Why The Hell is Fate Trying to Kill Me?

Chapter 67 First Time Using The Mask

"The fever burned away more than just your strength, didn't it, my lady?" Clara whispered.

I swallowed the cake, the sweetness masking the bitterness in my throat.

Good, I thought. Let them be terrified.

Clara's sugary smile vanished entirely. She looked at me with a sharp calculation, now. She realised it. The porcelain doll of Alliena cracked, revealing underneath it.

Finally, there she is. The real Clara of the book, the decay beneath the sweetness.

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the noise of the pavilion.

"Very well," she said, her tone lacking its usual warmth and sweetness. "If we are discarding pleasantries, let us speak plainly. You sit there, pretending to be calm and cold; surely inside of you must be scared. The forest will swallow your future."

"Swallowing my future, huh?" I replied, meeting her gaze evenly. "Why do I need to scare? As my future is secured by contract and blood. The forest is merely scenery."

"Is it?" she countered, a cruel glint in her eyes. "Contracts are paper. Blood can be spilt. But stories? Stories rule the people. And right now, the story being written out there isn't about a dutiful prince and his frail betrothed. It is about a fairytale, a hero and a maiden."

I let out a little giggle with a cold and low tone.

"This fairytale again... You never tire of that, do you? But remember, in every fairytale, there's always a twist..." I put my chin on my hand and gazed at her with my eyes. "The seven-year romance fairytale of Anna and the Crown Prince must be the work of you..."

Clara didn't flinch. Instead, her smile sharpened, becoming something predatory.

"You give me too much credit, Aurelia," she said, though her eyes danced with the acknowledgement of the action. "Or perhaps not enough. Does it matter who wrote the story? The ink is dry. The audience is captivated. And you? You are just the obstacle in the final act."

She gestured towards the open side of the pavilion, where the treeline loomed.

"You may call Anna a distraction," Clara continued, her voice hardening. "But distractions have toppled kingdoms. If he comes back with her in his arms... if the court sees him choose her over the prize... do you really think your title will save you? The people will demand a love story, not a political arrangement. They will demand her."

I looked at her with genuine pity. As she believed that emotion ruled the world, if that were the case, I would not become like this...

"It seems you are living in a fairytale, Clara," I said. "Not the real world."

"Excuse me?"

"In the real world, the people do not just eat stories," I said dismissively. "They want full bellies and safety. They cheer for whoever throws the most coins or keeps the invaders at the gate."

She thinks the world runs on applause. She doesn't understand that the stage she stands on is built on bones.

"Arrogance," Clara spat the word out. "You think you are above the game because you are a Duchess's daughter. But you are just a player like the rest of us. And you are losing. You sit here eating cake while Anna is out there winning his heart. You are not a Queen in waiting, Aurelia. You are a relic."

I let out a soft, weary sigh, looked bored.

"Ah, again," I whispered, shaking my head slightly. "Living in a fairytale."