The Regressed Princess - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Withered Flower

The Great King loved her noble…

The sun blazed fiercely, making the snow-white domes shimmer with a blinding radiance.

It was a brilliant mass of pure gold, where sheets of gold leaf had been meticulously applied to form a bas-relief of the masses offering bouquets to the Great Mother Goddess. What kind of structure could house such a magnificent, colorful mural? Especially here, tucked between the river valley and the dense forest.

This was a three-story palace of grand proportions and majestic design—at this moment, naturally, it was not something a commoner could possess. It belonged to the noble wife of the Anya-Andra, the “Flower of Wisdom” of the Golden Kingdom, the woman known as “Gaia’s Beloved Daughter”—Angie-Eleanor.

The Great King loved her noble wife so dearly that she had built this “House of Gold” for her amidst the beautiful scenery and fertile lands of the river valley plains. At the mention of this, every citizen of the Golden Kingdom would puff out their chest with pride; it was the ultimate tribute they could offer to their royalty, the proxies of the gods, a bond of mutual respect and love.

Rustle, rustle.

The wind picked up. A cool breeze swept through the lush green broadleaf trees, filtered through pearl curtains, and brushed against the edges of the servants’ swaying feather fans, turning into a soft, powerless sigh.

“Cough… cough, cough.” Eleanor, lying on a long chaise, furrowed her brows and let out a few light coughs.

The servant fanning her immediately stopped, leaning over to support her mistress’s arm. Two beauties adorned with jingling jewels deftly brought forward a golden basin filled with warm water and dry, fine velvet towels.

“…” Eleanor straightened her body weakly, allowing the servants and beauties to wipe her cheeks, hands, and her sweat-dampened neck.

Only after the beauties retreated with quick, small steps did she pat the hand of her personal attendant and whisper, “Bring—bring the ledgers—the new ledgers from the third caravan for me to see. And call Hudora here. Cough, cough.“

“Yes.” Coral, the Queen’s most trusted noble attendant, bowed.

She glided across the corridor almost soundlessly. About fifteen minutes later, she returned with the ledgers on a fragrant wooden tray, followed by Hudora—the shared right hand and “money bag” of both the King and Queen.

Hudora was a lady with silver hair and a perpetually stern face, marked by deep lines at the corners of her mouth. She opened the ledgers for the Queen, slowly turning them page by page. The formatting of the text and the paper itself were gifts to the world from the Queen and her sages.

Eleanor forced herself to listen to the most critical parts before waving her hand. “You handle the rest. You can consult with Julie and the others… cough… I—”

She stopped mid-sentence, her mind going blank. I—what was I saying?

Eleanor slumped against the pillows in the center of the chaise. On the shelf behind her sat an exquisite crown crafted of gold and gemstones. It rested there, dignified and heavy; no one dared to touch it except the servants who polished it carefully with silk.

She raised her eyes to the wide window. The gauzy curtains were made in the style of her old homeland, embroidered on both sides with the nightingales of her childhood. The gauze trembled in the wind, as if at any moment a hand might pull it aside and a furry little head would pop out to give her a radiant smile.

But no one did.

The girl from her dreams—the one with honey-toned skin and a lithe, powerful frame, who always gazed at her with bright, affectionate eyes—had vanished with the dream. The curtains were just curtains, after all, pinned firmly to the window frame with golden nails.

Eleanor shivered in the warm breeze, a small movement that halted the servants’ actions; they were about to open the window so she could enjoy the view, but now…

The people in the bedroom formed a beautiful, still painting, everyone’s posture suspended in place, waiting for the mistress at the center of the frame to press “play.”

“Haha, hahahaha~”

Before Eleanor could speak, a silver-bell-like laugh drifted in from outside. As the Queen’s gaze moved toward the window, a servant deftly pulled the curtains open, allowing the scenery outside to rush in.

The lake sparkled with ripples, and the meadow looked like dyed fine cashmere, swaying in a lovely shade of green. The grass was dotted with purple and gold six-petaled flowers—”wildflowers” the King had specifically ordered gardeners to transplant for the Queen. Each cluster and bloom was as lovely as stars fallen from the sky, carrying a moving sense of rhythm.

A group of young girls in various long dresses were chasing a colorful ball across the grass. Their movements were more agile than fawns, showing no sign of fatigue even under the scorching sun.

“…Playing ball at this hour?” Eleanor raised her hand, her voice softening as the words reached her lips. “Sigh. Go tidy up the gazebo. Take some ice from the cellar and mix it into the plum water. Let those little ones play for a while. Everyone can share the plum water.”

“Yes.” A young servant behind Coral bowed and walked out quietly.

Her thoughts interrupted by the laughter outside, Eleanor leaned back against the cushions, unable to remember what she had just wanted to say. She gazed at the beautiful girls in the distance, gently stroking the calendula pendant hanging at her chest.

Sixty-six… no, sixty-seven years.

This is my sixty-seventh year in this world, and I have known Andra for fifty-seven years.

Eleanor gazed blankly out the window, as if seeing that bright youth again, back to the sun, washing berries one by one in the spring water and offering them to her in cupped palms with utmost care.

…But that was impossible now.

Eleanor’s eyes stung, and she unconsciously rubbed her own arm. Her skin was still smooth; as a “Noble-Blood” of this world, youth would remain with her until the final six days before her death, when she would age rapidly.

However, something—some element of her spirit or soul—was rapidly withering. One could smell the scent of decay on her, a scent that completely distinguished her from the truly young people playing outside.

Hudora, having finished her report, was in no rush to leave. She stood quietly beside the Queen like a guardian made of shadows.

Splash.

The play outside gradually stopped as the colorful girls were led toward the gazebo by servants. From another direction, a beauty draped in a rose-red headscarf and a woman in a primrose-yellow dress walked gracefully toward the palace.

They led a procession of dozens. In the center, servants pushed a carriage containing a baby. The infant inside kicked her sturdy little feet against the carriage, letting out fits of giggles.

Seeing this group, the girls in the gazebo changed their expressions; their faces were a complex mix of jealousy, resentment, and secret mockery. The beauty in the rose-red headscarf ignored their burning gazes and walked forward without looking back.

She gave a small huff, dismissing the sneers of those who thought, “So what if she gave birth to the King’s child? How dare she compare herself to our noble Angie.”

The rose-red veiled woman—the newly promoted royal concubine, Melissa—stepped into the palace with a graceful, swaying gait. The large retinue behind her naturally did not dare intrude upon the Queen; only the woman in primrose yellow and the wetnurse carrying the baby followed her in.

Though there were many beauties inside and outside the palace, Melissa was among the most striking. She was barely twenty, with emerald-green eyes full of shifting emotions and lips redder than roses even without tint.

Upon reaching Eleanor, this vibrant beauty suddenly learned her place. She lowered her head without a word and knelt on the ground. Despite having recently given birth to a royal daughter and being highly favored, she did not dare act out before the renowned Queen.

After all, the stories of Eleanor had been widely circulated in the country long before Melissa was even born. Among other things, the mills on the outskirts of the city had been commissioned by the Queen. Anyone with an ounce of sense avoided clashing with the Queen to avoid being cast as a foolish clown in the stories passed down to posterity.

She craftily stole a glance at Eleanor from the corner of her eye.

As everyone suspected, the Queen’s health seems to be in a very concerning state…

Eleanor shifted her shoulders, and the servants immediately adjusted her cushions.

“No need to kneel. Everyone stand—or, sit if there’s a seat. Cough, cough.“

The Queen smiled weakly and reached out to the woman in primrose yellow—the eldest princess, Anoya. Anoya was not Eleanor’s biological daughter; in fact, the Queen had never given birth.

The King had publicly declared that only Eleanor’s child could inherit the throne, and because she didn’t want her Queen to undergo repeated childbirths, that royal daughter was destined to be born much, much later.

So they say… Melissa calculated in her heart while stealing glances. Can this noble Angie really live to be eighty? Even if she is a Noble-Blood with a constitution that stays young, she might still die from a common cold.

At the thought of a cold, the speculation on Melissa’s face vanished, replaced by a bashful flush. Even someone as selfish as her knew that years ago, it was the Queen who had led a group of healers to refine a spirit medicine from a wild herb called “garlic.” That medicine had saved countless people; even Melissa had taken it as a child. She likely owed the Queen her life.

Hoo~ May the gods bless our noble Angie with a long life. Melissa prayed sincerely in her heart. And more importantly—may she never conceive a royal heir.

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