That's it. That's the path I missed before.
I'll become a weed user!
The option I never knew existed because I'd been too focused on the fact that I had no magic to consider alternatives.
I don't have magic—fine. But weed users don't need innate magical capacity. They channel magic through enchanted items, magical tools, weapons imbued with spells. Anyone can learn it with enough training and the right equipment.
It's looked down on by traditional mages. Considered inferior, a crutch for those without talent. "Not real magic," they say with barely concealed contempt.
The magical equivalent of hiring someone else to do your work for you. But it works.
And more importantly—the Academy accepts weed users. They have to, because not every noble child has strong innate magic, and the Academy can't afford to turn away too many students or risk losing funding and prestige.
If I come as a weed user? With training already in progress? With actual combat skills to demonstrate? With a clear understanding that I'm not trying to be a mage but a weed user, which is a completely different track?
They can't reject me then. Not without looking prejudiced against an entire legitimate branch of magical combat.
But I need more than just magical tools. Weed users still need to know how to fight. How to move, how to position themselves, how to read an opponent and react faster than they can strike. I need to know combat. Basic swordsmanship at least.
And Father—
The thought made my breath catch.
Father was the best in his prime. A decorated knight. War hero.
He earned his title through military service, through actual battlefield achievement, not inheritance or political manoeuvring.
He knows how to fight better than almost anyone in this kingdom.
If I ask him to train me, he'll say yes. He'd be surprised, certainly. Shocked, even.
His twelve-year-old daughter who failed the magic test, who's been growing increasingly withdrawn and despondent, suddenly asking to learn swordsmanship? Completely out of nowhere?
But he'd agree. Especially after seeing me try to learn politics from him, after I told him tonight that I wanted to join him for dinner, after I've shown signs of trying to engage instead of pulling away—he'd see it as positive. As me trying to be strong, trying to help House Rovaan in whatever way I can, trying to honour both sides of my heritage.
Eleanor's imperial blood might not have given me magic, but Rovaan's military skill could still be mine.
He'd be proud. Hopeful. Eager to teach me.
And that means time with him. Every day.
Training sessions in the practice yard, where I can watch how he moves, how he thinks, how he approaches problems.
Where I can talk to him in a context that's not emotionally charged or politically fraught. Where I can build trust instead of distance, create connection instead of the growing gulf that led to everything falling apart.
More than that—if I'm learning politics and swordsmanship from him, I'd be in his study legitimately.
Not sneaking, not snooping, not doing anything suspicious that would make him question whether I'm really his daughter.
Just: "Father, let me practice reading contracts—you said I should learn about noble houses and territories. I want to understand how our lands are managed." He won't suspect anything if I'm actively asking to be involved. If I'm showing initiative and interest and desire to help.
And that means I can see everything.
The letters he receives from other nobles. The suspicious documents that arrive with Duke Castor's seal. The contracts being offered that sound generous but hide traps in the fine print. The financial records that might already show signs of tampering. The correspondence that might be forgeries-in-progress. All of it. Right there in plain sight, because I'm supposed to be there. Because I'm his daughter learning the family business.
While also learning to actually protect myself. To fight back if someone corners me in a garden or a hallway. To not be helpless like Eledy was when Duke Castor found her alone and destroyed her with words she couldn't counter.
I won't have magic. But I'll have a sword. And the training to use it. That's power too.
Kill two birds with one stone. No—three birds.
One: Get into the Academy as a weed user. Gain education, status, connections. Show the noble families that House Rovaan's daughter isn't worthless just because she can't cast spells the traditional way. Build a reputation based on actual skill instead of inherited magical talent.
Two: Learn politics and gather evidence from Father's study. Understand how House Rovaan is being targeted. Find proof of Duke Castor's conspiracy before it's complete. Intercept the forged documents before they're planted. Identify the false witnesses before they testify. Build a counter-case that can expose the whole plot.
Three: Train in combat. Learn swordsmanship, strategy, how to defend myself and others. Never be defenceless again. Never be the helpless girl who can only watch as people destroy her and everyone she loves.
The villainess path Eledy took—isolated, desperate, turning to cruel schemes because she had no other power, lashing out at Sara and others because she felt cornered and worthless and like destruction was the only way to matter—I can avoid it entirely.
I won't be powerless this time. I won't make the same mistakes. I'll have something real to fight with.
Not just magic or status or the hollow power of a villainess who hurts others because she's hurting. But actual strength. Actual skill. Actual evidence and allies and the kind of power that comes from understanding the game being played and learning to play it better.
My fingers curled into fists, then slowly relaxed. The tension bled from my shoulders, replaced by something harder. Something that felt like steel forming in my spine.
The red diary rested in front of me, closed.
Eleanor asked her to fill it with happy memories.
That's what mothers do, isn't it? They want their children to remember joy. To have something beautiful to look back on. A record of laughter, birthdays and dreams coming true.
But Eledy ended up filling it with more sad memories than happy ones.
The parties where she sat alone. The test she failed. The Academy that rejected her. The nobles who mocked her. Duke Castor's systematic destruction of everything she loved. Father's hands, helpless to protect her from words that cut deeper than any blade.
Page after page of a child trying to understand why the world hated her. Why being herself—powerless, common-blooded, desperately trying—was a crime worthy of punishment. The final entry ending with "at least..."
At least if I don't wake up, it's over.
And she didn't wake up. I did.
Now I'm going to continue it. This is her story. And I need to make sure it doesn't end the same way twice.
I turned to the next blank page. The paper was clean, untouched—waiting for words that Eledy would never write.
My hand reached for the pen holder on the desk. The pen was delicate, elegant, probably a gift from Eleanor. I pulled it free, feeling its weight settle into my palm.
I stared at the empty page for a long moment, then pressed the pen to paper.
I'm sorry I couldn't save you the first time.
The words flowed slowly, deliberately.
But I promise—this time, your story won't end in darkness.
I paused, then continued.
Today, I read your diary. I finally understand what you went through. What they did to you. What Duke Castor did to you.
I won't make the same mistakes again.
I won't run. I won't hide. I won't let them destroy Father.
This time, I'll fight.
I set the pen down and closed the diary gently, the soft click echoing in the silent room. Outside, the first grey hints of dawn were beginning to touch the horizon. My fingers lingered on the worn leather cover.
I'll ask him today.
And today... everything changes.
***
The War Hero
I woke to the sound of the window closing with a thud. My eyes opened and closed, clearing the sleepiness and blurred vision. The desk beneath my cheek was hard, my neck stiff from the awkward angle.
Outside, everything looked peaceful—the birds chirping their morning songs, the soft wind brushing through the courtyard, the trees swaying in a gentle rhythm—but none of it reached me. It should have comforted me, but it didn't.
Because my soul was somewhere far away. It was locked inside a coffin, already buried three years ago. Now I'm just a shell, struggling to keep my people and my daughter safe.
I looked up and saw the chandelier above, its crystals catching the early light, giving off a soft, golden glow. I wiped my eyes, clearing the wetness that had gathered there overnight, and my vision sharpened.
To my left sat my armour from my army days. Dull steel and worn leather, scarred from a hundred battles. It helped me survive and defeat my enemies—hundreds? Thousands? I lost count. I gained the title of war hero and this count's post using it.
Now it's just decoration, sitting there in the corner, gathering dust. Resting for more than a decade.
My eyes drifted down and landed on the coffee cup at the edge of my desk. Ice cold now. I must've poured it yesterday and forgotten.
I was still in my study. I'd spent the whole night going through the ledgers, checking the books, rereading the recent contracts again and again. The pages blurred together under candlelight, numbers swimming before my eyes. But none of it made sense.
Somehow I'd spent more than I should have, yet there were still unpaid amounts left. As if the numbers had moved when I wasn't looking.
And worse—some entries in the income and spending records didn't match what I remembered. A few pages looked newer than the others, the ink just a shade darker. Some amounts were different. A couple of dates were off, shifted by a day or two. I rubbed my eyes, hoping it was just exhaustion playing tricks. But the inconsistencies remained, stark and undeniable.
It wasn't normal. It wasn't a mistake.
It felt like someone had quietly reached into my records and changed things when I wasn't there. Like invisible hands tampering with my life while I slept.
As if all this wasn't enough, Duke Castor is circling me like a vulture, waiting for the right moment to tear me down.
And it's not enough for him to come after me—he's even trying to interfere in my daughter's life. He uses his venomous words, his own daughter—his own blood—and every underhanded trick he can get his hands on.
He has children too. So how can he do this?
How can a man with a family destroy someone else's child without a second thought?
Even that Crown Prince's birthday banquet... she thinks I don't know. But how could I not? I'm her father—and I'm a Count.
Everyone knows. The whole capital is talking about her humiliation.
I can almost hear them now—the laughter echoing through ballrooms, the whispers hissing behind painted fans and silk sleeves. Her name, passed from mouth to mouth like a scandal too delicious to resist. The news of her fall spreading through the streets like wildfire, burning everything in its path.
She's carrying all that shame alone. That poor child...
And here I am, unable to stop any of it.
Some war hero I am... I couldn't even protect my own daughter. My fist clenched on the desk, knuckles white against the dark wood.
"Gerson!" I called out.
A moment later, there was a quiet knock. The door opened, and my butler stepped inside with a slight bow. "Good morning, my lord."
"Yes, good morning." I gestured at the scattered mess across my desk—ledgers sprawled open, contracts stacked unevenly, loose papers threatening to slide off the edge. "Help me arrange these files."
He moved forward with a quick nod, his hands already reaching for the nearest stack. Careful. Methodical.
He's a good man—calm, collected, steady. Not very talkative, but wise.
He was Eleanor's tutor once... and later, her personal advisor. Not someone sent by the palace—someone she trusted enough to bring with her when she chose me. When she died, he stayed. He didn't have to. But he did.
And now he serves me as my butler, carrying her memory in every quiet gesture.
"I'm going to meet Marquis de Carabas," I said quietly, watching Gerson's hands move through the scattered papers with that familiar precision. "Prepare for the departure."
His hands stopped. Just for a heartbeat. Then he looked up at me, and I saw something I rarely saw in those steady eyes—concern.
"Sir..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Head Maid Hana asked me to let her know when you're going to eat breakfast."
I frowned, my fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. "What reason? Did something happen?"
"No, it's..." Another pause. His gaze dropped, then rose again. "She said the young lady has asked to eat with you. Apparently, she's been waiting for quite a while now."
The world seemed to tilt.
My daughter. Waiting for me, alone, hoping I'd come.
How long had she been sitting there alone? An hour? Two?
"Why..." The word came out hoarse, scraping past the sudden tightness in my throat. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Gerson opened his mouth, but I was already pushing back from the desk, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Take care of it. I'll go."