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The walls of the estate glowed with a soft golden hue, as if dipped in candlelight long after dusk had come and gone. Within one of its many upper rooms—a chamber large enough to shame most drawing halls—a silence hung like dust in the air, heavy and undisturbed. It was a room of contradictions, much like its inhabitant.
The furniture was fine. Unbelievably so. Delicate legs of white-stained mahogany, polished to a sheen that caught even starlight. Curtains of deep crimson, too heavy for such a young girl, framed windows that overlooked the sprawling forests of eastern Merrow.
There were dolls, too—so many dolls—dressed in silks, armor, lace, and leather, posed in frozen scenes of battle and ballrooms.
And amidst all this, slumped over a grand writing desk carved from a single plank of dyed verawood, was a girl.
No more than twelve, perhaps thirteen. Too small for her seat. Too exhausted for her age.
Alice Thorenvale.
Her long flaxen hair—a soft gold near the ends, nearly white at the crown—hung limply past her shoulders. A face round with lingering childhood still bore the hints of future elegance: high cheekbones waiting to sharpen, brows meant to arch with poise, and lips that would one day know how to form perfect lies.
But for now—those eyes.
Red-rimmed. Swollen. Glassy with rage and weariness.
She hadn't wept.
No. Not her.
But her eyes told stories her voice had never spoken aloud.
The air around her shimmered with mana she wasn't even controlling. The heaviness of gravity magic clung to every surface like the room itself wanted to collapse in sympathy with her.
The ink pot on the desk had been shattered hours ago. Pages lay torn on the floor. Her sword—a slim dueling blade, forged to her exact dimensions—sat untouched, tipped sideways against a discarded chair.
Her hands trembled as she held her head in them.
"Why... why did it have to be him?"
It was a whisper. Then a whimper. Then a scream.
She stood suddenly, her chair crashing behind her. She whirled and slammed both fists into the wall.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Her knuckles bled. The mana in the room rippled. Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps.
"I've worked so hard!"
Her voice cracked.
"So fucking hard!"
The walls didn't answer. They never did. Neither did her father. Neither did the world.
Titus.
That name was a brand on her tongue.
Titus.
Son of Viscount Ravelin.
Her superior in blood. In reputation. In placement.
Now, it turned out, in everything.
He had awakened a Sacred Gear.
Not some common elemental conjuration. Not a weak spell core or a manipulated artifact. No. A true Sacred Gear.
His own.
A blazing serpent of fire, coiled around him like he belonged to legend.
And she?
She had nothing.
She had trained harder. She had practiced more. She had killed parts of herself for approval. For validation. For control. Her gravity magic had impressed every instructor. Her blade was sharper, her mana denser, her strategies precise.
People whispered about her being a prodigy.
But no Sacred Gear had come.
Not for her.
"He wasn't supposed to beat me," she hissed, pacing now, fingers clawing at her own arms.
"He wasn't supposed to surpass me."
The idea that she might one day be offered to him like some ornamental alliance had always filled her with quiet rage. But now, being beneath him in power?
It shattered something she had never named.
Because deep down, beneath the fury and pride, she'd held onto a belief—a poisonous, prideful hope.
That she was the one with the hidden potential.
That she would bloom brightest.
But Titus bloomed first. Brighter.
And now, everyone saw him.
"I hate him," she spat.
But the words were hollow.
She didn't hate Titus.
She hated herself.
For being proud. For being naive. For believing that effort mattered more than narrative.
Because Titus was the narrative.
He had no mother of note. No siblings. Just a father with power, and a history waiting to be written on his back.
And now, the estate sang of him.
She threw herself back into the chair, fingers tangling in her hair.
It wasn't just jealousy.
It was identity collapse.
"What am I if I'm not the best?"
No answer.
Just a memory. The image of Titus in the courtyard last summer, his eyes clear, his voice confident. He didn't brag. He didn't strut. He didn't need to.
His existence was a threat.
She remembered that moment he turned down the Viscount's hints of betrothal. Not cruelly. Not coldly. Just... decisively.
She remembered how that made her feel.
Like nothing.
Like a pawn rejected by a king.
"I won't be his shadow."
She rose again, hands balled to fists, gravity shifting around her like a rising tide. The entire room creaked under the pressure. Dust fell from the ceiling.
And now what—
What she?
Incapacitated.
On the floor.
Helplessness engulfing her.
Hatred, and of course—worry.
She was no fool.
She could feel it.
The fatigue pouring off of Titus.
The mistakes he started to make.
And then—
Like a long-damned devil crawled out the darkness.
A Sacred Gear.
One with a horror-inducing aura.
A massive spine, glowing black, with a lightless blade sheathed in the grand vertebrae.
And how could she forget—
Those six malevolent arms.
And the way he moved.
He sprung into the fray.
Sharp.
Handsome.
His face made it easier to accept his imposing figure.
He moved toward them.
For what reason?
Because he chose to.
She stared at her bleeding hands.
She hadn't looked away.
Not even when the shadow boy's arms took a hit meant for a child.
Not even when his breath faltered.
Not even when he dropped to one knee—
And still stood again.
"He wasn't even from here," she muttered.
"He wasn't supposed to exist."
But he had.
And he had changed everything.
Titus, the untouchable, had shown weakness.
And the stranger had filled the gap.
And now...
She was third.
Not second.
Third.
Her breathing picked up again. Erratic.
Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes but didn't fall.
She wouldn't give the world that victory.
"I'll crush him," she said.
And yet—
She couldn't mean it.
He was her savior.
As was Titus.
It was infuriating.
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