Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 227: A glimpse of the past 2

Thirty-three years ago

A menace. An absolute menace. I ask myself for the hundredth time if I regret taking this job as I watch a tiny figure with wild raven hair leap from one tree branch to another like an untamed monkey. My heart clenches with every jump, every reckless move, and I can already feel the headache forming behind my temples.

Mirelle, Princess Mirelle, is going to be the death of me.

Some passing servants pause to observe the spectacle, casting me sympathetic glances. I catch one of them whispering,

"Poor Joan," before hurrying along. Yes, poor Joan indeed. How did I go from grieving widow to glorified tree-climbing babysitter?

I sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose in exasperation. The midday sun filters through the canopy of trees, casting dappled light onto the manicured lawns of the palace garden. The scent of fresh blooms drifts through the warm air, but even the peaceful atmosphere does little to calm my nerves.

"That’s it," I mutter under my breath. "I swear, if you don’t get down right now, Your Highness, I’m quitting my job!" My voice rises to a desperate yell, echoing through the garden.

There’s a beat of silence, and then, from an upside-down position high in the tree, a mischievous face peeks out. Long raven-colored hair, messy from her antics, sways with the movement. Green eyes—bright, sharp, and far too cunning for a child—sparkle with amusement.

"You can’t quit, Joan!" Mirelle’s squeaky little voice rings out, full of glee. "You love me too much!"

I turn away dramatically, my back to her, hoping this will finally coax her down. "That’s it. I’m leaving. I’m done," I declare loudly, taking a few steps toward the palace. I can almost hear her smirk from behind me.

But then—a scream.

My heart stops mid-beat.

I whip around, panic surging through me like a wave. Mirelle’s voice cuts through the calm afternoon, sharp and filled with agony. Without thinking, I sprint toward the sound, dread clawing at my chest. My mind races through every worst-case scenario. Did she fall? Is she hurt? Broken bones? Blood? Oh, heavens, please no.

When I reach her, my hands tremble as I gently cradle her tiny body, checking for injuries. Her small frame feels too fragile in my arms, and the thought of her being hurt is unbearable.

"Oh my god—are you okay? Is anything broken? Where does it hurt?!" My voice is frantic, my breath shallow. My heart feels like it might burst from my chest as I frantically examine her.

Suddenly, she giggles.

I freeze, confusion swirling in my mind. She stands up in a flash, placing her little hands on her waist, grinning ear to ear.

"Ta-da!" she announces proudly. "See? You love me!"

Relief floods my body, leaving me momentarily lightheaded. I close my eyes and take a deep, shaky breath. Of course, I think bitterly. Of course, this little monkey wouldn’t actually get hurt from climbing a tree.

"Come here, you little menace," I growl, grabbing her by the ear. Her laughter quickly turns into squeals of protest.

"Ow! Ow! Ow! Joan! You’re gonna rip my ear off!" she complains as I drag her back toward the palace, ignoring her exaggerated wails. She’s going to give me gray hairs before my time.

"Maybe then you’ll finally learn to listen," I mutter, though I know she won’t. Not my Mirelle.

Not this fearless, infuriating child who’s wormed her way into my heart.

---

Thirty-six years ago

The air is thick with tension, so heavy it’s almost suffocating. I stand with the rest of the servants, my hands clasped tightly in front of me, feeling the weight of every gaze in the opulent tea room. The gilded walls, adorned with intricate tapestries, shimmer under the soft glow of the crystal chandelier. The scent of freshly brewed tea mingles with that of delicate pastries, but the pleasant aroma does little to ease the knot in my stomach.

Tea time with Concubine Danielle and her two children is always an ordeal, but today feels worse. I’m not sure why I’m here. More importantly, I don’t know why Mirelle is here. Her mother, Concubine Danielle, has made it abundantly clear that she has no interest in her daughter. She barely acknowledges Mirelle’s existence on a good day. So why now?

I shift uncomfortably, my eyes drifting to the teenage boy seated beside the concubine. Tarian. His dark eyes gleam with an unsettling intensity as he watches Mirelle with a possessiveness that makes my skin crawl. There’s something in his gaze, something too sharp, too calculating for someone his age. I feel a shiver run down my spine, but what can I do? It’s not my place to question the prince’s behavior. All I can do is watch. And worry.

Mirelle, unaware of—or perhaps simply ignoring—the tension, lifts her teacup to her lips. She takes a delicate sip before making a face, her little nose scrunching up in displeasure.

I bite back a smile. Of course, she hates the bitter tea. She’s too honest to hide her reactions, too young to understand the art of masking her emotions in front of courtly vipers.

"Mirelle," Concubine Danielle’s sharp voice cuts through the silence, laced with disapproval. Her beauty is undeniable—flawless auburn hair, deep brown eyes, and a grace that has kept the king’s favor for decades. But her beauty is matched only by her cruelty. "What is this behavior? You’re a princess."

Mirelle blinks up at her mother, confusion evident on her young face. "Am I not allowed to dislike something bitter because I’m a princess?" she asks, her voice innocent but tinged with defiance.

Concubine Danielle sighs dramatically, waving her fan lazily. "You’re supposed to not show it."

A tense silence follows before she narrows her eyes and asks, "Who’s her nanny?"

My stomach drops. I can feel my fellow servants step away from me as if I’ve just been marked. Taking a deep breath, I force my feet to move forward, my head bowed in deference. "I am," I say softly.

"Is she not taking etiquette lessons?" she asks, her tone dripping with disdain.

I hesitate. "Not exactly, no," I admit.

Her perfectly shaped brow arches in disbelief. "What is she learning then?"

I begin listing off the lessons I’ve arranged for Mirelle, ones I thought would serve her well. "Well, history, geography, horseback riding—"

"Irrelevant!" she snaps, cutting me off with a dismissive wave. "What she needs to learn is etiquette, dance, singing—you know, actually helpful things for her marriage."

I freeze. Marriage? Mirelle is only ten. Surely not—

"Marriage?! I’m just ten!" Mirelle exclaims, echoing my own disbelief.

Concubine Danielle’s lips curl into a smirk. "And in four years, you’ll have your debutante ball. We should prepare. Besides, Tarian already has the support of many. You’ll need to secure a suitable husband to help your brother in the race for the throne."

Her voice lowers, becoming almost sweet—if one could call poison sweet. "You want to help your brother, don’t you?"

Mirelle’s playful defiance fades instantly. She nods, her voice barely a whisper. "I do."