"The cruelest cages are not made of steel, but of silk, smiles, and soft-spoken words."
The Valen estate was quiet that morning, too quiet. The kind of silence that hung heavy — the kind that always came before a storm.
As Lyra Valen stepped into her stepmother's courtyard, she already knew what kind of storm it would be.
The courtyard was beautiful, as always — manicured gardens, polished stones, and delicate cherry trees bending under the spring breeze. But beneath the beauty was something cold. The air itself seemed to bow to the woman who ruled it.
Sitting gracefully beneath a silk canopy was Lady Lysandra Valen, the first wife of Lord Valen. Her beauty was like ice — sharp, perfect, and untouchable. Her long crimson hair was pinned up with golden hairpieces, and her smile carried the weight of practiced gentleness.
Beside her sat Miralyn, the youngest daughter, her silver hair shimmering faintly in the sunlight. The violet of her eyes glowed softly as she laughed, leaning close to her mother over a board game carved from jade and bone.
They were so engrossed in their conversation that neither noticed Lyra's presence at first.
Not until the maid standing by the door cleared her throat quietly. "My lady, Lady Lyra has arrived."
The sound broke through the quiet harmony of the courtyard. Lysandra's hand paused mid-move, her piece hovering above the board. Slowly, she turned her head, her smile widening.
"Ah, Lyra," she said warmly, her tone dripping with feigned affection. "How lovely of you to join us. Come in, my dear."
Lyra bowed her head slightly and stepped forward, the hem of her weathered black kimono brushing lightly against the polished floor.
She looked calm. Serene, even. But inside, a knot tightened in her chest.
She hated this courtyard.
She hated its air — too sweet, too perfumed — masking poison beneath every breath.
"Madam," Lyra greeted quietly.
"Sit, sit," Lysandra said, motioning to a nearby cushion. "We were just talking about you."
Lyra's lips curved faintly. "Were you?"
Miralyn looked up at her older sister and smiled — a small, knowing smile. There was something cold in her eyes, though her tone remained polite. "Mother has wonderful news, Sister."
"Indeed," Lysandra said, her eyes gleaming. "Wonderful news."
Lyra sat, folding her hands neatly in her lap, waiting.
"I've found you a husband."
The words came out as casually as one might mention the weather.
Lyra blinked once. Then twice. "…A husband?"
"Yes," Lysandra said with that same charming smile. "A good man from a noble family. Handsome, well-mannered, and most importantly…" — she paused for effect, eyes narrowing faintly — "he doesn't mind your… little flaw."
The air in the courtyard shifted.
Even the birds on the cherry trees fell silent.
Lyra's fingers twitched slightly in her lap.
"My flaw," she repeated softly, her tone polite. "Ah. You mean my lack of chaos."
Lysandra's smile didn't falter. "Yes, that."
Her words were sweet as honey, but they stung like acid.
Miralyn tilted her head, pretending curiosity. "Mother worked hard to find someone who wouldn't reject you, Sister. You should be grateful."
Lyra smiled — faintly, softly, beautifully.
"Grateful," she echoed. "Of course."
Lysandra continued as if she hadn't heard the edge in Lyra's voice. "His family is well to do, respectable, and he's from the South Faction. Once your father agrees, I'll finalize everything."
Lyra looked at her for a long time. Then she lowered her gaze, her voice calm and steady.
"Thank you, Madam."
Her fingers tightened slightly — so slightly that no one noticed the way her nails dug into her palm.
No one except Miralyn, who sat quietly beside their mother, watching the faint trickle of red that ran between Lyra's fingers.
Her lips curved into the faintest, cruelest smile.
At the Aserra Mansion, the atmosphere was entirely different.
The grand halls were alive with the hum of activity — servants moving in lines, the faint scent of incense, the glint of sunlight on polished marble.
But in the heart of the mansion, Crystal Aserra sat alone in her study, a scroll unfurled before her. The parchment was old, its surface filled with detailed sigils, symbols, and diagrams.
"The five factions," she murmured under her breath, eyes scanning the ink. "The veins of power that choke the kingdom."
The words danced before her eyes — detailed notes on each faction, their structure, their loyalties.
The Royal Faction — the crown and its loyalists.
The North Faction, under Noah and his Silver Sky Sect.
The South Faction, under the King's Hand, Lord Valen.
The East Faction, under the Third Prince.
And finally, the Aserra family — her family. Under the asura clan
Her eyes lingered on the last.
The Asura Faction. The blade that keeps the crown standing.
She smirked faintly. "No wonder he wanted me."
The more she read, the more the pieces began to connect. The alliances. The power games. The hidden wars that had shaped her fate long before she ever realized it.
After a while, she rolled the scroll up and placed it gently aside. Her head tilted toward the open window, where the sunlight streamed in across the floor.
The day had already reached its peak — the light warm, the air heavy with the sound of cicadas.
Crystal rose slowly, stretching her arms before walking toward the garden.
Outside, the flowers were in full bloom. A thousand colors danced under the sunlight, swaying gently with the wind.
She wandered through them silently, her fingers brushing lightly against petals she had once planted as a child — with her grandfather.
Her lips softened into a faint smile.
"It's still here…"
The flower she stopped before was small and delicate — a white blossom with faint red veins tracing through its petals. A rare flower.
The Crimson Snow Lotus.
Her grandfather had once told her that it symbolized perseverance — that even in winter's cruelest storms, it bloomed beneath the snow.
She knelt down, brushing a finger against it.
"It survived," she whispered. "Even after all this time."
A faint ache stirred behind her eyes — an emotion she refused to name.
She stood again, taking one last look at the garden before turning away.
There were twenty days left before her death.
Seventeen before the banquet.
She remembered that night clearly. The screams. The blood. The chaos that had devoured the young nobles of every major family.
That massacre had changed everything — it had fractured the kingdom, ignited the civil war, and paved the way for Noah's rise to the throne.
Her lips curved upward not in sadness, but in dark amusement.
"So," she murmured, a dangerous light in her eyes. "It's almost time again."
Her laughter was quiet, but there was something chilling beneath it.
This time, she wouldn't be the victim.
This time, she would be the storm.
"Some flowers grow through blood, not sunlight. And some souls bloom only after they've burned."