...

  Emma sat on the edge of her four-poster bed, legs dangling over the side as she swung them back and forth with puppylike glee. Heavy velvet drapes all but shut out the moonlight, yet the room glowed with half a dozen light orbs—each splitting into smaller flickering wisps. They floated about like stars, forming a makeshift sky like the one above the Wolfsteeth region, some 40,000 kilometers (~25,000 miles) away.

  Behind the sparkled wisps appeared fireballs in various colors, resembling the moons. They moved gently, almost like someone trying to create the perfect masterpiece with utmost care. 'I was so wrong,' Emma mused bitterly. In the past, she thought it was cringy, not understanding how adults could act love-stricken, yammering endlessly about the missing touch of their beloved. Yet, she herself had become a victim of that disease, sitting for an hour just to find the right angle, the perfect one, the one that would make the sky appear the same as from Alexander's bedroom window, hoping they would look at the same thing while separated.

  When it was done, her expression became calm, almost tranquil, as if all worries were blown away. 'I miss you,' a small smile played on her lips, unable to contain her tail that ruined her previously made bed.

  With another thought, the wisps dissolved, forming swirling motes that flew through the fire, changing their color and creating Alexander's playful outline, moving and smiling. 'Where am I, though?' Her heart clenched with every attempt to form her image beside his, the perfect made bed further ruined as she clenched her hands.

  'So, darling… you've chosen Sarah?' Her tone, even in thought, was flawlessly composed. Yet, just beneath that mask simmered anger. 'I see,' she felt how her cheeks became wetter. 'I wanted to be at least his first choice.'

  Emma knew Sarah was an unusual choice, far from the typical Leonandra Household ideal. Yet, her calculations, analysis, and brilliance didn't help her get the only one she wanted—the plans and manipulations were all for naught. A change needed to happen to at least secure a place beside him.

  The wisps scattered, returning the room to flickering half-light. Emma's reflection in a tall mirror glimmered—pale and resolute. Tonight, she was a restless soul plotting an escape from the Cold-Snout estate, her mind set on braving the night for her own reasons.

  Emma wanted—she needed—to act without much thought—to be impulsive and risk everything. It was like a vice that held her heart, unable to let go no matter how much she tried to rationalize a better plan—she had to act now, consequences be damned.

  "Now or never," she whispered, pressing a hand to her throat. She savored the quick flutter of her pulse against her palm, then stood, a controlled, confident smile gracing her face.

  As she was about to leave, the bedding caught her attention, but for now, it had to be left like it was.

  ...

  Silence clung to the estate's corridors like a smothering blanket. Most servants had retired to their quarters, guards dozed at side entrances, and only a faint glow from the occasional wall sconce broke the gloom. Emma knew her first hurdle lay right outside her bedroom: a guard who patrolled with maddening irregularity. Some nights, he marched with clockwork precision. Other nights, he lingered in the antechamber, nibbling on pastries long past their prime.

  She traced a rune on her wrist with a mana-infused ink gleaming darkish-blue. Mana tingled along her limbs, coursing through her mana veins, shrouding her in a stealth spell. Carefully opening her door, she waited until the guard's heavy footfalls retreated around the corner. She stepped into the corridor, each footfall silent on the plush red carpet. Even her scent vanished under the thin film of mana.

  Reaching a stone archway, she paused at the imposing iron gate that always bolted after dusk. Her mothers or a high-ranking commander typically carried the key, but Emma had studied the estate's wards for far too long to be thwarted by a simple lock. She mused that Alexander's notes on physics made it strangely convenient, recalling how he insisted she should use her brilliance for more, trying to reach the stars—the irony wasn't lost on her.

  'How delightful knowing something no one else does,' she mused as she approached the gate more confidently. Tonight, she employed a little trick: a transmutation rune she had carefully drawn on parchment that could warp the shape of metal for a few seconds. She held it against the lock and made her mana surge through the rune in specific patterns—the metal shrank momentarily, letting the gate clunk open.

  Beyond lay the inner courtyard, where moonlight revealed a tall fountain and symmetrical rows of hedges. Two guards patrolled the walkway. Emma crouched behind a marble statue of the first Lady of the Cold-Snout ancestor, Evelyne, waiting. 'Oh, please, no need to grandstand,' she ignored the statue's face twisting in silent scorn as if it disapproved of her nighttime escapade. 'You definitely don't have the moral high ground after imprisoning, enslaving, and raping Valric for months when he refused the touch of his second wife—breaking his will for good.'

  The two patrolling guards crossed paths, exchanging hushed greetings. Emma's muscles tensed during the endless seconds they lingered, but finally, they drifted toward the opposite corner of the courtyard. She darted for the stables, feet skimming dew-laden grass with barely a rustle—one construct after another creating a vacuum under her steps.

  Inside, the warm, musty smell of hay and horses enveloped her. She had no plans to saddle up—far too conspicuous. Instead, she located a small side door used by stable hands. Slipping through, she finally stood on the outer estate grounds.

  The midnight air stung her cheeks, and for the first time in her life, she felt the quiet rush of genuine freedom, her soul filled with rebellious thoughts. A tremor of excitement quivered through her shoulders, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to focus on the path ahead.

  ...

  Many streets away in the sprawling city of Jackalsteeth, a mournful whimper sliced through the gloom. "Luise," came a strained voice, "I'm not ready to starve just because you hated every tavern we passed."

  A cat-kin girl in travel-worn boots spun around, eyes narrowed. "Shut up!" she hissed. "My rear got grabbed fifty times tonight, Henry! I've had enough! And why aren't you jealous, anyway?!"

  Henry, a raccoon-kin with ringed ears, flinched, then scowled in frustration. "We survived two weeks in that cave, Luise—two weeks! We slept huddled together and ate moss off the walls." His voice, usually soft, rose in exasperation. "You think I don't trust you enough, thinking you will run off with the first filthy adventurer who eyes you?!"

  Heat flooded Luise's face. "But—"

  "No buts!" Henry snapped, stepping closer. The look in his eyes was unwavering. "I've been groped more times tonight than I care to remember, and all I want is a bath, a hot meal, and some decent rest."

  Luise's irritation simmered, but as he took her hand, pulling, a faint blush warmed her cheeks. 'Not gonna lie—I do like it when he takes charge,' she admitted silently. Ever since their parents' deaths, they'd been each other's anchor, forging a bond that was far more than friendship. Perpetual mishaps or not, they were happy.

  A small, cloaked figure bumped into them while they bickered, walking through the bustling streets. Startled, Henry barked, "Watch where you're going!"

  The petite figure, sounding unmistakably female, threw a rushed apology over her shoulder—"My apologies!"—and slipped away into the shadows before they could catch a proper glimpse.

  Luise rolled her eyes. She was too busy soothing Henry's frazzled nerves to care. Besides, she had bigger worries: finding a cheap place for them to rest. The pair soon trudged into a seedy establishment—part tavern, part brothel—where the rank smell of stale ale and unwashed bodies coiled around them.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "What do you mean you lost it?!" Luise's shriek rattled the half-rotten rafters. Henry frantically patted his pockets, searching for their meager coin pouch.

  "I... I'm so sorry!" he stammered. "Someone must have stolen it!"

  Luise buried her face in her hands. "Huh," she muttered, then turned a pleading gaze on the tavern's owner, giving it all with her level 7 [Acting] skill. "Look, we're broke, but we can work. We'll serve and cook—whatever it takes. Let us earn enough for a night's stay and some extra!"

  The owner, a stout hippopotamus woman with harried eyes, snorted. "Fine. You two can work for a week. Maybe more, depending on how useless you are." She gestured to the back. "We'll talk details. But no coin, no bed."

  Henry mustered a shaky smile. "Th-thank you. I've done kitchen work before... We promise we won't cause trouble."

  Luise, near tears of anger, forced a nod—her experience of misery coming flooding back as they worked themselves to the bone to save up enough for travel expenses. Someone had stolen their pouch, and though she was too enraged to connect the dots, that someone was already long gone.

  ...

  Out in a darkened alley, Emma clutched the small bag of coins she'd snatched. She slipped it into her spatial pouch with an arched brow. "I hope that apology was sincere enough," she murmured, recalling how she'd mumbled to that poor raccoon-kin before vanishing. 'They'll survive,' she sighed inwardly. 'Probably... hopefully.'

  The memory of Alexander's casual mention of cheap artifacts flitted through her mind. He'd called certain collars and pouches inexpensive—a bad joke since no pawn shop or otherwise would even touch them—their worth around a single large gold coin—an astronomical sum by most people's standards.

  'I am even more foolish to listen to him,' she frowned. Emma had no personal allowance to speak of; she was a noble, expected to request what she needed. As such, she trusted Alexander's words, remembering them very clearly as he spoke about the value of the artifacts she stole.

  But when she considered his wealth, what he said wasn't wrong from his perspective. 'I can only blame myself...no, definitely also him.'

  With her newly pilfered funds, Emma quickened her step toward Jackalsteeth's city gates. The thoroughfares were busy even at night, filled with travelers, merchants, and the occasional mercenary or adventurer outfit. The city's pulse didn't die when the sun set; it merely changed tempo—becoming more vibrant. The city was prominent for its artificers, trade, and, most importantly, a vast redlight district.

  Because of the liveliness, it was easy to keep low until she could board a carriage. 'I can't wait to see the look on darling's face when I show up.' She smirked, imagining his reaction.

  Yet, as she turned down a side street in the redlight district—to avoid guard patrols that may recognize her through some bizarre [Mystic Skill], pushing her into shadier avenues—an armed figure lunged at her from the shadows.

  "Giv' tha' coin!" The thief brandished a small knife, voice trembling with malice or desperation. Hard to tell.

  'Idiot,' Emma thought coolly, gathering mana before her—a simple thought conjured a small fireball contraption, which seared the thief's face. He staggered back, screaming curses. She followed with a swift earthen bullet to his knee, her chant nothing more than a clicking sound made through another contraption.

  "Argh! Mercy!" he cried, body lurching as he held his destroyed knee.

  Emma's lips tightened. She walked past him without a backward glance. When he tried to scramble up again, she manipulated a broken chimney on top of a house, letting it crash down with terrible finality. His scream cut off in an instant.

  She paused, her heartbeat steady. 'Is that it?' She exhaled, more exasperated than shaken—her first kill, but it didn't matter to her. It was nothing more than taking her slipper and crushing a bug—no difference.

  Moments passed, and Emma stood still, her eyes glowing coldly under the moonlight. She tried to evoke an emotional response, but she was calm, even sarcastic, as a small sadistic smile played on her lips: 'And to think the world calls me heartless...'

  But the scuffle's noise carried. From around the corner, a shout: "Stop right there! Murderer!"

  Emma's stomach lurched. 'Time to vanish.' She poured mana into an invisibility rune, felt her scent and shape fade from sight, and bolted away before any guard could catch her.

  ...

  Her invisibility helped her reach the southern gates of Jackalsteeth, but she found them locked down under temporary inspection—a uniformed guard shouted orders: "Form a line! We've got a killer on the loose and checkin' everyone."

  Emma clicked her tongue—she turned to slip away, but another guard spotted her. "Hey, you! The short one in the cloak—stop!"

  She cast another advanced concealment spell, but before she could fade completely, a thunderous boom shook the street—wind whipped around her, and she sensed a terrifying aura behind her as if someone could cut her into pieces by their intent only. 'No... not him.'

  Slowly, she turned to see the silhouette of Lord Brutus R. Cold-Snout—her Father. His jackal-like ears were impeccably groomed, and his tail swished in a precisely controlled arc. He looked every inch the stately, powerful noble—his pristine attire free of even the slightest stain, as though the night's grime dared not touch him.

  Emma's stomach clenched in pure, bone-deep dread. She took a tentative step backward, but his voice sliced the air, calm and deep, laced with paternal authority. "Emma."

  She froze, almost more afraid of disappointing him than of any guard's punishment. 'Why, out of all people, did he have to come here?!'

  Brutus strode forward, ignoring the bows and salutes from the startled guards. He held out a hand. "Give me your hand," he commanded, the gentleness in his tone belied by his iron grip on her destiny.

  Her fingers shook as they reached for his. She tried to resist, but the moment their palms touched, he scooped her up in a princess carry. Her cloak fell away, revealing her disheveled hair and wide eyes.

  He fixed her with a stern yet strangely doting gaze. "So, you killed that man in self-defense?" he asked, voice low enough for her ears alone.

  Emma managed a stiff nod. "Yes... Father."

  A warm—almost proud—smile curved his lips. "Good girl. Nobody gets to harm my daughter." Looking around, he announced in a resonant voice, "My daughter killed a filthy serial killer plaguing the city! Be thankful, and remember that the Cold-Snouts will always uphold justice! Return to your posts. This matter is settled!"

  The guards, thoroughly cowed, complied without question. Then Brutus turned back to Emma, his expression grim. "And now, young Lady, we need to discuss this little escapade of yours. Your punishment will be severe."

  ...

  Emma soon found herself in her Father's idea of punishment—far too different from her grandmother, Scarlet, or her aunt, Marisia, who would break one down, piece by piece, repeatedly until death seemed like the only escape. Instead of beatings or harsh confinement, Brutus had another tactic: unrelenting doting.

  At breakfast a few days after her failed flight, Emma found herself perched on Brutus's lap, struggling not to roll her eyes. The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the dining hall. House servants passed discreetly, pretending not to notice their Lord coaxing his daughter with a spoon as though she were a puppy.

  "Emma, say 'ah' ~" he cooed, a spoonful of soup hovering in front of her mouth.

  She turned her head away. "No!" she hissed through clenched teeth, cheeks burning. "This is absurd! Why won't you beat me like Aunt Marisia did with Sarah and be done with it?"

  Her Father's jovial expression vanished. He placed the spoon aside, his gaze sharpening. "I will never harm my little puppies," he said, his voice clipped. "Your aunt's methods are despicable. When a puppy misbehaves, it doesn't need violence—it needs more love."

  She tried to argue, but he cut her off, drawing her into a tight embrace that made her groan in protest. "Were you acting out because Papa hasn't been around enough?" he asked softly. "Don't worry. I'll make time for you. We'll spend the next few months together, every day."

  Emma's eyes bulged at the prospect. 'Just kill me now,' she thought, remembering the cold-blooded ease with which she had ended that thief's life. 'I can handle a fight to the death, but I can't handle this!' And yet, locked in her Father's arms, she realized that for all her cunning and magical prowess, she was utterly powerless against his brand of relentless affection besides the literal power he had.

  "Emma," he pulled her back slightly. His expression told a story of worry, making her stomach churn. "I will not be angry, but why did you run away?"

  There was a moment of silence, and as she wanted to trick and manipulate again—lie—her cheeks started to feel wet, and her eyesight blurred. 'Huh?' Her hands shook, and the floppy ears pressed closer to her face. 'Why?'

  Something was wrong with her—the next moment, she pressed herself against her Father's chest, unable to resist. Like a cracked dam, she broke at last. "Please don't go!" Her voice carried all the loneliness, pressure, and unfulfilled yearning for weeks, slowly piling up. "Stay! Please stay!"

  Brutus hugged her gently as she curled herself into a ball in his arms, trembling and sobbing, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please... I don't want to be alone anymore... please."

  The entire hall seemed to watch in quiet sympathy, but none dared break the moment. "My dear, whatever it is—you are too young to carry such a burden," his hands pressed her closer. "You are a puppy. Simply enjoy your life to the utmost, and if it means cuddling, you can always find me."

  Yet, between the sobs and whimpers, Emma told what she wished the most: "Alex... I want Alex..."

  Brutus caressed her gently, his voice full of love and care. "Do not worry," he expressed softly, yet something so minuscule but inexplicably potent made her suddenly flinch, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Do not worry about Alex."

  Emma stopped crying and locked her teary eyes with his, but the only thing she found was parental love. 'I am too tired,' she thought, her mind burned out after months of stress. She pressed against his chest, needing to listen to his heartbeat, and slowly fell asleep.