Chapter 4 - King Cinderella: Two Hearts Entwined in Sin

Translator's Note:

Hello, I hope you've all been doing well

Here you go, and I wish you a good read.

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Hannah wiped away her tears, and then, as if steeling herself, added with hesitation:

 

"But… what I worry about, Master Erald, is that one day you might strike back. And honestly, I think you'd be within your rights to do so. But… you've grown so tall, your arms so strong—you look like a knight now. If you were to hit him, even just once… it wouldn't be seen as a brotherly fight. You might kill him without meaning to. And that frightens me."

 

"That's why I fight back with words," Erald said. "Because I do hate it. And I think it's wrong to bottle those feelings up. I'm not the kind of person who can endure everything in silence."

 

"That's not true!" Hannah cried. "You're stronger than anyone I know. You've endured so much already."

 

"Thank you," he whispered. "You're my second mother, Hannah. It means a lot to hear you say that."

 

He gently pulled her into an embrace, her narrow shoulders trembling in his arms. "I'm sorry for making you worry," he added softly.

 

More than anything, Erald hated himself for making her cry—the woman who was far more of a mother to him than the one who'd married into the James family. But he couldn't deny the feeling inside him: a delicate glass bottle deep in his chest, slowly filling, day by day, with rage.

 

He had to tip it now and then, just a little, to spill some of it. If he didn't, it would either overflow or shatter—and when it did, the damage would be irreversible.

 

"Oh—actually, I'd been looking for you, Master Erald. There's something urgent."

 

Hannah sniffled and straightened herself, her tone shifting.

 

"The Baroness says she's bought you a wool suit and leather shoes. She wants you to come to her chambers immediately and try them on."

 

"…A wool suit and leather shoes? For me?"

 

"Yes. She's apparently planning to invite guests this winter… though where she thinks the funds will come from, I've no idea. Still, she says she wants you dressed as befits the second son of House James. The custom order just arrived, and she told me to get hot water and soap ready for you. You're to bathe thoroughly—head to toe."

 

Hannah smiled faintly, though concern lingered in her eyes. "I'll start preparing your bath now," she said.

 

But Erald felt no joy—only unease.

 

Whenever his stepmother ordered him to bathe with soap and warm water, it had always been a silent summons—to her bedroom. It hadn't happened in years, and he wanted to believe that chapter was over.

 

But she wasn't the sort of woman to spend money on a stepson out of sentiment or whim.

 

There had to be a reason.

 

"Maybe she's planning to dress me up and marry me off somewhere," he muttered. "Take a bride price and keep the house afloat that way."

 

"It's possible," Hannah admitted. "I know you don't want to leave this place, Master Erald—but between that and the way you're being treated now… I think becoming the husband of some wealthy family and finding a new home might not be so bad. You could bring your mother's books with you. Someone as kind, wise, and beautiful as you… there's no way you wouldn't find happiness."

 

"Can someone really be happy… marrying a person they don't love?"

 

"If you wait for love before you marry, you'll wait forever. Sometimes love comes after the vows."

 

Her logic was sound. But Erald, who had tried and failed to love his stepmother and stepbrother, could no longer bring himself to place hope in unseen futures—or in unseen people.

 

What truly frightened him wasn't just the risk of betrayal. It was that he no longer had any faith in himself. He was tired. So tired. If he could, he would fast-forward time and skip to the end of it all.

 

He imagined a life where everyone around him—his older stepmother, his stepbrother, even the loyal servants—lived out their years and quietly passed on. And he, left behind, would place a bed in the library just like his mother once had… and spend his last days surrounded by books.

 

To drift into death while reading—softly, peacefully—how blissful that would be. He didn't want the days in between. He just wanted to skip the pain. To become the kind of old man who waited patiently for the end with a book in hand.

 

That way, he wouldn't commit any more sins.

 

He wouldn't have to worry about losing control and killing his stepbrother in a moment of fury. Wouldn't risk the loyal servants being turned out because of his failures. Wouldn't be forced into a marriage where he couldn't love, and couldn't help but cause pain. He would carry only one sin with him when he died—the one he already bore.

 

That, perhaps, would be enough to keep Heaven's gates open.

 

That sin belonged to his stepmother, not him. He had been just a boy—Erald James, too young to understand. God would see that. God would be merciful. His father and mother would greet him with open arms.

 

If I don't commit any more sins, then maybe… just maybe… I'll be able to see them again in Heaven.

 

As Erald washed himself according to the baroness's instructions, he imagined his youthful body aging—skin withering like leaves, years settling into his bones. That thought didn't frighten him.

 

What frightened him was the thought of piling sin upon sin.

 

There were times he had looked at a corset lace, a dress sash, and wanted to wrap it around the Baroness's throat. Times he'd driven a needle through his own torn skin and imagined it piercing his stepbrother's eye instead.

 

No. Never again. I will not sin again. Before these hands are stained with blood, let them be called back to God.

 

Erald's soul was exhausted, hollowed out by despair. But his body—bathed in suds—remained radiant.

 

Even after years of farmwork, his skin retained its fair, noble hue, blushing rather than browning in the sun. His body hair, sparse and golden, shimmered faintly in the light. He looked like a young god, not a broken man.

 

The towel set out for him was clean, high-quality cotton. The scented oil prepared for his skin was fine and smooth, far more luxurious than anything he had touched in years.

 

And the perfume—what truly astonished him—was exquisite. Finer even than the foreign oils his father had once imported for the nobles of Aschenptel. The bottle alone was a marvel, carved with such intricate artistry it seemed almost a sin to touch.

 

Its fragrance—sensual black orchid entwined with the scents of several rare roses and the richness of musk—was complex, yet perfectly balanced.

 

As a child, Erald used to enjoy distinguishing the imported perfumes his father handled, delighting in their subtleties. But this—this scent was unlike anything he'd ever known. With just a single breath, it felt as if a thousand blooms burst into color, sweeping away the autumn air. He felt like a noble youth standing at the center of a vast flower garden.

 

Is this perfume a gift from the family who wants me as their son-in-law…? The clothes and shoes are finer than anything I imagined. The shirt is silk. Everything is new. I look… like a noble.

 

He dried his hair without help. Once the oil had settled across his skin, he dressed: fine cotton undergarments first, then the silk shirt.

 

He had wanted only to age quickly and die. Yet as he dressed, a quiet smile tugged at his lips. The fabric stirred memories. Before he'd lost his father, silk had been a familiar comfort to the son of a nobleman. This shirt felt like a piece of that lost world.

 

Buoyed by the intoxicating scent and fleeting nostalgia, Erald stepped out of the bathhouse.

 

But as he ascended from the first floor to the second, his expression gradually stiffened.

 

The bathhouse—only one in the estate with running water—was reserved for his stepmother and stepbrother. Erald had long been forbidden to use it. He usually bathed in the river, or in a wooden tub in his room when the weather turned cold.

 

It had been years since he'd used this space. But his body remembered.

His skin remembered. And with the memory came shame.

 

From this bathhouse, he had once walked those same halls to his stepmother's room. A child, alone, walking toward a nightmare. The sun was high now—but if it were night, his legs would refuse to carry him.

 

With every step up the stairs, his heart groaned like old wood, and his feet dragged as though made of lead.

 

The autumn air drifting through the corridor was crisp and clean, yet sweat—cold and sour—beaded on his freshly bathed skin.

 

"Baroness, it's Erald."

 

He steadied his breath and forced himself to appear composed as he entered her chambers.

 

The curtains were drawn. She waited on a chaise lounge, draped in a dress that was cut low to press her ample breasts upward. Her crimson lips curved in expectation.

 

"Ahh… How lovely," she purred. "It's as if Cinderella turned into a prince. You look even more beautiful than I imagined."

 

The moment she spoke in that honeyed voice—the same woman who had spent years hurling cruel words at him—Erald was hit by a wave of nausea, a pounding headache, and a blinding dizziness. His legs refused to move. He stood frozen at the threshold.

 

 

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