CH 12

As Jane’s fingers brushed against the half-burnt necklace that Hans held out, a sudden shadow fell upon her face.

“It’s true that she lied, but we ended up lying too… This necklace was made by Hans,”

Becky’s mother’s necklace, which she had turned a blind eye to, was in fact, a mere counterfeit created by Hans.

Although he was a man shunned by society and driven to live in a drunken stupor, Hans had an unparalleled skill for creating near-perfect replicas of almost anything that caught his eye.

It was a talent that could have taken him to great heights, even earning him a place in the imperial family.

Yet, Hans had languished in the shadows of obscurity, his gifts unappreciated and unrecognized.

But fate had other plans for him, for it was at his lowest point that he met Jane.

And it was Jane who had saved him from the abyss, earning his unwavering loyalty and trust.

“Jane is not doing anything bad! Becky did the wrong thing in the first place! Jane is trying to correct such a bad thing!” Hans exclaimed, as he tried to comfort Jane who seemed to be hurting more than she let on.

“Really?” Jane’s voice wavered, her doubts still lingering.

“Sure. Of course. There’s no one as kind as Jane,” Hans reassured her, his eyes shining with a fervent belief in her.

“I’m not kind,” Jane protested, her voice low and uncertain.

But Hans would have none of it. “No! There will be no one kinder than Jane in this world.”

Jane remained silent, her lips twisted into a rueful smile. It was all too easy to manipulate Hans with just a few lowered words and shy glances.

“I’m a lucky person. I can’t believe Hans is around,” Jane murmured, her words spoken more to herself than to anyone else.

Hans shook his head in amazement, his eyes filled with deep emotion.

“No, I’m lucky! Because I can help Jane!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with an unwavering devotion to her cause.

Jane sat quietly as Hans shouted in a fit of emotion.

“I’ll do my best to help you until you get back into the Bolsheik family!”

Jane sighed and spoke his name softly. “Hans.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Quietly, quietly,” Hans replied, embarrassed.

Hans bowed his head briefly before lifting it again, his gaze unwavering. “I can’t believe that girl is taking the place where Jane was supposed to be. I can’t forgive her.”

Jane tugged at his sleeve and shook her head. “Hans, please don’t say that. The young lady Bolsheik doesn’t know the truth.”

However, as Jane spoke, lowering her head, Hans grew even more agitated, spewing out his words one after the other. “Not knowing doesn’t make your sins disappear! The daughter of the duchess’s servant has been living as an owner.”

His words reverberated loudly, even catching the attention of a passing monkey.

What did he mean that the Duke’s daughter was not actually of the Duke’s blood, but rather the child of a servant? Even in the Bolsheik dukedom, where pure bloodlines are highly valued and openly acknowledged?

Jane patted Hans on the arm, calming him down. She had heard enough and knew it was time to move on. “You know I’m always grateful, right? Even for the hunting contest.”

Before Jane could finish her sentence, Hans sprang to his feet. “Absolutely! I’ll make a powerful weapon for Jane!”

A soft smile spread across Jane’s lips as she watched Hans stomp away, but her eyes were cold. “He’s so noisy. How many times do I have to tell him before he’ll understand? Even if someone isn’t smart, they shouldn’t be as stubborn as he is.”

Her brief moment of sincerity dissipated into the air unheard. Jane soon pushed her teacup aside and turned to the old piece of paper, a part of the book her mother had taken with her as they fled from the Bolsheik when Jane was a child.

The yellowed paper rustled as Jane scratched at the corners of the very old paper, which detailed a mysterious method of making a “poison” that could not be found anywhere else on the continent.

“That’s where I belong,” Jane thought to herself, nervously rubbing the faded red tips of her hair, which contrasted with the vivid red hair of the Bolsheik. Her face was calm, like a mask.

When Hans was occupied crafting weapons for Jane, a small gathering among the princes was taking place in the palace.

“Cough, cough.”

Observing the youngest prince struggle to breathe while coughing, Prince Ilan clicked his tongue.

“Tsk, it’s still the same. It isn’t contagious, is it?”

He frowned and covered his nose and mouth with his sleeves, despite sitting at the furthest distance from the youngest prince.

The third prince, Smith, did not miss the opportunity and promptly spoke up.

“He’s just frail. Don’t you know that looking after the weak is the virtue of superiors?”

“Hmph, open vigilance is better than mere hypocrisy.”

A spark flew between Prince Ilan and Smith, and the youngest prince, caught in between them, held his breath and tried not to cough.

Meanwhile, the fourth prince merely narrowed his already slender shoulders even further as they exchanged words.

Four out of the five princes, from Prince Ilan to the youngest, had gathered except for Ainar.

The justification was a healthy discussion to promote friendship between the princes and develop each other, but even passing monkeys could understand that it was just a facade.

This position was meant for them to check and observe each other, nothing more or less.

While Prince Ilan and Smith, both greedy for the throne, exchanged sharp words, the youngest prince struggled to hold his breath, turning pale.

“Am I the last one?”

Ainar, who rarely attended such meetings, appeared suddenly.

“Cough! Cough, cough.”

Startled by his sudden arrival, the youngest prince let out a loud cough, finally exhaling his held breath.

When Ainar saw the youngest prince’s cheeks, which had turned blue, he ran his fingers through the youngest’s hair.

“You’re surprised. And no matter what anyone says, don’t hold your breath.”

The princes, who were momentarily taken aback by his sudden appearance, frowned.

“Are you trying to ruin our face by making such outrageous remarks?”

“No way. When did we tell the youngest to hold his breath?”

Sitting in an empty seat next to the youngest prince, Ainar paid no attention to the other princes’ faces, which were about to explode at any moment.

He just waved his hand lightly at the four princes, who were staring at each other with hostility.

“Ainar… … !”

“You were always cooped up in the palace or wandering around, but what brought you here?”

Smith raised his chin as he interrupted Prince Ilan’s words.

“You thought I wouldn’t turn up around here today.”

Ainar replied very casually to Smith’s words, which were forced and didn’t conceal his sarcasm.

Smith was taken aback by Ainar’s casual attitude towards him, but he now had more important matters to attend to.

Should he say that he was relieved that he no longer had to go around searching for Ainar, who annoyed him?

Smith, who was staring at Ainar as he pulled a blanket over the youngest prince’s thin shoulders, spoke up.

“I heard you invited Lyna to your palace.”

Smith’s words to Ainar were sharp and aggressive, enough to feel like dozens of stabs if words could be knives.

Furthermore, Smith’s momentum, as if he was about to attack at any moment, was so rough that even the weak youngest prince was surprised and hiccuped.

“Ah, I invited her.”

Of course, Ainar didn’t flinch, let alone tremble or cower at Smith’s threat.

He just flicked his hand lightly as if there were flies or mosquitoes buzzing in front of him.

In fact, to him, Smith was not even remotely threatening, whether he threatened or not, puffing himself up like a frilled lizard.

In the first place, Smith’s power was inferior to Ainar’s.

And Smith, who was quite quick-witted, immediately realized that his threat did not work on Ainar at all.

Smith, who immediately changed his strategy, sneered.

“You made a fuss about not being interested in the crown prince position, but now you’re suddenly greedy, aren’t you?”

Smith added, twisting the corners of his mouth without giving Ainar time to speak.

“Like all your habits, you’ll get tired of Lyna too within a day or two?”

Ainar smiled and retorted to Smith, who was openly sarcastic.

“Don’t mention Lyna.”

He could laugh at anything Smith said about him.

Smith’s babbling was nothing more than meaningless noise that could be heard with one ear and then dismissed.

But he couldn’t tolerate him talking about Lyna.

No, he didn’t want to let it go.