Chapter 3

Half a month later, the royal spring hunt convened at the Western Hills preserve, right on schedule.

For generations, this had been the moment when the royal family showed off its might and the princes vied for the King's favor.

In my last life, Weston, crippled in both legs, had spent that day being mocked and jeered at by every relative in the royal clan while stuck in his wheelchair.

It was only because I'd secretly driven a pack of wolves to bring down a rare white tiger for him that he'd taken first place and won the King's attention.

This time, he couldn't wait to prove his own judgment had been right, and he'd spent the whole morning loudly touting Rose's reputation as the "Saintess."

"Father, as the Southlands Saintess, Rose can command every beast alive." Weston sat in his wheelchair, pale-faced but with a strange, fevered gleam in his eyes. "I can't hunt on horseback myself today, but Rose is willing to stand in for me and give Father a spectacle: every beast in the forest paying homage!"

The King, seated on the raised platform, arched an eyebrow, a flicker of interest crossing his face.

"Oh? Every beast paying homage? If she can truly pull that off, I'll reward her handsomely!"

A murmur ran through the assembled nobles and officials, every gaze fixing on Rose.

She'd dressed for the occasion in a garishly bright red riding outfit, mounted on a tall white horse.

She shot me a smug glance, then pulled a Southlands beast-taming bone flute out from somewhere in her robes and pressed it to her lips, blowing hard.

A shrill, piercing note echoed across the hunting grounds.

Everyone held their breath, craning their necks toward the distant treeline, waiting for the spectacle of beasts descending from the mountains to pay homage.

30 minutes passed. Nothing stirred in the forest.

Another 30 minutes passed. Not even a rabbit came out.

Muffled snickers started spreading through the crowd, and the King's expression darkened by the second.

Weston panicked, shouting from his wheelchair, "Rose! Blow harder! Bring out the biggest beast you've got!"

Sweating, her face flushed red, Rose blew into the flute with everything she had.

That was when a deep, ground-shaking rumble tore out from the depths of the forest.

"It's coming! It's coming!" Weston shouted, ecstatic.

But what burst out of the treeline wasn't some auspicious white tiger. It was a mob of wild boars, eyes bloodshot, foaming at the mouth, utterly rabid.

Massive and sharp-tusked, they charged straight at the crowd.

Rose's flute couldn't do a thing to calm the boars. If anything, the sound had only enraged them further.

Rose, caught right in their path. She let out a scream and toppled off her horse, landing face-first in the mud.

The rabid boars ignored her entirely and charged straight toward the platform where Weston sat, following the sound of the flute.

"Protect His Highness! Protect Prince Weston!"

Weston's guards scrambled into chaos, drawing their blades to hold the line, but there was no stopping that many thick-hided, frenzied beasts.

In that split second of crisis, I stood at the edge of the viewing platform, watching the pandemonium below with a cold, detached eye.

The largest of the boars suddenly veered off course and charged straight at the platform where I stood.

Before I could even react, a broad, upright figure stepped in front of me.

It was Prince Roman.

Wielding his bow one-handed, he didn't even bother nocking an arrow. He simply swung the heavy iron-cored weapon down on the lead boar's skull, and its brains burst across the ground.

Blood sprayed across him, and he didn't so much as flinch, only kept me shielded firmly behind him.

Using the cover of his wide sleeve, I moved my fingers slightly.

Beneath the fabric hiding it, the golden serpent mark I'd been born with flared to life, casting a faint but overpowering glow.

A wave of terror, the kind only beasts could sense, rippled outward from me at its center.

The boars, still charging in every direction a moment ago, suddenly reacted as though they'd run into some unspeakable natural predator. They let out a collective wail of anguish and wheeled around all at once.

They stopped attacking everyone else and threw themselves, as if possessed, straight into Weston's ranks.

"Ah! Help me! Father, save me!"

Weston's despairing scream tore across the hunting grounds.

The boars trampled his guards flat and knocked his wheelchair over.

His already-ruined legs were crushed under the hooves of countless boars, the sickening crack of bone splintering as his flesh turned to pulp.

Screams rang out across the grounds.

The corner of my mouth curled into a cold, satisfied smile.

Just this was already too much for him? The real show hadn't even started yet.

Just then, Roman turned to face me.

He reached out a blood-streaked hand and gently wiped a fleck of splattered mud from my cheek.

He leaned in close, his voice dropping low enough for only the two of us to hear.

"My Crown Princess, your methods sure are clean and efficient."

A shiver ran through me, and I looked up at him sharply.

In that moment, I knew for certain.

He'd been reborn too.