The Maid of the Cursed Princess

“…”

Was this a workshop?

That was Dorothy’s initial thought, for how else would this indolent witch be before her eyes?

However, she soon realized this wasn’t the witch’s underground workshop, lacking the musty smell and pungent aromas of various potions and concoctions.

There was a place to lie down, and more importantly, the surroundings were bright. It couldn’t be underground to be so well-lit.

“…Long time… no see… uh, witch?”

“Not going to call me mother? I had rather enjoyed the chills it sent down my spine whenever you did, after so long.”

“I won’t call you that…”

The witch had reverted to her usual ominous demeanor, playfully twirling Dorothy’s hair with her fingers.

“Why, are you embarrassed? When you were little, you would chirp ‘Mama, Mama’ like a fledgling bird no matter how often I told you not to.”

“That was ages ago…”

For better or worse, the long-acquainted pair’s relationship wasn’t unpleasant, despite the apparent dislike. At the very least to Dorothy, the witch was one of the few she could freely banter with.

“Where is this…”

“The royal palace. As unsavory as this foul place is, I have come because someone foolishly flaunted their body before inviting grievous harm.”

To the witch, Dorothy was like a child she had partly raised, with all the mixed feelings that entailed – hoping to never see her again one moment, yet unable to feel completely at ease upon hearing she was injured.

“How did you end up here?”

“Well…”

* * *

The room Dorothy had been carried to in her critical state was right next to Princess Sibylla’s guest chambers within the palace.

“So… she truly didn’t die? Is Dorothy… alive?”

“Yes, her life is not in danger, though an extended convalescence will be required. With around two weeks of rest, she should be able to move about unhindered.”

Only after the physician’s explanation did Sibylla sigh in relief, plopping down on the bare floor.

Having ridden the chamberlain’s carriage at top speed back to Hyperion, Sibylla had been utterly petrified seeing Dorothy’s bloodied, seemingly dying form, unable to even touch her for fear of worsening her condition. Was there truly nothing she could do to aid Dorothy?

Lamenting her own powerless ineptitude, Sibylla pounded her chest with her fists. Would it not be better to perish than live like this?

Yet lacking even the courage to end her own life, all the disgraced child could do was sob soundlessly.

Thus, it was only natural for the tension to leave Sibylla’s body the moment she learned Dorothy’s life was no longer in danger, after berating and blaming herself so thoroughly.

Supporting the exhausted Sibylla onto a sofa, the chamberlain regarded the physician gravely.

“…Are you absolutely certain? Just moments ago, she appeared on the verge of death.”

They had hurriedly returned to the capital harboring mere hopes of her survival, not any certainty she would live.

She could still perish – or rather, death had seemed the likelier outcome, which was why they had rushed the carriage at maximum speed to increase her chances however slightly.

“To be honest… I had initially deemed her prospects nonexistent. She had lost far too much blood, and even if she somehow survived, lasting aftereffects seemed inevitable.”

Even to the chamberlain’s relatively untrained eye, her condition had appeared dire. One could only imagine the physician’s assessment upon first seeing the maid’s mangled state lying in that bed.

Indeed, the physician had judged her unsalvageable in that initial moment.

“But… her condition somehow improved on its own. Despite my treatment only stemming the bleeding and applying medication, her severed tendons gradually reconnected, her internal injuries steadily healing…”

Yet Dorothy’s condition had slowly yet undeniably improved, color returning to her once pallid lips and complexion.

“I speak outrageously, but her recovery rate has far surpassed the bounds of humanity. In decades spent saving lives, I have never witnessed anything like this.”

It wasn’t merely astonishing, but utterly astounding. Dorothy’s ability to heal.

Thus, despite confirming the patient’s survival, the physician couldn’t help but regard her gravely, rendered speechless by a phenomenon defying all established medical knowledge.

“This has already exceeded the purview of medicine – or at the very least, my own capabilities. While I don’t foresee any further issues based on my assessment, I can’t state so with certainty. Thus, I would recommend summoning someone more intimately acquainted with this maid.”

“Someone acquainted with Miss Gale…?”

Dorothy Gale, Arachne – did such a person even exist?

The chamberlain knew of none, for the slums too were like murky waters concealing their depths from view.

“…I know of one.”

“…Princess?”

Yet unlike the chamberlain, Sibylla did know of one person.

An eccentric old witch, at once youthful yet ancient, seemingly kindhearted yet wicked – an enigma defying simple categorization.

* * *

“So that is why I was summoned. The muscular old chamberlain sent someone.”

“…I’m sorry. For troubling you unnecessarily…”

Obediently receiving the witch’s ministrations, Dorothy apologized for the trouble she had gone through to reach the palace.

“Fool, just focus on recovering. Not that you could readily die even if you wished, with the body you now possess.”

“Speaking of which… what did you do to my body…?”

Ever since sustaining grave injuries protecting Sibylla from the quartet of assassins before her encounter with the Slave Prince, Dorothy had harbored doubts.

“Wounds that shouldn’t have healed so swiftly were completely mended within a few days…”

Before ingesting the potion that had turned her female, Dorothy had never exhibited such remarkable recovery. Her former self – Arachne – had merely been an ordinary human, after all.

“I don’t know what specific injuries you refer to, but it is true I added special ingredients to the potion that made your life’s thread even more tenacious.”

To Dorothy’s query, the witch explained in a relatively amicable tone compared to her usual manner:

“You would know the nature of fairy tales, with that vacant space between your ears.”

“…Ah, it has been too long since I was on the receiving end of such scathing barbs. How nostalgic…”

Compared to usual, at least.

“It seems your wits have yet to fully return. In any case, are you not familiar with those fabled tales chronicling a protagonist’s life?”

Stories of girls trapped in wondrous realms, or physicians forced to journey between lands of miniatures and giants.

“A common trait of such fairy tale protagonists is that they rarely perish, no matter their ordeals.”

Not all fairy tale heroes avoid death, but those in novelistic chronicles or life story formats typically survive until the very end, no matter the peril.

Losing limbs is but a minor inconvenience, easily remedied by turning a page to find them whole and hale once more. Fanciful tales only possible within fairy tale logic.

“Consider yourself akin to such protagonists. In other words, you have become the story’s lead.”

“The lead…”

Not to the supernatural extent of immediately regenerating severed limbs like a lizard’s tail, but rendering you effectively unkillable barring the most extreme circumstances.

“That doesn’t mean recklessly relying on your enhanced durability, however. You can still perish if that head of yours departs your shoulders.”

“Understood.”

“Tsk, you speak well while letting it go in one ear and out the other.”

Paying the witch’s admonishments little heed, Dorothy obediently presented her head to receive the witch’s ministrations.

“The Princess…”

“Is in the adjacent room. Why, did you wish to see her?”

“No, it’s just… presenting myself in this state feels improper.”

It was comfortable – this indifferent touch she hadn’t felt in so long.

Not that she sensed any particular affection, yet it was enough for Dorothy.

“There, child.”

Cradled in the witch’s ambiguous embrace, wavering between mischief and tenderness.

“You have earned the right to rest.”

Dorothy began drifting into a deep, dreamless slumber once more.

* * *

Meanwhile, at a villa in Hyperion’s outskirts.

“Is your arm okay, Prince?”

A middle-aged nobleman of dignified countenance inquired of the villa’s master gazing out the window.

“As you can see, not well. The physician said it will be some time before I can properly move it again.”

After the assassination attempt, Prince Louis had been confined to this villa under the pretext of convalescence.

“While avoiding those insufferable foreign guests is a relief… this means I can’t play with the children for the foreseeable future.”

The price of escaping an unpleasant duty was losing an enjoyable one – he would even have to make do as a one-armed man for a while.

Was it not too lopsided an exchange? The Prince’s hollow laughter belied his mirthless eyes.

“…Perhaps this is an opportunity to sever ties with those uncouth riff-raff?”

Perceiving the Prince’s displeasure, the nobleman suddenly recalled the impoverished orphans who would brazenly visit this very villa with the Prince’s tacit permission, mocking him and absconding with pastries and toys.

“The sheer audacity of those baseborn pauper brats to mock a Prince of the country is unforgivable, they deserve to lose their heads on the spot for such-“

“Viscount Lusignan.”

What the nobleman had intended as well-meaning advice was met with an icy rebuke:

“If you utter such drivel again in my presence, you had best be prepared to never set foot in Hyperion for the rest of your days.”

“…Forgive my insolence, Your Highness.”

Yet despite the curt reprimand.

“…By the way, are my brother and Sibylla unharmed?”

“Yes, though an assassin did target Princess Sibylla along the way, the chamberlain and her personal maid ensured her safety.”

“I see… That is good to hear…”

The Viscount’s report brought a wistful smile to the Prince’s face.

“…It wasn’t enough.”

The Viscount couldn’t discern who that ‘not enough’ was directed toward 

The chamberlain’s efforts? The grievously injured maid? The Princess whose life was threatened? Or perhaps…

“To have sacrificed even my arm.”

The Prince himself?