The hour was late, and silence had begun to settle like dust over the gilded corridors of Versailles. Most of the palace's glittering guests were retiring to their chambers, but not Joseph. Hunger, long ignored, now growled insistently in his stomach.
Seeing his master turn abruptly toward the side corridor that led to the royal kitchens, Eman quickly moved ahead, pushing open the heavy doors with a creak of polished hinges. He bowed low, gesturing the Crown Prince forward.
Captain Kesode, caught off guard by the sudden change of direction, made a sharp turn on his heel. He raised two fingers subtly in signal. A pair of guards detached from their posts and followed swiftly, keeping a respectful yet alert distance behind.
The kitchen was vast, cavernous even—designed to feed hundreds on a moment's notice. The scent of spices and fish lingered in the air, mingling with faint traces of ash from the wood-fired ovens. Copper pots and polished pans hung from beams above, clinking gently as the evening breeze slipped in through a small open window. Only a few oil lamps remained lit, casting warm golden pools of light in an otherwise dim space.
Curiously, the kitchen appeared deserted. No clatter of knives, no murmurs of tired conversation, no signs of chefs preparing for the next day's banquets. There should have been at least a handful of kitchen staff working the night shift—imperial chefs were always on call, especially with the Queen's active social calendar. Yet tonight, not a soul could be seen.
Joseph narrowed his eyes, stepping deeper into the kitchen. His boots made soft echoes on the stone floor. As he rounded a tall wooden storage cabinet stacked with sacks of flour and bundles of dried herbs, he suddenly heard the faint rustle of movement—like cloth brushing against wood, or perhaps... something being dragged.
The sound was coming from the far end, behind a large shelving rack crowded with soup ladles and colanders.
His curiosity piqued, Joseph approached with cautious steps, wondering if he might catch a few kitchen boys gambling or sneaking bites of leftover pastries. But when he rounded the rack—
He froze.
There, crouched in the flickering light of a single candle, was a pale figure clad in a wrinkled, oversized white robe. The silhouette was slight, not tall, and hunched over a large chopping board stained with ominous dark streaks. Long, black hair cascaded forward, nearly touching the wooden surface, tangled and dripping with what looked like... blood.
The figure didn't move at first—completely absorbed in whatever grim work it was doing. But the moment Joseph stepped closer, the head snapped up.
What he saw chilled him to the bone.
Blood splattered across the robe, crimson streaks on the cheeks, and wide, glassy eyes that gleamed a ghostly green behind the curtain of hair. In one hand, a curved knife still dripped with something dark, and thick strands of viscera clung to the sleeves like macabre ribbons.
Joseph's brain short-circuited. His instincts kicked in before reason could respond.
Sadako? The horrifying image from that cursed Japanese film flashed in his mind, and with a strangled gasp, he stumbled backward. His shoulder collided with the utensil rack, sending spoons and ladles clattering to the ground in a deafening chorus of alarm.
"Protect His Highness!" Eman had already rushed forward, placing himself between Joseph and the figure, sword half-drawn, voice sharp and clear.
Captain Kesode bolted through the doorway in a blur of motion, barking orders as he unsheathed his blade. "Secure the area! Guards, with me!"
One by one, Joseph's personal guards poured into the kitchen, rifles cocked, eyes scanning the dimly lit space. The moment they caught sight of the bloodied figure, they instinctively raised their weapons, a dozen barrels aimed at what they assumed was some kind of demonic intruder.
The figure jolted, then abruptly hurled the knife into the air and shrieked.
"Aaaahh—!"
The sound was piercing, high-pitched, and panic-stricken.
Then, still crouching, the figure wrapped both arms around its head and whimpered, "Please don't shoot!"
Joseph, peeking from behind Eman's shoulder, narrowed his eyes. Something was off. That voice—it wasn't spectral. It was… familiar?
"Hey—stop screaming. Are you... a person?"
The figure hesitated, then peeked through her fingers. "Crown Prince?"
Joseph blinked. "You know me?"
The figure rapidly nodded, and with a quivering voice, answered, "It's me! Perna!"
The moment the name was spoken, Kesode lowered his sword with a visible sigh of relief. He stepped closer, tilted the girl's head gently, and confirmed it.
"Your Highness," he called out, relaxing slightly, "It is indeed Miss Perna."
Joseph straightened. "Perna? What in God's name are you doing here—looking like something out of a nightmare?"
The girl flushed and quickly bent down to retrieve a leather cord from the ground, using it to tie back her blood-slicked hair. She offered a somewhat flustered curtsey. "Your Highness. Apologies. I… I was just helping Mr. Valister cut meat."
Joseph folded his arms, unconvinced. He looked past her at the wooden board, upon which a small white rabbit was pinned, dissected cleanly with the precision of a surgeon. Organs laid neatly to one side, the incisions symmetrical, the presentation methodical.
"You were 'cutting meat'?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Perna hastily wiped her hands on her apron and then dabbed her cheeks with the handkerchief Eman handed her. As the blood was wiped away, the true face beneath was revealed—pale as porcelain, with striking green eyes, and lashes so long they cast tiny shadows on her cheeks. She was, Joseph had to admit, quite beautiful once the horror-movie aesthetic had been cleaned away.
"You're quite pretty when you're not impersonating a murder ghost," Joseph said, half-amused, half-exasperated.
Perna flushed crimson and turned back to the dissected rabbit in shame.
Joseph stepped closer, examining the clean lines of the incisions. "This isn't just butchering. You're practicing dissection."
Perna panicked, shaking her head violently. "N-no! It's not— I mean— I—"
Joseph met her eyes and said gently, "Perna, I've seen enough to know. This is professional work. No need to lie."
She froze, her expression caught between fear and relief. After a long moment, she drew in a breath, clenched her fists, and stood tall.
"Yes, Your Highness," she said clearly, "I am practicing dissection."
Her voice gathered strength as she spoke. "Because I want to become a doctor. Not a nurse. Not an assistant. A real doctor. And to do that, I must know anatomy. I've read every textbook my father owns, assisted in countless treatments—but he still forbids me from learning surgery or practicing incisions. He fears it will ruin my reputation—that no man will marry a girl who cuts open rabbits."
Her pale eyes shimmered, though she did her best to hold them steady. "But I don't care. I don't want to marry. I want to save lives."
She gestured at the rabbit. "I don't have access to cadavers, so I made an agreement with Mr. Valister. Each night, I cut meat for the next day's meals… and in return, I get to practice—quietly, secretly."
Her voice cracked slightly, but her words didn't waver. "This is the only way I can learn. And tonight, I've caused a scene and frightened everyone. I'm sorry. If you wish to punish me, I won't resist."
Silence followed her confession, broken only by the quiet shifting of the guards lowering their weapons.
Joseph didn't speak for several seconds. Then, he walked over, picked up the surgical knife from where it had fallen, and turned it over in his hand.
"Your suturing technique," he said at last, "is cleaner than half the army surgeons I've seen."
Perna's eyes widened.
Joseph handed the knife back to her with a smile. "If anyone dares question your qualifications again, you may send them to me."
She blinked, stunned.
"And Perna," he added, glancing down at the rabbit, "next time you do this—just warn someone first. My heart nearly stopped back there."
A small laugh broke through her tears. "Yes, Your Highness."
He turned toward Eman. "Come, let's not take the chef's knife supply hostage any longer."
As they exited, Joseph glanced over his shoulder one last time.
There in the candlelight, Perna stood tall in her bloodstained apron, her knife in hand, her chin lifted with pride.
It was not a sadako after all, he thought. It was a future surgeon.
And perhaps, in her own way, a revolutionary.