Efrain's grin beamed brighter than the morning sun as a laugh escaped him.
"Hah! I knew it wouldn't be that hard. Why did Cecilus think it would be difficult to convince you?"
Marina's head tilted slightly, her brow twitching.
The half-elf thought I wouldn't agree? Why?
"Maybe he's not as flawless as you think," she said, her tone sharper than intended.
"Hmmm... no, that's not it," Efrain hummed, brushing off her jab. "Anyway, Cecilus told me we're leaving next year."
"Next year? That's only a month away!"
Her composure cracked. The air suddenly felt heavy, the faint winter wind stinging at her cheeks.
Can I really prepare myself to leave in only a month? Do I even have the resolve to do it?
A soft tap touched her shoulder. She turned—and nearly screamed.
Cecilus stood behind her, his crooked smile stretching unnaturally wide. His eyes gleamed with something unreadable.
"Surprise."
He had moved without a sound.
"Hello, Cecilus!" Efrain shouted, his voice a burst of naïve excitement.
Cecilus tilted his head. "I see you've convinced her to join. But tell me, do you really think she's capable of something that courageous?"
"Yeah! Of course she can!"
"I suppose we'll have to see." His tone was light, but his gaze lingered on Marina like a blade tracing the skin. "The plan is simple. The day after the New Year's party, while your family is drunk, we sneak out. If anyone questions us, I'll use my authority. I've earned enough trust here that no one will dare to stop me. Leaving the borderlands will be... easy."
Efrain saluted with a grin. "Ok, sir!"
Marina gave a stiff nod, trying to steady her trembling hands.
Cecilus's smile softened, but the cold in his eyes didn't. "No point worrying about it now, is there? Why don't we cause a little havoc instead? I could use some amusement."
He gestured for them to follow. "Let's invite my new subjects to help us."
The three of them walked toward the village. The snow-laden wind rolled through the fields, carrying the sound of distant chatter. Cecilus's footsteps crunched lightly against the frozen dirt.
Father told me to relax. Perhaps this will do.
He wanted to enjoy his last month at home. He intended to—no matter what it took.
***
The weeks passed in laughter and mischief. Cecilus, Efrain, and Marina became an unusual trio. They pranked villagers, snuck into the bakery, and teased guards. Yet beneath Cecilus's faint smirk lingered a weight neither of them noticed.
Though he could have spent those days with his family, Cecilus didn't. He avoided them deliberately. His mother's warmth unsettled him, and his father's approval gnawed at him like a chain.
One morning, however, he couldn't avoid them. His sister Zylee was already up, seated beside their mother at breakfast.
"Good morning, Cecilus."
He nodded politely, taking his place as a servant laid down his plates.
Zylee hesitated before speaking. "I wanted to thank you for teaching Ayas and me how to dance. It was a lot of fun!"
"It's not a problem."
"Did you have fun too? I saw you dancing with a girl for a while!" Zylee's curiosity was innocent, but the words struck like knives.
"I had fun," he replied flatly.
"Did you talk to her again after the wedding?"
"No."
The warmth in the room turned suffocating. His chest tightened as the memories clawed their way back. The more he recalled the wedding. The more the thoughts of Timothy during the incident resounded in his head.
Damn it.
I'm too weak...
These miserable souls—they pour their emotions into me. Why can't I block them out? Why can't I silence their hearts?
Cecilus stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the marble floor, and left before his breakfast arrived.
He entered the washroom and leaned against the sink. His reflection stared back—pale skin, white hair, dull violet eyes. Then he doubled over and vomited.
When he looked up again, his reflection was gone.
A creature stared back.
Its body was covered in white scales, its face split by a smile too wide to exist. Two violet horns twisted upward, glinting in the faint light. It had no eyes, yet Cecilus felt it watching.
He blinked hard—but the image didn't fade.
He stepped closer, trembling, and pressed his hand to the glass. The creature's smile rippled, dissolving into his own face once more.
"What... was that? A hallucination?" He whispered to himself. "Am I really—seeing things?"
"Are you okay?"
Cecilus froze. He turned and saw his younger brother, Ayas, at the doorway.
"Just... stomach's off. Might've been food poisoning."
Ayas frowned. "You? Food poisoning? Right..." He shrugged. "Whatever. You wouldn't tell me even if I asked."
He left, muttering under his breath.
However, in Ayas's mind, he was thinking.
Food poisoning? Cecilus has never gotten sick in his life, according to Father. Father told me a story once of how Cecilus was the only one who refused to eat undercooked chicken at a banquet they went to.
He also said that Cecilus is able to avoid sick people easily. How did something as minuscule as food poisoning get him?
It doesn't matter... his life is in a realm of its own that my own comprehension cannot compete with. Better off not overthinking it.
Cecilus looked back at the mirror. His reflection looked human again, though the edges of his smile trembled.
I must've imagined it. If Ayas saw nothing, it wasn't real.
But then... why did it feel like it was smiling at me?
He splashed cold water on his face. The bite of winter's chill burned his skin.
I need to get it together. I can't leave in this state. I can't abandon everything while falling apart.
He stepped outside. Snow drifted down, silent and pure.
So it finally snowed. Late this year.
The roofs were lined with frost, servants sweeping paths clear. Cecilus walked through the garden, watching the white flakes swallow the once-vivid flowers.
"So much for the flowers," he murmured. "Months of work, and all for nothing."
The gardener—the old man Cecilus had once pranked—approached with a wistful smile. "A pity, isn't it? The garden looked wonderful this year."
"Yes," Cecilus replied, forcing a smile. "I'll remember it well."
"Don't worry, young master. Next year's will be even better. Your mother asked for more help—maybe you'll be back to see it. Who knows? Your father seems happy here; perhaps you'll visit more often."
Cecilus's smile wavered, the corners twitching as his thoughts darkened.
Yes... that would be great, wouldn't it?
He turned away before the gardener could see the look in his eyes.
***
Trey Forwhilst had wielded a sword since childhood. His father valued coin, not honor, so Trey had learned to fight in silence—each swing of his blade a rebellion against the rot of his bloodline.
When he first started learning the sword, Trey had met Gale—the man who reshaped his life. Gale was old, his leg taken by a sea monster named the aquatic deviation long ago, but his spirit was fierce. He saw promise in the boy and took him under his wing. Under Gale's tutelage, Trey's blade grew sharper than ever.
His mother spent her days scolding her husband and nights weeping in silence. It all changed when Trey turned twelve and his father proudly revealed a bastard daughter.
Trey didn't mind. A sister meant someone who might understand the ugliness of their family. But his mother saw the child as filth—something to be enslaved, not embraced.
A year after the birth of his sister, Trey was brought to the capital in order to train under the ascended council. Gale was one of the 72 members of the council and recommended Trey for the position.
Gale was the only member of the council who lived near the borderlands and visited often. According to records, Gale was considered the continent's greatest swordsman early on in his life until he lost his leg.
Four years later, Trey stood among the Council's chosen swordsmen. And at the capital, he met him.
Valter Ascension.
A royal candidate, youthful yet unnervingly composed. His brown eyes gleamed.
"You work for the Council, don't you?" Valter had asked.
Trey nodded, bowing slightly.
"The Council works for me," Valter said, smiling. "Not officially yet—but it will. Which means you, little swordsman, are mine to command."
Trey's grip tightened on his blade. "What do you want?"
"I want you to kill Gale."
Trey's blood froze. Then his blade was out before he thought, steel flashing.
But agony struck him before he could move.
His eyes burned, veins bursting red. It felt as if needles were digging through his skull. His skin peeled in imagined strips, pain tearing through every nerve.
He screamed.
"Drawing a sword against someone who owns your leash?" Valter's voice dripped with amusement. "Bold."
The pain intensified until Trey collapsed, writhing.
It hurts!
Make it stop!
Valter waited until Trey's screams broke into gasps. Then he snapped his fingers.
The pain vanished.
"Unresponsive dogs need a tighter leash, don't you think?" Valter raised his hand again.
"Wait—yes! I'll do it! I'll do it!" Trey cried.
The prince smiled. "Good boy. Gale would be proud of how well you're serving the Council."
He tossed Trey a small vial filled with swirling purple liquid. "Slip that into his drink. The fool trusts you. Take pride in the honor of betrayal."
Trey vomited the moment Valter left. The mere memory of the pain made his body convulse.
Days later, he did as commanded. Gale smiled, poured two cups of wine, and toasted to "progress." Trey's hand trembled as he slipped the poison into his mentor's cup.
Gale died within a week.
There was no mourning. No outrage. No investigation.
It was as if Gale had never existed.
The only thing that changed was Trey's new master—Valter Ascension, the smiling serpent with a leash around his soul.