Chapter 8: Everything is the end of emotions.

Hearing her name, Violette’s first reaction is startled confusion, thinking for a moment she’s been called.
Glancing toward the sound is an involuntary reflex.
Then, grasping the context and reason, she’s struck by both shock and despair.
What a disastrous turn of events—her instinct is to curse the situation, barely restraining herself from spitting out vulgar words.
What a colossal, infuriating mess.

“Because of you and your mother, she’s suffered so much… Know your place!”

“I’ve been watching, and it seems you lack any real refinement. Not just your birth, but your upbringing is low-class too, isn’t it?”

The sight of malicious blades converging as a pack is, objectively, this ugly.
Violette once wielded those same blades freely, but even with memory and reality intertwined, she feels nothing but disgust.
In the vast venue, tucked away in a corner far from adults, she chose this secluded spot herself.
But she hadn’t imagined it would be the perfect stage for such an act.
Above all, she never anticipated others would target Maryjune besides herself.
She thought Maryjune’s kind, beloved nature would shield her if Violette stayed out of it—an utterly miscalculated assumption that leaves her at a loss.

‘This is getting complicated…’

It’s a callous thought, but honestly, she wishes they’d take their drama elsewhere, out of her hands.
Who they pick a fight with is their freedom.
Even if their actions are blameworthy, to Violette, it’s someone else’s problem.
But that hinges on not dragging others into it, doesn’t it?
She’s self-aware enough to know she’s in no position to preach, given her past.
Still, as someone with experience, she’d argue fights should be settled privately, without bothering others.
Even as that experienced person, Violette—who, now and then, is the root of this conflict—never acted without her own intent.
She always hurt Maryjune by her own will and actions.

“Vio-chan… you okay?”

“…Yes.”

She nods at Yuran’s concerned gaze, but inside, she’s already exhausted.
Pressing her forehead, she suppresses the urge to vent her emotions.
Rubbing her temple with force seems to clear her vision slightly—just a feeling.
The noble girls’ voices, growing heated, rise in volume.
Even in this secluded spot, a few people notice, including Violette and Yuran.
Who, then, is responsible for this scene?
Objectively, stripped of all emotion, it’s the instigators—those unnamed noble girls.
Surrounding one person with a group, driven by a baseless sense of justice, their actions are nothing but a nuisance to Maryjune, to others, and to Violette herself.
She could ignore it, waiting for them to notice the disconnect between their fervor and the crowd’s indifference, or for someone to intervene upon hearing the commotion.
That would be the most efficient, optimal choice for Violette.

“Sorry, could you hold these for a moment?”

“Huh…?”

Handing all her belongings to Yuran, she takes a step toward the voices.
She feels bad for confusing him—he’s unsure what she’s doing or what he should do—but she hopes it’ll be quick… or so she wants to believe.
To live quietly and inconspicuously, approaching the source of this uproar is the opposite of her goal.
Truthfully, she’d rather ignore it entirely.
But how would that look to others?
Objectively, as she reasoned, it’s an unrelated spat born of some grudge against a noble girl.
But reality isn’t so tidy.

‘A fight caused by my name, for my sake… it’s the worst.’

They’re acting for Violette, out of concern for her.
However misguided their methods, their intentions are pure, which makes it all the worse.
What emotions would onlookers feel?
No matter how objectively she frames it, people aren’t emotionless.
Impressions stem from feelings alone.
When emotions are involved, how will these girls, acting “for Violette,” be perceived?
And how will Violette, who doesn’t stop them, appear?
The answer is painfully simple, and Violette isn’t naive enough to miss the danger.
What’s done is done, but the key is resolving it swiftly and effectively.
There’s little time to spare, yet her dress clings to her legs, slowing her pace.
She wants to hike it up and run, but neither her position nor the setting allows it.

“What tricks did you use to seduce the lord…? You’re after the Varhan family’s power, but we won’t accept you!”

“No…! My mother and I aren’t like that…!”

“An impudent harlot’s daughter…!”

Cowering with her head bowed, occasionally glancing up only to look away, Maryjune’s frail, feminine reaction shifts to defiance when her mother is insulted.
It’s the same Maryjune Violette once confronted.
Kind, beautiful, loved and loving regardless of her origins—she’s the epitome of a virtuous heroine, a princess-like existence utterly unlike Violette.
Surely, even God wouldn’t allow her to be hurt.

“—What are you doing?”

Before a raised hand can reach Maryjune’s cheek, before Violette can raise her voice to stop it, a voice rings out—cold and sharp as ice, yet wielded not to harm but to protect.
A prince’s shield for the princess.

“Lord… Claudia…”

“…I asked what you’re doing.”

The noble girl, who moments ago had eyes blazing with anger and a hand raised in fury, is now pale as a ghost, almost tearful.
No matter how much they believe they’re acting righteously for Violette’s sake, their current opponent isn’t someone swayed by such reasoning.

“At a tea party hosted by the royal family, what are you trying to do? Care to explain?”

Lord Claudia Acrusis.
He’s no fairy-tale character or a metaphor for a girl’s admired figure.
He is the legitimate heir to the throne of the Juraria Kingdom—the next king in waiting.