My Insolent Shadow (22 Chapters Left to Complete) - Chapter 1

Ten years. A span of time in which dozens of seasons had blossomed and faded.

Enough time for someone’s face—and even their name—to be utterly forgotten.

Then why are you standing before me?

Why do you call my name?

Standing there in a body so utterly different, yet bearing that same unchanged face.

[This is the timeline separator]

Imperial Year MCCXV. III. I.

That is to say, ten years ago from now, Cassian Blanchet and I first met.

Alphonse, a small village far from the capital, was a minor town inhabited by only a few people—peaceful if described kindly, monotonous if described harshly.

Because beneath skies that always flowed identically, daily life inevitably drifted along just the same.

Yet this place, known for its pleasant scenery, had much to see.

The villagers themselves, however, had no leisure whatsoever to enjoy such frivolous things.

Most villagers routinely spent their days under the blazing sun, clearing vast farmlands and digging under the lord’s orders until their skin turned pitch-black.

Only immigrants who had settled here from elsewhere were relatively well-off and enjoyed some ease.

Those who owned fishing boats and ventured out to sea, observing and catching fish, became objects of envy for countless villagers.

So too were those who had properly curried favor with the lord and secured their names on the merchants’ guild registry.

But even so, they were still just ordinary folk, no better than anyone else.

After all, everyone here ultimately labored all day long, paying exorbitant taxes to the lord just to scrape by day after day.

I was one such villager myself.

The only difference was that my mother had to work twice as hard as others just to raise me alone.

She was an immigrant who had carried me, still a child, all the way to this village to settle down.

Though immigrants weren’t entirely absent from the village, what set my mother apart was that she truly looked like a noblewoman.

Her uncommonly fair complexion, delicate hands that seemed never touched by a single drop of water, sleek hair, and delicate features reminiscent of a capital noblewoman from children’s fairy tales…

She wore an appearance sufficient to instantly draw the village’s attention.

Whenever nosy villagers occasionally asked about her husband, my mother would blush slightly and give the same answer each time—as if reciting a fixed script.

[My child’s father was a commoner knight who loved me dearly. He went off to defend the Empire and died bravely in battle.]

This scene repeated itself many times afterward, always following a predictable pattern.

Men old enough to be called “uncle” would glance sidelong at her and toss out crude questions.

Afterward, the wives from those households would seek out my mother and pry into the sore spot of her husband’s story.

Each time, my mother would give the same reply.

Each time, the corners of her eyes would tremble faintly, and her eyelids would redden.

The villagers would watch her with keen curiosity, as if expecting something new to emerge from that same old answer.

As a child, I resented those villagers who meddled so eagerly in others’ affairs.

After all, whenever stories of my late father came up, my mother would grow sorrowful.

She seemed reluctant to let her young daughter witness such scenes, so she would secretly shed tears.

Yet in our tiny room, barely a few paces wide, I could never avoid seeing it.

To my childish eyes, my mother seemed to miss my father terribly.

Each time, I would hide by the doorway as she intended, waiting quietly for that moment to pass.

It was all a child like me could do.

Those crude curiosities persisted for quite a long time.

After all, a delicate woman who resembled some “foreign princess” was more than enough to bewitch the village men.

Knowing exactly what would happen whenever their eyes landed on my mother, I often clashed head-on with those uncles.

A child who spoke with uncharacteristic boldness—“We don’t need men like you, go away”—quickly became known in the village as ill-mannered.

But that suited me better. Afterward, my mother cried less and grew somewhat bolder.

Determined to protect me, she began actively participating in village affairs.

A few sympathetic villagers, taking pity on our situation, occasionally brought her odd jobs.

Since she had to support both herself and her daughter, she routinely left for work at dawn and returned late at night.

Her tasks never ceased—from menial chores for trade caravans to assisting with farm work and serving in restaurants.

Her once-delicate hands gradually grew rough, and her formerly fair skin darkened from sun exposure.

Thus, the foreigner who had entered the village with an air of otherworldliness slowly became one of its own.

Yet her unique aura never fully faded, so among the villagers, she still resembled a noblewoman newly arrived from the capital.

As I grew older, I vaguely understood why my mother always trembled whenever she spoke of my father.

She always trembled at the corners of her eyes whenever she lied.

This led me to firmly believe that her words about my father weren’t entirely truthful.

Of course, that didn’t mean I ever brought up the subject of my father.

If he’d abandoned us like this, the answer was obvious—he simply didn’t exist for me.

Just as he hadn’t since the day I was born.

I never particularly missed him.

It felt absurd to long for someone I’d never even seen, and I suspected he wasn’t a particularly good person anyway.

If he had been good, he never would have abandoned someone as kind as my mother—especially not when she was carrying his own child.

My mother, hiding the wrinkles forming on the backs of her hands, would buy me delicious treats and read me books.

But raising a child alone as a woman was truly difficult.

When I turned thirteen, my mother began falling ill frequently.

Even the few villagers who had previously shown her leniency couldn’t continue accommodating her when she could no longer work properly.

Medicine was outrageously expensive, and my mother, trying to save money, even hid her pain.

Stubbornly, she refused to stop working until she finally collapsed.

Only then, bedridden, was she forced to give up work entirely.

After that, I took on every job I could find.

I replaced my mother in her odd jobs and occasionally received small errands from villagers.

Once I earned a reputation for doing tasks reliably—even if I wasn’t particularly clever—the amount of work I received grew considerably.

In the capital, it would be unthinkable for someone my age to be working, but in this remote Alphonse, far from the capital, everyone had to work regardless of age just to keep from starving.

It became routine to scrub dishes until my hands grew raw, gather medicinal herbs, and copy manuscripts using what little literacy I had—all before returning home under a pitch-black night sky.

Sometimes, aimless resentment, like a rudderless boat, would drift toward my nonexistent father.

But even that was a luxury I could afford only in moments of idle leisure.

For someone who couldn’t even spare a moment to look up at the sky, emotional labor was nothing but an obstacle hindering actual work.

That day was one such day.

Standing at the very cusp of spring, heralding the end of cold, unforgiving winter, I moved quickly.

I had part-time chores to complete.

The grand mansion, marked by a huge sign at its entrance, stretched endlessly inward—as befitting the residence of the lord.

This old estate, normally kept strictly closed to outsiders, was my first time entering.

Though I rarely turned down any available work, noble households scrutinized even their servants’ backgrounds so strictly that I’d never been able to join their ranks.

My mother had repeatedly warned me never to reveal anything about our status.

Perhaps my father had been a criminal.

Or maybe my mother truly was a princess of a fallen kingdom.

I whimsically settled on the latter thought as I stepped through the underbrush.

A pleasant sensation brushed against my toes.

This time, I must do well.

Compared to any other job, the pay for this one was immeasurably generous.

If I performed well enough to secure a permanent position, it would greatly help cover my mother’s medicine costs.

Aunt Mary’s words, as she handed me the recommendation letter, briefly flashed through my mind.

[You know that young master who’s nearly at death’s door? He’s come here for convalescence.]

Cassian Di Blanchet.

The noble guest of this mansion bore a name as noble and beautiful as himself.

The heir of House Blanchet’s arrival in the village had caused quite a stir.

Even I, who usually paid no mind to others’ affairs, had heard about it.

An owner of immense power, whose very name could force anyone to kneel.

Even our lord, whom we could scarcely look upon, was nothing but an ant bowing his head before him.

It was said that upon hearing Blanchet would visit Alphonse for convalescence, the mansion’s staff had been thrown into chaos.

For an entire month, they’d scrubbed every path he might walk until not a speck of dust remained.

I could still vividly recall Aunt Mary’s grim face as she grumbled, “Why leave that fine capital and come all the way here to make everyone suffer?”

[They say he hasn’t long to live. Maybe that’s why his temper is so foul. He’s barely been here, yet he’s already dismissed all the servants.]

What good is having everything if your days are numbered?

Aunt Mary’s murmured words echoed in my ears.

So did her voice, which—while expressing sympathy—clearly treated it as someone else’s problem.

For a brief moment, I even thought that man might be more pitiful than I was.

[Not a single servant has lasted a full day. The mistress insists that bringing in someone his age might help… El, can’t you just manage for one day?]

Aunt Mary had said the ill-tempered mistress often threw things.

If they failed to find a replacement this time, Aunt Mary would surely face serious trouble.

From the lord’s perspective—having spent years maneuvering in the capital to secure a noble position—this was a tremendous opportunity.

Nothing could better serve his ambitions than catching Blanchet’s eye.

But if that exacting heir so much as uttered a wrong word, it would be disastrous.

Clearly, the mistress—seeing it as her duty as the lady of the house to aid her husband’s advancement—was harshly driving her subordinates.

Though Aunt Mary had whispered even affectionate nicknames to persuade me, I’d remained unmoved—until I heard the pay.

Then I instantly agreed.

Call it mercenary if you must.

For someone like me, whose every day was a race against time, nothing mattered more than wages.

Truthfully, like Aunt Mary, I cared nothing for his terminal condition.

Yet for an instant, I felt a flicker of pity.

Annoyingly so.

Aunt Mary, as she pushed me forward, clearly didn’t expect me to last long.

Contrary to her expectations, I considered handling some bratty nobleman no trouble at all.

After all, if it paid, I’d adapt to anything.

Yet the moment I stepped through the entrance, the mansion’s grandeur overwhelmed me.