Winter in Valkathra had always been cruel, but that day? It was plain vicious. The sky stretched out in one long endless slab of gray and the air felt like knives slicing into bare skin. Snow blanketed the courtyard in this perfect, soft layer, until kids trampled all over it with their game.

Rylan, the eldest son and first heir of the Draevin family, led. He was tall for eleven, with that sharp jaw and messy dark auburn hair falling in his eyes, already carrying himself like he owned the whole world. Those jade green eyes of his had look of pride and arrogace. .

Meliora stayed close beside him, her short platinum curls, like field of wheat under sun, peeking out from under her hood, cheeks flushed from the cold, dressed head to toe in velvet and fur. She looked more like a porcelain doll someone forgot on the palace steps than an actual child. Winter made her glow like that.

And Kaelen, the youngest was five year old. he trailed after them like a stray pup, all messy hair of mahogany colour sticking to his forehead, too long for his round face, hazel eyes wide with clueless curiosity.

Cessalie stood a little behind them, a small thing with long straight hair the color of pale coral from the sea, pink touched with a hint of orange like the branching coral plants under water.

She kept glancing ahead where Rylan walked. Every few steps her feet sped up, like she might run forward and fall into step beside him. She wanted to go ahead, to see things first and lead the way.

But she wasn't supposed to.

Still, she tried anyway.

Instead of adding to Rylan's snow fort, she built her own quietly. Every snowbrick shaped with little hands, packed tight like it might actually matter.

"Cessalie, stop," Rylan barked.

She didn't.

Meliora sighed, all bored and ladylike. "You're ruining the game, Cece."

"No, I'm not," Cessalie said, not even looking up. "I'm making my own too, just like Rylan. It's better."

That got his attention. His jaw locked.

"Cessalie." His tone was cold and teeth gritting. "You don't get to make the rules."

She ignored him.

And then, she did something dumb. It was just a snowball, but it hit him dead in the chest and he staggered back, shattering his fort.

He didn't expect that. She wasn't supposed to make her fort against him.

Before she could celebrate or run, his hand lashed out.

There was a flash of something. What was it? Ice? A sharp broken piece of ice. She barely registered it before a burning and sharp pain ripped across her cheek.

She hit the ground hard. Cold dug into her spine, but her body only registered the sting. Hot and wet blood sliding down her skin.

Everything blurred. The iron taste came into her mouth.

Rylan let out a slow exhale and shook his hand like she had made him do it.

"You shouldn't have done that," he muttered.

Meliora stepped forward but not helping Cessalie. She crossed her hands over her chest and shook her head, slowly."You made him mad, Cece."

Cessalie's breathing came too fast. Her fingers pressed to her cheek and came away stained red.

Kaelen hovered beside her but didn't say a word. He scaredly looked at his older siblings to understand the situation. But he understood nothing.

Then the maids showed up, and went straight to Rylan.

"Oh, young master," one cooed, brushing snow off his coat. "Please don't be angry. It wasn't worth your temper."

Another gently took his hand.

"Your hands must be freezing. Come inside. Let's warm them."

No one looked at Cessalie. The cut on her cheek pulsed, but the ache in her chest? It was way worse.

And then, her mother came.

One glance at Cessalie's blood stained dress, the scarlet drops melting into snow, and she sighed.

"Cessalie," she said sharply, like the wound was an inconvenience. "What have you done now?"

Cessalie tried to speak, but Meliora beat her to it.

"She was being difficult."

"And disrespectful to the heir of this duchy," Rylan added.

Her mother's expression iced over. "You always bring trouble upon yourself."

That was it? Nobody scolded Rylan or punished him.

Same night, when Duke was informed about it, he didn't even glance up from his work. "She needs discipline," he said. "A daughter should know her place."

The maids had cleaned Cessalie's wound without saying a word. The stitches pulled at her skin but the sting barely registered anymore.

The pain faded. The scar didn't.

A pale crescent, etched into cheek on right side of her face like a brand. It became permanent and unavoidable.

That was the day she understood. She was the only legitimate child, but the one they valued the least.

Cessalie exhaled slowly, her eyes lifting to the mirror. For a moment they settled on the small crescent shaped scar high on her cheek, a thin pale curve just beneath her eye, on ber cheekbone.

The memory that came with it tried to surface.

She pushed it away immediately.

She was nineteen. Thirteen years had passed since that day, yet the scar remained. The others had faded long ago, softening into her skin until they were nearly impossible to see. But this one never changed. It stayed where it was.

The girl in the mirror stared back at her.

Her hair fell straight down her back in long, smooth strands, reaching just abover her hips. Her brows were slender and neat, slightly darker than her hair, framing bright turquoise eyes. The outer corners of her eyes lifted gently, giving them a subtle feline tilt that made her gaze appear sharper.

Her face carried a soft heart shape that narrowed into a delicate chin. Her skin was pale ivory, though the rosacea across it painted a constant flush. The redness spread across her cheeks, forehead, and nose, continuing down her neck and across her collarbones and shoulders. It never truly disappeared, which was why she had always preferred dresses that covered more of her skin.

Her lips were wide with a natural shape, the lower lip a little fuller than the upper. They looked soft and slightly plump, though not overly so.

Her body had grown into the kind noblemen liked to admire. Her shoulders were slender, her waist drawing inward before her hips curved outward in a gentle fullness. The shape continued into long legs, giving her figure of a soft peach.

It was exactly the sort of figure that made noble families consider her for marriage unntil she opened her mouth. Then the interest rarely lasted long.

Cessalie looked at the scar one last time before turning her gaze away.

Everything had changed after that.

Fear, resentment and hatred chewed through whatever love she had left for her family. She never looked at Rylan the same way again. Truthfully, she never looked at him at all.

Her fingers curled into fists. She took a breath, then another. Silky strands slipped through her fingers as she ran her hands through them, the same strands her maids insisted on straightening, even though they were already straight.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦, she thought.

She turned on her heels and stepped outside.

The air was hot. The sky stretched wide and pale like an endless sheet of blue. And there she was, Elysande, her mother waiting.

Cessalie wanted to walk past her, to pretend she didn't see her standing there. But she couldn't. In this family of gilded cage, Elysande had no one but her.

And yet, Cessalie hated her for it.

She hated the way her mother had taught her to endure and stay quiet. She bore it too. Her own scars were buried beneath layers of powder and silk. But no amount of makeup could erase what had been done to her or to Cessalie.

The resemblance between them made her sick. The same coral hair that gave away it's shine. Her eyes were stolen from her father's blue, but lighter, just another reminder of a legacy she wanted nothing to do with. She never wanted to look like them.

Even her mother's hair had lost its glow. Once, when Cessalie was small, it shone like the sky of dawn, brushed with warm rose and faint copper that caught the sun and held it. Now it looked dim and washed out like an old portrait left too long in the light

Cessalie couldn't even hold her gaze for long. Her eyes flickered away, but she still stepped closer. "Good morning, Mother."

Elysande nodded, offering a small wornout smile. "Cece, your father expects you in the dining room today."

Cessalie frowned. Why her? She never joined them for meals. That was Rylan's role...playing heir and discussing duchy affairs with Cyrion. The rest of them, his mistresses, sat like quiet, painted insults to her mother's existence. And their children were nothing but decorative fixtures at the table.

She was the only legitimate daughter. The only one born of marriage. In Valkathra, only the royal family was permitted to take multiple wives as no child born of royal blood could be illegitimate. But nobles and commoners weren't granted that right.

Cyrion didn't care. He had three mistresses. One before Elysande, two after.

"Cece… what are you thinking?" Her mother's hand closed gently around her arm.

Cessalie flinched, pulling back without thinking. Elysande noticed but masked the hurt behind her eyes and withdrew her hand. "Your father doesn't tolerate indiscipline. Be on time."

Cessalie nodded, though they both knew indiscipline just meant refusing to stay quiet about his bullshit.

She didn't say another word and stepped ahead. Elysande followed, her footsteps soft behind her.

They reached the grand double doors. The guards flanking either side moved in sync, pulling them open without a sound.

Cessalie walked in after her.

Cyrion wasn't here yet. It was typical of him.

She was the one who had to be on time, yet the man who enforced the rule couldn't bother to show up himself.

How poetic. She scoffed.

Elysande slipped into her usual seat along the long side of the table, right adjacent to aCrion's throne basically.

And beside her, like polished poisonous statues, sat the other two mistresses perfectly aligned on that same long side, both of them dressed to compete.

Anwen didn't even glance up. She was Cyrion 's first mistress, from before his marriage. She and Cyrion had a long affair but due to her low status, he couldn't marry her and thus kept her as an mistress. She was tall, even taller than Cyrion. She was rigid and elegant in an untouchable way. Her dark hair were streaked with silver, pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck. Those jade green eyes stayed locked on nothing like the entire room wasn't worth noticing. She sipped her wine like existence bored her.

Amara, though… Amara lived to talk. She tilted her head, platinum blonde curls falling over her shoulder like she rehearsed the move daily. "Oh? Cessalie decided to join us today?" Her voice was sweet, all honey dipped spite. "We almost thought you'd forgotten where the dining room was."

Her hazel eyes swept over Cessalie, with a perfect sharp smirk on her face. She was too pretty for her own good, too good at biting. And it wasn't even a secret that she couldn't stand Cessalie.

Cessalie didn't bother replying. She was used to it.

She pulled out a chair herself. Tthe screech of it dragged across the marble floor a little too loud in the silence. Amara's gaze snapped to the sound like a hawk locking onto prey, smirk deepening.

Cessalie sat down, keeping her expression unreadable. But the moment her eyes lifted, her breath caught.

Directly across from her sat Rylan, Anwen's son, the duchy's golden boy. Twenty-four now, her older half brother. He was yrion's pride when it came to managing Ferendia.

He never smiled, not once in her memory. His face was all sharp edges like responsibility had carved him out of stone.

He was taller than even Anwen, lean, athletic frame, dark auburn hair that never looked out of place and those same jade green eyes, already locked on her.

She always got under his skin somehow. Walking out of line, saying the wrong thing, never knowing when to shut up. But after that incident, they barely spoke. Cold exchanges here and there, nothing more.

She hated admitting it, even to herself, but… he scared her. Every time she saw him, the scar on her cheek burned, like it remembered.

"What happened, Cece?"

The voice came from beside him. Meliora sat there, chin in her palm and a smile plastered on her face. She was three years older to Cessalie.

She was the poised and beautiful older sister and so insufferably perfect it made Cessalie nauseous. Her golden hair fell in soft waves, hazel eyes sparkling like she practiced that exact look in the mirror which she probably still kissed goodnight.

Meliora was Amara's mirror image, and she knew how to use it and definitely knew how to twist her manicured nails into every insecurity she could find.

As stunning as she was, she was twice as awful.

Cessalie forced a smile, swallowing down the bitterness clawing its way up her throat. "There's nothing you should worry about, sister."

Her other siblings, Kaelen, Isla and Evan weren't there. They were too young or irrelevant to Cyrion.

Kaelen was also nineteen, the only boy after Rylan, which basically meant a free pass to do whatever he wanted. Isla was fourteen, evan was barely six. They were just pretty little things with big eyes, tucked away from the table like decoration pieces waiting to be unwrapped.

Cessalie straightened her posture, forcing herself to sit taller. Her eyes avoiding everyone. Their stares always came with knives.

A servant passed by, pouring wine into her goblet. She didn't touch it.

Across from her, Rylan was still staring, arms folded. His expression were unreadable, except for the faintest twitch in his jaw. That was his tell that he was annoyed, probably already filing a mental report about how she'd ruined something, and she hadn't even opened her mouth yet.

Meliora leaned toward him, whispering behind her hand.

Cessalie didn't care.

The doors creaked open again. Every posture snapped straight, shoulders stiffening like strings pulled tight.

Footsteps echoed across the marble floor.

She didn't have to look. She knew that sound.

Duke Cyrion Draevin had arrived.

He passed behind her without a word, the air getting denser faintly with his presence. He smelled like the same godawful cologne he'd worn for years. It was strong and suffocating just like everything else about him. His hair har turned silver completely and dark blue eyes bore into people with intent of killing.

He took his place at the head of the table, finally bringing an end to the quiet play they'd all been pretending wasn't happening.

His eyes scanned the room once and then landed on Cessalie.

"You're late," he said.

She wasn't. But she didn't argue.

He didn't wait for a response anyway. Just looked down at the stack of documents beside his plate, picked one up, and started reading like none of them existed and not even the meal.

Elysande sat frozen, hands clenched tight in her lap, jaw locked like stone. She didn't look at him.

Under the table, Cessalie's hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palm, just to remind herself she still existed.

Cyrion didn't spare anyone a glance. He just started speaking.

"Rylan," he said without looking up from the parchment, "Regarding the tariffs imposed upon the eastern grain merchants… have the revised figures from Daemir been obtained?"

"Yes, this morning," Rylan replied, already sliding a sealed envelope across the table. "The figures exceed those of the previous quarter… they appear to be growing rather bold."

"They won't stay bold if we pull half their ships for inspection," Cyrion muttered, then made a small note with his quill. "Send a message to Councilor Vane. Make it sound diplomatic, but make sure the threat bleeds through."

Rylan nodded once, like this was just another morning ritual. The rest of the table was silent.

No one interrupted Cyrion when he spoke business. None of the women spoke, not even sharp tongued Meliora. They just stayed quiet, sitting there like they were part of the room, not part of the conversation.

That’s how it always was. Business belonged to Cyrion and Rylan. Everything else stayed in a softer world of flowers, festivals, dresses for the next party.

Cessalie focused on eating quietly. Her knife and fork moved slowly, hoping if she pretended hard enough maybe she could fade into the background.

But then, just as she started to chew the first bite of food she could actually swallow, his voice rose towards her.

"Cessalie."

She froze.

The meat stuck to the back of her throat like it had turned to sand. She swallowed hard and slowly raised her head. His eyes were already on her, the kind of stare that didn't ask to suggest.

"Yes, Father?" Her voice came out calm, but her fingers curled tighter around the fork.

He didn't answer right away, just looked at her, long enough for the tension to crawl up her spine and sit on her shoulders.

"You've turned nineteen."

There was no warmth in it. It was just a fact like announcing a crop yield...like she was part of the inventory. Cessalie had indeed turned nineteen three months ago.

But she didn't respond.

Cyrion set the parchment down finally and leaned back slightly, fingers steepled.

"I was beginning to think no man would be willing to take you after so many rejections ."

No one at the table so much as blinked. Instinctively, she looked at her mother but Elysande just kept her eyes fixed on her plate like she didn't hear a thing.

"You've been difficult," he continued, as if he were discussing an animal he was trying to sell. "you are disobedient and unpredictable. But—"

He paused, almost like the next part was hard to process for him.

"There is one."

Her jaw tightened. She didn't say a word.

"A proposal has been made," he said. "He's from the northern duchy. Davian Aurelthorn of Alderwyn."

She blinked once.

"He wants to marry you."

Wants? That word didn't sit right. Nobody "wanted" her unless they wanted something from her. Because everyone knew that Duke Cyrion's second daughter was extremely uncouth and ill mannered. She lacked the manners of a noble girl.

Thatwas why till date she had been rejected by every noble boy for marriage or dating.

"He became the Duke of Alderwyn four years ago and he holds great importance in kingdom matter, and more importantly, he's willing."

He said it like it was a miracle like she should fall on her knees with gratitude that someone out there was willing to deal with her.

She didn't move at all. But inside, her ribs felt like they were turning inwards, closing in on themselves. The word marriage seemed very horrifying to her because she had seen her mother's married life and she only felt that the same was written in her own destiny.

And across the table, Meliora's smile was practically glowing. Cessalie clenched her jaw refusing to show an other expression on her face.

Instead, she set the fork down on the edge of her plate and looked him straight in the eye.

"Meliora is twenty-two."

That froze the table. Everyone went silent. Even Anwen stopped swirling her wine.

"She's beautiful and obedient. She's exactly what a man like Davian Aurelthorn would want, isn't she?" Cessalie gritted her teeth. "She's everything I'm not, right? So why not send her?"

Meliora's chair scraped sharply against the floor as she sat up straighter. "I am already engaged to High Lunarch, Cece."

Cessalie turned her head slowly to her, lips trembling. "So why are you still sitting here in this house?"

"You shouldn't dare speak to me like that," Meliora hissed across the table, that careful poise cracking at the seams. "And Father is doing what's best for you, for all of us."

Cessalie tilted her head. "He's selling me off like cattle. At least be honest about it."

"You ungrateful—!" Meliora started, but—

That's when he moved.

Rylan.

The scrape of his chair against the floor shattered the stillness. He stood slowly, his towering frame casting a shadow across the table. His hands braced against the surface, and those sharp jades locked onto Cessalie like she was something feral that needed taming.

Her body reacted before her brain did. She flinched.

She never flinched. But around Rylan, she never felt in control of her spine.

He spoke through his teeth. "You will not cause a scene at this table."

His gaze didn't shift. Even Maids present in the corner of room exchanged nervous knowing glances and guards stiffened. Because they all knew Rylan couldn't bear Cessalie at all.

Cessalie swallowed, fingers curling tight around the edges of her chair but she didn't lower her head.

Her fists clenched under the table, nails digging crescents into her palms.

"I will not marry him," she repeated louder this time.

Cyrion exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his fork down with an audible clink. The kind of sound that came with patience wearing thin.

"You have Meliora," she argued, voice unshaken despite the pounding in her chest. "She's older and charming. She possesses every virtue a wife should have. Why me? Why bind me to this, when you already have a daughter so well suited left unwed these three years?"

Meliora let out a scornful laugh, arms folding over her chest. "Well suited, you say? You presume far too much for one who knows nothing of this family."

Cessalie ignored her. She kept her eyes on Cyrion, the man who decided her fate as easily as he chose what wine to drink with dinner.

"You are of no value to me, Cessalie" Cyrion said. His voice sounded completely detached. His deep blue eyes burned with anything but affection. "You have no mana and skills. You are best wedded off."

The words slammed into her harder than she expected.

Rylan had magic and meliora was a fake representation of Cyrion's rule. Mana was not rare here but it mattered. In Valkathra, mana was everything. A raw force passed through blood, shaping status and worth. It wasn't like the powerful magic of witches, fae, or dragons. Mana came last in the hierarchy. It was common, but still useful.

Some were born with it and some weren't.

Cessalie wasn't and it wasn't her fault. Her parents had none, so neither did she.

Across the kingdom, temples taught those with mana to shape it for healing, crafting, protecting the realm.

Cessalie? She had nothing. To Cyrion, that made her barely human, only a pawn to be placed wherever Cyrion saw fit.

Her heart hammered in her chest, loud enough she could feel it in her ears. But she didn't back down. "That is no reason to cast me aside." The rest caught in her throat. "As though I were… worthless."

Cyrion leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple like her presence was a burden he couldn't shake. "You are worthless, Cessalie."

Meliora held more place in this house than even Elysande, simply because she was born right.

Cessalie wasn't.

That was the difference.

Her chest tightened, anger crawling up her throat bitterly. She wanted to scream and throw her goblet across the room. But that would only prove his point that she was unruly, useless and nothing more than a daughter who needed to be put in her place.

She forced her voice to remain composed. "I am your legitimate daughter."

"And?" Cyrion's stare sliced straight through her. "Bereft of mana and a girl, no less. What purpose could such a child serve me?"

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

He'd already decided. In his eyes, she wasn't even wasted potential.

Her nails dug deeper into her palms. Her jaw clenched. "Then why not wed Isa instead? She, too, is without magic."

"Because she is fourteen," Cyrion replied, as if the answer was obvious. "Do you hear yourself? You sound desperate."

She wa was desperate to claw her way out of this, grasping for anything that might make him listen.

The chair screeched loudly as she shoved back from the table and stood, her body tense. "You can't do this to me—"

Rylan moved again.

She flinched.

Rylan pushed back his chair. The sharp scrape of it echoed. Cessalie barely had time to react before he started walking towards her.

Her stomach twisted.

Rylan never wasted movement. He didn’t pace in anger or raise his voice. If he stood and walked toward someone, it meant only one thing. That wss punishment.

Her breath came faster, but she didn't sit back down. She refused even as he circled the table, closing the distance. Even as her hands trembled faintly at her sides.

She held her ground, but her body always remembered. The scar on her cheek tingled. Every step he took made it worse.

"You think I will simply smile and bow while you hand me over to some stranger, as though I were livestock?" Her voice rose, sharp enough to make every spine at the table stiffen. Her hands trembled, though she made no effort to still them.

"At least pretend that I matter, Rylan. You may play the heir, the dutiful son, but you do not decide what becomes of my life—"

"You forget your place," he said, still walking as the distance between them vanishing. His voice did not rise, yet it settled cold against her skin. "As always."

"I do no more than speak the truth." Her voice broke, just slightly. "You mistake obedience for loyalty. If it pleases you to live as Father’s instrument, so be it. I will not."

He stopped just before her. His shadow fell across her, and her feet shifted back a step on their own.

She hated that.

"Mind your tongue, Cessalie." His gaze settled on her, unblinking, his jaw tightening just slightly. "Do you believe such displays before Father lend you any standing?"

"I do no more than speak for myself," she "Though I see you have long since forgotten how. You have lived at Father’s command so long, it has hollowed you." she said, the words quick and hard on her tongue.

There was barely a flicker in his eyes, but she saw it and knew she went too far.

"You forget yourself," he said, his voice carrying across the room. "Until you learn to conduct yourself as a Draevin should, you have no place at this table."

He turned to Cyrion. "Confine her to her chambers until she is prepared to give a proper answer."

"You don't get to decide that—" she started, but Cyrion raised a hand, silencing her mid-sentence.

"I agree," Cyrion said flatly, not even glancing in her direction. "It's time she learned discipline."

Meliora's smug smile bloomed like a disease at the edge of the table. Cessalie wanted to claw it off her face.

"I'm not a prisoner," she snapped.

"You are as I declare you to be,"Cyrion replied, his mouth set in a hard line. "Until you remember your place, you will remain confined to your chambers. You will receive no visitors."

"You can't—" Her voice cracked, rage strangling the words.

"I already have."

And just like that, her fate was decided again and sealed as easily as a signed letter as if she didn't exist...as if her voice was nothing in a room with power she could never match.

She was still standing, shoulders trembling, heart choking in her throat.

But no one looked at her anymore. She was invisible.

One of the guards at the door stepped forward.

She didn't move or beg. Her pride refused to let her break. But inside, she was already screaming.

The moment the maids also approached, Cessalie's breath caught sharp in her throat, her chest tightened like a fist was closing around her ribs. She stumbled a step back, eyes wide and head shaking.

"No," she whispered. It was barely a sound. It was a last plea for herself.

But they grabbed her anyway.

Their rough and unkind hands clamped around her arms becaused in their eyes she was a prisoner, not the Duke's daughter. Her body jerked and shock flooded through her as her gaze darted wildly around the room.

"No—!" She yanked one hand free desperately, but the other was locked too tight. Her heart lurched when the guard stepped in behind her. His palm pressed flat against her back, shoving her like unwanted trash.

All the fight bled out of her, leaving her limbs trembling and skin ice cold.

"I'm not going," her voice was pitiful and raw. "I will not agree to this. This marriage is vile. Let me go."

But they didn't.

One maid dug her fingers into Cessalie's wrist. Even her expressions were somber and pitying. The other yanked at her arm, dragging her forward. The guard's hand stayed at her back, steering her toward the doors like she was nothing but a stain they couldn't wait to scrub out of sight.

She looked at the her mother inside the room. Maybe she'd understand what it was to be paraded off like property and tto be told her life didn't belong to her.

But Elysande only watched with empty eyes and detached look. Cessalie's chest caved in tighter.

"Mama," her voice wobbled, breaking apart.

But Elysande wouldn't even meet her eyes. Her gaze flickered to the floor, to the wall, anywhere but her daughter being dragged away like livestock at auction.

"This isn't fair!" Cessalie's voice broke with hurt, as they pulled her toward the hall. "You never let me be anything—" she choked, coughing.

"You wouldn’t even let me—" her breath hitched, words catching in her throat, "hold a sword… because girls… shouldn’t…"

She swallowed hard, but it didn’t help.

"You said I was difficult… for wanting to be… something else…"

The dining hall faded behind them. The grand empty corridor stretched ahead. Her shoes scraped uselessly across the floor as she tried to resist but they kept dragging her like a corpse that refused to lie still.

"I don't want to be a wife," she cried, throat hurting. "I don't want to belong to anyone. I belong to myself!"

Cyrion didn't even glance in her direction. Rylan sat back down like nothing happened.

The doors slammed shut behind her.

And just like that… she was alone again.

They shoved her inside her chambers like she was some creature that needed to be caged.

The heavy door slammed behind her with a dull clang, the lock clicking into place before she even caught her balance.

She stumbled forward and caught herself on the edge of the bed, then spun around walkint back to door and pounding her fists against it.

"Let me out!" Her fists slammed into the wood, the sting jolting up her arms. "You can't keep me in here! You can't!"

No response came from outside.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" she screamed, slamming her palm so hard against the door that the skin burned. "I'm not a criminal. I just… I just don't want to marry a stranger!"

Her fists hit the door again and again, until her knuckles throbbed with every strike.

"I didn't ask to be born here," she whispered. Her voice cracked, eyes stinging. "I didn't ask for any of this."

The silence that followed was louder than her screams. It was suffocating.

Cessalie slumped against the door, breathing hard, her heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape too.

It wasn't about marriage entirely. It was the fact that she was always the problem, always the disappointment.

Because she didn't have magic, because she didn't keep her mouth shut like a proper girl, because she dared to want more than being someone's beautiful little puppet.

She pressed her head against the cold wood, her hands still trembling.

"I just wanted a choice," she whispered, voice cracking. "Why is that too much?"

It wasn't long before footsteps approached from outside, heavier than a maid's.

Her body stiffened. She pushed herself upright fast, wiping at her eyes even though she wasn't crying anymore.

She knew those footsteps.

The door unlocked with a heavy click, swinging open slowly. Two guards stepped inside first, eyes avoiding hers. One of them looked regretful, the other didn't.

Behind them came Cyrion.

He didn't speak right away He stared at her with those sharp and cruel blue eyes pinning her in place. That silence made her skin crawl more than his words did.

"I have afforded you every chance, Cessalie," he said, his voice casual as though this were nothing more than a tiresome matter. "Every chance to bear yourself with dignity. And still, you choose to make a spectacle of yourself before your brother, before me… before this family."

Her mouth opened to argue but his finger lifted. She rlinch

"Not another word."

"Hold her."

She barely made it a step before one of the guards grabbed her by the arm and threw her back down. Her knees slammed into the marble floor with a sickening crack, pain shooting up her legs. Before she could recover, another guard knelt in front of her, yanking both her wrists down onto her lap, locking them in place with bruising force.

She fought uselessly. Her body twisted, legs kicked out, her voice hoarse with screams, curses tumbling from her lips. But it didn't matter.

They were used to this.

And disgustingly… so was she.

"I thought," Cyrion's venomous voice sliced through the room. His footsteps rang against the floor as he walked to the wall. The faint scrape of metal followed as he pulled a rope from its hook, and her stomach tightened at once. "you might've grown out of this pitiful rebllion."

The thick and flexible braided cord had hung in her bedroom for years. It was never washed or cleaned. After every beating, it was returned to its place with her blood still soaked into the fibers.

The stains had sunk so deep that its original color no longer showed. Dark patches spread unevenly along its length. Some wete stiff where the blood had dried, others were worn smooth with time. A faint, stale metallic scent always clung to it.

She could've thrown it out. She could've hidden it. But the paralyzing fear of it's sight always kept her fingers frozen.

Cyrion stopped in front of her, towering, his eyes dead and detached of any affection for his own daughter, winding the rope in his hand.

"But clearly," he sneered, "you still need reminding."

Cessalie thrashed harder, panic rising like acid in her throat. "Father, no–please–don't—" Her voice cracked and scrambled, broken beyond pride now. "Please—!"

The first strike landed across her back.

The crack of the rope tore into her mercilessly. Pain burst along her spine so violently that her breath vanished. She gasped, but the air wouldn't come. She fought to draw a breath but a sharp pit cratered at the base of her neck, the flesh pulling tight against her windpipe as if a vacuum were opening inside her chest.

Her body jerked backward but the guard’s grip on her arms forced her forward, her knees grinding harder into the cold floor.

A broken sound clawed out of her throat. Then the air rushed back in all at once and the pain came with it.

“Please—” her voice trembled, breathlessly, “please stop, I did nothing wrong… I did nothing wrong…”

The guard released her wrists and she immediately sagged. Her strength was slipping. She tried to lift herself, but her limbs felt unresponsive.

The second strike came before she could recover.

It lashed across her ribs, then her side. The rope tore through fabric with a vicious rip, biting into her skin beneath.

“I have not sinned!” she cried, the words breaking apart as they left her. “I have not done anything to deserve this, father, please—”

Another strike.

Her body folded forward, Her forehead nearly hit the floor. Tears blurred everything into shapeless light and shadow. She could not even see him properly anymore.

“I do not want that marriage,” she choked out, shaking her head weakly, even as her voice wavered under the strain. “D-don't do this. you cannot force me into this… I am your daughter, not something to trade away—”

The rope snapped across her thigh.

Her scream tore through the room, breaking into sobs before it even finished. The fabric of her dress split, and warmth spread down her leg in thin sticky lines of blood. The pain there throbbed in rhythm with the beat of her heart.

“Please…” her voice collapsed into a sob.

Her hand lifted instinctively, trembling as she raised it between them, palm half open like it could stop the next blow.

But Cyrion did not stop.

He stepped forward, as if her cries were nothing but noise. His hand shot out, jerking away her hand and fingers tangled into her hair, grip tight.

The sudden pull wrenched her head back.

A sharp cry escaped her as her neck arched painfully, her body forced upright despite the agony screaming through her. Her scalp burned under his grip.

“Look at me,” he gritted.

Her eyes struggled to focus, swimming through tears that would not stop, but they still found him.

Her father.

That word rose in her mind and hurt more than the wounds on her skin because there was nothing in his eyes, as such as love for her. He glared at hrr as if she was nothing standing before him.

Her lips trembled. Her chest rose and fell in uneven, desperate breaths. A cry broke through her. "F-father, no. S-stop...."

His grip tightened even more.

“Maybe next time,” he hissed, eyes filled with nothing but anger, “you will remember your place before shouting like a filthy market whore.”

He released her hair and shoved her away. Her body crashed onto the floor. She landed hard on her knees and elbow. The impact sent a jolt of pain up her arm.

A sharp cough tore out of her.

He straightened and rope came down again on her back. Her clothes shredded under it. Blood mingled with fabric, staining her torn dress as her body folded in on itself.

She bit down on the next scream, but it didn't matter. The sound got swallowed into her lungs, choking her from the inside out.

By the time he stopped, her skin burned in angry welts, blood trickling down her side and thigh, her limbs too weak to hold herself upright. Her knees throbbed against the marble. Her wrists trembled.

Cyrion tossed the blood streaked rope to one of the guards and he hung it back on the wall, with her blood still dripping down it. His face wae empty and unbothered like she wasn't even human and his daughter but just another creature to be broken.

He turned and walked out without any remorse.

Rylan passed him in the doorway.

He didn't stop and glance at Cyrion. But he looked at her, just once. His face tightened, expressions flickering but then he walked away. Cessalie collapsed forward. Her body gave out as she hit the floor on her stomach.

Her body shook violently, every inch of her burning. Blood spread beneath her, soaking and smearing against her skin.

Her vision blurred, dark at the edges. All she could see was red, just like that day in the snow.

A weak, wet cough left her, her body could barely move. She fell still again. Her cheek pressed against the cold floor, lying in her own blood.

The hallway was silent as they dragged her out, her feet scraping against the floor.

One guard held her arm in a bruising grip jerking her upright whenever she faltered. The other walked behind, close enough to grab her if she collapsed.

She stumbled.

Pain ripped through her back as the guard yanked her straight again, forcing a broken gasp out of her.

“Walk,” he shouted, jerking her whole body.

Each step burned the wounds on her back. They throbbed deeper with every movement, as if they were being torn open all over again.

How stupid.

When they reached the bathing chamber, the warm perfumed air hit Cessalie's skin like a mockery. It was too soft and gentle for someone who wasn't her.

The guards didn't even bother to look away as Gini, her personal maid, started taking off her dress. Their eyes were fixed greedily on her, making no attempt to hide it.

But Gini, the only person in this house with a shred of decency left, turned toward them with sharp eyes. "Out," she snapped. "This is not entertainment."

The guards exchanged a reluctant look. Their eyes lingered far longer than they should. especially one of them, his gaze traced Cessalie's bare shoulders, the angry red welts across her back, with lustful interest.

But even they weren't stupid enough to disobey completely. With thinly veiled frustration, they stepped out. the door clicked shut behind them.

Cessalie let her dress fall to the floor and sat on the cold stone bench, arms loose at her sides.

Gini knelt behind her with a basin of warm water. The woman said nothing as she soaked the cloth and began cleaning the broken skin along Cessalie's back.

Without the dress hiding her, the old marks across her body were impossible to miss. Faint spots and shallow scars scattered over her shoulders, arms, and down her legs and also remnants of the stubborn skin condition she had developed during puberty. The illness itself had faded years ago but the marks didn't.

Cessalie didn't flinch or hiss when the cloth touched the raw welts.

She didn't cry and....she just couldn't.

The bath steamed next to her.

They wanted her to soak, to clean off the blood, to look like nothing happened. That was the way of this house.

Once the wounds were clean, Gini set the cloth aside and nodded slightly. "Get in," she said softly.

Cessalie pushed to her feet, her body heavy and sore, and stepped into the bath.

The water was too hot. It stung every open wound, biting into her skin like punishment all over again. But she didn't wince.

She sank down, knees pulled up to her chest, the steam curling around her like a lie.

This was her life even though she never chose this. But they had decided she was only useful when silent and when married off like cattle to someone who'd treat her like an investment.

She rested her chin on her knees, breathing slow, empty eyes blank.

The door creaked.

She didn't lift her head. She already knew it wasn't Cyrion. He never checked. He punished, forgot and left the cleaning to the servants.

The boots were too light for a guard and too heavy for a maid.

Rylan.

She could feel his presence before she even turned. It was always like a blade pressed to her throat.

Cessalie turned her head slightly, just enough to see him standing there at the edge of the chamber. His eyes were on her back. On the angry red marks crossing her skin, the ones he hadn't put there but never stopped either.

"Come to make sure I learned my lesson?" She smirked, broken and lips trembling.

He stared at her for a long moment.

And then… he turned and walked away.

Coward.

She glared at the empty space he left behind, her heart pounding like a scream trapped in her chest. And finally, she pushed herself up, stepping out of the bath.

Her skin burned, hot water making every welt sting sharper. But still she didn't make a sound.

Ginj was ready with the salve now. She gently dabbed the cool ointment over the raw skin, bandaging the worst of the lashes.

When it was done, Gini helped her into a loose and soft long robe, covering the bandages and bruises.

After the bath cessaloe was sent back to her chambers. The door locked behind her with a soft click.

She sat on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in nothing but the long robe. Her skin itched where the bandages pressed too tight, but she didn't move to fix them.

What is even the point? She scoffed.

Her eyes drifted around the room. Every wall was the same dull beige. Every shelf was lined with the same damn books she'd already read a hundred times. Some of them she could probably quote word for word by now.

She used to love them but now they felt like cages made of paper and ink.

Days passed. She couldn't tell how many.

They brought food in, left it on the tray near the door. Sometimes it was Gini, sometimes someone else. None of them talked to her. They just slid the tray in and left before she could say anything.

Not that she tried. She didn't have the energy anymore.

She sat on the edge of her bed, gaze drifting without purpose. There was nowhere for it to land.

The canopy above her bed hung heavy, its dark red fabric was dull in the low light. Just beside her bed, the tall bookshelf wardrobe stood. Its shelves were filled, yet offering nothing new to read.

Across the room, the dressing table and dresser rested along the eastern wall.

To her left, the single window let in a thin stretch of light. The ledge beneath it was wide, she’d sat there often enough, but even that small habit felt pointless now.

Opposite her, the fireplace lay cold, the sofa before it had dust resting for days because nobody was allowed inside, even for cleaning.

There was nothing in the room she wanted, and too much space reminding her of it.

Most of the time, she lay on the bed, a book open beside her. Her eyes skimmed the same paragraph over and over, retaining nothing.

Sleep came and went, slipping in and out without rhythm. She'd wake without knowing if it was morning or night. She'd eat half of what they gave her. Some days, not even that.

Her body ached constantly from wounds and from pain of being forgotten. But she wasn't forgotten. They just didn't care.