The wind that brushed through the courtyard of the white mansion was soft—too soft for a place drenched in silence. The air always smelled faintly of lilies, freshly replaced each morning by trembling hands that dared not falter. Amid that stillness stood Sylphy, her golden hair catching the morning light, framing a face that no longer remembered how to smile.
Once, long ago, that same light had touched a very different scene—a small village nestled between green mountain valleys. The laughter of her family had filled the air; her friends would call her name from across the fields. That memory, like everything else, had been scorched away.
Regulus Corneas had come to that village.He said that he loved her.He said she was pure.Then, to preserve that purity, he killed everyone who had ever spoken her name.
Parents, friends, neighbors—all erased, so that she alone could exist within the limits of his control. That was the day Sylphy learned that tears were a luxury. That to survive, she had to wear a mask—a still, empty face that would never betray thought, feeling, or life.
She became one among many—one of Regulus's wives, draped in an elegant dress that mocked the dignity it pretended to symbolize. Her gown was identical to theirs, though it bore a faint blue ribbon at the waist—a mark Regulus had chosen for her, as if to brand her individuality while forbidding her from using it.
Behind that hollow gaze, however, she cared. She always had. The other women looked to her in silence, and she silently answered that call. She became their unspoken voice—the one who stood between Regulus's cruelty and their fragile lives. Whenever he demanded obedience, whenever his temper flared, Sylphy stepped forward, offering herself as the one to bear his punishments.
And so, she endured. Not because she wanted to live, but because she didn't want the others to die.
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A year ago, the routine terror of that mansion changed.
It began with the sound of something breaking—the world itself, perhaps—followed by the sudden return of their "lord husband." Regulus Corneas appeared in the hall like a storm condensed into a man. His fury was tangible, shaking the air as furniture, portraits, and stone shattered around him.
She had seen him angry before. But never like that.
Then, amid the chaos, another figure materialized out of thin air—a man with jet-black hair and eyes the color of obsidian. His clothes were torn, his breathing uneven, his expression somewhere between exhaustion and quiet surrender.
He did not resist. He did not even flinch.He simply looked at Regulus, as if he already knew how this story would end.
Every wife had assumed the same—another soul about to be burned out in front of them. But Regulus didn't kill him. Instead, he glared at the stranger for a long, dreadful silence, before declaring, almost petulantly:
"He's a guest."
The word "guest" in Regulus's mouth meant nothing.
From that day on, the dark-haired man was locked away in the mansion's depths. Chains bound his wrists and ankles.
Regulus ordered his wives to tend to him.He was to be kept alive—fed, cleaned, and kept from dying—but nothing more.
Every week, another wife would descend into that suffocating darkness, carrying a tray of food and a small basin of water. They would speak little, perform their tasks, and retreat before Regulus could find reason to accuse them of insolence. The man never spoke much, either. Some said he slept through their visits, others claimed he simply stared through them, as though he existed elsewhere.
A year passed. Seasons came and went, but the rhythm of the mansion remained unchanged.
Until at last, it was her turn again.
She carried the tray down the narrow spiral staircase, each step creaking faintly beneath her shoes. The air grew colder and heavier the deeper she went, until the faint scent of decay reached her nose.
When she pushed the iron door open, it groaned in protest.
The cell was small, barely large enough for a bed of straw and a bucket in the corner. The walls were darkened by moisture, streaked with the faint sheen of rust. And there, chained to the wall like a discarded junk, sat the man Regulus called a guest.
His head rested against the stone behind him, black hair hanging loosely over his face. His arms were pulled taut by the silver restraints, the skin around his wrists faintly burned where the metal met flesh. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow—he could have been sleeping, or perhaps dreaming of something far beyond this miserable place.
She hesitated at the threshold, her hand tightening around the tray. Even after all this time, the air in that room made her chest tighten—it was thick with something more than rot, a sense of stillness that felt unnatural.
She forced her voice to remain steady.
"Dear guest, I have brought you your meal."
Her words echoed faintly in the cell. For a moment, there was no response. Then, the man stirred slightly.
Slowly, his eyes opened—dark, deep, and unreadable. They met Sylphy's gaze, and for a heartbeat, she felt something stir inside her. Not fear, but curiosity—One of many emotions she had sealed in years.
He blinked once, the faintest trace of exhaustion visible in the corners of his eyes. Then, with a voice rough from disuse, he spoke.
"Thank you."