Chapter 20 - King Cinderella: Two Hearts Entwined in Sin

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Chapter 20

 

 

Since the return of Crown Prince Varius, two full weeks had passed without Chalon appearing even once—and the weight of that absence tore at Erald's heart with an ever-growing mix of anxiety and frustration.

 

Rumors swirled that Varius ignored his illegitimate sons and daughters, doting solely on his younger brother—or perhaps tormenting him at his whim. From what Chalon had said, Erald could tell it was both and neither: a complicated relationship that defied simple explanation. Yet the more he imagined them together, the more viciously jealous he became.

 

Brother or not, Varius could stay by Chalon's side as long as he pleased. Erald could barely bear the thought of it. Sometimes, he even felt hatred rising inside him.

 

Day after day, all he could do was wait. Longing but helpless, Erald continued his routine: venturing into the forest, waiting until sunset for someone who never came, then trudging off in despair to his next job.

 

And yet… he had a purpose. A fragile hope he clung to like breath.

 

The masquerade ball—open to commoners—had become the center of his world. There, he would see Chalon again. That dream was what kept him alive.

 

To make it real, he needed to pass the attire inspection, which meant securing proper evening wear.

 

In the Kingdom of Aschenptel, formal evening dress for men included a long silk coat with a lustrous sheen, a matching vest, a silk shirt with a cravat, and below, knee-length breeches that revealed the calves, paired with long stockings and high-heeled shoes.

 

The two outfits Erald currently owned were woolen and made for outdoor wear—utterly unsuitable.

 

A brand-new evening suit was entirely out of reach. So, instead, he had asked a tailor to find a slightly oversized secondhand ensemble, paid a deposit, and had it altered to fit him.

 

Only the final payment remained, and then he could claim the suit.

 

Motivated by the promise of the ball, Erald had taken on additional work, using a connection from his current position as a tutor for a viscount's family to begin teaching at a more distant baronial estate as well. He spent his days rushing between homes, tutoring two noble sons and tending to farm work at home, so exhausted that he sometimes fell asleep under the trees while waiting for Chalon in the forest. But he never once found the burden unbearable—because it was all for Chalon.

 

"Here's your pay for today. Think it'll be enough to make it to the ball tomorrow?"

 

The young viscount handed him a leather pouch heavy with silver coins.

 

To Erald's surprise, it weighed more than expected. And just before he turned to leave, the viscount quietly slipped in a single gold coin.

 

"As a noble, it pains me to admit it—but thanks to you, my son has learned to behave. I've added a little bonus. Being outshone by a commoner as beautiful as you must have lit a fire under him. You were just the right kind of motivation."

 

"Thank you. I'm glad I could be of help. I'm sure your son will dance with confidence at tomorrow's ball."

 

Though part of him bristled at the viscount's words, Erald accepted the money with a humble nod. The distance between noble and commoner was an unchangeable fact. In truth, it was Chalon who was the outlier—the only one who had ever embraced him as an equal. The viscount's attitude was, if anything, more bearable than that of his stepmother or stepbrother.

 

Nobles were born with silver spoons in their mouths, the idea of their own superiority etched into them from their first breath. That conviction was ironclad, something Erald would never fully understand as one born a commoner.

 

Precisely because of that, Chalon's open-heartedness felt all the more sacred. He was a prince, yet unprejudiced—and that made Erald love him all the more.

 

Even without the bonus, Erald had finally reached his target amount. He left the viscount's estate and headed straight for the tailor's, where he received his completed evening wear.

 

It wasn't grand enough to match a prince's garments—but for secondhand clothing, it was in excellent condition, the stitching neat and strong.

 

More importantly, the fabric was a vivid blue—bright enough for Chalon, with his impaired vision, to easily recognize. And thanks to the tailor's long-standing connection to the James family, dating back to Erald's father's time, he'd even received a slight discount.

 

That small blessing meant Erald didn't have to compromise on footwear. He was able to buy a fine pair of shoes that would allow him to dance more gracefully.

 

After returning home, Erald went back out to the shop once more, bringing a bundle of nourishing food—fresh eggs and homemade cheese—for the tailor, who had worked through the night.

 

The man was unexpectedly touched. With a solemn expression, he pressed his hands together and offered a heartfelt prayer: "May the young master of House James marry a fine lady and be the happiest man in the world."

 

Erald couldn't help but smile. The one he hoped to share his heart with wasn't a lady—but the king's own son. Still, he was grateful for the thought.

 

Drunk on the moment, even without wine, Erald mounted his horse and made his way home.

 

Overhead, the deep navy sky of approaching winter shimmered with a moon just shy of full.

 

By this time tomorrow, the stillness would be shattered by fireworks. And if fortune favored him, he might be dancing with Chalon in the castle's grand ballroom.

 

The very thought made him want to break into song beneath the stable roof.

 

It had been so long since a night had felt so bright.

 

He hadn't forgotten the sin of defying God… nor the guilt of dragging Chalon into his own heresy. But the thought of meeting his beloved in secret, exchanging words, and dancing beneath his violet gaze made his heart leap beyond restraint.

 

"Aston," Erald whispered, gently stroking his horse's neck, "at dawn, I'll braid your mane beautifully. You'll look better than ever."

 

With that, he gave his steed a fond pat and made his way into the mansion's ground-floor library.

 

His late mother had once declared that even the servants should be free to read books, and so the room had originally been left unlocked. But now, the doors were chained shut. A chain passed through the handles of the double doors, and a padlock hung in the center.

 

"—The chain...!"

 

Erald, still flushed with happiness, stopped in his tracks. The chain had been cut, and the padlock lay abandoned on the floor.

 

A terrible premonition struck like lightning. As he lunged forward, his arms went numb.

 

The iron doors, usually cold and heavy, felt neither cold nor heavy now—he couldn't feel anything at all.

 

Praying that his evening attire was still safe, Erald rushed into the library and ran straight for the book storage room.

 

The repaired lock had been broken again. The last remaining hope he'd clung to crumbled to ash.

 

With trembling hands, he opened the door. Inside was nothing. Just a hollow void.

 

Gone were the clothes he had earned through hard labor—the formal evening suit, the high-heeled shoes, even the ivory coat, marred with stains of dirt and blood, and the sky-blue outfit he had worn when meeting Chalon. Even the bottle of perfume had vanished.

 

"Why… why would someone do this…?"

 

He had only taken his eyes off it briefly—to bring the gift to the tailor.

 

He had taken every precaution. He'd locked the outer door to the library and the inner door to the book room before leaving.

 

He thought he'd been careful. But now, with everything stolen, Erald realized how easily he had let his guard down—taking comfort in the thought that his stepmother and stepbrother wouldn't dare act for fear of being reported.

 

I was finally… finally going to see Chalon… And now it's all over. I won't make it in time. If I show up at the ball in this state, I'll be turned away at the gate!

 

All that remained were the red jacket and dark brown breeches he wore now, along with his shirt, hat, and boots.

 

They were decent clothes, but not evening wear—and for a commoner to be allowed into the masquerade, strict dress codes had to be met. Without proper attire, he wouldn't even be allowed through the gates.

 

"Where are my clothes!? What did you do with them!?"

 

Choking back tears and the urge to strangle both his stepmother and stepbrother, Erald bolted up the stairs of the mansion.

 

It had to be one of them—either they had acted alone or conspired together. He was certain of it.

 

Fury boiled in his chest like a kettle overflaming. A clanging bell rang in his ears. His temples throbbed, veins swelling visibly. His skin crawled with goosebumps. Even his eyelids twitched with the strain.

 

His body couldn't contain the intensity of his rage—it betrayed him with strange, uncontrollable reactions.

 

"Give it back! That suit was mine—I earned it with my own hands!"

 

Erald burst into the lit drawing room, shouting at his stepmother and stepbrother.

 

This… this must be what it feels like when someone wants to kill another person, he thought. If it isn't for Chalon, I might truly do it.

 

He clenched his fists at his sides, shaking, thinking of the beautiful prince—his beloved, his secret—and how his own sin would taint Chalon if he ever succumbed to murder. That thought alone kept him from crossing the line.

 

He seized his stepbrother by the collar and barely held himself back.

 

"P-please! He's going to kill me!"

 

His stepbrother, trembling with fear beneath the force of Erald's fury, scrambled away, dragging his limp limbs until he reached the fireplace—cold and unlit—and collapsed into the arms of his mother, who had been sitting on the chaise nearby.

 

"Oh, how dreadful! What a violent man! This is why I despise commoners!"

 

The baroness's eyes widened in alarm at Erald's forceful entrance and raised voice, but even so, she clutched her son protectively.

 

Despite the shame she must have felt in her heart, there was still a mother's love buried beneath her thick layers of indulgent flesh. She stroked her son's back repeatedly and scolded him with irritation: "You are a grown man, holder of a barony and heir to this house. Act like it! You're the master now!"

 

In front of the couch where she sat, a small wooden table sparkled faintly under the flickering light of a candle.

 

It wasn't particularly ornate—just a modest carving—but the leather pouch that had been hastily spilled upon it was overflowing with gold coins. They gleamed, warm and golden in the dim light.

 

Those… are gold coins. Did they sell my clothes—my perfume—for money!?

 

The pair had likely been counting the coins right before Erald entered, and had only just begun to shove them back into the pouch in panic.

 

The sight of it—their greed, their cruelty—combined with the memory of everything they had ever done to him, past and present, filled his body with murderous rage.

 

They may have shared a roof, but in that moment, Erald felt nothing but disgust for them. He wanted to kill them.

 

"T-these coins belong to me and my Mother! Not a single one goes to you!"

 

Wrenching free from his mother's lap, his stepbrother lunged toward the table.

 

He looked like a starving pig scrambling for scraps, and Erald could only stare at him in stunned silence.

 

He could've used force to snatch the money back. He was taller, stronger, faster. But he didn't want to become one of them.

 

Even if he reclaimed the coins now, it would be near impossible to find a replacement outfit in time for tomorrow's ball.

 

Erald was tall, with long limbs, a broad chest and shoulders, and a tapered waist. He didn't have a standard build.

 

Even if he found clothes that weren't too tight or shoes that fit, every tailor in the kingdom was already flooded with orders—and nobles were always served first. Realistically, there was no time. And Hannah, though a gifted cook, was only average with a needle. She couldn't be expected to alter expensive garments to suit his frame.

 

To obtain something that fit, both time and money were essential—and he now had neither.

 

So this is what it means to give up. A fool's punishment, for dreaming despite having turned my back on God.

 

Clutching the pouch tightly, his stepbrother shouted with spittle flying, "You're not getting any of this! It's mine—my money!"

 

Then, stepping forward with venom, his stepmother sneered, "A little Cinderella like you has no place at a ball! You were planning to seduce a noble's daughter with that face of yours, weren't you? But I won't let that happen!"

 

Before their ugly hearts and uglier words, Erald fell silent.

 

He was too weary to argue. His anger, his hatred—had all burned to ash.

 

This must be divine punishment—for being a heretic. Of course God is angry.

 

Drained to the bone, Erald turned his back on the money-hungry pigs and walked away.

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