"Grandpa..." My voice cracked, barely escaping my rigid lips.

  The bamboo forest churned sluggishly, the air thickening as the temperature surged. My skin felt like it should blister, yet it didn’t. Each breath dragged as though the atmosphere itself weighed tons, crushing my lungs.

  “Silence!” Grandpa Charles’s voice erupted, reverberating through the forest like a shockwave, shaking the bamboos to their roots. His face twisted with disgust, deepening the lines of his age.

  I had pushed too far—too silent, too composed, as though my restraint alone mocked him.

  “But the heat—” I rasped, clutching my chest. The air felt alive, pressing down, suffocating, while sweat slid relentlessly from my forehead, tracing my spine in rivulets. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat louder, heavier, a drum signaling my impending colpse.

  “Enough!” His step forward cracked the silence, the weight of his presence sharper than the sweltering air.

  He loomed over me, taller and more imposing than ever. His sharp gaze pinned me in pce, narrowing until his fury coiled like a snake ready to strike. “You chose isotion. You chose that Shiro on the estate’s edge, deliberately.” His voice dropped, cold and final. “Starting tomorrow, you’re moving back here.”

  The words struck harder than the heat, a blow that reverberated in my chest. I blinked once, then twice, the weight of his command sinking in. My mind churned, weighing the options, sifting through the consequences of defiance.

  “I refuse, Grandpa. I’ve been fine over there. I’m not moving.”

  The words came out steady, but they were a thin shield. What I didn’t say was far heavier. I had to stay at the Shiro. Away from this—the scheming, the legacy, the suffocating weight of our history. There, I was carving something new, something real.

  The shiro wasn’t just a retreat. Tucked near the training grounds that stretched toward the “Grand Lady’s snowy estate”, it was a pce of purpose. A stronghold, where assassins and knights honed their craft—where power wasn’t paraded in ceremony or politics, but forged in blood and discipline. That was where strength grew, real strength.

  Returning here wasn’t an option. It was suffocation disguised as tradition, control masked as concern. Yet Grandpa’s shadow loomed, and the forest felt colder despite the oppressive heat.

  I wasn’t giving that up so Grandpa could sleep better at night.

  “You! Wretch!” he roared, raising his hand.

  The old warhorse who once commanded armies now thought he could sp sense into me. But I didn’t flinch.

  “Go ahead. Hit me,” I said, my voice ft and calm. “But if you do, you’ll lose your only heiress. I may be trash, but I’m still Airgetiám blood—your blood. Do you really want to viote and bury your st chance at a future?”

  His hand froze mid-air, trembling for a moment before slowly lowering. His eyes flickered with something—regret, guilt, or perhaps a faint shadow of the man he once was.

  There were whispers that he had once begged the Empress to marry me off to Prime William. Charles Ruyan Airgetiám, groveling like a merchant trying to rid himself of damaged goods.

  Some said the Empress wept as she refused. Others cimed she ughed at the absurdity. Either way, the answer was no. William himself said no. Even fate said no.

  Grandpa’s pride didn’t survive that rejection.

  Maybe that’s why he’s so angry, why he’s clinging so desperately. That marriage was supposed to be our salvation, securing the Cn’s future for generations. It was his st card, his final gamble.

  Too bad I refuse to py.

  “Just go, then,” he muttered, his voice brittle and heavy with age. He turned away, and for the first time, he looked like a man defeated.

  The oppressive aura he carried began to fade, leaving the scarred bamboo around us in silence. As the weight lifted, I stepped toward the forest’s edge, my hand brushing against something unseen. A ripple formed at the surface, cold and unyielding like a door waiting to be opened.

  “I made a mistake trying to hit you,” he said softly, still not looking back. “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t turn around either.

  “But you’re still moving forward,” he continued, his tone cold and final. “And from this day on, you’re forbidden from contacting Prince William. That’s not up for discussion.”

  The words struck like the closing of a coffin lid, sealing something away.

  I exhaled slowly, steadily, and calmly. “For the first part, no. But for the second, I understand.”

  My voice held no anger, no arrogance, and no sadness—only neutrality.

  With that, I pushed the door open. The illusion shattered at the seams as I stepped through. Behind me, the door smmed shut, the echo reverberating like a final, unchangeable decree.

  As the door thudded shut behind me, the cooler air clung to my sweat-damp skin, a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth outside. It felt like silk dipped in ice, and I let out a long, rexed breath, unwillingly soothed. The breeze stirred the pink-blossomed tree in the courtyard, sending petals fluttering like snow. It reminded me of winter on Earth—quiet, still, and deceptive, pretending to be soft while everything beneath froze solid.

  I kept walking. Sunlight streamed through the open corridor, casting golden shapes across the tiled floor. When it touched my face, its warmth failed to thaw the lingering chill in my chest. Servants of the Demon races bowed as I passed. Their horns caught the light, gleaming faintly, but their movements were stiff, their eyes averted. Was it fear? Likely. Not that I cared.

  Grandpa had tried to sell me—no, Elsie—off to Prince William. Again. The thought curled in my mind like smoke, faint but acrid. Elsie had become obsessed with him, her infatuation consuming her every waking thought. She tracked his every move, pouring resources into her futile pursuit, flirting with him as if her life depended on it. Once, she had even stripped for him. God. As if baring her skin could cover the cracks in her soul. She’d convinced herself that becoming his princess would fix everything as if a title could patch what was broken. But it hadn’t. Instead, it left her looking like a stalker, a creep, someone desperate enough to be pitied—and ignored.

  And now? The moment I heard the engagement had fallen through, I felt nothing. No rage in my soul. No heartbreak in my heart. Not even the faintest flicker of disappointment. Just silence. The kind that isn’t peaceful but unnerving—the kind that waits, heavy and taut, just before something shatters.

  If Grandpa expected a scene—a dramatic outburst, tears, or fire raining down in fury—he must have been baffled. I didn’t give him any of that. I wasn’t Elsie Le Airgetiám, not entirely, and yet I was. So I did what she wouldn’t have: I gnced at him, then said nothing. The silence hung between us, sharper than any bde. Perhaps it unnerved him. Perhaps it made him suspicious. It didn’t matter.

  No one could prove I wasn’t the real Elsie. Not the illusion array. Not Grandpa. Not even Elsie herself. That much was certain.

  As Elsie walked away, calm as gss and indifferent as a stagnant ke, Charles stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the locked door that sealed behind her with a soft, final click.

  She had defied his orders to leave the mansion, as calmly as if it were her decision all along. Even after his explicit command to stay away from Prince William—the man she was so obsessed with—there had been no screams, no tears, no frantic pleas or outrage. Just silence.

  He hadn’t expected that. Not since her father—his son—had died in the war. If she’d raged, he could have absorbed the blow. If she’d begged, he could have twisted her desperation into control. But this stillness? This void? It unsettled him.

  “Did the fall to her head shift her brain?” he muttered, sinking into his seat at the low table. His fingers traced the edge of the porcein cup. A faint crimson aura flickered over his hand, rippling through the tea, which began to ooze steam. He took a long, deliberate sip. The silence stretched, broken only by the restless wind outside, rustling everything in its path.

  Pcing the cup down with a measured exhale, he finally spoke, his voice low. “She used to be as predictable as Linger tea.”

  His arms folded as a flicker of memory rose to the surface—Elsie’s gaze meeting his before she turned away. Her eyes had held no fire, no trace of the emotion he had come to expect from her. Instead, they were tinted ice—cold as a blizzard, unblinking as stars, and hollow as the depths of King Yama’s failed dates. She was done pretending.

  "I shouldn’t have tried to hit her," His words were quieter this time, almost a murmur to himself, as he looked up at the overcast sky. There was no regret in his tone, only calcution. Yet the unease clung to him like smoke.

  Or so it seemed—until his demeanor shifted abruptly.

  “Wind.”

  The single word, sharp and commanding, sliced through the air. His eyes gleamed, sharper than a bde, his voice carrying the weight of a surging tide.

  The stillness deepened as if the very wind had halted, pausing to heed his call.

  “Inform the Gothic Maids to watch her closely,” he ordered. “If anyone suspicious so much as breathes near her—even a grain of sand or dust—eliminate them without hesitation.”

  The silence held for a heartbeat longer before the wind returned, swirling through the bamboo grove in chaotic currents. Then, a voice—silken and stretched thin like gossamer—whispered in reply.

  “It shall be done, my liege.”

  The chaotic currents subsided as swiftly as they had risen, leaving no trace of their fury. A soft drizzle began to fall, yet not a single drop touched Charles. He sat beneath the bamboo canopy, sipping his tea with unshaken elegance.

  “Unpredictability,” he murmured, the faintest smile curving his lips. “Raise the stakes, my Elsie.”