Justice—a toga, a sword, a blindfold… Except instead of scales, she held a golden key.

  The High Court of Magic.

  Clara wasn’t a trial lawyer—in her world, that wasn’t where the money and prestige lay these days. The most successful attorneys did corporate consulting, large transactions involving banks, governments, and multinationals. Even so, she’d been in enough courthouses to recognize the architectural power play: the imposing entrance, the majestic scale, and the steps forcing you to physically climb towards your judgement. It was all meant to make individuals feel small and insignificant before the law.

  Except this wasn’t really about the law, was it? Iris had made that clear yesterday.

  No lawyers. No defense. And in their place were magical truth detection and the whims of whoever presided. Even if locals thought this was the will of Heaven, to Clara it was nothing but unchecked power masquerading as justice.

  Her hands clenched in her lap.

  “Miss Casewell,” said Ricardo with a serious gaze, “you are a servant of the von Rhenias. The duke remembers his own.”

  She knew the words were said in kindness, but Clara took them the same way a terminally ill patient might receive pitiful reassurances.

  Ricardo opened the carriage door and stepped out first, then offered his hand to help Priscilla down. Clara followed, and was soon approached by Iris. The girl looked tiny next to her father and brother. Her expression was determined, a far cry from the worried tearfulness that used to be there, but Clara could see the tremor in her hands.

  Without thinking, she stepped closer and gave Iris’s hands a quick squeeze.

  “Remember, my lady. It’s not over until we stop fighting.”

  Iris’s answering smile was fragile but genuine.

  Lord Conrad frowned, as if offended that a mere maid would approach his sister like this. Duke von Rhenia, too, gazed at Clara. Except his gaze didn’t feel like disdain. Then he nodded, as if she’d passed some unspoken test.

  “Are you ready?” asked the duke, gesturing towards the entrance.

  Clara’s jaw tightened. Despite all her attempts at preparation, so many unknowns remained. What was up with Helena’s sickness? How could Clara convince them to let her defend herself and Iris? How would the truth magic react when used on her, given she wasn’t the original Stella?

  No, I’m anything but ready, she thought. Nevertheless, here we are.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said Clara.

  The group walked into the High Court.