"Cynthia, you are about to get married! Don't just disappear randomly!"
Her mother's sharp voice echoed through the hall. Servants nearby kept their eyes lowered, pretending not to hear.
"Tomorrow, Damien of the Surdo house is coming here with his family. Don't be a disgrace."
Cynthia stood with her head bowed, "...Yes, Mother," she said softly, her voice barely audible.
From a distance, Duja watched the scene unfold near the staircase. He had never known Cynthia's personal struggles — and he couldn't help her even if he wanted to.
—
The next morning, Duja stood beside Brobak at the edge of the estate courtyard. The air buzzed with anticipation. Dark blue carriages arrived one after another, the insignia of the Surdo family, A eagle gleaming on their sides.
Damien stepped out first, a handsome young man with jet-black hair streaked with blue, his tailored suit matching the color of his blue eyes. His expression carried arrogance, a smirk that told others he is superior than them.
Brobak muttered beside Duja, folding his arms. "That guy… Duja, never mess with those people. If he wants something, just give it. Those types will ruin your life for fun."
Duja gave a slow nod, his attention returning to his tools. It was their second day of work, and they planned to return by evening — right after the noble guests finished their greetings.
—
Meanwhile, inside the manor's main hall, Damien smiled politely. "Pleasure to meet you my wife... Cynthia."
His mother lightly slapped his hand. "Manners."
Damien chuckled while Cynthia kept her gaze fixed on the floor. Both families sat across from each other on opposite couch, the room filled with the smell of tea and luxury sweets.
The discussion dragged on — estate mergers, land management, ceremonial schedules — words that meant nothing to Cynthia. Her head stayed lowered, her fingers quietly fidgeting.
Finally, Damien's mother spoke. "How about you two go outside and talk to each other? Get to know each other."
Cynthia immediately stood and bowed. "Yes."
She turned and left through the side corridor without another word. Damien's lips curled upward. 'Walking out that fast? She sure is eager,' he thought smugly, rising from his seat to follow.
But when he reached the garden… Cynthia was gone.
His eyes narrowed. "What the hell?"
—
Cynthia was already sprinting through the halls. 'The kids didn't have breakfast!' she thought, panic in her chest.
She reached her chamber, threw open her wardrobe, and hastily changed into simpler clothes, a plain blouse and skirt. Then, clutching a small pouch, she slipped out through a quiet passage.
Damien caught sight of her from across the courtyard. He hid behind a pillar, watching as she ducked into an empty market stall, stripped off the last traces of noble fabric, and reemerged dressed like a commoner. She moved fast, blending into the crowd before disappearing down the street.
A slow grin spread across his face.
—
Cynthia arrived at the Little Angel's Inn, a bit out of breath, sunlight slipping through the half-open curtains. The children were laughing and playing on the carpet.
"Momma!"
"Food!"
"Call Duja!"
"Call him for the food!" they shouted as soon as they saw her.
Cynthia laughed softly, brushing their hair back. "No, Duja has work. You can meet him in the evening. But I'll make the food."
"Boooo!" the kids cried.
"Hey! Don't disrespect me!" Cynthia said with mock sternness. "I make good food as well. See how well you kids are growing?"
The braided girl giggled. "Duja makes it tastier."
Cynthia smiled faintly, shaking her head, then tied on an apron and began cooking. The small kitchen clattered with spoons and the bubbling of soup.
The door creaked open behind her.
Damien stepped inside, his polished shoes silent on the floorboards. The children turned, their faces lighting up — mistaking him for Duja.
"Woah, cool man!"
"Even cooler than Duja?"
"Nooo, Duja's better!"
Damien's jaw twitched. His fake smile stiffened as he stepped into the kitchen. He found Cynthia stirring a pot, a calm smile on her face.
When she turned and saw him, the wooden spoon fell from her hand, clattering to the floor.
Damien's grin widened. "So this is why you rushed outside without even acknowledging me?"
—
That afternoon, both families gathered again. The scent of expensive perfume filled the air.
Damien clasped his hands together smoothly. "We had a wonderful time talking to each other, right Cynthia?"
Cynthia's gaze stayed low. "...Yes," she murmured.
Their mothers exchanged delighted smiles. "Oh, they're already so close! Don't worry, you kids go enjoy."
Damien's grin didn't fade as he rose from his chair. "Enjoy, huh? Well, I'm in the mood for that."
They stepped out onto the terrace. The sky was starting to dim into gold.
Cynthia kept a few steps of distance between them, her discomfort visible.
Damien chuckled, leaning close enough for only her to hear. "Oh, quite the look. Shouldn't you be grateful? I didn't reveal your little secret?"
Cynthia froze, then bowed her head. "Thank you… Please don't tell anyone."
Damien smiled.
Damien leaned in with a smirk.
"Why don't you show me your room?"
Cynthia blinked, caught off guard. "…Alright," she said, leading him downstairs.
The door opened to a spacious, decorated room — pale curtains, a soft carpet, a large bed with a golden frame.
Damien whistled low. "Quite the beautiful room you have. Deserving of my future wife."
He stepped closer, the air between them tightening. Cynthia flinched as he leaned near, his breath grazing her neck.
Her shoulders tensed. "What are you doing?" she snapped, pushing him back.
Damien's smile didn't fade. "Oh, come now… it'll be fun. Just a little—"
"Please be respectful," she cut in, her voice trembled.
His smirk faltered, anger flashing in his eyes. "For a tool who's just a stepping stone for me, you sure show a lot of attitude."
He grabbed her wrist, forcing her against the wall. "Know your place."
Cynthia struggled, her heart hammering — then her knee shot up, hitting his groin hard. Damien let out a strangled groan as she slapped him across the face.
"Disgusting. Stay away from me!" she spat, running out before he could recover.
—
She found her mother in the corridor and pulled her aside, voice shaking.
"Mother—Damien, he—he was touching me inappropriately! The marriage isn't even done yet and he—"
SLAP.
Her mother's palm struck her cheek.
"You pulled me out here for this?" she hissed. "Cynthia, so what if he touches you? You'll have to do that eventually! Don't you dare try to embarrass me like this again!"
Cynthia froze, eyes wide, lips trembling.
As her mother stormed off, she quietly walked to the storage room and shut the door behind her.
There, in the dim light, she finally broke down — silent sobs for hours.
Soon, she lifted her head, wiping her face. It was getting dark.
"…The kids haven't eaten lunch yet," she whispered to herself.
She changed into simple clothes, sneaking out through the back gate, and ran through the market until she reached the empty stall where she usually changed into her "commoner" outfit.
—
At the Little Angel's Inn, she pushed the door open with a forced smile.
"Kids, I'm back! Sorry I'm late—let's make lunch!"
No response. The rooms were empty.
"Kids?" she called softly, checking under the tables and behind the curtains. "Are you playing hide and seek again?"
Then she saw it — a folded note on the table.
Her hands shook as she read:
"You really expect not to have any consequences for what you do?
If you want to meet your kids, come back to the manor — my room, the guest room."
Her blood ran cold.
—
She ran.
Through the crowded streets, bumping into people, tripping, pushing past them without breath to apologize. Whispers followed her — her disheveled hair, her noble face streaked with tears.
By the time she reached the metal gates of the Cleso manor, she was gasping.
"LET ME THROUGH!" she screamed at the guards. "I'M CYNTHIA!"
Recognition set in their eyes, and they hurriedly opened the gate. She sprinted inside.
Maids and servants turned to stare — at her commoner's clothes, her frantic expression.
One of the maids was talking as Cynthia heard it.
"I wonder why Sir Damien brought those children here," one whispered. "They were cute, weren't they?"
Cynthia's head snapped toward them.
"WHERE ARE THOSE KIDS?!" she shouted.
The maids flinched. "L-Lady Cynthia?"
"WHERE?!"
"O-oh, the sir brought them about an hour ago in his room—"
—
Her thoughts ran wild — 'what did he do? where are they? why?' — until she reached his door.
The scent of heavy perfume spilled out as she flung it open.
Damien sat casually in an armchair, reading a book. He looked up and smiled.
"Oh. Hello."
Her voice cracked. "WHERE ARE THE KIDS?"
The six guards in the room stiffened, some looking away.
Damien rose slowly. "Relax. What's all this?"
She dropped to her knees. "Please… Damien, please. I'll do anything. Just don't hurt them."
He chuckled. "Hurt them? Oh, you misunderstand me."
He closed the book,
"I just went up there and told them they'd be living with us. Introduced myself as your husband. They even started calling me Papa."
He sneered. "Commoners calling me father? Revolting. But I played along. Spoke with them a bit…"
He trailed off, watching her face crumble.
"Honestly," Damien said softly, standing up from his chair. "I still remember the first day I met you."
The flames crackled. He took a few steps forward, the orange light dancing against his blue-streaked hair.
"Third year in the academy," he continued. "You were one of the top students in illusion magic. And me? Just a pathetic little wind and fire attribute learner—different departments, but always so close. I fell for you the moment I saw you."
He chuckled under his breath. "But I was a nerd. A loser. Couldn't even speak to you without stuttering. So I changed. Worked harder. Became worthy of you. But even then, you didn't look at me."
He turned slightly, smiling through the firelight.
"So I talked to my family… and voilà, here we are. About to be married."
Cynthia stood frozen, her heart pounding in her throat. The firelight painted her pale face red, flickering like blood across her cheeks.
"Please…" she whispered. "I rescued them. That's all. They would have died out there… Please. They're just children. I won't meet them again—just let them go."
Damien's expression twisted into something unrecognizable. A manic smile stretched across his lips.
"Oh, Cynthia," he said softly, "the kids are the ones providing you heat."
Her breath caught.
"…What?"
She looked at the fireplace. The heat that had seemed comforting moments ago suddenly felt scorching.
"No…" she mouthed. "No. That's not—"
Damien tilted his head. "I'm an advanced wind and fire user, remember? It's easy to control the stench. Gods, it was awful." He wrinkled his nose. "Commoners really do smell worse when they burn."
Her mind refused to process the words.
She stumbled forward. "No. No, no, no—"
The fire felt as if it screamed loudly as she reached it, her shaking hands outstretched. Heat bit into her palms, then seared through her skin. The smell of her own burning flesh mixed with the flames.
Still, she reached in.
Sparks clung to her sleeves as she clawed through the fire, screaming, sobbing—
until her fingers brushed something solid.
A bone.
Then the outline of a small hand.
Her vision blurred. Six shapes—small, tangled, blackened—lay within the flames.
Damien's laughter tore through the air behind her, wild and unhinged.
Cynthia screamed—a sound that could never come from her.
Her voice tore halfway, she screamed so loud she couldn't even hear herself.
—
The sun was dipping low,
Duja wiped the sweat off his neck, the metallic scent of the dungeon still clinging to his hands.
"Uh, guys," he said, removing the strap on his axe. "I'm gonna head back first."
Gloria smirked from where she sat on a boulder. "He seems to be in love."
Putra exhaled through his nose. "I saw him going into an inn. Guess that confirms it."
Duja didn't reply—he just waved a hand, half embarrassed, and kicked his horse forward.
The wind was chilly against his face as he rode through the evening streets. Lanterns were starting to light one by one when the celebrations broke into screams.
At first faint, then louder as he got closer.
People running. Panic spreading.
Duja yanked the reins, and rushed toward the noise.
The streets ahead were chaos—citizens fleeing, guards shouting, a smell of smoke and blood thick in the air. He turned the corner and froze.
The Angel's Inn—its door was open, chairs overturned, the sign half-dangling by a nail.
"Kids?" he called, rushing inside. No laughter. No voice. The soft creak of the wind through the broken window.
The beds were empty.
He felt his stomach twist.
'Were they safe?'
That thought alone drove him out the door and back onto his horse.
He rode hard toward the Cleso manor. The closer he got, the louder the screams turned—then stopped.
Dead silence.
Duja slowed as he reached the gates, both doors opened with a push making a creaking sound.
What he saw beyond made his chest tighten.
The courtyard was drenched in blood.
Heads, dozens of them—hung from the windows. Servants, nobles, guards. The crest of Cleso and Surdo stained in red.
The evening wind carried the scent of burning flesh.
Duja swallowed, his pulse hammering.
'Who could have—'
Then he saw her.
A girl sitting on the cold marble floor, her body curled in on itself, trembling.
Cynthia.
Her once-white dress was scorched black, her hair tangled, her hands covered in blood and blisters. A sword lay beside her, covered in blood.
Duja's body went still.
He could feel it—illusion magic's traces still lingering.
In front of her, a fire burned high.
Someone's body fed the flames.
Dark blue noble robes.
Damien Stol Surdo
Cynthia sat before the fire, hands stretched toward it for warmth, her eyes empty—no reflection of flame, no light at all.
Duja nearly vomited.
He realized then: the massacre, the corpses—
it was her doing.
Whatever Damien had done… made her do this.
She had trapped the entire manor in her illusion and killed everyone within it, With her bare hands.
Months later, he would piece it together, What happened that night, but that particular night, he didn't think. He simply lifted her from the floor, her body limp, and carried her away.
They escaped under the moonlight, riding West toward the Warduica Kingdom, where no one would know her name.
To the Orynneya Province, where he said she'd be safe.
She forgot her past there—mostly.
Duja made sure of it. He gave her new memories, softer ones, happier ones, Filling them with also the wedding bells of a wedding no one attended, But it was happy,
He made her laugh there, Slowly making her forget of her past.
But lately…
she seemed to be remembering, Duja thought as he looked at her riding the horse to Castorik's mansion.