BSGE 70

The sensation of having brushed against death’s threshold moments ago had left her believing nothing could inspire fear. And yet.

‘Something feels wrong.’

An inexplicable unease crept along her skin, more chilling than mortality itself. A premonition that whispered of consequences far more devastating than death.

Firina trembled, her body betraying the fragile composure she desperately tried to maintain. Her voice emerged raw, almost desperate—a final attempt to anchor herself to certainty.

“I was born a noblewoman. I will remain a noblewoman—until I die and even after I die!”

The very thought of losing her status was so utterly foreign to her that it seemed to exist beyond the boundaries of possibility. How could she possibly be anything other than what she had always been?

Her defiant cry rang out, a wild proclamation against the encroaching darkness. But Beatty remained unmoved, her response clinical and precise.

“It seems,” she said quietly, “that if one cannot pay the required compensation, one’s title can be exchanged.”

The single word—”What?”—escaped Firina’s lips, vibrating with a desperate denial of the reality unfolding before her.

Though such dramatic falls from nobility had become rare, almost forgotten in recent times, Beatty continued her methodical dissection of Firina’s world.

“Beyond your official estate,” she noted, “you’ve apparently hidden quite a significant amount.”

Firina’s shoulder jerked—a minute movement that betrayed her inner turmoil.

How could she know?

Originally the second daughter, Firina had inherited her title through a quirk of fate—her elder sister’s unexpected marriage to a duke having shifted the family’s trajectory. She had never held much genuine attachment to her lineage. That’s why she didn’t hesitate at all to personally embezzle the family fortune that had been passed down through generations.

Jewels, in particular, had always been her preference. They adorned her, adding brilliance to her persona, and their compact nature made them delightfully simple to conceal.

“Your jewelry box,” Beatty said flatly, “saved me the trouble of searching.”

“No—absolutely not!”

The irony was not lost on Firina. Her own meticulousness—carrying the jewels personally to prevent theft by servants—had now become her undoing. She had imagined using these very stones to potentially bribe her way to freedom.

“D-did you search my room? How rude!”

Beatty’s gaze remained impassive. “You are, after all, a prisoner under investigation.”

Firina attempted her most practiced expression of disdain—the very look that had once terrified her young nephew—but Beatty remained unimpressed.

“Regardless,” she continued, “these assets alone will not suffice.”

The truth was stark: most of Firina’s wealth had been embezzled from the ducal family’s budget intended for Beatty. Even total confiscation would merely cover a fraction of the stolen funds.

“Which is why,” Beatty concluded, “I’ll be claiming your title instead.”

The implications struck Firina like a physical blow. Her composure fractured, desperation seeping through her trembling voice.

“Anything but that…!”

She reached desperately for emotional manipulation, invoking the one card she believed might sway her niece.

“Think of your mother!” she pleaded. “How would she feel seeing her own sister treated so harshly?”

But the mention of her mother triggered something unexpected in Beatty. Her body tensed almost imperceptibly.

“How much pain would your mother feel if she knew her own sister was being treated by her child so harshly? I loved her so deeply.” The words rang hollow, especially coming from someone who had mistreated her own sister’s daughter.

A low rumble of frustration rose from the duke standing silently behind them, his neck flushing with tension. A short, confident arm stretched out, blocking his advance.

“Did my mother love you very much?” Beatty asked, her voice steady and cool.

“Of course! Why else would she entrust you to me directly before her death?” Firina’s eyes glimmered with sudden excitement, speaking rapidly without noticing the dark, cold gaze fixed upon her.

“I see,” Beatty replied.

“So, if you think of your mother, then to me—”

“You mean the inheritance from the sister you supposedly loved so much? The one you brazenly stole?” Beatty’s response came like a sudden frost, cutting through her aunt’s manipulative narrative.

“What?” Firina’s confident facade cracked, her body instinctively recoiling.

Beatty’s gaze, sharp as polished obsidian, fixed on her aunt.

“The jewels in your jewelry box. They were originally my mother’s, weren’t they?”

The accusation hung in the air, heavy with years of accumulated betrayal. This was more than simple child support from the ducal house—Firina had systematically intercepted not just monetary stipends, but entire collections of jewelry meant for Beatty, carefully erasing any trace of her theft.

‘After everything…’

Beatty remembered her aunt’s past remarks, those casual demeaning remarks of her mother. Firina had always spoken of her sister with a particular brand of cruel dismissiveness.

“Your mother left nothing behind,” she would say, a preemptive strike against any potential inheritance questions, routinely dismissing Stasha as nothing more than an inconvenient burden.

“Your mother was so irresponsible, leaving such a burden to me and then simply dying!” In the past, Beatty had believed these words were born of frustration- unexpected expenses, an unwanted child thrust upon unwilling hands.

“When you think about it, she was always like that. Completely beyond redemption… Do you understand? I’m talking about your mother. That’s what we call irredeemable.”

Her aunt had spoken with such consistent malice. As a child, Beatty had internalized these harsh narratives, believing them without question.

‘But it wasn’t true. In fact, she had received more than enough…’

Only now, while meticulously organizing her aunt’s property records, had the full truth revealed itself. Most of Firina’s wealth emerged from misappropriated child support or calculated gifts from her mother. Even her refined townhouse—expanded and renovated—had been funded by money sent by her mother, originally a modest dwelling without even a garden.

Firina’s complaints had been strategic: such a humble house was embarrassing, would hinder her marriage prospects. Her mother, then merely an ordinary knight, had struggled to raise funds, to elevate their social standing. And how had her aunt repaid such sacrificial love? By methodically betraying every ounce of trust.

Even Beatty, who had never harbored grand expectations, felt a cold flame of anger ignite upon discovering these calculated deceptions.

“So how could you possibly know about this?” Firina’s voice quivered, her previous confidence dissolving into a thin veneer of feigned innocence

.

“Oh,” she quickly recovered, her tone shifting with practiced manipulation, “that was a gift from my sister.”

Each word felt like a shield, hastily constructed to deflect the mounting accusations. Beatty’s gaze grew colder still, watching her aunt’s desperate performance with a detached, almost clinical observation.

“A lie,” Beatty stated simply.

“How can you be so certain—” Firina began, her protest faltering.

“Johanna has already confirmed everything.”

“W-what?”

The revelation landed like a silent blade. Johanna, the head housekeeper who meticulously documented every gift the lady of the house had ever received, had recognized the jewels in Firina’s collection.

More so, she remembered the precise details—how the lady had insisted these jewels would suit her infant daughter, requesting ownership certificates be transferred to the child’s name.

Beatty had already verified these facts through her mother’s letters, preserved in her father’s study. The documents stood as silent witnesses to Firina’s deceit.

The aunt’s carefully constructed narrative began to crumble, her words becoming a stammering mess of half-formed excuses. Beatty observed her with a detachment that felt almost clinical—here was someone who had so easily exploited a sister’s love, who had betrayed trust with such casual indifference.

‘Traitor’

The word echoed in Beatty’s mind. She despised betrayal with an almost instinctive revulsion, so deeply ingrained that she had unconsciously dropped the formal honorifics—a rare indication of her true emotional state.

Her black eyes, reminiscent of her mother’s, settled on Firina with a glacial intensity. They were eyes that seemed to look through people rather than at them, holding generations of unspoken family history.

“O-Oh!” Firina suddenly shrieked, her composure shattering completely.

 “What makes you so perfect!”

But her outburst seemed more directed at some unseen memory than at Beatty herself. Her gaze drifted, unfocused, mumbling fragments of a narrative that made little sense.

“You’ve always been like that. Pretending disinterest while taking the best for herself…” Firina’s words tumbled out, increasingly disconnected from the present moment.

Beatty watched, her brow slightly furrowed, trying to comprehend what she was talking about, or rather, to the empty space in front of her.

“You said you weren’t interested in good marriage prospects, but then… I was completely deceived by your face. If you hadn’t interfered, I might have been the duchess!” The words erupted like a long-suppressed wound, revealing something deeper than mere resentment.

Her eyes seemed to look through Beatty, or perhaps beyond her—fixated on some memory. The way she nibbled her lip, the unfocused gaze, the disconnected murmurings—nothing about her demeanor seemed entirely stable.

‘What is she even talking about?’ Beatty’s brow furrowed slightly, a mix of confusion and growing unease.

Firina continued her fragmented monologue, seemingly trapped in her own internal narrative. Her lips moved, producing sounds that hovered between whispers and mutterings, suggesting a conversation happening solely within her own mind.

Exhaling a resigned sigh, Beatty delivered her final ultimatum with a coldness that brook no argument: “You will return the jewels stolen from my mother, along with the misappropriated child support—with full interest.”

Her voice carried a judicial precision, all remnants of familial sentiment completely stripped away.

“And that includes your noble title.”

“What?” The mention of her title seemed to pierce through Firina’s fractured mental state, causing her to lift her head sharply.

Beatty reached into her acorn-shaped bag, her small hand rummaging purposefully before extracting a rolled document stamped with a vivid red seal.

Firina’s eyes widened dramatically.

“That seal…!”

The document bore the central insignia of royal certification—a magical parchment used by nobles traveling outside their territories. Delicately luminescent, it was a definitive proof of noble status.

“Return my identification document!” Firina twisted against her bonds, desperation etching every line of her body.

This was no ordinary document.

It was a magical document that proved her noble status.

It was responsive only to the blood of its original owner. It was directly linked to the noble registry, making it impossible to forge her identity.

If the identity card was destroyed, the bearer’s name would simultaneously vanish from official records—a magical mechanism used to publicly denounce and exile members of noble families.

It is commonly used when expelling a member of the family who had committed a serious crime. A symbol that expresses the expelled family were no longer connected to the lineage.

Of course, there was a special magic to prevent anyone from destroying the identity card.

Only the family head’s signet ring could truly damage such a document. And she still possessed that ring, hidden in a secret compartment beneath her jewelry box.

A flicker of hope rekindled in her eyes.

But then, another sound—a subtle, crushing revelation.

“How… how did that get into your hands?” Firina’s voice trembled, her hope dissolving like mist.

Beatty extracted a golden chain from her acorn-shaped bag—delicate yet weighty, almost too substantial for her small hand. Suspended from the chain was a familiar ring, its presence rendering Firina’s face ashen.