Every autumn, in the middle of the night, the central market of the dukedom of Nordstrom Castle opens for a special event. It's called the night market. During this time, merchants can sell their goods without paying any taxes to the duke. Sellers from the capital and from all cardinal directions travel far just to join and sell their products, no matter the cost.
Foreigners, however, are drawn not for the market, nor for its fame as a tourist destination—but for the entertainment that stir within the dukedom.
The dukedom was known for a mysterious jester who always appeared during the night market. People who saw the jester often said they were tall and acted in a silly way. Their performance was so amazing that many in the crowd called it a "once-in-a-lifetime experience".
Dum! Dadum! Dum! Dadum!
"Dear guests! Thank you for coming from so far just to be here!" the jester said, dancing to the music as they spoke. The crowd smiled with wide eyes and eager hearts, like children waiting for their favorite story to begin.
Dum! Dadum! Dum! Dadum!
"As a token of gratitude, I have prepared a strange yet amazing tale for you all tonight!" the jester said, dancing as the drums beat faster. The crowd grew more excited, their eyes wide with wonder.
In the blink of an eye, the jester's look changed. A wide red smile was painted across their lips, and their eyes became into thin lines. In their hands, a white rose slowly turned red—then burst into petals above the crowd.
A jester with magic? That's what everyone thought, and it made them even more eager to see what would happen next.
"An extraordinary tale," the jester said, "born from the deepest vault of Nordstrom Castle."
In the northern reaches, there once stood a dukedom shrouded in ill repute. The family that ruled there had endured generations of misfortune, their name whispered with dread. Locals called them 'the Bad Omen,' believing that anyone who crossed their path would be cursed with unrelenting misfortune.
Because of these rumors, the other residents slowly left, afraid of being cursed too. The family was left alone, and over time, they began to lose their minds. Pain and hatred were the only feelings they knew.
Then, a child was born.
All the anger and sorrow from the past were poured onto this innocent baby. They blamed her for everything.
"You should never have been born! You're a disgrace!"
"You bring misfortune to this family!"
"I should've killed you when you were still a newborn!"
This child, abandoned and hated, is the main character of this story. Her name is Desdemona—the youngest of a ruined bloodline. Her name means "ill-fated." She was born from bad luck, and her life was full of suffering.
Desdemona was born from a forbidden love between the Duke and the maid. When the duchess found out about the affair, she allowed the child to live—not out of kindness, but to make her suffer as punishment for her mother's mistake.
From the moment Desdemona was born, her life was filled with sadness and cruelty. The duchess was cold and cruel, making sure Desdemona never felt safe or loved. She forced Desdemona and her mother to live near the stables, where the smell of horse waste was strong and unpleasant. The duchess also ordered the servants to treat them badly. Over time, this harsh treatment changed Desdemona's mother, making her distant and bitter to her own child.
Her mother, once gentle and warm, slowly changed. The pain, shame, and harsh treatment made her cold and quiet. She stopped smiling at Desdemona and rarely spoke. The love they once shared faded, replaced by silence and sadness. Desdemona grew up without hugs, kind words, or comfort. She learned to take care of herself, even as a small child. She cleaned, cooked, and stayed out of sight.
Due to the Nordstrom family's already tarnished reputation, Desdemona's birth as an illegitimate child only added fuel to the fire of their bloodline's resentment. The Nordstroms had only one son, Gabriel, who was four years older than Desdemona. From the moment she was born until she turned ten, Gabriel would often summon her to his playroom—not to play, but to vent his frustrations onto her.
Gabriel's playroom was not just filled with toys—it also housed various pieces of experimental equipment, which they referred to as "laboratory equipment." The room was disguised as a playroom in case any visitors became curious about his life. Inside, Desdemona was often dragged into the room and placed in a single chair, where her hands and feet were bound with knots.
The chair sat beneath a flickering light, surrounded by shelves of strange tools and notebooks filled with Gabriel's erratic scribbles. The air was cold, sterile, and heavy with the scent of metal and forgotten chemicals. Gabriel never raised his voice. His cruelty was methodical, quiet—delivered through calculated experiments and psychological games. He would ask Desdemona questions with no right answers, and when she inevitably failed, he punished her by forcing her to drink one of his newly concocted experimental potions.
"Don't control your mouth, you little wench," Gabriel said blankly, gripping Desdemona's jaw and forcing the bottle of unknown liquid into her mouth. Desdemona gagged as she was made to swallow the foul substance. The bitter taste and rancid smell churned her stomach, and moments later, she vomited violently.
The sharp sound of shattering glass echoed through the room as her body convulsed. Gabriel seized her by the hair, yanking her face upward. "Why did you waste the liquid?!" he snapped—his voice raised for the first time, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Desdemona's breath hitched as Gabriel's grip tightened in her hair, his eyes burning with a rare flicker of fury. The shattered glass glistened on the floor like scattered stars—fragments of the bottle, fragments of her dignity. Her throat still burned from the potion, its bitterness lingering like a curse she couldn't swallow down.
"I spent weeks perfecting that formula," Gabriel hissed, his voice low again but trembling with restrained rage. "You think you can just spit it out like it's nothing?"
Desdemona didn't answer. She couldn't. Her body trembled, not just from the potion's effects, but from the weight of being seen as nothing more than a failed experiment.
Gabriel released her hair with a shove, and she collapsed back into the chair, the ropes biting into her skin. He turned away, scribbling something furiously into his notebook, muttering words she couldn't understand.
Desdemona's lips trembled, her voice barely audible. "Please… let me… g-go…"
Gabriel tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "What was that?" he asked, stepping closer. He squatted in front of her, trying to catch her eyes, which remained cast downward.
"You're finally speaking," he murmured, almost amused. "But you still don't understand, do you? Mother told you to entertain me, and you must do your job, half-breed."
Desdemona flinched at the term. It wasn't just an insult—it was a reminder of everything she wasn't allowed to be.
Gabriel stood, brushing imaginary dust from his coat as if the confrontation had drained nothing from him. "You should be grateful," he said, turning his back. "I'm much nicer than the people you encounter outside."
Desdemona wanted to react to what she had just heard, but she couldn't—her mind went blank, and her vision threatened to go dark. The world tilted, as if gravity had turned against her. A distant ringing filled her ears, drowning out Gabriel's footsteps as he walked away without a second glance. She opened her eyes once more, feeling something grab her—but the dizziness intensified, and the ringing grew louder.
Then, everything went black.