Chapter 11 - King Cinderella: Two Hearts Entwined in Sin

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"Did you find anything interesting?"

 

"Ah… yes. Perhaps it's the peaceful atmosphere of this villa, but the selection seems to favor lighthearted, romantic works rather than overly formal or scholarly ones. It's been curated with great care."

 

"I see. I heard this place was originally built to resemble a commoner's home, so that the royal family could pretend to be farmers. It's gone now, but there used to be fields, a waterwheel, even a chicken coop. Royalty weary of court life would come here to escape it all and soil their hands like common folk."

 

Chalon placed a tray with tea on the table. "I'll let it steep for a little," he said, then walked toward Erald, who still stood by the bookshelf. His steps were more assured here indoors than they'd been outside.

 

"I've always been curious about the history of this villa, so I'm honored to hear it from you."

 

"If a real farmer heard such a tale, they'd probably be outraged."

 

"Perhaps… but those who know nothing of how stifling life at the castle can be might feel that way. If they understood the toll court duties take on the royals—enough to make them wish to cast off their titles for even a short while—they might instead feel honored that the royals sought to walk in their shoes."

 

"I'm glad to hear you say that. It means a lot, as one of their descendants. These days… things aren't quite as rigid. The palace isn't so bound by formality. His Majesty the King believes deeply in being beloved by the people, in living close to them. And of course, I feel the same way."

 

Standing beside Erald, Chalon referred to his father with formal reverence—"His Majesty the King."

 

His clear, dignified expression carried the grace of a prince who held both his people and his royal duty close to heart.

 

For a moment, Erald felt the overwhelming urge to kneel before him, to offer him his full respect. But he caught himself, remembering that Chalon had wished to be treated as a friend. Saying something like "You are most admirable, Your Highness," would mean nothing—it would only widen the distance between them. And now that he knew Chalon's true identity, it was even harder to speak naturally. To call him by name felt too casual. How should he behave?

 

"Your Highness, is there any book here that caught your eye? If you'd like, I could summarize or read it aloud to you."

 

Erald offered the words thoughtfully, searching for something true to himself. And when he did, Chalon responded with a smile as soft and radiant as a flower unfurling in bloom.

 

Understanding that Erald had gently acknowledged what he could not say aloud, Chalon looked almost moved as he picked up one of the books.

 

"This one. Its spine is completely white, so it stands out clearly to me. But I can't make out the letters on it at all. It's been bothering me for the longest time."

 

"This is actually a very popular romance novel at the moment. It's called The Glass Slipper. The title is written in silver on pure white, so even with my eyes, I need to bring it close to read. And since it's neither embossed nor embroidered, it does feel rather unkind, doesn't it?"

 

"Yes, exactly! I thought maybe I was the only one it was teasing, but to think it's even hard for you to read…"

 

Charmed by Chalon's honest surprise, Erald took the book he offered.

 

And so, over fragrant tea scented faintly with roses, they began to speak of The Glass Slipper.

 

"Though the heroine was born to a wealthy family," Erald began, "her stepmother and stepsisters treat her as nothing more than a servant. When a grand ball is held for the prince to choose a bride, she longs to go wearing the gown her late mother left for her. But she's mocked for its outdated style, and the dress is torn to shreds. She ends up alone, dressed in rags, hugging her knees and fighting back tears. Still, she harbors no hatred for anyone. She doesn't curse her fate. She simply watches the carriage pass her by, listening to the distant fireworks from the castle, and weeps in silence."

 

"…That must have been terribly sad. The poor girl," Chalon murmured.

 

"Yes. That moment—when she finally breaks down and cries, after enduring everything with such quiet strength—it moved me deeply. But the story doesn't end there."

 

As he traced the story's arc, Erald began to see the reflection of his own life in the tale's heroine.

 

At first, there were many similarities. But soon the paths diverged—and not merely because of gender.

 

He was not as pure or gentle as she had been. Unlike the innocent maiden in the story, he had been defiled many times at the hands of his stepmother. He hadn't simply endured injustice—he had argued back, scorned those he deemed lazy, even imagined revenge. There were times he had wished to die, had intentionally fallen from his horse, hoping to end it all.

 

And most of all—the greatest difference lay in the ending.

 

My story has no such ending, Erald thought. Even if a fairy godmother were to appear, as long as I remain a man, there will never be a future where I end up happily with a prince. No matter how fine the clothes I wear, no matter how splendid the carriage, a man is still a man. The best I could hope for… is to be a friend.

 

When the fairy godmother finally appeared in the story and gifted the poor girl a gown, a carriage, and glass slippers, Chalon's violet eyes sparkled like stars.

 

"I'm so glad," he said breathlessly, entirely absorbed, his tea forgotten as he leaned forward for the next part.

 

"The prince is immediately taken by her beauty," Erald continued, "but her attire makes her look like a noblewoman or a foreign princess. So he asks, 'Which kingdom are you a princess of?' And at that moment, she realizes what she's done. Ashamed of wearing a dress beyond her station and winning the prince's attention under false pretenses, she flees without giving her name. In this version, she leaves behind one of her glass slippers on the staircase, and it becomes the prince's only clue in his search for her."

 

As Erald spoke, he found himself reflecting bitterly on his own situation—disguised in clothing above his rank, speaking to a true prince.

 

And a new, far deeper sin began to bloom within him.

 

A sin greater than deceiving someone about his identity.

 

He had come to desire the prince before him—not as a noble or for any wealth or power, and not because he wished to become a woman.

 

No. As a man, unambiguously a man, he wanted to hold Chalon's slender body in his arms.

 

He wanted to press his lips—unpainted, yet naturally tinged with rose—against his own, to taste and ruin that delicate shape with his tongue. The image of Chalon's flat, modest chest made his blood stir. He had no interest in heaving, fleshy curves; he longed to touch the quiet purity of Chalon's body.

 

He wanted to push him down into the bed, watch his golden hair spill across the pillows, strip away his leggings and underclothes.

 

And then—perhaps with trembling fingers—stroke that likely undeveloped part of him, coaxing it into the shape of a man.

 

Overwhelmed by these shameful, unthinkable urges, Erald snapped the white book shut.

 

As if to dispel the unspeakable dream that had begun to take shape, he closed the volume with force. The scent of ink and not-quite-aged paper rose sharply to his throat.

 

"The prince fell in love with the maiden at first sight," Chalon said wistfully. "But it wasn't just her appearance, was it? Her inner beauty must have shown through as well. That makes it all the more wonderful."

 

Erald managed a smile. "Yes. That's how this version is written."

 

"Are there others that are different?"

 

"There are," Erald replied. "Some tell of meeting the prince without knowing his identity, falling in love before the truth is revealed. Others have the lovers secretly meeting time and again, fully aware of who he is. Even the slipper changes—sometimes it's made of gold or silver. And the way it's lost can vary too—sometimes it's dropped by accident on the stairs, other times it's deliberately taken by the prince. Each version varies in its own way, even if the core story remains the same."

 

"They all sound lovely," Chalon said, eyes shining. "I do wonder, though… Is it really all right to choose someone to marry at first sight? As a prince myself, it gives me pause. But… right now, I think I can understand how that prince must have felt."

 

He looked up at Erald with a soft gaze.

 

"It's because I met you, Erald… That's why I understand."

 

"—!"

 

"When I first met you… I just knew. I felt it. That you and I would become friends."

 

The moment of quiet hope that had bloomed within Erald was instantly crushed. Though he should have felt honored to be called friend—the highest title he could ever attain under false pretenses—it only made him ache with shame.

 

He was someone who, by rights, shouldn't even be permitted to speak to a prince.

 

To be here like this, side by side, was already more happiness than he deserved. But once given a taste of closeness, his longing grew insatiable.

 

Just as Chalon had become someone irreplaceable to him, Erald wanted to be someone special to Chalon too. And the title of friend—though precious—now stung with unbearable inadequacy.

 

"To be considered a friend of yours, Prince Chalon… it is an honor beyond words."

 

"I'm sorry for assuming," Chalon said with an apologetic smile. "But I suppose that's what it means to fall in love at first sight. That feeling you just… know. I imagine one day, I'll marry a princess from an allied kingdom. I likely won't have a chance to experience such a beautiful thing as love."

 

"Prince Chalon…"

 

The moment Erald recognized his feelings as forbidden, it was as though the heavens themselves had struck him down.

 

I could only ever see you as a friend. I will marry a princess of noble birth.

 

He hadn't said it cruelly. But it was enough to split Erald's heart in two.

 

Feigning nonchalance, he pulled the book close to his chest, hoping to steady the violent rhythm of his heart. If only he could seal every painful emotion—every wicked desire—inside that pure white book and lock it away.

 

Because if he didn't… even friendship would become impossible. He would never be able to face Chalon again.

 

"My eyesight wasn't something I was born with," Chalon said gently. "There are princesses out there who say they don't mind, as long as it's not hereditary. If I marry someone like that, I hope I can grow to truly love her. I want to be faithful. My father and mother had an arranged marriage, but they loved each other deeply."

 

He smiled—softly, innocently—and added, "I want to be like that too."

 

He hadn't realized anything. He hadn't sensed the sin blooming in Erald's heart. He was simply speaking as a prince, describing the life expected of him, his ideals shaped by duty.

 

"You are a most noble soul, Prince Chalon."

 

Even knowing there was no hidden meaning behind his words, Erald's heart still ached.

 

If he confessed, rejection would be inevitable. Perhaps even disgust. A man loving another man—such a thing was unforgivable.

 

Erald didn't want to admit to these feelings himself.

 

If he could erase them, he would.

 

But like a beanstalk from a fairytale, said to shoot to the heavens overnight, his emotions had sprouted and climbed with reckless speed—and now, they sought to bloom a flower that was never meant to exist.

 

"I've spoken far too much about myself," Chalon said gently. "Would you tell me more about the story?"

 

Through the soft steam of rose-scented tea, Chalon waited with a kind smile.

 

Erald nodded silently.

 

A teardrop had fallen onto the white cover of the book—but thankfully, Chalon didn't notice.

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