Chapter 21 - King Cinderella: Two Hearts Entwined in Sin

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Chapter 21

 

 

Far beyond the woods east of the James estate, fireworks burst in the night sky.

 

But Erald, well aware from experience that he wouldn't be able to see them, remained inside the library, listening intently—letting the sounds paint fiery blossoms in his mind.

 

He had expected his showy stepmother to attend the masquerade, but strangely, she remained home with his stepbrother. To avoid encountering either of them, Erald had locked himself away since the afternoon.

 

The ball would begin in just a few hours.

 

By now, Chalon was surely with the king and Crown Prince Varius. The memory of their naked embrace in the secluded villa—of touches and intimacy shown only to each other—now felt like a dream. No, not even a dream. A lie.

 

So far away, unreachable. He was reminded again of how distant Chalon truly was.

 

Chalon... Who will you dance with tonight? A foreign princess—perhaps your future bride? Or... will it be Crown Prince Varius?

 

Conflicting emotions warred within him—longing to think of Chalon, and a desperate urge to not.

 

As the fireworks echoed faintly in the distance, Erald felt tears rising and aimlessly wandered the library.

 

He reached for a pure white book—the same as the one he'd seen in the royal villa. Embossed in silver on its cover were the words The Glass Slipper.

 

In that fairytale, a kind and pitiable girl who couldn't go to the ball received the blessing of magic, met a prince, and eventually found happiness in marriage. But that was just a dream spun into a story. Reality was far harsher, and those who defied God were not granted miracles.

 

No… the miracle already happened. Meeting Chalon, being allowed to love him—to be loved in return—that was the greatest miracle of all. I shouldn't ask for more. I've already received enough. I have to endure. I must learn to be content... and never reach beyond my place.

 

He wasn't like the pure-hearted maiden who fell in love with a prince—he had loved someone of the same sex.

 

Even as he whispered to himself to endure, the blaze in his chest refused to be extinguished.

 

If anything, he felt he loved Chalon more deeply than the storybook heroine had ever loved her prince.

 

Would that girl have still loved her prince if he had been a poor commoner instead? If he could offer her no wealth, no ease, only hardship and scorn from society—would she have chosen him all the same?

 

I would. I love Chalon no matter who he is or what he has. That will never change.

 

But the more Erald thought about it—about how he longed to see Chalon, to be with him, even though they were lovers—the more unbearable it became that he had to stay locked away, hidden from the world. It felt unjust, cruel, infuriating.

 

On impulse, Erald raced to the archive at the back of the library and opened the door with the broken lock.

 

He pulled on the red jacket he had worn out the night before and slipped into a silk shirt.

 

He knew full well he couldn't attend the masquerade in this attire, but even if he could only catch a glimpse of Chalon from afar—he had to try. It had been two weeks since he last saw him, and even just a glimpse would be enough.

 

The Crown Prince disliked showing his face to the common folk. But Chalon was different.

 

Perhaps—just perhaps—he would appear on the palace balcony to wave at the poor citizens who couldn't afford formal wear, smiling like an angel.

 

Yes… I have to go. Just staying here won't change anything.

 

Placing a feathered hat on his head, Erald hurried from the library and sprinted toward the stables.

 

He never got the chance to braid Aston's mane, but when he called, "Aston, let's go see Chalon!" the horse neighed excitedly and broke into a gallop. Even Erald, who couldn't read animals the way Chalon could, could feel Aston's uncontainable joy—and it lifted his heart.

 

Even if all I get is a glimpse from afar, even if it stings more than it comforts… I can't let myself fall into that trap of shame. I mustn't belittle myself. I truly loved him. And I was truly loved in return. I should be proud. I should stand tall and savor that happiness—because it was real. Because it was mine.

 

With that one wish—to see Chalon well, just once more—Erald urged his horse forward, cutting through the forest where their secret trysts had taken place, toward the palace.

 

Whatever awaited him, he would not regret it. He gritted his teeth and clung to that resolve.

 

And then, as he pushed eastward, he finally caught sight of what could not be seen from the estate. Fireworks painted the sky. Beneath a round, radiant moon, blossoms of fire burst one after another. The way orange shards scattered like petals in the night was nothing short of breathtaking.

 

Beyond the forest, as he entered the capital below the palace, it was as if he'd stepped into another world entirely.

 

The streets were packed with people. The countless citizens who couldn't attend the masquerade had gathered in the central square to dance and sing. The girls twirled in bright-colored dresses, dressed as finely as they could manage. The young men wore their best coats, arm in arm, drinking and singing boisterously.

 

"Could you look after my horse for a little while?"

 

Amid the cheerful clamor of countless musicians, Erald handed Aston off to a hired stable and paid the inflated fee without complaint. Then he hurried toward the southern end of the castle.

 

He was heading for the balcony where the royal family occasionally made appearances to greet the people.

 

But on the way, his eyes were drawn to the long stone staircase leading up to the rear gate.

 

At its summit stood a broad arch and the grand main corridor. Men and women in formal wear stood in line, undergoing inspection by palace guards. Unlike the nobles, who entered through the ornate façade, commoners had to pass a strict screening process before being allowed inside. Many were turned away, shoulders slumped in disappointment, even if they wore evening clothes. To protect the royals and maintain cleanliness, the guards examined not only clothing but also hair, beards, and facial features.

 

Those who were clearly well-groomed or attractive passed easily, while those dressed in worn or lower-quality clothing were subjected to combs run through their hair and beards, checking for lice as a matter of course.

 

"I heard His Majesty's come down with a cold. There won't be a balcony appearance tonight."

 

Erald overheard a group of men speaking in disappointment as they passed by, walking from the direction he was heading.

 

They weren't alone. Like a flock of sheep, the people were slowly turning back—shifting from the specially opened southern gardens toward the lively plaza where music still rang out. Without the royal greeting, the gardens held little interest in the dim night.

 

So I won't even get to see Chalon wave from the balcony… then why am I even here? What's the point anymore…?

 

As the tide of people surged toward the square—drawn by the promise of royal food, wine, music, and dancing girls—Erald made his way in the opposite direction, stepping into the geometrically arranged southern gardens.

 

Even if there was no point in staying, he couldn't bring himself to turn back.

 

He needed, just needed, to be one step closer to Chalon.

 

With his height, Erald could see across the entire open garden. It felt like peering down on a maze from above. A few stragglers remained, crouching or sitting between the hedges, lost in whispered conversation. Couples nestled together in the various follies scattered throughout the garden.

 

From the stone birdcage-shaped folly, the view of the moon and fireworks must have been magnificent—an ideal spot for basking in a romantic atmosphere. Taking advantage of the dwindling crowd, lovers now sought shelter beneath the structures or in the shadow of trees, kissing and embracing without care.

 

Erald walked past them, his eyes fixed on the castle beyond.

 

He couldn't help but envy them. In their bliss, they needed no grand hall, no lavish attire—just each other. While the festival roared around them, they chose instead to gaze at fireworks in silence, their hearts entirely devoted.

 

They didn't need fine coats or golden halls. For them, this garden was a stage of love, and they—their own story's heroes.

 

I shared nights of love with Chalon… those days were the peak of my life—the height of my happiness. I know that. To wish for more… to wish for again... is selfish. But still—I want to see him. I want to take his hand and dance. I can't bear the thought of him dancing with someone else!

 

Gripped by a jealousy so sharp it clawed at his chest, Erald stepped toward the nearest iron gate.

 

Beyond it, he could see the beautiful stonework of the southern square.

 

When the royal family addressed the people from the balcony, that gate would be opened, allowing the crowd into the plaza. But tonight, it was shut tight. The castle stood distant and small beyond it.

 

"…That—what is that?"

 

Erald, standing just before the gate, spotted something white soaring toward him from the direction of the castle. At first, he thought it was a sheet blown loose in the wind.

 

But the night was still. Whatever was flying, it moved with weight and purpose.

 

He soon realized a flock of birds—doves—were carrying something. Still, he couldn't quite believe it.

 

"Could it be… Chalon's doves?"

 

It couldn't be—doves don't fly at night. But there they were, wings flashing silver in the moonlight, each clutching something: white cloth, glinting threads, delicate scraps. They grew nearer, circling above.

 

Dumbfounded, Erald watched as the doves suddenly changed direction, veering directly toward him.

 

They moved with intention—as if beckoning him.

 

Drawn by something beyond understanding, Erald turned from the iron gate and ran, chasing the doves across the patterned garden and into one of the stone follies.

 

Their soft cooing mingled with the crackle of fireworks above.

 

The birdcage-shaped stone folly held within it a table of the same stone, and around it the doves marched in solemn procession.

 

Spread atop the table was an evening coat—pure white and gleaming.

 

The fine silk shimmered with elaborate silver embroidery, the fabric rich and heavy even to the eye.

 

Beside it lay a shirt with elegant lace cuffs, a long waistcoat, a cravat, breeches cut to the calf with matching stockings, and high-heeled shoes—each piece larger and longer than usual, yet tailored at the waist and shoulders as if made for Erald alone.

 

"Is this… magic? It's like something straight out of The Glass Slipper…"

 

Even though it was night, and no magician stood before him, Chalon's white doves had brought this suit—this dreamlike ensemble of breathtaking finery. Erald hesitated to touch it. But as he imagined the world that might open to him once he wore it, his hands, his feet—his heart—could no longer remain still.

 

If he wore this, he could join the line on the staircase.

 

He could pass the inspection effortlessly and receive a mask—the token of a true guest.

 

With his name and face hidden, he would make his way toward the grand ballroom, where Chalon waited.

 

And there, in that sanctified space, royalty, nobility, and commoners danced as equals.

 

O Lord, thank You for this miracle. Do You… do You bless the bond between me and Chalon? Do You accept our love?

 

Erald clung to the thought that this wonder could only be divine. In the quiet sanctuary of the folly, he removed his clothes and dressed in the most exquisite eveningwear he had ever laid eyes on. The shirt and coat sleeves, the length of the breeches—even the shoes—all fit as if made precisely for him. Perhaps a little more room in the shoulders or waist would have been ideal, but to wish for that now felt far too greedy.

 

Clad in a suit fit for dancing with a prince, Erald burst from the birdcage folly and raced toward the staircase leading to the rear gate. Unlike the heroine of The Glass Slipper, who fled down the stairs, he dashed up them—his shoes comfortable, his pace swift as an arrow.

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