Night after night, Elisabeth's fractured mind reached for peace like a trembling hand over still water—each attempt disturbing the surface, unleashing ripples of fear and unease that lapped back with cruel persistence. Day after day, Marisia bore silent witness to her sister's torment—each bruise, each whisper of pain—while Elisabeth endured it all, pushing forward with grim determination, training as if her survival depended on it.

'Tell me,' Marisia asked herself. 'Why?'

The courtyard blistered beneath the punishing summer sun, its light warping into shimmering waves above the scorched flagstones. A metallic tang—old blood and rusted steel—hung heavy on the breathless air. Elisabeth drifted through the sparring circle like a dying ballerina, her movements haunted and hollow. Her practice garb clung to salt-drenched skin and sweat-matted fur, crimson blooming slowly across the bandages wrapping her ribs. Each pivot left dusty vortices swirling around her ankles; each measured strike traced an elegant arc before halting a fingerbreadth from the instructor's throat. For a heartbeat the onlookers gasped—then the moment collapsed, the clang of blunted steel drowning the fragile silence. The little sanity she had clawed back the night before—fragile, fading, gone—curved her lips into a wan imitation of a smile, already waning.

Standing beneath an ancient sycamore whose sprawling canopy carved a cool oasis from the sun-scorched courtyard, Marisia pressed her knuckles hard into the tree's rugged bark, as if anchoring herself against the despair rising in her chest. Sweat traced an uncomfortable path down her spine, yet an unnatural chill gnawed at her bones. She couldn't fathom why Elisabeth refused to flee—was it pride, that cruel heirloom of their lineage? Or shame masked behind the brittle shell of discipline? Cowardice, perhaps, disguised itself as valor. The question haunted her, a pulse beneath her skin: why, why, why? The rhythm of it matched her heartbeat as she stood helpless, a silent witness to her sister's slow unmaking—blood of her blood, breaking in plain sight.

The practice bell tolled, its sound slicing through the heat like a blade, and Elisabeth sagged where she stood. She dipped into a bow—elegant despite the tremor in her legs; her form was too disciplined to collapse outright. Crimson freckles dotted the dirt like fallen stars, stark against the sunbaked earth. Marisia's stomach twisted into knots. Was it worry she felt? Frustration? The ache went deeper than either—an emotion without a name, carved from helplessness and subdued dread.

Marisia watched as Elisabeth approached their Mother, a bright, proud smile stretched across the Lady. 'I don't… understand,' she murmured, eyes fixed on the vial in her hand—the potion's contents so vile even the most battle-hardened veterans flinched at its scent. 'Just—' her fingers curled into the fabric of her pristine blue pants, wrinkling it with desperation. 'Please, just run away, Eli.'

But Elisabeth continued.

Night after night, while the estate slumbered in ignorant bliss, Marisia crept into the suffocating dark of her sister's room and siphoned away the festering miasma until her limbs trembled and her lungs burned. The scarlet vapour hissed like sentient ink, coiling hungrily around her fangs before surging into her veins. Pain erupted—searing through nerve and thought alike, birthing visions steeped in madness, voices layered in derision and despair. Still, she endured until Elisabeth's breathing slowed, until peace returned like a ghost that dared not linger. Each morning, she rose beside her, pale and shaking, begging Elisabeth to flee, to save herself while she still could. Each time, Elisabeth's reply was a silent, sorrowful smile, far more expressive than any words.

As Elisabeth rose from the bed, dressing with a vigor that hadn't touched her limbs in weeks, Marisia sat still—locked in a silent battle with the venom lashing inside her mind. She forced the storm into stillness, burying her emotions, silencing her thoughts, compressing her very sense of self into the smallest corner she could manage. Despite intense repression, a dormant feeling rekindled. It slipped through the cracks, spectral and stubborn: a flicker of her true self, rising from beneath the weight of sacrifice like a forgotten ember in the dark.

Disgust twisted in Marisia's chest—a visceral, bitter ache. Of all the torment she endured, nothing stung more than Elisabeth's muted refusal. The way she hesitated. The way she dismissed the lifeline offered in a moment of raw vulnerability. Marisia had begged her—pleaded, trembling and terrified—for her to run before it was too late. Before the miasma corroded every last thread of Marisia's sanity. Elisabeth ignored the desperate plea. It felt like betrayal veiled in silence. No. It was betrayal.

"It's fine, Mari…" Elisabeth's voice cracked beneath the weight of pretense, the hollow chuckle that followed more brittle than amused. Her smile was thin—drawn tight with shame and denial, a mask barely clinging to her face. "I will get through it," she whispered, though her trembling hands betrayed her, and her gaze darted frantically through the dim room, as if the shadows themselves whispered threats just beyond the reach of the flickering candlelight. Each night, a more desperate plea.

Marisia endured—bound by duty, by blood, by the desperate, flickering hope that her love alone could anchor Elisabeth to sanity. Each night diminished her. Frost threaded her once-bright laughter, dulling its warmth into something brittle. Her voice, once vibrant with curiosity, turned quiet and unnervingly even, like porcelain stretched over a fault line. Servants whispered in the halls, thinking her absent, unsettled by the eerie calm that now clung to the estate's sunniest daughter.

"Is Ms. Marisia jealous?" The whispers slithered through dormitory corridors like ivy seeking cracks, curling into ears that hungered for scandal. "She's been distant from Ms. Elisabeth, hasn't she?" Once a symbol of brilliance and promise, an inspiration to Marisia—Elisabeth now drew only suffering and despair in her wake, casting shadows long enough to touch even the brightest souls beside her.

"Did you see Ms. Marisia's ledgers? She's shaping up to be a phenomenal administrator!" Tutors lauded her keen intellect and precision, though more than one remarked on the growing chill in her demeanor—a glacial poise that seemed to keep others at bay. "She'll undoubtedly top the cohort! But... do you think something happened between her and Ms. Elisabeth?"

Others—her parents' retainers—whispered cruder speculation cloaked in smoke and satire. "It's rival blood," one drawled, the scent of spiced tobacco curling between his teeth. "Two flowers in one vase—bound to wilt or strangle." Their laughter, veiled behind lacquered screens, was as brittle as it was cruel.

They were all wrong. Study wasn't ambition—it was anesthesia. A narcotic ritual to keep the madness at bay. Each dusk, she buried herself in books, letting the scratch of quill on parchment and the slow unfurling of ink offer a semblance of control. The scent of journals, the rhythm of thought, the structure of diagrams—they dulled the edges. But every midnight, she descended into the abyss, replacing her own [Aura] like bloodletting, sacrificing fragments of light so Elisabeth might survive to see the dawn. It was pure torment. A hollowing fury. Hatred. Love. Desperation. Why won't Elisabeth run? Why won't she scream at Mother to end it? Why does she stay? Why?!

Hate? No, it was something deeper—a raw, festering self-loathing that defied language. Not aimed at Elisabeth, but at herself. Why couldn't she let her sister fall? Why couldn't she step back, relinquish the burden no one had asked her to carry? She didn't have the answer. Only a gnawing ache, a primal scream buried in her chest, its claws raking through flesh and feeling alike at the mere thought of Elisabeth shattering beyond repair.

So Marisia continued. Trapped in a cycle too cruel to escape. Disgust festered—not just for Elisabeth, who clung to suffering like penance, but for herself, the quiet accomplice, the coward cloaked in duty. She longed for it to end—for her sister to run, to vanish into a place where nightmares were no more than shadows on the wall. But each dawn returned them to this cursed rhythm, the rot growing unchecked beneath their skin. Hatred bloomed in silence, venom curling at the edges of their bond, waiting—until the day it ruptured into history: Elisabeth's [Legacy].

The ceremonial hall buzzed with visitors, each footfall weaving through a tapestry of murmurs and reverent laughter. Crystalline chandeliers shimmered overhead, scattering fractured rainbows across polished marble like stained-glass shrapnel cast from fantasy. Banners—a silver wolf with fangs buried in a horned demon's nape—hung unmoving in the rafters, undisturbed even by the thick, breathing incense that coiled through the air. Fresh lilies stood in defiant bloom, struggling to mask the bitter tang of resin and steel. Beneath the veneer of beauty lay tension—reflected in the sword-hilts glinting at nobles' hips, Brutus among them. He had returned with the first gold of dawn, flanked by three poised young women: his duty as future Lord of the Cold-Snout household.

"Marisia!"

One of them—a young woman with a reputation for turning the most mundane observation into an irresistible theater—glided toward Marisia the instant their eyes met. Her chatter was the stuff of legend, her ability to make even dust motes sound intriguing, fabled. "My dear, I missed you—I adore your dress—so pristine!" Cecilia's voice rang like cut crystal, bright and sharp, catching the attention of nearby onlookers before letting it slip away again like water through fingers. Everyone knew what lurked behind that smile. "And the way it flatters your figure? Magnifique." She leaned in, coyote ears flicking with mischief. "If you ever want more… volume," she whispered, voice silk-wrapped sin, "I know a brewer whose tonics go poom, poom~ in all the right places." Her final words came half-sung, half-wicked, like the promise of a secret just daring to be asked about.

Cecilia was brash and loud, yes—but soon to be Brutus' first wife, and etiquette demanded that Marisia extend at least a semblance of civility. Besides, engaging with her served a purpose. The idle chatter, the forced smiles—it distracted Marisia from the gnawing headaches left by sleepless nights. Silence was dangerous now; it beckoned sleep, nightmares and horrors. And she couldn't afford to stray, not while Elisabeth was backstage, preparing for her [Legacy].

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Marisia inclined her head, her voice polite but distant. "Thank you," she murmured, though her gaze repeatedly flicked toward Brutus—basking in the adoration of the other two brides-to-be, all charm and smugness. A knot coiled in her neck, pulling tight with every strained giggle. "Doesn't it bother you, seeing him like that?" she asked, her tone edged with something sharper than curiosity. "Cold‑Snout custom or not, I think I'd be jealous."

Cecilia tracked the gaze. "Not in the slightest. Why should it?"

Marisia's tail gave an uncertain twitch. "Because I wouldn't survive it," she admitted.

The coyote‑tailed noblewoman accepted a goblet from a passing servant, tipped it back with the grace of someone who'd made a ritual of wine and diplomacy, then leaned in with a glint behind her lashes. "Your mother is… formidable. You know this. The kind of woman who bends worlds or breaks them—depending on how they greet her."

Marisia arched an eyebrow, the gesture sharper than intended. "I know," she replied, a little too fast, betraying nerves she hadn't meant to show. "How is that connected to my brother and his… two other fiancees?"

"Oh, please." Cecilia's smile thinned, sharpening to something brittle as her gaze lingered on Brutus. "Maybe you wore blinders. Maybe he didn't want you to see. But I've seen the aftermath." Her tone dipped, heavy with memory. "He'd wake up screaming, sometimes the bed wet. Once, we had to tie him to the bed just to stop him from leaping off the balcony." Her eyes flicked toward Scarlet, her voice now silk lined with venom. "We have to work together if we want to keep him sane… A shame, really, that the ones who deserve to drop onto the cold and hard stone never quite do."

Marisia blinked, caught off guard by the bitterness in Cecilia's tone. Her gaze shifted to Brutus, preening like a rooster among hens, oblivious and radiant. "Really?" The word slipped out before she could stop it—raw with disbelief. She'd seen him shaken, even haunted. But never that close to breaking.

Cecilia's gaze lingered on Brutus, her white-gloved fingers tightening around the goblet until it gave a faint screech of protest. "Dear," she said, turning back to Marisia with a composed smile that didn't quite reach the darkness swirling behind her eyes. "I once courted an Iron‑Claw initiate—massive brute, spoke like he had gravel in his throat." She tapped her chin. "His scars were poetry compared to Brutus's. There's barely an inch of him untouched—cut, burned, reforged. Roland only found out because he walked in on him in the bathhouse. The screams…" Her voice faltered slightly, a ghost of the memory flashing behind her eyes. "They still echo. And not all of them were his."

"Dad didn't know?" Marisia whispered, her breath barely brushing the air, as if the truth might shatter if spoken too loudly.

Cecilia inclined her head toward the balcony where Marisia's parents stood, draped in formality, their words civil but frost-laced. "See Lady Scarlet's forearm?" Only then did Marisia catch the subtle seam running from wrist to elbow, nearly invisible but unmistakable. "Roland nearly took it off—right down to the bone."

A spark of hope flared in Marisia's chest, fragile and wild. "Then Elisabeth can stop this—if Dad could sway Mother once, maybe she'll listen again—"

Cecilia plucked another goblet and slipped it into Marisia's hand before retrieving one for herself. "It won't happen." Her tone was final, edged with the weight of something she'd long accepted. Guiding them behind a lattice veiled in flowering vines, she cast a casual glance toward Scarlet's position. "The duel nearly brought the estate down—my pond obliterated, all my monsters dead, half the west wing reduced to rubble," she added with theatrical exasperation. "And in the aftermath, they struck a bargain."

"What bargain?" Marisia asked, her voice rising a touch too loud, drawing a few sidelong glances. Turning, she saw her parents with fresh eyes. Her dad—the ever-smiling pillar of warmth—stood apart, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze distant. Her mother, in contrast, leaned toward him with unsettling intimacy, her smile too sharp, too knowing. It struck Marisia then: they didn't touch. And yet, her mother hovered close—like a predator guarding a prize.

Cecilia downed the goblet in a single, practiced motion—more warrior than noble bride—then met Marisia's eyes, her expression hollow but steady. "After Lady Scarlet barely survived, she made a promise: she wouldn't so much as touch Elisabeth—unless Elisabeth wanted it."

"What?!" The word rang louder than Marisia intended, drawing a few curious glances.

"Lower your voice," Cecilia hissed, eyes flashing. "Her foundation must be carved—like Brutus's was. I don't agree with it, but it's what they chose. And it seems, even Elisabeth did." She glanced toward the balcony, her voice lowering. "Roland could end it all with a single word. One whisper, and he'd rip her out of this place. But he doesn't. He watches. He waits. And in the meantime, she follows every brutal step of the regime, right up until it's time to disappear into the real crucible."

The truth struck—cold, serrated, merciless. Her ears rang with an invisible bell, louder and louder, drowning thought in its toll. 'It was her decision?' Marisia's thoughts spiraled, disoriented. Elisabeth had chosen this path—willingly—and in doing so, had shackled Marisia to her own torment. Her stomach twisted. All the suffering, all the sleepless nights, the pain she siphoned away—it was never forced. Elisabeth could have stopped it. Could have spared them both. And yet, she didn't. Her own blood. Her own choice.

Before the fury could crest in her chest—miasma burning like acid through her veins—Marisia was jolted back to reality. Glass shattered in Cecilia's fist, red wine mingling with crimson where shards bit into her palm. "That idiot will break again," she spat, voice trembling with rage barely held in check. She pivoted sharply, heels cracking like a whip against the marble floor, her tawny tail slicing through the air, gown rippling behind her. Fangs flashed between lips painted maroon. "Brutus! If you break, I swear—I'll kill you myself!"

Marisia watched, stunned by how unflinchingly honest Cecilia could be—unapologetic, unbothered by the stares that followed each sharp click of her heels. She moved with purpose, her stride wide and unwavering, her expression a raw collage of fury, concern, and something more fragile beneath the fire: fear. For Brutus. For herself. For what might come next.

Startled, Brutus staggered, fear flickering in his eyes, unable to meet Cecilia's gaze. His other fiancées lunged forward—but halted mid-step. Cecilia's eyes blazed amber, her [Aura] blooming into an elegant yet oppressive force. It shimmered like falling crystal petals, delicate in appearance but unmistakably lethal. Her [Energy]—demonic in nature—radiated absolute control, the kind that didn't request obedience, but compelled it.

"Out of the way, wenches." Her voice cracked like a whip, laced with command. A pulse of raw will surged forward—rose-tinted and rippling—hitting the women squarely in their cores. Their [Energy] flared erratically, flickering before it began to drain, seeping from their bodies like mist drawn into a siphon. "Sleep." One word, and their resistance crumbled. Marisia could've sworn she saw it—Cecilia's aura lashing out like a succubus' hand, plucking invisible threads of emotion and dominance, weaving them into a blanket of control. The two women collapsed as if their strings had been severed, crumpling to the marble with eerie silence.

Cecilia of the Cold‑Snout household, heir to a legacy of precision and control, sculpted minds like pliable wire—no incantation, only sheer intent. She could unravel sanity with a glance, snap wills as others might brittle reeds. Many underestimated her, mistaking elegance for frailty—only to learn, too late, that her strength lay in the unseen chokehold of command she wielded with terrifying ease.

She halted before Brutus, eyes still burning with unspent fury. "Follow." Another pulse of her will shattered the space between them, and though his lashes shimmered with tears, he obeyed—body trembling, steps reluctant. He stumbled after her through the arched doors, heedless of decorum or the dozens of eyes fixed on him. Whatever pride he'd carried into the hall lay discarded in his wake.

"H‑honey," he stammered, his voice breaking like a snapped string. "Can't this wait? Just—later?"

"There is no later." Her words slipped out slow and sweet, like syrup laced with venom. Her fingers curled around his wrist—tender in touch, terrible in intent—and with a single, decisive step, she pulled him past the archway. The heavy doors swung shut behind them with a resonant clang, sealing off the hall, and the stunned silence left in their wake.

Marisia exhaled only when silence reclaimed the hall. Whispered murmurs rose in Cecilia's wake, but no one dared follow. Beneath her fury ran something steadier—affection hidden like groundwater beneath stone, shaping everything she said with jagged care. In rare, vulnerable moments, Cecilia had confessed she would forfeit titles, legacy, even her name, if it meant sparing Brutus the crucible that had nearly broken him. Marisia had once dismissed it as a romantic exaggeration. But now—now she understood. It wasn't an exaggeration. A promise forged through pain.

Marisia turned her gaze toward her mother, who stifled a chuckle behind delicate fingers, playing the part of a helpless maiden with theatrical flair. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she murmured, barely loud enough to carry, that Brutus was in for a very long night.

'This is wrong,' Marisia thought, her gaze fixed on her mother. A chill stirred deep inside her—something dark, coiled, and unnatural. Not ambition. Not at that cost. Both her brother and sister had chosen their paths with single-minded resolve, severing themselves from those who wept, who worried, who stayed up nights aching for their return. In the end, only their desires seemed to matter—and everyone else was collateral.

There was no excuse—no hidden manipulation, no foul enchantment. Just truth, raw and merciless. Hate surged through her chest like wildfire, her thoughts pounding in rhythm with the pain flaring behind her eyes. A scarlet haze bled into her vision, tinged with the sting of tears unshed. It wasn't just betrayal—it was worse. She had been used. A fool. Believing there was no other path, no other answer. But it wasn't cowardice. It was something deeper. Something far more devastating.

Then silence condensed, thick as velvet, as though even the chandeliers dared not chime. Polished heels echoed—a slow, deliberate cadence—pulling every gaze toward the dais like gravity itself bent around her. Elisabeth emerged, her gown awash in torchlight, every bead igniting like a newborn star in orbit. Confidence lifted her chin; pride curled her lips into a smile carved from legacy. And in her eyes—blazing, resolute—burned something fierce and unforgiving, as if the very future dared not look away.

For a moment, Marisia forgot the agony, the betrayals, the sleepless nights—because her sister looked whole. Poised. Radiant. 'It'll all get better,' she told herself, shoulders loosening with cautious hope. 'Once Elisabeth claims her [Legacy], everything will fall into place—she'll become whole again. She has to.'

There was nothing, Marisia believed, that time couldn't mend—especially wounds carved by pride. Her pragmatic mind, honed by the emotional restraint, allowed her to reason past resentment. Elisabeth was just an overambitious pup in her eyes, stumbling through dreams too big for her bite. She chose to let it go. A flicker of dread coiled low in her gut—but louder, brighter. Hope insisted this would be the turning point.

A severe miscalculation.

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