Time crawled with a cruel patience.

  Each day bled into the next, stitched together by faded memories and the familiar sting of pain that accompanied Sairael’s renewed education. As if the heavens themselves wished to test how much a single child could withstand, the repetition of drills, postures, recitations, and enforced elegance consumed his waking hours until exhaustion became his closest companion.

  Madam Etheila ensured every gesture he made—every blink, every breath—reflected the poise of a highborn daughter. A daughter she had crafted from blood, fear, and the relentless crack of the whip. The newly purchased dark dresses, fine enough at a glance, barely concealed the truth carved into his skin: angry welts, thin as quills but deep as vows, spelling out every error he had dared to commit.

  But today…Today did not follow the usual script.

  Instead of curses and the shrill rise of her voice, Madam Etheila stood unnervingly composed. She oversaw every detail of Sairael’s appearance like a jeweler inspecting a flawed gem—seeking brilliance she would never permit to shine. The Nanny, with hands that trembled from equal parts resentment and envy, carefully tied the last shimmering ribbon into Sairael’s long black hair. The style lifted the child’s delicate face, making the natural beauty of a Ger all the more striking.

  “Remember,” Madam Etheila murmured, her tone colder than the frost of midwinter, “breakfast with Duke Mattias is important. He must be present before your testing for the Holy Seal.”

  Sairael’s father. A man he had never known—not truly. The only memory he possessed of Mattias was the moment the physician announced Sairael’s fate as Ger. After that, the Duke vanished behind duty, reputation, and silence.

  Even in the life Sairael had lived before…He had not seen his father again.

  Not once.

  The thought curled in his stomach like a worm burrowing through soft earth, but his expression remained unchanged—obedient, serene, empty. He lowered his gaze, lips gently curved into the faint smile Madam demanded, fingers clasped lightly at his front. He walked with the fluid grace of a trained noble lady twice his age, hiding every ache that simmered beneath the surface.

  As they moved through the estate’s pristine halls—so polished and elegant compared to the dust-laden prison of his room—Sairael searched his past for a memory he could not find.

  This breakfast…Never happened before.

  A deviation.

  Small, but deviations were dangerous. They signaled unseen hands shifting around him in the dark.

  By the time they reached the dining hall, the flicker of dread he refused to show pulsed beneath his ribs. Madam Etheila halted abruptly, her shoulders tightening like a bowstring pulled too far.

  Sairael stopped behind her, silent, still.

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  “What is this?” the Madam breathed, voice sharp and venom-laced beneath a veneer of icy calm. “I requested a private meal with my husband—not you.”

  Her tone alone could have frozen a lake.

  But the voice that answered was sweet enough to rot teeth.

  “Lord Mattias left early for noble obligations,” the Mistress replied with a coy laugh. “He said we may treat this estate as home. So why shouldn’t we dine comfortably?”

  A childish giggle chimed in.

  “Mama! There’s cake! I want cake!" Little Abigail’s singsong voice rang bright and innocent—too innocent.

  Sairael lifted his gaze just enough to see them.

  Mistress Mayella lounged in the Madam’s rightful seat, wearing a dress far too grand for someone not welcome in the estate. Abigail, no older than four, dangled her legs from the chair beside her, face smeared with traces of sugar. The table was cluttered with pastries, creams, and extravagant dishes—a display more suited for a festival than a morning meal.

  Luxurious. Excessive. Wrong.

  Madam Etheila’s eyes narrowed. She inhaled once, sharply, then turned to the servants with an icy flick of her fingers.

  “Clear the table,” she ordered. “Breakfast has been canceled.”

  The room froze.

  Not a breath stirred.

  “We are still eating,” the Mistress countered with a sickly sweet tone, lifting her teacup with a mocking delicacy.

  The air tightened—thick enough to suffocate.

  Madam Etheila smiled. Soft. Hollow. Terrifying.

  “Servants,” she murmured. “Decide whether you obey the legally wedded Madam… or a passing guest.” Her voice dipped into honeyed poison. “Choose wisely.”

  The servants trembled.

  One by one, they moved.

  Dishes vanished from the table in a swift, desperate rush—pastries scraped away, creams smoothed aside, steaming plates whisked into the servants’ trembling arms. Abigail let out a shrill cry, slamming her tiny fists against the table.

  “No! I haven’t had sweets yet! It’s mine!” Her complaint struck the air like a brittle spark.

  Sairael remained motionless. Expression serene. Body disciplined. Thoughts sealed behind a mask perfected through suffering.

  But his peripheral vision caught a strange flicker—A faint violet glow hovering near Abigail’s small hands. So brief he might have dismissed it if not for the servants’ reactions.

  Several paused mid-step. Eyes widened. Panic—quickly washed over with forced smiles and coaxing whispers.

  They leaned toward Abigail, gently guiding her away with murmured comforts, as if shielding her from something unseen… or shielding themselves from her.

  Sairael watched. Memorized. Filed the detail away.

  Whatever that glow was, he alone seemed to notice.

  “Let’s go, Sairael,” Madam Etheila ordered, voice snapping like a chilled blade. “Test or no test, we must arrive on time.”

  Sairael followed without hesitation. As he turned, he caught one last glimpse of Abigail’s gaze—nothing childish in it now.

  A look far too old. A look steeped in bitterness. A look that burned.

  And then she was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the hall.

  Outside, the carriage waited, sleek and elegant—prepared long before dawn.

  As the horses stamped and snorted white breaths into the winter air, Sairael climbed inside with practiced grace. The door shut behind him, sealing away the estate’s tension like a lingering ghost.

  His thoughts drifted as the wheels began to turn.

  This still aligns with my old life… mostly. Even with the deviation of the breakfast, the path continues.

  Soon, the Church would test the Holy Seal. Soon, the Royal Family would take interest. Soon, the Second Prince—the one who would one day own his life, his silence, and his suffering—would be placed beside him.

  My true hell begins again.

  But this time…

  He would walk into the flames willingly. Because this was the path he had chosen. Because the heavens had offered him only one gift—a gift bound to the first path alone.

  A gift to strip illusions. A gift to reveal truth. A gift to expose lies at the final moment.

  And Sairael intended to use it.

  Even if the world shattered again.

  Even if he had to walk alone.

  Even if, at the end of it all…

  He still fell back into the Abyss.