It was impossibly difficult for someone who had never lived as a noble to perfectly mimic their intricate etiquette.
Nimue sat with perfect, demure grace, her voice soft and measured as she replied in a gentle murmur.
“If she were introduced as a foreign lady, couldn’t one simply attribute it to cultural differences?”
“But His Highness Mordred personally introduced her…”
Morgana carefully stole glances at Guinevere’s expression.
Guinevere had always placed boundless, almost aching trust in Mordred—after all, he was the only family she had left in this world.
Even amid the ruthless struggles for the throne swirling around them, she had never once regarded Mordred with hostility.
Because of that, Morgana found it excruciatingly hard to speak her mind recklessly.
And sure enough, Guinevere let out a sharp, derisive scoff, crossing her legs and slouching with deliberate insolence.
“It’s obvious—Agravaine must have lied. From the very beginning, it’s strange that our Mordred was supposedly friends at the academy with some fully grown noble lady, isn’t it?”
“Still… wouldn’t it be clearer to confirm it directly?”
“No. Our Mordred—poison scent or whatever nonsense—how could a child living at the academy even know about such things?”
Guinevere shook her head firmly, rejecting Morgana’s cautiously offered suggestion.
Though the words were uncomfortable, Morgana knew they had to be said at least once. She steadied herself and spoke calmly.
“Ordinary people can’t even detect divine fragrance. There could be more such scents.”
Then, driving the point home with unyielding resolve, she continued.
“What connection could there possibly be between Lady Lune and our Mordred? They’ve never even met, have they?”
She looked at Nimue and then Morgana in turn, as though desperately seeking agreement, yet neither offered a firm answer.
Even Nimue subtly averted her gaze, turning her head away.
At their lukewarm response, Guinevere’s brows twitched violently.
“What is this reaction? Why is everyone acting like this?”
Choking back a surge of injustice—or perhaps hurt—she swallowed hard, then shot to her feet, her face twisting into a furious scowl.
“Fine. Fine! Since none of you really know our Mordred well, maybe you want everything crystal clear. Ha, honestly…”
She raked her fingers wildly through her vivid crimson hair in nervous agitation, then exhaled a rough, trembling breath.
“Enough. Things like this should be settled decisively. That way, it’ll be easier for me to hold the Marquis of the Right accountable later, too. I’ll ask Mordred directly. That settles it, doesn’t it?”
Guinevere drew in a deep, shuddering breath, her voice trembling with the faintest thread of wounded injustice.
“Is there really no way for me to smell it? Even Sir Lancelot caught a fleeting trace of the divine fragrance. Why should it be impossible for me?”
“There are medicinal herbs that can temporarily sharpen the sense of smell to an extraordinary degree.”
“Then I’ll buy one. I have to smell it myself and be absolutely certain. I can’t leave it like this.”
“Ah… just in case, I actually prepared an extra bottle.”
Morgana reached into the magical storage cabinet and retrieved a small vial of herbs, placing it gently into Guinevere’s hand.
Without hesitation, Guinevere popped the cork and tipped the entire vial of verdant liquid into her mouth in one swift motion.
The foul, bitter taste twisted her features into a grimace; she stuck out her tongue and wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Ugh… so bitter. All right—I’m heading to the Prince’s Palace now.”
“Your Highness, then allow me to accompany—”
As Morgana rose, hand already closing around the hilt of Excalibur, Guinevere raised one palm in a firm, unyielding gesture of refusal.
“No. I’m going alone. If all of us descend on him like a storm, it’ll look exactly like another power struggle for the throne. I’ll go, ask him straight to his face, and come right back. Everyone, just wait here!”
With long, determined strides, Guinevere swept out of the reception room as though the very floor could not hold her back.
Behind her, the maids and attendants hurried to follow and escort her, but she lifted a hand once more, stopping them cold.
“Don’t follow me. I don’t want to appear threatening.”
Honestly… she felt a little wronged.
Guinevere had watched Mordred grow from the tiniest child into the person he was now—she knew him better than anyone.
Even when King Vortigern treated him with cold disdain, Mordred had developed such unshakable mental fortitude largely because of the constant, quiet comfort she had offered him as his older sister.
‘All because our Mordred had the misfortune of taking that one wretched teacher… look at the mess it’s caused.’
He had always stood by her side.
In front of their father—who would roar that even the smallest fault deserved death—Mordred had been the gentle boy who quietly insisted,
“My sister did nothing wrong.”
So when Mordred was the one being wronged, it was her duty—her aching, protective instinct—to stand up for him.
The moment Guinevere stepped into the Prince’s Palace, startled maids came rushing over in a flustered rush.
“Y-Your Highness, the Princess! What brings you here?”
“Where’s Mordred?”
“He is currently in his chambers.”
“I need to speak with him alone for a moment. No one is to come anywhere near us.”
She didn’t even glance around at the surroundings.
Guinevere simply pressed forward, her steps unwavering.
The Prince’s Palace was so familiar to her that no guide was needed.
In just a few determined strides, she reached Mordred’s door and knocked—sharp, insistent.
“Mordred, it’s me.”
“Ah… Sister.”
A faint rustling sound came from within, startled and hurried. When Guinevere flung the door wide open, he was half-rising from where he had been reclining against the headboard with a book, caught off guard.
Yet the moment their eyes met, a soft, heartbreakingly beautiful smile curved his lips.
“What brings you here so suddenly at this hour, without even sending word? Is something urgent?”
“No. Do I need an urgent reason to come see you?”
“Not exactly, but… with all the strange rumors flying around lately, I thought you might be more cautious.”
The way he shyly stood, small hands quickly smoothing his rumpled clothes and straightening his posture—it was still the same Mordred she had always known, tender and careful.
Guinevere let out a short, hollow laugh before fixing her gaze on him.
“No, it’s just… I heard you recently caught a strange scent, so I started looking into it. And I found out that apparently Sir Agravain has been saying there’s a woman involved.”
“Ah… I vaguely remember hearing something like that.”
“But get this—Agravain told people that you introduced her, claiming she was a noble lady you met at the academy.”
“…Oh. Master really said that?”
Mordred’s brows drooped pitifully.
A faint tremor ran through his still-youthful cheeks—he looked so genuinely crestfallen that Guinevere’s own heart twisted sharply in sympathy.
She softened her voice, almost a caress.
“It’s not that you did anything wrong. It’s just that… it seems the Marquis of the Right isn’t someone we can trust. So, if you’re willing, it might be best to start keeping your distance from him—even if he is your teacher.”
“Yes… I understand. I’ll look for another guardian within the next day or two.”
Mordred nodded obediently, blinking slowly with a trace of quiet regret shimmering in his eyes.
And in that tender, unguarded moment—The herb’s effect finally surged through her.
A strange fragrance drifted to the tip of Guinevere’s nose.
Sweet… yet heavy, almost suffocating in its richness.
When Lune had described it, the idea had seemed impossibly abstract—vague, impossible to picture.
But now that she was breathing it in for herself, no words could have captured it more perfectly.
What had been only a faint whisper before now thickened, saturating every inch of Mordred’s room until the air itself felt drenched in it.
So potent that everything else—the ordinary scent of the room, the faint trace of ink and parchment—simply vanished.
She could barely draw breath without drowning in that intoxicating sweetness.
‘W-Wait… what did this room usually smell like?’
Guinevere froze mid-sentence, the words dying on her lips in sudden, breathless confusion.
Mordred tilted his head, concern flickering softly across his features as he sensed something amiss.
“Sister… what’s wrong?”
“Uh… nothing…”
Hadn’t Lady Lune said exactly this—that the scent belonged to that noble lady?
The realization crashed over Guinevere like icy water; she couldn’t bring herself to speak recklessly.
Innocent worry shimmered in Mordred’s wide, clear eyes as he watched her.
“Your expression… it doesn’t look good.”
“Ah—no, it’s not that. It’s just…”
Guinevere hesitated, her gaze sliding away from his face to drift aimlessly across the floorboards. Her voice came out unsteady, faltering.
“Um… do you, by any chance… know someone named Lady Lune?”
“Who is that?”
“A perfumer… or perhaps Madame Oted.”
“Ah, I’ve heard of Miss Oted. Isn’t she the famous salon madam?”
“Yes… exactly. Have you… ever met her, or… are you acquainted somehow…?”
Before Guinevere could even finish, Mordred’s brows drooped in that familiar, gentle way and a small, rueful laugh escaped him.
“No way. I spent all my time at the academy—I’ve never had any connection to salons.”
His words rang true.
The Mordred she knew had always been exactly like this—sheltered, earnest, untouched by the glittering, secretive world beyond the academy walls.
Yet an inexplicable, creeping unease coiled around her heart, tightening until it hurt to breathe.
‘No. Mordred would never lie to me.’
They had shared everything.
Every ordinary detail of his days at the academy had arrived in neat, heartfelt letters—dozens upon dozens of them still tucked safely inside the drawers of her desk, preserved like treasures.
He had always taken such care with her, pouring himself onto every page so she would never feel distant.
So why—why did the boy standing right in front of her now feel so strangely, achingly unfamiliar?
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