Chapter 9 - King Cinderella: Two Hearts Entwined in Sin

Translator's Note:

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Though Erald's will to live was faint, he had always taken quiet pride in his physical strength—until even that was stripped from him. Days passed in a feverish haze, the wound from his fall having become infected with something dire, threatening his very life.

 

Each time Chalon appeared in his fevered dreams, Erald found himself thinking, Ah… the angel has come to take me away.

 

But Chalon, brow furrowed in stern concern, would look him in the eye and say firmly, "Please don't give up. Keep fighting."

 

And so, each time Erald was pulled toward death, he would remember—if he died, he would never see Chalon again. And from the edge of the abyss, he would claw his way back.

 

Chalon—so angelic in appearance—was not a figment of divine illusion, but a living, breathing man.

 

Richard Chalon Aschenptel. Not a heavenly messenger, but the second prince of this very kingdom.

 

To think I mistook him for a noble and addressed him so casually… even allowed him to dirty his hands and sleeves caring for me—how unspeakably audacious I was!

 

Three days later, having finally recovered enough to rise from his sickbed, Erald now sat on a bench in the library, tormented with regret.

 

Part of the reason he had collapsed into fever may have been the shock of recognizing the embroidered crest on the handkerchief Chalon had tied around his wound—the royal rose of the House of Aschenptel. Even Erald, who paid little mind to courtly gossip, had heard the rumor: the second prince was beautiful… and blind.

 

It was common knowledge that the current king had no daughters and two sons. The elder, destined to inherit the throne, was Varius. The younger, eventually to be married off to a foreign royal house, was Richard.

 

Erald had memorized their full names out of courtesy: Varius Henri Aschenptel and Richard Chalon Aschenptel. The grace and radiance he had sensed in Chalon had not been imagined—they were born of his nature, yes, but also of his royal upbringing.

 

I wonder… during these past three days, has Prince Chalon gone walking in the forest? And if he has… did he think of me at all?

 

It felt like a dream, but those words—"Let's be sure to see each other again"—had not been imagined. Though his memories were clouded by fever, Erald clung to them with conviction.

 

Now that he was finally well enough to go outside again, he longed to return to the forest. But what should he wear? What kind of expression should he wear when he met Chalon again?

 

He couldn't claim to be a commoner now—not after the lie he had told. Yet continuing to pretend to be a noble's son felt dishonest. Wearing clothes and boots bought with money gained by selling off books dear to him only compounded his shame. Even using the same perfume favored by Crown Prince Varius felt like a transgression, as if he were committing some grave sin.

 

To deceive someone as pure and kind as Prince Chalon… it's inexcusable. I should go as my true self, offer an apology, and return the handkerchief—cleaned, of course.

 

Would Chalon be shocked? Of course he would.

 

If that warmth he'd shown had been meant for a nobleman, then surely he would recoil from a commoner's touch. Perhaps he'd even reject the handkerchief outright, regretting every word and gesture he'd offered.

 

Erald didn't want to believe that Chalon was like his stepmother and stepbrother. But the truth was, Chalon was someone from a world Erald didn't know—someone born and raised in a life completely unlike his own. That made him scared. What if, the moment Erald revealed his status, Chalon's gaze turned cold and distant? What if he forced a smile to hide his disgust?

 

There was a part of Erald that still wanted to believe—still yearned to trust him. But the deeper truth was… he couldn't. Not yet. Not completely.

 

Dear God… what should I do?

 

Seated at the edge of the bench, Erald stared down at the two coats spread across the table.

 

The ivory one he had worn when he fell—torn, bloodstained, and caked with mud—had already been turned away by multiple craftsmen. Hannah had visited tailor after tailor to ask if it could be repaired, but all said it was beyond saving.

 

That left only two: one in a soft blue that complemented his eyes, and the other a deep wine red, like crushed berries steeped in sunlight. His silk shirts had been only two in number.

 

Between the coats sat a bottle of perfume. It was the same scent favored by the crown prince—Varius—the man who would someday become king. The scent of someone worthy to stand beside Prince Chalon.

 

Abruptly, Erald fled the library still clad in his ill-fitting rags and made for the bathhouse.

 

He hadn't asked his stepmother or stepbrother for permission—but he didn't care.

 

Hannah prepared the water, and Erald scrubbed himself clean with soap, lathering until foam covered every inch of his body and hair. His skin still bore the sweat of days spent in fever, and he welcomed the cleansing.

 

Though the sun still hung high in the sky, its gradual descent westward filled him with quiet anticipation.

 

Once dry, Erald wrapped the wound on his arm with a fresh bandage and made up his mind.

 

Even if it was a sin… he would meet Chalon again as a nobleman.

 

He would speak with him—make him smile again—and cling to the lie, if only to preserve that hope.

 

Clad in a lace-trimmed shirt, a blue woolen coat and matching cap, dark brown leggings and boots, Erald stepped out of the house. With his faithful horse Aston by his side, he wandered once more into the forest.

 

But perhaps because he hadn't had the courage to trust Chalon completely—because he'd let fear drive him to deceit—the reunion he'd hoped for never came.

 

Now that he knew Chalon was a prince, it was only natural. Royalty did not come and go freely from the palace. In truth, it had been a miracle they'd met at all. Not seeing him again was… inevitable.

 

"Aston? What is it?"

 

As the sky began to blush orange with sunset, Aston suddenly veered from the path without prompting.

 

Erald reflexively reached for the reins—but then stopped, letting the horse go where it pleased.

 

Perhaps Chalon, with his gentle spirit, had a way of calling to animals.

Just the hope of it made Erald's heart race.

 

Though he was merely seated atop his horse, his pulse thundered as if he were running full speed on his own two legs.

 

And when that thundering reached its peak, Aston let out a sharp, excited whinny.

 

Following his gaze, Erald saw a pack of white dogs barking—and beyond them, riding a white horse, was Chalon.

 

His long, wavy hair—bathed in the amber glow of sunset—seemed almost strawberry blonde, bouncing with every step of the horse.

 

In dreams, Erald had mistaken him for an angel. Now, seeing him in the flesh, nothing had changed. Chalon still looked like an angel. And when their eyes met, he smiled.

 

Even with his poor vision, he had found Erald among the light and shadows.

 

"Erald," Chalon said warmly. "At last, we meet again."

 

"Prince Chalon—!"

 

Erald removed his cap as he called the prince's name, joy blooming in his chest like a garden of white roses.

 

From those words and that smile, Erald understood—Chalon had come to the forest during his illness. That at last was the culmination of days spent searching and hoping. Realizing this, Erald felt tears sting behind his eyes.

 

"I behaved most rudely the other day, unaware of your Highness's true identity… Please, forgive me."

 

He quickly dismounted and bowed low before Chalon's white steed.

 

The dogs gathered around him, sniffing at his legs and coat. But they didn't growl or bark—they simply stepped aside, as if offering him safe passage.

 

"I should be the one apologizing," Chalon said gently. "I never meant to hide my identity… but by not saying anything, I must have startled you. How is your injury?"

 

Even astride a horse, Chalon radiated divine gentleness. He was neither angel nor fairy—he was of royal blood, yes, far removed from common ground—but still, he shone with something otherworldly.

 

"Thank you for your concern. I ran a high fever for about three days, but I'm feeling much better now. The wound's been stitched by a physician, so as long as I don't overexert myself, I'll be fine."

 

"Oh, three days of fever… That must have been dreadful. I'm sorry—I was out here, blissfully unaware of your suffering, looking for you without a clue. I feel foolish."

 

"P-please, it's not your fault at all!"

 

"No, really," Chalon said with a faint laugh. "You see, when we met, I'd imagined the next time I saw you we might simply… play together. I wasn't thinking seriously enough."

 

"Play… together?"

 

"Yes. If you don't mind, would you come with me? You can ride Aston, of course."

 

Smiling as if he'd waited for this moment all along, Chalon extended the invitation, and Erald swiftly mounted Aston to follow.

 

He rode at a respectful distance behind the white steed and its canine escorts.

 

As they made their way eastward—toward the castle—Chalon gently patted his horse's mane and said, "This one's name is Keith." Then, with a soft chuckle, he added, "Though really, I should have introduced myself first. I'm Richard Chalon Aschenptel. In the royal family, the name Richard is quite common, which is why everyone calls me Chalon. I am the second prince of this country, but because of my poor eyesight and the fact that I've yet to come of age, I'm rarely assigned any official duties. Most days I'm allowed to roam freely—gathering herbs in the forest or whittling crystals in the castle as a hobby."

 

"I'm honored… My name is Erald—Erald Valward."

 

Tightening his grip on Aston's reins, Erald spoke the name he'd rehearsed—an elaborate lie.

 

His real name was Erald James. Valward was the name of his stepmother's noble family in Auden, a neighboring kingdom.

 

It pained him deeply to rely on her name—after already wearing the clothes and perfume she'd forced upon him—but even so, this moment was too precious to lose. To ride side by side with a prince through the forest and exchange words—it was worth protecting, at any cost.

 

If he was to lie, it would be best to adopt the name of a real noble house. And thanks to his stepmother's endless boasting, Erald knew more than enough about the Valward estate—their history, their gardens, their home—to carry the falsehood convincingly.

 

"Are you from Auden, then?"

 

"…Yes. Due to certain complicated circumstances, I'm currently staying in Aschenptel."

 

Each lie made his shoulders heavier, his head cloudier, his chest tighter.

 

He was fully aware now—each fragile falsehood required countless others to support it, a web of fiction surrounding him on all sides. It would have been easier to confess from the start. Easier, even now, to tear down the lie while it was still small. But it was too late. He couldn't turn back.

 

"I see. I won't ask any more—please don't worry," Chalon said gently. "To be honest, I rather wish I'd met you without knowing anything about your status at all."

 

"—Pardon?"

 

"Does that surprise you, coming from a prince?" Chalon gave a sheepish smile. "You see, I have no real human friends. I wished I could become yours—without titles or ranks getting in the way."

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