The morning sun in the marquestate didn't't shine.
It judged.
The long corridor leading from Sylpha's room to the drawing room felt more like a march to execution.
She kept her posture straight — or tried to — but the oversized dress dragged along the floor, and the frilled shoes pinched her toes.
> "These shoes are literally medieval torture devices. Are they part of the noble training arc or something?"
Each step clicked against polished marble, echoing louder than her breath.
She wasn't afraid.
She wasn't angry.
But she was alert.
Watching.
Measuring.
Pretending.
Tea, Politics, and Poisoned Smiles
A circle of noblewomen sat at the far end of the hall.
Lady Virelle, ever regal and sour, sipped from a porcelain cup and raised a hand when Sylpha arrived.
Late.
"You're fifteen minutes behind," her aunt said without looking at her. "That alone would get you expelled from any proper house."
Sylpha bowed her head low. "Forgive me, milady."
Her voice sounded small. Soft.
Even she flinched hearing it.
She didn't feel like herself in moments like this.
Not the boy she used to be.
Not the girl they expected her to be.
Just… someone stuck in between.
"Look at me when I speak to you, girl."
Sylpha looked up.
And in that split second, something must've shown in her eyes.
Not fear.
Not shame.
But something closer to—
Indifference.
Lady Virelle's eyes twitched. She stood up, slowly, and approached.
The other noblewomen stopped sipping their tea.
Sylpha's mind ran faster than her heartbeat.
"She's going to slap me in front of guests. For a late arrival."
She wanted to step back. To flinch. To hide.
But she didn't.
She stared straight ahead, locking eyes with her aunt.
Lady Virelle raised her hand—
SLAP.
The sound cracked across the room.
Sylpha's head jerked to the side. Her cheek burned.
But she didn't fall.
She didn't cry.
She just stood.
Eyes wide open.
Lady Virelle leaned in, lips close to her ear.
"You are nothing but a burden the marquis has foolishly allowed to stay. Try to be invisible. That is your role."
She walked away with a rustle of skirts.
Sylpha stood for a few more seconds, then slowly bowed again and left the room.
The Kitchen Shadows
She didn't return to her room.
She didn't want to cry — though something in her throat burned like it was begging to be released.
Instead, she found the warmest place in the estate: the kitchen.
She didn't speak. The cooks didn't ask her to leave.
She sat near the firepit. Curled her legs under her dress. Watched bread rise in an oven made of cracked brick.
A servant boy passed by.
She heard him whisper to another:
"They say the east wing still has a sealed room... something the marquis never let anyone open."
"Sigil room?"
"Yeah. Old noble stuff. Magic clan stuff. Probably cursed."
Sylpha blinked.
Sigil.
Magic.
Sealed room.
"East wing…"
That Night – Silent Steps
After midnight, Sylpha moved like a shadow.
She tied her hair up. Wrapped her feet in cloth to muffle her steps. Used her knowledge of old martial footwork to make herself weightless.
The east wing was dust-choked and locked — but an old maid door near the laundry hadn't been sealed.
She entered.
Cobwebs clung to every arch. Moonlight pierced through broken stained glass. The smell of mildew and dust was overwhelming.
She found it — a door covered in rusted silver markings.
There was no lock.
Just a symbol.
Three circles. Interlocked. Frost etched in metal.
Her fingers trembled as she reached out and placed her palm against it.
The metal was ice cold — and then it was hot.
A rush. A pulse. A sound like whispering wind in her ears.
She gasped.
Pulled back.
The symbol faded. The door creaked slightly.
Not fully open.
But responding.
She didn't open it.
Not yet.
But she stood in front of it for a long, long time.
"This house has secrets."
"And I'm going to learn them all."
"Let them think I'm fragile. Let them hit me." "But one day… they'll kneel."