<b>Prologue.</b>

 

“Die!”

 

“You wretch! The accursed daughter of a count!”

 

Is it true that no matter what she does, no one can love her?

 

“Criminals, take your place at the lectern.”

 

She climbed the stairs slowly.

 

With every step she took, she heard their jeers.

 

The insults and taunts of the excited crowd filled the square and heated the air.

 

“You should have died with your father when he died!”

 

“You wasted precious wheat by living a few more years!”

 

Thwack!

 

Something hit her snot-covered arm.

 

“….”

 

She looked down and saw it was a rotten tomato. The crushed flesh and sour smell ran down her arm.

 

“The witch of Estellia!”

 

The excited crowd began throwing rotten eggs, tomatoes and dirt at her.

 

The guards should have stopped them, but they looked at her with contempt and didn’t move a muscle.

 

She climbed the stairs, taking the rubbish with her, step by step. Even as she continued to climb, the only thing awaiting her was the noose of the speaker’s platform.

 

The square below the stairs was filled with commoners, and a higher platform was reserved for nobles and aristocrats.

 

She looked in that direction. She had to find them. They would be sitting in the noble seats.

 

They would be toasting their success in pushing her to her death.

 

As her eyes searched for them, she suddenly saw someone in an unexpected place.

 

On the edge of the noble seats, almost as if they were commoners, someone was staring straight at her.

 

It was Claude Valentin.

 

The royal family’s scoundrel, the pretentious First Prince.

 

With his blonde hair that seemed to be filled with sunlight and his gloomy grey-blue eyes, he exuded a shabby, defeated atmosphere.

 

It was the atmosphere of a dirty loser.

 

It was surprising that he was there, considering he had not been seen at the official stand for years.

 

As she searched for familiar faces, her steps never stopped until she reached his seat, where she stood rooted to the spot. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

 

He did not avert his gaze either. Their eyes met as if their souls were intertwined…

 

Whenever she saw him, she felt like she was looking at the face of the most hateful person in the world.

 

He was the kind of man who made her feel uneasy and uncomfortable just to be in the same room, making her want to leave her seat quickly.

 

But what did it all mean?

 

Her head was spinning. She felt dizzy.

 

In an instant, the excited noise of the crowd faded and the others who had filled her vision disappeared into a blur.

 

The moment their eyes met seemed to last forever.

 

For a moment, Claude Valentine’s gaze wavered.

 

It was a moment in which emotions of unknown origin and identity were about to reveal themselves.

 

“Why don’t you climb up quickly?”

 

“You’re so stubborn to the end, how pathetic!”

 

The taunts of the onlookers poured into her ears like a waterfall. They became even more agitated as she stood frozen, unable to move.

 

“She will be executed.”

 

Wow!

 

The crowd erupted in cheers. The noise was so loud that it blocked her ears.

 

Cutting through the noise, she could clearly hear the executioner’s platform being lowered.

 

There was only one person she wanted to kill.

 

She herself, Kalia Estellia.

 

Cursed daughter of a count, possessed witch, heir to a monster who deserved to die.

 

She had worked all her life to erase the label that followed her, to kill the monster nature that flowed through her veins.

 

She had suppressed herself to the lowest depths, draining the dirty blood and polishing herself until she became what they wanted her to be.

 

Unlike her father, she had tried to become a kind and gentle lady.

 

But in that moment, standing on the scaffold, she realized the truth.

 

No one had ever wished it upon her.

 

What they wanted from her was to be the daughter who resembled the cursed Countess of Estellia, the Witch of Estellia.

 

Unaware of the kindness shown to her, she became a monster who tried to kill her cousin and eventually handed over the Countess’ estate and all her possessions to them.

 

“Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!”

 

She wanted to be loved.

 

Just once in her life.

 

She tried with all her might, but only contempt and criticism followed her every move.

 

If she had tried harder, if she had done her best to the end, could she have been loved?

 

Perhaps by her stepfather, Bardan, or her sister, Helena, or the other noble families of the Academy, or the people of the Countess’ territory….

 

Perhaps it would have been possible.

 

“I will count down the last ten seconds. 10, 9, 8….”

 

She thought it was raining, but the only thing that got wet was the platform beneath her feet.

 

She promised herself she would never look up when she realized that. Never. She felt an inordinate amount of tension in her jaw.

 

Maybe if she had tried a little harder, if she had proved she was different from the monster Count, someone would have recognised her and loved her.

 

But if she had to deny herself, change her nature and become someone else just to be loved, and try again and again to be loved, then… ….

 

“….4! 3! 2!”

 

She will no longer try.

 

She refused to crawl like a dog in a slaughterhouse just to be loved. She would not kill herself.

 

“….1! Pull!”

 

She closed her eyes. The floor gave way beneath her. A violent jolt hit her neck bone. Her limbs began to flail involuntarily.

 

If there is a next life, she swore she will never try to be loved again.

 

She will not kill her soul just to be caressed.

 

She was short of breath. Her fingers, scratching at the rope around her neck, were losing their strength.

 

Again and again she made up her mind as her mind became blurred. ….

 

 

<center>* * *</center>

 

 

“Ha! Huk!”

 

She jerked her body up as if jumping.

 

The sensation of the rope tightening around her neck was vivid. She hurriedly raised her hand to scratch it off, as if her neck was about to snap….

 

But there was nothing on her fingertips. Nothing at all.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

The hand she held in front of her was perfectly clean, without a blemish. All the tiny scars and calluses from hours of washing dishes in cold water or mopping floors were gone.

 

Yet it was strangely unfamiliar. It felt like someone else’s hand, not hers.

 

When she realized that the cause of her discomfort was not just the scars, but also the size, which was too small for an adult, she gasped sharply.

 

“What…?”

 

She closed her mouth immediately. The voice was hers, no doubt, but it felt strange.

 

Meanwhile, her vision, which had adjusted to the dim darkness, automatically filtered out familiar things.

 

It was a narrow room.

 

An ivory curtain with frayed edges. An old chair with a sunken cushion. A cold fireplace.

 

The moment her eyes caught the item hanging on the upper wall, they widened unconsciously.

 

It was a portrait of her late mother.

 

“No way, this can’t be…”

 

For a moment it felt as if the world had stopped. A sharp sound ripped through her eardrums.

 

It was impossible. It couldn’t be.

 

The only portrait of her mother had been burned by Helena three years ago.

 

She stumbled to her feet and walked toward the mirror.

 

Even the short distance felt like she was moving someone else’s arms and legs. Her body moved awkwardly and creaked as if it had a mind of its own.

 

In the dull mirror there was a young girl with long, unkempt black hair, purple eyes and a slight build whose height didn’t reach the middle of the mirror.

 

It was her childhood self.