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Chapter Text

Cale Henituse had never once in his life thought I want to be part of a diplomatic envoy.

And yet here he was, seated in a royal carriage with gold trim and obnoxious embroidery, being dragged to another empire’s palace because Alberu had smiled too widely while saying, “if you don’t, ill make you Prime Minister.”

So, of course, Cale came. Anything but that horrid sentence.

Now, with his forehead pressed lightly against the cool glass of the window, he sighed for what felt like the fifth time since they'd teleported over the imperial borders.

Choi Han, seated opposite, looked slightly concerned. “Are you feeling unwell, Cale-nim?”

“No,” Cale muttered. “Just regretting every decision that led to this exact moment.”

A soft snoring came from the pile of cloaks beside him. Raon, tail flopped over Cale’s leg, was curled up into himself and drooling lightly on a silk pillow with the Imperial Seal stitched onto it. Hong and On were somewhere in the other carriage with Eruhaben, and likely enjoying themselves far more.

“Don’t frown so much,” came Alberu’s smooth, perfectly-polished voice from the seat next to Choi Han. “You’ll ruin your image before we even arrive.”

Cale cracked one eye open to glare. “My image is retired man who wants to go home.”

“Unconvincing,” Alberu said brightly, “considering your diplomatic reputation has grown to the point where even this empire is rolling out the castle suites for us.”

“Suites can’t be eaten.”

“You have no taste.”

“I have stress ulcers.”

Alberu quirks a brow, knowing full well that Cale did NOT just say that out loud, as the resident #1 cause of stress for Alberu.

Choi Han politely did not smile. The horse hooves clacked steadily on the stone road, and soon the Imperial Palace crested into view — white and gold, sprawling like a sunburst. There were guards at the gates in black and crimson armor, and waiting just beyond them stood a man in sleek ceremonial robes, crown tucked into a circlet of braided gold, with golden-red eyes like fire trapped in ice.

Cale recognized him instantly.

Crown Prince Callisto of the Ahn Empire.

Rumors were plenty. Most described him as strategic, ruthless, bloodthirsty, a man who’d once executed a general for suggesting surrender. Others claimed he’d personally ended a rebellion with a blade still slick with the rebel leader’s blood.

The prince bowed slightly as they exited the carriage, expression carefully neutral. “Welcome to the Ahn Empire. I am Crown Prince Callisto. You honor us with your presence.”

‘I guess even mad dogs have to heel when unnecessary war could be threatened.’

Cale stepped out last, having first tugged Raon awake and made sure he went invisible.

Cale stood beside Alberu and bowed just enough to be polite. Alberu dealt with the talking. “We’re grateful for your invitation, Your Highness.”

Callisto’s gaze lingered —like a predator. Then his eyes flicked to Cale and froze.

Just for a moment.

Cale noticed. Of course he did. So did Choi Han.

The moment passed, the prince’s expression smoothing into perfect diplomacy again. He gave the rest of the formal greeting, promising accommodations, a welcome feast, and the Emperor’s best regards.

They followed him into the receiving hall — white stone, towering arches, soldiers at every post — and were shown into the quieter vestibule just before the suites.

It was there, as the courtiers departed and things settled into relative quiet, that Callisto spoke again.

“Commander Henituse,” he said lightly, “if I may ask a… personal question.”

Cale tilted his head. “That depends.”

Callisto’s lips curved faintly. “Do you happen to have a sister?”

There was a beat.

Cale responded smoothly, “yes, I have a younger sister back home.”

“No, apologies, I meant one perhaps around your age?”

Alberu turned toward Cale, expression faintly curious.

Cale’s face was as flat as ever, though the ghost of a frown was present. “My mother died when I was a child,” Cale said flatly. “And she had no other children.”

Silence.

Callisto met his gaze — the sort of measuring look Cale knew far too well. And then, just as quickly, the prince gave a smooth nod, as if it had only been idle curiosity.

“My apologies,” Callisto said calmly. “You reminded me of someone. I meant no offense.”

Alberu stepped in with a practiced diplomatic smile. “Of course. I’m sure many travelers have resemblances. I was once mistaken for a baron’s cousin at a summit in Breck.”

Callisto chuckled softly at that, then offered a final word. “Please, think nothing of it. You’re all most welcome in the Empire, and I do hope your stay is comfortable.”

He excused himself soon after, leaving the hall with the same quiet grace he’d entered with.

—

Once he was gone, Cale turned to Alberu.

“Did that seem normal to you?”

Alberu hummed. “Depends. You don’t think you have a long-lost sibling, do you?”

“I’d know.” Cale’s eyebrows furrow in the tiniest micro movement that Ohn might not have been able to catch.

“Would you?” Alberu looked too amused. “Your family does have a history of omitting important things.”

Cale scowled. “Every family does.”

Choi Han, ever helpful, added, “Maybe there’s someone in this Empire who looks like you.”

“God forbid,” Cale muttered.

Raon buzzed beside him. “Human! Maybe someone tried to clone you!”

Cale rubbed his temple.

All he wanted was a week in his life where no mysteries fell into his lap. He’d even packed light.

But now, apparently, someone in this country looked like him — enough for a war-hardened crown prince to pause mid-formality and ask if they were blood.

Fantastic.

Just once, Cale thought bitterly as he was shown to his lavish guest room with silk sheets and a fireplace he’d never use, just once, he wanted to be the forgettable one in the background.

But fate, apparently, was in a particularly cruel mood.

—

Dinner with the Eckhart family was an exercise in etiquette and silence.

Penelope sat quietly, posture perfect, surrounded by her adoptive father and brothers at the long, gleaming table. The chandeliers flickered above them, casting halos over untouched dishes. No one ever came here to enjoy the food. Conversation was rare and, when it came, deliberate.

Which is why the Duke’s voice cut so sharply through the stillness.

“We’ll be attending the imperial ball in a week and a half,” Duke Eckhart said, eyes fixed on his wine glass. “All of us. As a family.”

Reynold stiffened subtly beside her. Derrick paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“A diplomatic envoy is arriving,” the Duke continued. “The ball will be hosted by the Crown to honor them. Naturally, we will be expected to attend in full force.”

“A Roan Kingdom envoy, certainly?” Derrick asked, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin.

The Duke nodded. “Yes. Their Crown Prince will be leading it. He arrives with a small retinue of nobles and knights—decorated war heroes it seems.”

Penelope’s fingers went numb around her fork.

Reynold scoffed. “There’s no way they won that war already.”

“They have.” The Duke replied mildly. “From what I understand, most of it is attributed to the eldest son of their new Duke.”

“Cale Henituse, right?” Reynold adds.

Derrick nods seriously. “If he ended that war in only two years, he must have a genius mind for battle.”

“Which is exactly why you’ll both be on your best behavior,” the Duke said, voice cool. “The Empire cannot afford insult. Nor can we.”

Penelope didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. They all knew that the jab was directed at her.

And yet her mind was a screaming thunderclap of realization.

Red hair.

Commander.

Roan Kingdom.

Ball.

One week.

Her stomach twisted.

She waited two more minutes. Ate a bite of chilled meat she didn’t taste. Kept her expression blank even as her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird behind her ribs. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and practiced.

“I’m not feeling well. May I be excused?”

The Duke gave a nod without looking at her. That was all she needed.

—

The moment her bedroom door closed behind her, Penelope collapsed against it, hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the noise that nearly tore out of her throat.

“Shit. Shit.” She hissed.

She staggered to her desk. Yanked open drawers. Tore open her wardrobe. Scattered notebooks and loose paper across the floor.

“I forgot—how did I forget this one—?!”

She’d known this world. Known its traps and flags and plotlines and hidden endings. She’d mapped them, written them, lived them. Even in her worst moments here, she'd held on to that knowledge as her one protection.

But this one… this one she’d let slip.

She stared at the window in front of her face.

[Route:“A Crown Stained Crimson”

A diplomatic envoy arrives from a foreign kingdom.

You are invited to the Imperial Ball.

One guest is not who they seem.

Objective:Stop a War

Prevent the diplomatic envoy from being blamed for the assassination attempt.

Uncover the true culprit.

Survive the night.

Penalty:

Death

Rewards:

Access Hidden Content]

She remembered now.

A random event. Triggered only if the Empire’s favorability was above a certain threshold and Roan's was neutral or higher. A scene where the ball was interrupted — a detonation, a scream, someone framed — and the only thing the player could do was act fast.

Or die.

Her hands trembled. Her breath stuttered. A cold, sick feeling crept into her stomach like ink bleeding through paper.

She hadn’t heard the name in years. Not since that single cursed playthrough — the one with the branching diplomacy route she’d chosen out of boredom. The one that ended in blood and smoke and a split-second choice that determined whether she died in an execution or barely scraped by. 

“Oh gods—” she pressed both palms against her temples, trying to force her breath to steady. “That’s why I didn’t recognize it… It was buried behind Callisto’s route. I only got it once.”

The man who was blamed for the attack—who wasn’t the culprit, but him being accused got Penelope executed for treason.

She hadn’t even been able to click on him. No portrait. No name. Just “Crimson Commander.” She’d been imprisoned. Alone. Executed in a dark room. That was one of the game’s hardest to escape instant death ends.

But she’d forgotten.

She’d let it slip away, convinced the event would never trigger because the Roan Kingdom was background noise in most routes. They were never supposed to be relevant. In most routes, they were still stuck fighting their war!

“Why the hell are they here now?” she hissed, pacing in her room like an animal in a trap. “Why is that flag here now?! I haven’t even—!”

Cale Henituse.

She whispered his name like a curse, heart slamming against her ribs.

She closed her eyes. Saw the blood. Callisto injured. Her own head separated from her shoulders, a game over screen she hadn’t taken seriously at the time.

She collapsed into her desk chair and pulled her knees to her chest.

If she did nothing, everything would spiral. War would be waged. She could die.

Penelope buried her face in her arms. Her breathing shook. The paper scattered around her seemed to mock her, all her contingency plans too shallow, too vague.

“Think. Think. What was the trigger?

What started it?”

She remembered someone pointing at the commander.

“He looks like her.”

“He has to be her kin.”

“They both need to pay!”

Her face.

Penelope was the one waving her own death flag.

Her breath caught in her throat.

If someone said she looked like him—if Cale Henituse was linked to her in front of the wrong person—then the knife would fall.

And she had less than two weeks to change the ending.

Chapter Text

The days passed far more quickly than Penelope was comfortable with.

The seamstresses arrived three mornings later, armed with measuring tapes, fabric swatches, and polite smiles that didn’t quite meet their eyes. She stood there, arms out, while they tugged at silken cloth and murmured about embroidery patterns.

A dress was chosen for her — a deep midnight blue, almost black under dim light, with ruffles as delicate as flower petals and drapery that cascaded like liquid. It was elegant without being ostentatious, befitting the Eckhart daughter without drawing too much attention.

But Penelope knew better. Matching details, subtle flourishes — when the entire Eckhart family entered the ballroom, she would be unmistakably part of them. She would not be overlooked.

And that was precisely the problem.

Her trial felt like it was yesterday, though much more time had passed.

Most of everyone had moved on from it, all except for Penelope. 

She can still remember how her “family” had looked at her with disdain, as if they truly believed Penolpe was a malevolent being who would attempt to commit treason simply for the sake of doing it.

How would they look at her if it happens again at the ball? Would they think it was real? Would they look at her with pity due to her misfortunes? 

Would they even try to fight for her innocence?

Absolutely not.

In this world, Penelope has no one.

No one to fight for her, no one to care. 

Even Eckles puts a distance between them.

The thought sat heavy in her chest as she smoothed the folds of the midnight gown. It was beautiful, yes, but also suffocating — a costume to bind her to a family that never wanted her in the first place.

Her reflection in the mirror was cruelly clear: every detail chosen to match the Eckhart name, every thread reminding her of the fact that she did not belong.

“Leave me. I will undress myself.” She forces her voice to stay even. 

The maids hesitate, sharing unsure glances before bowing and leaving her room.

Penelope’s lips twisted bitterly. She could already imagine Derrick’s sneer, Reynold’s silence, her father turning his back to her.

“Of course it would be you,” they’d say without hesitation.

No matter her innocence. No matter her pleas.

Her hands curled tight against the soft silk.

She hated it.

She hated how she could already hear their voices. How easily she could picture herself cornered, blamed, discarded

And yet — despite knowing all this, despite the icy certainty that she stood alone — her heart still ached, traitorous and raw.

For someone, anyone, to simply stand at her side.

Even as the game’s cruel rules whispered in her ear:

 A Crown Stained Crimson

Time Limit: 4 days

 Penalty:death
Reward: ???

—

Alberu Crossman stood beside Cale’s bed with his arms folded, gaze sharp enough to cut glass.

“Are you going to get out of bed at all?” he asked, voice heavy with the patience of a man who had long since run out of patience.

Cale, sprawled across the sheets with a book balanced comfortably in his hands, didn’t even bother to glance up.

“No.”

The crown prince closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for divine intervention. He would receive none.

“Cale.”

“I already walked around the garden this morning,” Cale replied flatly. “That should count as diplomacy. The flowers seemed very receptive.”

“…Flowers can’t negotiate alliances.”

“Exactly. Which makes them better company than most nobles.”

Alberu pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about going crazy.

“Well, you are an unlucky bastard, so I guess you should probably know…”

Cale already has a bad feeling about this.

“We’re expecting something to happen at the ball. With our envoy being there, it won't look good, so try not to be the one to start something.”

‘Who does he think I am?’ Cale thinks to himself as he watches Alberu turn on his heel and walk out of the room.

The Roan Kingdom is very close to becoming an Empire.

After winning the war and dethroning the corrupt imperials, the only thing preventing them is the need to recuperate.

They’re still licking their wounds after the capital turned into a battle ground, and the whole thing with the Puzzle City…  

But that is the whole point of this envoy, to not show weakness. 

The Ahn Empire is the closest Empire to Roan geographically. Though, one unique characteristic is that they discriminate against mages.

The Ahn Empire was strange. Their disdain for mages was almost laughable, considering how useful magic was in every field from warfare to construction. They boasted about “pure steel and manpower” like it was something to be proud of, yet when placed side by side with Roan’s progress, they looked embarrassingly primitive.

Perhaps that is the reason they accepted Roan’s envoy in the first place. To show their nobles how powerful one gets when they use everything at their disposal.

So yes, a ball.

A glittering, crowded, diplomatic death trap of a ball.

Cale leaned back against his pillow in the guest chambers, closing his eyes for a moment.

“…This is going to be a pain.”

Raon blinked at him. “Human?”

“Balls,” Cale said flatly, rubbing his temple. “Nothing good ever happens at balls.”

—

The night before the ball, their chambers in the Ahn Imperial Palace were filled with the sort of quiet chaos that seemed to follow the Roan envoy wherever they went

Hong and On sat curled together on a chaise, tails swishing in visible sulk.

“Why can’t we go too?” Hong muttered, ears drooping. “We could fit in, if we wore clothes like humans.”

Ohn nodded, her expression cool but her disappointment clear.

From the corner, Ron chuckled, his smile mild and eyes sharp as always. “Now, now. You’ll find no fun in a room full of greedy nobles. Far better to stay with me. I was planning a surprise supper, after all.”

Immediately, Hong perked up. “Surprise supper?”

Ohn’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of surprise?”

“The sort with roasted pheasant and sweet cream pastries,” Ron said, as if he hadn’t anticipated their exact weaknesses. His old but steady hands patted both their heads. “Let the others suffer in glittering cages. We’ll have our own party.”

Cale, sprawled on a cushioned chair nearby with a book half-open in his lap, grunted in agreement, though a shiver went down his spine at Ron’s words. “Listen to him. You’ll enjoy Ron’s food more than watching nobles strut in circles.”

Hong’s ears twitched. On’s tail flicked, but they both gave reluctant nods, mollified

Meanwhile, Raon fluttered up to perch on Cale’s shoulder, his wings flapping in excitement.

“This is going to be amazing, human! I’ll get to see what kind of pastries the imperial chefs make!”

Cale closed the book with a quiet thud. “…You’re only thinking about food?”

“Of course!” Raon chirped. “And jewels! And chandeliers!”

Rosalyn, seated at the desk with a neat stack of notes and a cup of tea, smiled indulgently at Raon’s enthusiasm. “It will be interesting, at least. The Ahn Empire’s court has a… reputation. Seeing it up close will be useful.”

Choi Han was quietly polishing his sword in the corner, serene as always, though his dark eyes flicked toward Cale with faint amusement. “I suppose it can’t be avoided, Cale-nim.”

“Everything can be avoided,” Cale muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

As if summoned, Alberu appeared in the doorway with his arms crossed, posture relaxed and smirk firmly in place.

“Are you going to get out of bed at all tomorrow, Dongsaeng?”

Cale didn’t even look up as he reopened his book. “As long as I don't have to.”

Rosalyn snorted into her teacup. Eruhaben, lounging nearby like a predator disguised in human form, chuckled low in his throat. “Unlucky bastard.”

The others laughed, but Cale only sank further into his chair, the shadow of dread settling over him.

His chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with his overworked lungs.

“…This is going to be trouble,” he whispered under his breath.

Raon tilted his head curiously. “What did you say, human?”

Cale shook his head, forcing the thought down. “Nothing. Just… don’t leave my side tomorrow.”

—

She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep the sob from escaping.

It wasn’t fair. She had survived trial after trial. She had endured mockery, suspicion, hatred from the very people who called themselves her family. And still, she had clawed her way forward, refusing to fall into despair.

But this…

How could she possibly stop something that involved foreign envoys, imperial factions, and a scenario meant to be navigated by the heroine herself?

A week was nowhere enough time for her to prepare anything. She can’t bring Eckles to the ball because it will appear hostile. She can’t even try and dig for anything that might happen because it’s too suspicious that she would be wondering about such a thing anyways.

Her legs gave out, and she collapsed into the nearest chair, trembling so violently the fabric of her skirts shook with her.

For a long moment, she just stared into nothing.

The sneers, the disgust, the certainty in their eyes that she was guilty. That she was nothing more than a stain in the Eckhart name.

She could already see it.

This was her fate.

Her lips trembled as a hollow laugh escaped.

In this world, Penelope Eckhart had no one. Even at her core, a child, alone and lost, begging for a place to belong, she would never be seen as anything but a hateful adopted daughter who resented the real daughter whom she never even met.

And in her old world… she had nothing either. Loneliness had been her only constant.

A chilling acceptance seeped into her bones, stilling her panic. The fear in her chest dulled into something quieter, heavier.

Maybe this was where her path ended, after all. Maybe she had always been meant to burn out, either in this world of disdain or the last one of solitude.

Her only regret…

Her vision blurred as she lowered her head, tears clinging to her lashes.

Her only regret was never seeing him again. The scrawny boy with hollow cheeks and stubborn eyes who had sat beside her in that shelter, years and lifetimes ago.

The one who gave her a direction to run in and to never look back.

She wondered if he had survived. If he had grown stronger.

If he had forgotten her completely.

Penelope curled into herself, whispering to the empty room, “I’m tired…”

‘And afraid’ echoed in her mind.

She had no energy to move from the chair to her bed.

If she did, she imagines that she would sink into it, hoping to never get up again.

So, in a position with her knees curled up to her chest, so uncomfortable in a way she hadn’t slept since she knew that boy, so unbefitting of a Duke’s daughter that it felt like home, her mind that had become so dulled from worrying finally released consciousness as she slipped into a dark lull of sleep.

She was not awake.

Her eyes were not open, and yet she knew that she was no longer in her room.

It was an abyss, comforting in a way that ached all the way to her soul.

A hand caressed her hair but she didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. She was just too tired.

Her hair, which had only darkened instead of lightened like the Eckhart’s wanted. Penelope– not Siyeon, the true Penelope– had looked into a mirror, believing she was cursed as her hair tinted bolder and bolder.

She sat, staring at her own reflection with tiny fistfuls of her hair, trying to will the pigment out of it, biting her quivering bottom lip, drawing blood as red as her locks.

No where in the estate was safe, except the attic which was too grimy and disgusting for even the maids to willingly enter.

She prayed for Yvonne to never return. To never stand by Penelope’s side for all to see how different they were.

And then she was banned from the third floor, her sanctuary ripped away from her.

The hand continued to run through her curls even as tears fell from her still-closed eyes.

Why was she even crying…? Where was she?

“You’ve waited too long, my child. I am sorry.” Something speaks. The voice is neither male nor female, nothing in it identifiably recognizable.

“Just a little more,” it encourages. “You were built to endure. I’ll be cheering you on.”

Cheering for her? Who are you?

“Remember your Resolve, little one.”

Penelope wants to speak, to move, to ask so, so many questions.

Her eyes open, and she’s back in her room. Light is coming in through the curtains.

Her body aches as she unwinds. She stands, walking to the mirror.

Penelope’s eyes are wet. The streams down her cheeks have yet to dry.

She wipes at her face with her hands. Only after she finishes rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, looking herself in the eye–

They’re different.

It’s a sinking rock in Penelope’s stomach.

Her hair, as vivid as a young rose– as blood.

Her eyes, a dark scarlet threaded hazel– the stark teal-blue in the middle of her face nowhere to be found.

If a young Penelope could see this, she would shriek.

Penelope wants to shriek.

Never before has Penelope Eckhart looked so unlike an Eckhart.

A knock on the door washes away her reflection as her head whips around.

“My lady, it is time to start preparing for the ball!” It’s Emily’s soft yet powerful voice.

Panic. A feeling that Penelope is tired of by now.

Her heart races as she looks around her room for something. Anything. Maybe something to gouge her eyes out.

Finding nothing of value, she turns back to the mirror uselessly.

She watches as something swirls brightly, her eyes returning to that out of place color she’s come to be familiar with.

Had she imagined the mahogany that looked so perfect in harmony with her face?

Though, with no time to dwell on it, she prays that the aquamarine will stay.

“Come in.” Her voice doesn’t tremble like she thought it would.

Emily enters with a row of other maids behind her. “Oh! You’re already up, my lady.” She chirps. Penelope looks right into her eyes, feigning casualness, and Emily finds nothing amiss.

“Come, let's get you bathed!” She says with an excitement Penelope wishes she could feel. And with that, Emily’s drones swarm her, ushering her to the bathroom.

Today is the ball.

Today is the day that the villainess dies.

—

 A Crown Stained Crimson

Time Limit: 14 hours

 Penalty:death
Reward: ???

Chapter Text

Tiring. It’s all so tiring.

Whoever decided the procedure for getting ready for a ball?

It's early morning, the sun is just peaking over the horizon. The sky is a beautiful mix of oranges and purples, slowly fading into a familiar blue sky.

And yet, Penelope hasn’t even been offered breakfast!

The bathroom is still half-lit by candles thanks to the sluggish dawn, flickering shadows clinging to corners.

There are eleven people in Penelope’s bathroom right now, not including herself. Something in her gut twists at that—and it’s not just hunger.

While no one in this bathroom is gawking at her bare form, they’re all pretending like it doesn’t matter. The way they touch her skin with careful, detached hands, makes her feel less like a girl and more like a doll.

Emily snaps commands like a seasoned general, and her army of nameless maids obey with military precision.

At each of Penelope’s limbs, there is a maid she doesn’t know the names of, who all wipe at her skin like she’s made of porcelain, with scents so strong they threaten to give Penelope a migraine. Rose petals cling to her skin, oils slick her arms, and her head rests uncomfortably on a feather-stuffed cushion that does little to relieve the ache in her neck.

Another mystery maid has instructed Penelope to keep her eyes closed. She is fixated on her face, dabbing, smoothing, layering concoctions that blur away the puffiness from her swollen eyes.

Her hair is being washed separately from the water her body is in, dunked into smaller basins as two more maids scrub and comb with oils that make her nose twitch and her scalp sting.

Three others stand to the side like vultures awaiting their turn, clutching towels and powders, whispering over what arsenal of cosmetics should be applied to disguise her exhaustion.

All of this fuss, this endless primping—without so much as a crumb of bread.

Penelope cracked one eye open, just enough to catch the frantic bustle around her. Eleven women darting about like bees in a hive, every hand and breath spent to turn her into a vision.

For what?

She clenched her jaw, a bitter thought blooming.

Surely the dukes and heirs of the world were not being scrubbed raw before sunrise. Surely her brothers weren’t being dunked in perfumed water and drowned under oils. No, they were likely still in bed, sprawled comfortably, their worst concern being which cravat best matched their jacket.

If they even woke in time for breakfast.

Her lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

Yes, they were probably still asleep. Dreaming peacefully, while she was being kneaded, scrubbed, and lathered like some offering.

The men of her family would appear at the ball with ease, looking polished and powerful with only the barest effort. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in their coats—and none of them would have spent hours stripped bare and handled by strangers just to achieve it.

It wasn’t fair, but then, when had it ever been?

Other noble ladies were probably going through the same thing as her.

One thought simmered in the back of her mind. She hoped that when she looked in the mirror again, her eyes wouldn’t have returned back to that warm hazel. (which fit perfectly with the color of her hair.)

—

The carriage ride was suffocating. Awkward silence pressed against the windows as surely as the frost-laced glass, broken only by the Duke’s clipped warning to behave and Derrick’s stiff, half-hearted compliment on her appearance.

She looked the part, certainly. Draped in midnight silk and jewels, she could have been carved straight from the Eckhart lineage—an illusion of belonging, flawless and false.

Her corset carved into her ribs with every breath, while the bitter taste of watered-down tea and a pitiful salad still clung to her tongue. Sustenance, they called it. She called it starvation wrapped in etiquette.

The wheels of the carriage jolted over the cobblestones as more and more noble carriages joined the procession, their lacquered doors glinting in the evening light like soldiers in formation. Each turn of the wheel brought her closer.

And yet, Penelope sat still. Cool as steel.

Not because she had uncovered some secret solution to her imminent death flag. Not because defiance had rekindled in her veins.

But because she had accepted it.

Tonight was not a ball. It was not diplomacy.

Tonight was her execution day.

And if death came for her again, so be it.

She leaned her head back against the cushioned seat, watching the pale blur of city lights pass through the glass. The thrum of hooves and clatter of wheels was steady, like a dirge leading her to the scaffold.

She wondered, with a strange, detached calm, whether the people in those other carriages laughed and chatted, full of easy confidence. Whether they looked forward to the music, the champagne, the flirtations of the ballroom.

For her, there would be no laughter. Only the slow tick of the clock counting down to crimson.

—

The Roan Kingdom envoy stood at attention beside the gilded dais, where the king and queen of the Ahn Empire reigned from their twin thrones. Their sons and daughter flanked them like polished ornaments, every jewel in place, every motion rehearsed.

The envoy, by contrast, wore their composure with ease, as if they belonged in such opulence without being swallowed by it.

Alberu exchanged pleasantries with the Ahn king, voice smooth as silk and smile practiced, yet never false. Choi Han’s steady figure radiated silent vigilance beside him, while Rosalyn shone in crimson silk that matched her hair, elegance sharpened into a weapon.

And then there was Cale. Dressed in black—always black—his very presence was a contrast. Severe, cold, and untouchable. The nobles whispered of him already, eyes lingering with both curiosity and unease. Cale ignored them.

Raon clung invisibly at his side, small paws braced against his leg as if to anchor him. The child’s voice whispered in his mind, petulant but fierce: ‘Human, that other human with white hair by the snack table is a mage. A very, very weak one. About as strong as smart Rosalyn’s thumb.’

Cale’s eyes flicked toward the pale-haired imperial prince lounging with bored arrogance beside his sister. Indeed, the rumors of Ahn’s distaste for magic had been true. Interesting. But not immediately his problem. That mage had likely never even met a dragon, or a mage as strong as Rosalyn. He wouldn’t be a problem, unless he tries something, but the way he was socializing with the other nobles caused Cale to come to the conclusion that he was hiding it.

“Keep an eye on him,” Cale murmured, quiet enough that only Raon would hear.

Time stretched, the herald’s voice ringing through the great hall as noble after noble was announced, paraded, and absorbed into the crowd.

And then—

“The Ducal House of Eckhart!”

A ripple moved through the hall like wind over still water. Heads turned.

Cale didn’t move, didn’t even look.

However, Rosalyn’s spine went rigid. Her eyes darted toward the woman in the midnight gown, breath catching so faintly it was almost inaudible.

Eruhaben’s relaxed posture shifted just enough—one golden brow arched, his gaze sharp and unyielding as it settled on Penelope. The faintest flicker of amusement crossed his face, only to be buried beneath a mask of ancient calculation.

He shifted around Rosalyn and Choi Han to Cale’s side, the two making room for him instantly.

Eruhaben tapped the invisible Raon with his foot subtly.

Then, in Cale’s mind, a voice. Smooth. Heavy.

‘Did you see her? That red-haired woman? The little kid spotted her immediately.’

Cale’s eyes tracked across the hall, catching the young woman’s form. He almost dismissed her—another noble daughter dressed like a shadow. Almost. Until her face came into the light.

Cale stilled.

A breath lodged in his throat. He didn’t so much as twitch, but the grip he had on his composure faltered by a fraction.

Eruhaben’s voice hummed, sly and low.

‘She feels like a dragon. But she isn’t.’

Cale’s brow furrowed.

‘No transformation magic. But her mana…” There was something like a growl beneath the words, irritation at being puzzled. “It swells like a tide. Bottomless. The only thing she’s changed about her appearance are her eyes.’

Cale’s gaze narrowed, pinning her across the room.

Rosalyn pressed her lips into a thin line. Choi Han, attentive as always, noticed their reaction and subtly shifted closer, his own hand brushing the hilt of his sword.

‘There aren’t supposed to be mages on this continent, correct?’

Cale nods subtly.

‘If she had grown in the Roan Kingdom, she would’ve been a powerhouse.’ Eruhaben admits.

Raon, invisible at Cale’s feet, tilted his head. His little claws pressed gently into Cale’s boot as he whispered into Cale’s mind. ‘…Human? She—she looks like you.’

Cale’s jaw tightened.

For the first time, he understood. Callisto’s widening eyes. His question.

Do you have a sister?

Because holy hell.

That woman looked like Jour.

Like his mother.

Like him.

His hand drifted inside his jacket, landing on the red diary tucked in there.

‘Hey there, cutie! What do you need?’

This was a Jour who hadn’t given birth to him yet, though, she had to know…

“Is she a Thames?” Cale mutters so quietly not even the dragons heard.

‘Thames, you said?’ Jour’s voice was no longer sing-song, but sharp, awake. ‘Who, darling? Who did you see?’

Cale stayed silent, willing her to draw her own conclusion.

‘Nothing? You’re not telling me anything, cutie? Well, I suppose you can’t really speak right now…’

Eruhaben looks over at Cale, surprised to see his red eyes. ‘Are you seriously using an ancient power right now? Unlucky bastard.’ he said, almost exasperated. Discreetly, Eruhaben casts a spell to hide the change in Cale’s eyes.

‘Hmmm…’ The young Jour Thames continues on. ‘If you use my power on her I'd be able to tell, but from the way you’re talking she seems to be at a distance.’

“Baron Draymont!!” The herald's voice rings throughout the hall.

‘Alright, cutie, is she older or younger than you?’ 

Cale gave no response again.

‘Either you’re being stubborn and not answering, or you mean neither. And since you’re my precious darling, I’ll assume you wouldn’t ignore me like this, so she’s the same age as you!’

Then, she gives a pause.

‘Oh… my. That makes things a bit harder…’

Cale wants to chuck this diary out of a window.

‘She could be a cousin of yours? Though I don’t remember my brother expressing a want for children…

“Countess Caldwyn!!” A name echoes through the hall once more. The herald then rings the bell placed next to him, signalling everyone has arrived.

The king of Ahn rose from his throne, his robes whispering across the dais as the herald’s final echo died away. The hall hushed, waiting.

Cale lets go of the diary, a sigh pushing out through his nose. Eruhaben cancels the spell he had cast.

“Tonight,” the king intoned, voice carrying with the weight of ceremony, “we welcome our honored guests—the envoy of the Roan Kingdom, whose valor upon the battlefield carved the path to peace.”

Alberu’s smile was polished, the tilt of his head respectful without a trace of deference. He stepped forward, cape falling in perfect folds as if he had rehearsed this moment in a hundred mirrors.

“The Roan Kingdom,” Alberu said, “is pleased to stand here in friendship. Let this ball serve as both celebration and promise—a bridge toward a future where war’s shadow never again darkens our lands.”

Applause swelled, dutiful if not wholly sincere. The nobles of Ahn, stiff with etiquette, clapped in measured beats, but their eyes rarely left the envoy. Curiosity. Wariness. Thinly veiled calculation.

The royal family descended from their thrones, the king and queen moving with stately precision while their children—two princes and a princess—trailed like glittering satellites. Courtiers swarmed toward Alberu, eager to taste the shine of diplomacy.

Cale moved with them, but only just. His black attire made him a streak of shadow among jewels and silk. A few nobles edged closer, whispers tugging at the corners of their painted mouths. Cale ignored them, gaze sweeping the crowd.

He found her again.

That strange woman.

Cale has heard from many people who knew Jour personally that he was her spitting image. That they were surprised to know that Deruth had any influence in his conception at all.

But looking at her, Cale feels like his face doesn’t do Jour justice.

She stood slightly apart, a glass of pale wine in her hand. The midnight gown clung to her like armor, its shimmer designed to draw the eye. She was announced with the Eckhart family.

Several ladies glanced her way with thin smiles, the sort meant to slice, while gentlemen circled like cautious predators. She returned none of their attention, as if she had long since decided the ballroom was a battlefield she would not bleed for.

Her eyes, however, flicked once—toward Cale.

Just for a heartbeat. Before her eyes hastily left his.

Her eyes were bright, a blue-green that would certainly be a most expensive gem. Though, it looked off. Eruhaben had mentioned that she was cloaking her eyes with magic.

Her family was a ducal family, so Cale must do his best to not attempt to interact with her too much in case of political reasons.

Around them, the ball began to breathe. Musicians struck their strings, laughter rose, glasses clinked. Courtiers spun into polished dances, jewels flashing like sparks beneath chandeliers. The envoy was drawn into conversations—Rosalyn with a cluster of Ahn scholars too cowardly to admit their disdain for magic aloud, Choi Han quietly absorbing questions about military discipline, Alberu charming ministers with words that glinted like knives wrapped in velvet.

Cale, though, prowled the edges. No one was truly brave enough to approach him. Stupid enough, sure, but that was yet to happen.

Eruhaben appeared at his side briefly, golden eyes scanning the throng. ‘Too quiet,’ he murmured into Cale’s head. ‘A hall full of peacocks, yet not one feather ruffled. That alone is suspicious.’

Cale didn’t answer. His eyes had caught something—servants moving in a pattern too deliberate, too rehearsed. No one normal would’ve picked up on this, but for Cale who had spent years as Kim Rok Soo who had learned how to tell if a person was trustworthy, all he had to do was look at the seams.

A flicker of movement.

Not one of the suspicious servants this time, but a young noblewoman—barely past her debut, if Cale had to guess—drifting toward him like a swan who hadn’t quite learned how to glide. Her pale skirts swished nervously as she gathered her courage, cheeks flushed pink against the powder.

“Young master Henituse?” she asked, voice trembling but hopeful. “Would you—” she faltered, then rushed the words out all at once, “would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

Her wide eyes gleamed with anticipation. Cale knew this type. Young, naive, thinking proximity to him would either make her look daring or refined.

He met her gaze evenly, let the silence stretch just long enough to make her shift her weight from foot to foot. Then, voice flat, he said:

“No.”

The girl’s face blanched. For a moment, she looked like she might crumple where she stood. Whispers began to stir among the nearby nobles, the kind that could sour into mockery or scandal in an instant.

But before the girl could retreat in humiliation, Cale continued, tone still sharp but with that peculiar matter-of-factness that left little room for rebuttal.

“It’s been a few years since I’ve taken a partner on the dance floor, and I’m afraid that due to my hiatus I might trip over my feet and embarrass you, my lady.”

The girl froze. Her eyes grew wider, but this time not with embarrassment—with something closer to awe.

Around them, the whispers shifted tone in an instant.

“Oh—how considerate.”

“He really is a gentleman off of the battlefield!”

The girl gave a shaky curtsy, clearly overwhelmed. “Th-thank you, Young Master.” And then she retreated with the kind of flustered reverence that only made the surrounding nobles murmur more approvingly.

Eruhaben’s dry voice slithered into Cale’s mind, rich with amusement.

‘You really do have a talent for stumbling into admiration while trying to be cruel, don’t you?’

Cale didn’t dignify that with an answer. He only flicked his gaze back to the servants, tracking the careful seams in their movement. Something was stirring here—something that had nothing to do with dancing.

The strange Eckhart girl caught Cale’s eye as she set her glass down on a servants tray. Cale tracked her absentmindedly as she slipped through a side door leading to the balcony. She looked pale, strained, as though the ballroom itself pressed too heavy against her ribs.

The ball was winding into its rhythm now, the kind of flow that masked tension in silks and jewels. The orchestra struck a gallant measure, and to Cale’s quiet irritation, it was the youngest imperial princess who moved first.

She stepped forward from her cluster of ladies-in-waiting, a small spark of boldness bright in her expression. “Your Highness,” she said, curtseying to Alberu with practiced grace. “Would you grant me a dance?”

The court around them rippled with surprise. Their very own princess asking him.

In Cale’s perspective though, the princess who was a whole head and a half shorter than him was asking for a dance like a bashful school girl.

Alberu only smiled—a slow, polished thing, the kind that could be mistaken for flattery if you didn’t know him. He inclined his head, offering his hand as though she had just bestowed the highest honor. “It would be my pleasure.”

Gasps and whispers fluttered like startled birds, but the pair were already moving into the center. Alberu led with a subtle hand, guiding her through the steps so smoothly it made her seem lighter than air, every misstep she made disguised as intentional.

That bastard loved putting himself in the spotlight.

‘Human! There's something on the floor? I’ve never seen it before!’

The floor? Cale’s eyes darted. He couldn’t see anything unnatural, but he didn’t doubt what Raon was telling him.

The musicians played louder. Couples spun closer to each other, and the princess was smiling brightly as she looked up at her prince charming.

Then, it started with a gut feeling.

“Cale-” Eruhaben started aloud, but Cale was already making his way to the dance floor.

A soft hiss. Metallic, almost.

He didn’t know what this was, but he knew one thing: nothing good was about to happen.

There was a sheen from the floor that snapped upward in a wave—translucent, sparking with chemical light. It wasn’t fire, wasn’t lightning, but some unholy blend, energy tearing upward in a sudden surge that rushed straight for the princess’s skirts.

Cale cut through the crowd. His shoulder caught another noble off balance, sending wine spraying. He barely noticed.

The Roan Kingdom was lucky their prince had sharp eyes.

He twisted them out of step, but it left the girl’s trailing hem brushing against the flare. The reaction crackled, the light darting higher. And then—

The chandelier above them groaned.

“—!” Cale felt his heart beat faster immediately as the indestructible shield manifested itself away from his body, only being tied to him with that silver light. Doing so had diverted the energy’s path just enough that when the chandelier’s chain snapped, the glowing reaction struck his shield instead of the princess’s crown.

The whole hall screamed as metal and glass came tumbling down.

For one impossible heartbeat, the room held its breath—then Alberu swept the princess into his arms, unharmed save for the faint scorch along her gown as the chandelier crumbled over them.

Compared to everything else Cale has blocked with this shield, this was trivial. He wiped at his mouth with his sleeve discreetly, just in case.

Then, the doors to the balcony burst open.

The Eckheart girl stumbled through. Her face was pale, her chest heaving—and the edges of her midnight gown were singed. Ash clung faintly to her skirts. Her steps were uneven, as she only had one heel on. She stopped just inside the door, wide-eyed as nobles turned toward her like hounds scenting blood.

Her mouth opened, though she remained wordless as terror seemed to strike through her.

“She—” someone choked. “She tampered—”

“What?!” Penelope’s voice cracked. She shook her head violently, horror written plain across her face. “I don’t—I don’t know what—!”

Guards moved fast, too fast. The Eckhart name was ducal, yes, but the court had just seen a princess nearly felled by unnatural fire, and the young woman stood there with burnt hems like the smoking gun of guilt.

Two soldiers seized her arms.

Her real panic broke through then—not the smooth disdain of a noblewoman, not the polished mask. Just raw fear. She pulled against their grip, eyes flashing wild. “I didn’t—please, I didn’t do this!”

Rosalyn’s glass shattered on the floor. “Let her go.” Her voice rang sharp, resonant with command. The heat gathering at her fingers was unmistakable.

Choi Han stepped up beside her, his hand falling to his sword with a deceptively calm grace.

Those two are never ones to let injustice sway them by, and something in the young girl's struggle seemed too real to them.

The room pulsed with tension—something still sparking faintly on the tiles, nobles drawing back like waves before a storm, the woman fell still in her captor's arms, with tears threatening her eyes even as she rapidly lost the will to fight.

The guards tightened their grip, the clink of metal gauntlets ringing louder than the orchestra ever had. Penelope sagged against them, breath shallow, lips trembling as if words had abandoned her entirely.

The nobles pressed in like vultures scenting rot. Whispered accusations slithered: “Duke’s daughter—Eckhart—treachery—”

Cale’s patience snapped.

A weight rolled outward from him like a stormfront breaking. Cold and suffocating, heavy enough to grind bone to powder. The Dominating Aura seized the air.

The great hall went still, every throat closed, every heartbeat dragged down beneath the crushing demand of obedience.

“Quiet.”

Cale’s voice, low and unyielding, carried farther than any shout. The word alone pinned them more effectively than chains.

The guards holding Penelope trembled, their eyes bulging, sweat running in rivulets down their necks. They didn’t drop her, but they couldn’t so much as move.

Cale let the silence hang, stretching taut until it threatened to snap. His gaze flicked once, toward the swordsman standing at ease among the wreckage of shattered glass and stilled rumor.

“Choi Han.”

Steel whispered, though the blade never left its sheath. A heartbeat later, Penelope was no longer in the guards’ grip. She stumbled forward into Choi Han’s steady hand, her arm caught and steadied without ceremony. Her tears clung to her lashes, but her body shook less under his protection.

A ripple of disbelief ran through the crowd, but no one dared voice it under Cale’s oppressive will.

Across the floor, Eruhaben alone moved unhindered. His golden eyes flicked briefly to Cale—acknowledging the choice, the restraint—and then passed over him. The ancient dragon’s footsteps carried him toward Alberu and the princess, whose skirts still bore faint scorch marks.

Cale slowly drew his power back, the suffocating silence loosening into air again. Nobles gasped as if they had been drowning.

He was just releasing the last thin veil of his shield when Eruhaben crouched, one hand brushing the ground where sparks still hissed and fizzed like a dying serpent. His expression sharpened, ancient knowledge stirring.

The silence broke not with music, but with whispers.

“The Roan commander-”

“He looks just like her!”

“How uncanny…”

“Were they working together? Did they use their magic to try and kill the princess?”

It spread like a sickness, hushed voices carrying farther in the stillness than shouts ever could. Heads turned, eyes darted between Cale and the Eckhart girl trembling in Choi Han’s steady grasp. Rosalyn was also at her side, holding her hand and muttering something no one else could hear.

Her breath hitched audibly. Her lips parted as if to protest against the whispers, but her throat failed her.

“Penelope Eckhart! What is the meaning of this?!” A man shouts. It’s one of the people she entered with. Not the Duke, from the looks of it, but probably his successor.

Rosalyn looks up with venomous eyes, daring him to say another word.

And then the queen’s voice cut the hall like a whip.

“Enough!”

Every noble jolted at the force of it. The queen of the Ahn Empire rose from her throne, the echo of her words sharp as steel. “What,” she demanded, her jeweled hand pointing toward the wreckage, “just happened in my hall?”

Callisto no longer looked bored, an amused smile on his face while the second prince next to him looked horrified.

All eyes swept back to the shattered chandelier, its molten fragments still steaming where they lay. The acrid tang of smoke clung stubbornly to the air.

Eruhaben straightened from his crouch, dusting shards of crystal from his golden sleeves as though the wreckage itself was beneath his dignity. With unhurried calm, he offered his hand first to the shaken princess, then to Alberu, pulling them clear of the scorched floor.

His eyes glinted as he turned, voice smooth and cutting as it carried across the room.

“Cale-nim,” Eruhaben said, the honorific still strange on Cale’s ears. His gaze locked with the red-haired young man’s. “This was alchemy.”

The word dropped like a stone into still water. The crowd rippled with gasps, recoils, hurried whispers.

Cale inclined his head slightly, gaze shifting to the royal dais. His bow was exact, precise—not servile, not arrogant, merely efficient.

“Your Majesty,” he said evenly. “I believe I can explain what happened.”

The queen’s jeweled hand tightened. Her voice carried, cool and edged. “Then please do.”

Cale straightened, eyes sweeping the hall.

“First,” he began, voice calm though it carried like a blade through silence, “this was an attempt by one of your nobles to frame the envoy of the Roan Kingdom for treason against your empire.”

A wave of sharp intakes of breath coursed through the room. Several nobles’ faces blanched, while others tried to mask their relief that blame was being redirected.

He continued, unbothered.

“Reason one: your empire’s disdain for mages is no secret. The Roan Kingdom, by contrast, has a surplus. Not everyone here is as open-minded as Their Majesties. Some among you would wish to see an alliance crushed before it begins.”

The queen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You mean to imply,” she asked coldly, “that one of my own nobles would endanger their princess merely to prevent this alliance?”

Cale’s lips thinned, but his tone never wavered. “I would sure hope that this Empire's subjects would not do such a thing, but I believe that not many would survive being crushed by a chandelier.”

The murmur that followed was ugly. Accusatory. Frightened.

Cale spoke over it.

“Reason two: alchemy is inefficient. Wasteful. Crude compared to proper magic. If the Roan Kingdom had wished to provoke your empire, do you truly believe we would have resorted to such a method?”

“If it was meant to disguise the deliverer, then yes.” Callisto butted in, caused in the queen to scowl.

“With all due respect, the Roan kingdom has just come from a war where magic was used in every single battle. Why would we change our method of attack, especially if it was meant to spark conflict in the first place?”

Mutters of agreement rippled through the nobles. The queen nodded reluctantly. “Continue.”

“Reason three,” Cale pressed, “the very fact that it was alchemy instead of magic points to one of your own citizens. Summoning a mage here—given your empire’s discrimination—would be impossible.”

A noble at the fringes muttered something sharp about “foreign trickery,” only to wilt under the queen’s glare.

“Reason four,” Cale said smoothly, “if Alberu Crossman had not been observant—if he had not pulled the princess close to him when he did—he would have released her into the exact spot that was targeted, as the steps of the dance dictated. Instead, he joined her beneath the strike, putting himself at risk. If the attack was meant for your princess alone, he wouldn’t have tried to shield her.”

The king, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. His deep voice rumbled across the hall. “And yet, Lord Henituse… the evidence remains before us. The singed gown. The timing. Penelope Eckhart walked back into this hall marked by flame.” His sharp eyes fixed on Cale. “Are you implying she is the culprit?”

The hall’s tension knifed sharper. Penelope flinched visibly at the words, her breath hitched like a trapped animal’s.

Cale’s jaw tightened. He met the king’s gaze squarely. “No. She is not.”

Silence.

Cale’s mind raced, cogs turning as his gaze flicked briefly toward the girl—ashen, trembling in Choi Han’s grasp—and then back to the nobles circling like sharks.

He had nothing. No evidence. Only that she had left a shoe behind, and that the way she was acting was so painfully genuine that it was as if a puppy was being accused of murder.

And then—

‘Human.’

Raon’s voice, sharp and urgent, rang in his mind.

‘Look outside.’

Cale’s eyes flicked toward the balcony doors. His lips pressed into a thin line.

“Rosalyn,” he said quietly.

The mage understood instantly. With a flick of her wrist, the balcony doors groaned open.

Gasps tore through the hall.

Beyond, flames licked at the night air. A tree—its trunk blackened, its branches collapsed in ruin—smoldered across the balcony, its embers gnawing at the flagstones. At its very edge lay a single abandoned heel, gleaming faintly in the firelight.

Shock rolled through the crowd, louder now, thunderous in its accusation turned on its head.

“T-that-” The princess muttered too quietly for the bustling room to hear. She grabbed onto Alberu’s coat with a trembling hand.

Eruhaben crouched down. His golden eyes bore into her red ones, brimming with tears. Something about him was calming. Just looking at him made it easier to breathe. “What is it, your highness?” He asked softly, encouraging her to speak.

The hall quieted down, interested in what their princess had to say. 

“T-that balcony i-is where I usually g-go when I get tired a-at parties…” She stutters, Eruhaben patting her head after she admits it.

More shock sounded. The king and queen’s faces light up with recognition, telling Cale her words are true.

“It seems like traps were set in the places the princess was most likely to be: the balcony, and the center of the dance floor.” Cale says calmly, his eyes moving to Penelope. “It seems as though she was caught in an unfortunate crossfire. Another point proving that the Roan Kingdom wouldn’t be as sloppy as to set off two traps at once by accident.”

A storm of whispers broke out again, harsher than before.

“If not them, then who—?”

“Two traps? At once?”

“Who dares to target the royal family within the imperial palace?”

The crowd’s panic clawed higher, until the queen’s voice cut across it like a blade.

“Silence.”

The hall quieted, though the nobles shifted uneasily, exchanging looks.

Her eyes, sharp as the frost of midwinter, swept over her people before fixing on Cale. “You make a compelling case, Commander-nim. But if Penelope Eckhart is innocent, and this attack was not orchestrated by your kingdom, then I must ask—” she leaned forward slightly, her gaze hard as steel. “Who is responsible?”

A ripple of dread moved through the nobility. Some gasped, others stiffened. The accusation—no matter how carefully phrased—was poison in the air.

And then, calmly—he looked to Rosalyn.

The mage inclined her head, her red hair catching firelight, and with a wave of her hand the great balcony doors swung wider, letting the full ruin blaze into view. The nobles craned their necks, some stepping closer, others shrinking back.

The ruined tree smoldered, a trail of black ash scattered across the balcony. Its trunk leaned heavily against the railing, and in its collapse had carved deep gouges in the stone—a mark of force, not accident.

“No one in our envoy could’ve been aware of such sensitive information about the young princess.”

The king’s jaw tightened as he stared at the wreckage. He muttered something low to the queen, whose face went paler by the second.

Nobles glanced at one another, eyes sharp, whispers biting. Fingers almost—but not quite—pointed.

Finally, the king looked at Cale, his voice heavy with something close to reluctant trust. “I’m sorry to ask this of you, but we are as clueless to alchemy as we are to magic. We wouldn’t know where to start to find the culprit. Would you help?

Cale gave a slow nod, his expression calm despite the whirl of calculations running through his mind. ‘Alchemy is inefficient and sloppy. It always leaves traces. And whoever used it like this clearly didn’t understand that.’

Before he could speak, Eruhaben stepped forward. “There is a way.”

The room quieted instantly. Even the most arrogant nobles could not ignore the pressure of the ancient dragon as he raised a hand. “Alchemy leaves residue—marks invisible to the eye,” but not to a dragon, Cale’s mind supplies helpfully.

“Unless a certain spell is applied.” He looks at the Royals, being rather respectful as he waits for the go-ahead.

The queen nods.

His hand traced a symbol in the air, ancient and fluid. Gold light bloomed from his palm, spreading outward in shimmering waves that washed over the ballroom like a tide. Wherever it passed, faint glimmers sparked—like dust caught in sunlight.

Gasps erupted. A few screamed, but were quickly shushed.

The white-haired mage was positively stunned.

The floor beneath the ruined chandelier glowed strongly, gold sticking to it like a beacon. 

Two servants near the back flinched as the glow clung stubbornly to their sleeves. Whispers hissed through the crowd at once.

But the glow didn’t stop there. It pulsed briefly over the hem of Penelope’s singed dress and along the soot smears near her shoes, making her stiffen in alarm before Cale spoke smoothly, “Collateral traces. Nothing more.” This was also true for the princesses' dress, and a few of the nobles' shoes who had danced through the tainted spot on the floor. (Cale was relieved to see that she had calmed down some, as she leaned against Rosalyn for support.)

It lingered longer on the princess’s gown, a bright shimmer across her skirts where the chandelier would have struck had Alberu not pulled her close. The girl shrank against him, wide-eyed.

And then—

The light flared brightest at the far side of the ballroom, where a woman stood, rooted in place.

Her gown blazed with sickly gold stains, crawling up her gloves and trailing from her skirts like smoke. The glow clung to her like a second skin, undeniable.

The hall froze. Had it really been that easy…?

“Countess Caldwyn…” the queen breathed.

The woman’s face contorted, fury and fear bleeding together. “Lies!” she shrieked, voice high and cracking. “This is trickery—witchcraft!”

The guards moved in, but she recoiled, her voice climbing to a manic pitch. “I am loyal to the Empire! I would never! It’s the mages—you fools—it’s always the mages!” Her eyes darted wildly to Rosalyn and then to Eruhaben, hatred sharp enough to wound. “They are demons in human skin! Poisoners! Curses! Our empire will rot the moment you let their kind through our gates!”

Gasps, protests, murmurs—it was chaos.

“Silence her!” the queen snapped, her face pale with fury.

Spears pressed to the Countess’s sides as the guards wrestled her arms behind her back, but she fought like a cornered beast, spitting venom to the last. “You’ll see! You’ll all see! The Roan Kingdom sends their mages to seduce you, to taint your bloodline! You’ll burn with them, every last one—”

“Enough,” the king thundered, rising to his feet. 

The Countess was dragged back, still cursing, still spewing hatred that only made her guilt clearer.

Cale watched, expression unreadable. Though, under it, he was seething.

‘Human, can you believe that? She’s crazy!’

Cale nodded grimly.

The hall was still heavy with the echo of Countess Caldwyn’s venom when Cale’s gaze slid back to the Eckhart girl.

Her breath still came shallow, her body shaking under the weight of every eye in the room. But it wasn’t her fear that unsettled him—it was the way the whispers clung to her. She looks like him. The resemblance… uncanny.

Cale’s fingers twitched against his palm. He hated rumors. Hated their persistence. 

He exhaled and walked over to where she was crumpled. The nobles parted for him.

Choi Han eased back a step, making space. Cale lowered himself into a crouch, the folds of his coat brushing the marble floor.

Penelope’s head hung low, her hair falling like a curtain to hide her face. Rosalyn remained at her side, one hand rubbing her arm in quiet comfort.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Cale’s voice was steady, but his hand slipped into his jacket, fingers closing around the red diary. The instant he drew on it, the world shifted. Color bled away, dulled to ash, as if time itself had been stripped bare before his eyes.

He brushed her forearm lightly, a simple touch to test—

And froze.

Her rings were warped. Layered and twisted in impossible patterns. Not the smooth, clean arc of a noblewoman’s life, but the jagged, distorted reflection of his own.

Then, a voice.

“Oh, dear…”

Standing just over Penelope’s shoulder—impossible, invisible to all but him—was a young woman with wild, familiar eyes. Jour Thames, as she had been in life. She glowed faintly, a fragment bound to this ancient power.

Her gaze settled on him, piercing, undeniable. If there had been doubt, it died then and there.

“How did you end up here, darling?” Her voice was young, too young to carry the burden of children—but it was steeped in a maternal warmth that cut bone-deep.

The vision snapped, and Cale inhaled sharply as color returned to the world. Penelope’s head lifted slightly, eyes wide, uncertain, still trembling from the chaos around her.

Cale’s gaze lingered on her, studying the warped rings he had just seen—the unmistakable distortion, the echoes of time that mirrored his own life.

He drew in a slow breath, letting the words settle carefully, measured.

“You carry the same bloodline as me.”

The words hung in the quiet stretch between them. Nobles murmured softly at the phrasing, but the weight in his tone made it difficult to dismiss as exaggeration.

“What the hell did you just say?!” A pink-haired man pushed through. Choi Han’s hand drifted to his scabbard.

Cale’s gaze shifted in a deadly manner, patience running thin, he activated the Dominating Aura. 

The man choked on his own words. “She- she’s part of the Eckhart family!” he tried uselessly.

Cale’s gaze never wavered. Choi Han stepped in front of the man in a threatening manner. Only then did Cale look back to Penelope.

Penelope’s lips parted soundlessly. Her hands trembled as though she were trying to hold on to something that had just been given back to her after years of loss. Her eyes, too bright, brimmed with something far more dangerous than fear—hope.

As Cale looked into her eyes, tears welling up, the blue of her eyes swirled like the wind. It bled out, leaving Cale to look into an exact mirror.

A smirk quirked at his lips despite himself.

“Welcome home, sister.”

Chapter Text

Derick’s hand brushed hers as they paused outside the gilded doors, a grip so light it could have been mistaken for accidental—if not for the bite in his words.

“Don’t cause another mess.” His tone was low, polite enough not to be overheard by the waiting herald, but sharp enough to cut. “You’re already on thin ice. Stay quiet, stay still. Understand?”

Her throat tightened. She didn’t answer, only lifted her chin as though her silence was a kind of agreement.

The doors swung wide.

The Roan Kingdom envoy stood at attention beside the imperials, where the king and queen glittered like living jewels upon their twin thrones. Their children framed them, polished ornaments rehearsed into perfection.

Her gaze skimmed them quickly, cataloguing the players. The tall one with the golden hair(a true gold, not like Callisto’s pale blonde) and princely grace—the crown prince, surely. 

And then her eyes snagged.

Not on the “Crimson Commander,” (Penelope- from this distance- was still trying to decide which red-head it was) but on the swordsman.

Black-haired, sharp-eyed, posture steady as stone—yet his face stopped her breath cold. His features. His face. Korean. There was no mistaking it.

Penelope’s pulse thudded. Even across the distance she could see it—his jawline, the slope of his eyes, the unmistakable familiarity of a homeland she hadn’t seen in years, but still carried.

No.

Her mind spun, colliding with memory. Choi Han. That was his name. She remembered it clearly from the lineup in the game—the loyal swordsman of Roan, a man of heroics and an unshakable will.

So how—?

How could he—? Could he be like her?

Her stomach tightened. The thought was too dangerous, too absurd to finish.

She was going to die tonight. And that was okay. She would never get the answer from just wondering.

She forced her eyes away, dragging her attention to the next. This red-head was certainly a woman, her hair perhaps too bright to be called “crimson.” A flame would be a better way to describe it.

There was also a beautiful golden haired elf, that Penelope would’ve spent a longer time admiring if it wasn’t for him.

The man in black. Severe, silent, unyielding.

Her heart stuttered.

He was dressed as she was—black upon black. Hair the same blood-dyed red as hers. Skin pale enough that the candlelight made him ghostlike. Like hers.

Penelope felt her breath catch, then pressed it down, locked it away before anyone could see.

That was Cale Henituse? The man whispered about in every corridor of the palace? The man who had led Roan to victory, outmaneuvered foes twice his strength, who carried himself as if empires bent when he lifted a hand?

Her lips curled in spite of herself. This man? With that face? With that constitution? She could scarcely believe it. He looked like he’d shatter if someone set a teacup too hard on the table.

Her fingers dug into the folds of her gown as she looked away, and resolved to not look again.

Penelope made her choice in that instant.

Distance. As far from Cale Henituse as she could manage.

What had this nation done for her, except persecute her wrongfully?

She hoped the Roan Kingdom would burn it to ashes. Flood the Empire with brutal mages that could kill soldiers without touching them.

Penelope broke from the Eckharts the first chance she got. She had no desire to linger at their sides, to play the role of dutiful daughter when everyone here knew better. Their arms were a cage, and she had clawed her way free too many times to walk willingly back in.

So she walked—alone—through a tide of nobles who parted for her not out of respect, but out of disdain. Whispers brushed against her like gnats.

“—that trial, the nerve to even show her face—”

“—not truly an Eckhart, only an embarrassment—”

“—no one really believes she was innocent, do they?”

They didn’t laugh. That would’ve been too merciful. Instead, they ignored her. A crueler game. If they did not speak to her, she had no chance to defend herself. If they did not see her, she was nothing.

She kept her head high, her lips pressed into a faint curve that wasn’t a smile. Her dress was midnight-dark, threaded with silver that glinted when she moved, daring them to look, daring them to judge. If they wanted her a ghost, then fine—she would be a phantom that haunted their every glance.

She found the most secluded corner she could. A table half-hidden behind a pair of towering marble columns, laid with wine and sugared fruits and little jewel-bright pastries that smelled maddeningly of honey.

Her stomach twisted. She was hungry—achingly so—but the corset cinched her ribs like a vise. One bite, one swallow too many, and it would tighten until she was choking on her own vanity. The glass of wine would have to suffice. She held it delicately, letting its pale gleam shield her from anyone who dared approach. No one did.

Across the hall, the king spoke, his voice solemn and heavy with ceremony. Applause rose like brittle leaves. Nobles flocked to the envoy, their jeweled heads bobbing as they fell over themselves to flatter the foreigners.

She was prepared not to care. She had told herself she wouldn’t.

But her eyes—traitorous things—slid toward the envoy.

The crown prince gleamed as though born to wear diplomacy. The red-haired mage caught stares and sharpened them into weapons. And then—

The man in black.

He wore shadow like a second skin, severe against the opulence around him. His presence rippled through the crowd, unspoken, undeniable—yet he looked, to her eye, like a man who should collapse beneath the weight of a single careless word.

Their eyes met.

It wasn’t deliberate, not really. A flick, a heartbeat, and she looked away so quickly her neck ached.

But that was enough.

The wine in her hand trembled. She steadied it, forced her lips into a faint quirk again, as if nothing at all had happened. As if she hadn’t just felt her chest tighten with the dizzy, dangerous thought—

Obviously, his hair was shorter than hers, but long enough that it was unusual for a man.

It made her sick. In that split second, it was as if she was back looking into her reflection that morning when even the colors of her eyes had betrayed her–(warm. They were warm. Like every inch of comfort she had prayed for in her life as Cha Siyeon.)

A ripple moved through the nobles nearest the envoy. Penelope didn’t have to look to know why—they were circling like vultures around the golden prize. The Roan envoy weren’t simply foreigners; they were walking war stories, whispered into legend.

She kept her distance. She had promised herself she would. But the sound carried. The soft flutter of silk. The delicate, hopeful voice of a young noblewoman barely grown into her gowns.

“Young Master Henituse… would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

Penelope’s jaw tightened.

A dance. The word was enough to twist bile into her throat.

Once, she might have chosen that option. Back when she was nothing but a girl holding the strings of a puppet in some cursed game, choosing routes, maneuvering dialogue boxes like stepping-stones. The dance option had always been available: choose correctly, and earn affection points; choose wrongly, and spiral into ruin.

But this wasn’t a game anymore.

She was no puppet master, no faceless player. She was Penelope Eckhart, living, breathing—and the thought of stepping onto that floor, of every jeweled eye in the room snapping to her, dissecting her every movement, made her stomach lurch. She’d choke. She’d stumble. She’d throw up bile all over the polished marble.

Dancing with someone from the envoy? That would be suicide. The rumor mill would eat her alive before her slippers even left the floor. And any other nobleman? She nearly laughed, sharp and bitter, behind her wineglass. What fool would want to take the “mad dog of Eckhart” onto the floor, where all the world could see him debase himself?

She sipped her wine instead, swallowing the burn like medicine.

The crowd shifted again, and curiosity pried her eyes toward the envoy despite herself. She caught the girl’s flushed cheeks, her hopeful curtsy, and the flat, unyielding look Cale Henituse gave her in return.

“No,” he said, simple as stone.

Penelope blinked. Her grip tightened on the glass stem.

The girl flinched, paling as whispers hissed like sparks through dry grass. For a heartbeat, Penelope thought he’d humiliate her outright, cut her down for daring. But then, Cale’s voice carried again—matter-of-fact, sharp, but not cruel.

“It’s been a few years since I’ve taken a partner on the dance floor,” he said, “and I’m afraid that due to my hiatus, I might trip over my feet and embarrass you, my lady.”

The whispers shifted instantly, a tide turning.

Considerate. Gentleman. Oh, how refined.

The girl looked at him as if he’d hung the moon before retreating in flustered awe, and the nobles swelled with approving hums.

Penelope turned her gaze away, bile rising again—this time sharper, less from fear and more from the cruel twist of it.

One word from him, and the room bent in his favor.

One word from her, and the same room would sharpen its claws.

The music swelled in front of her like an ocean threatening to pull her under. Every polite laugh, every lilting trill of a waltz note scraped against her nerves. Penelope could feel her dread blooming, slow and ugly, in her stomach. It sat there like a swallowed stone, heavy and unyielding, each beat of the orchestra pressing it deeper into her gut.

If she was going to die, she thought grimly, she would have preferred it to happen in some back alley or in the privacy of her room—anywhere but here, surrounded by a thousand mocking eyes waiting for her to slip. Every movement felt like stepping onto a stage she hadn’t agreed to perform on.

Her palms were clammy against her skirts as she excused herself, eyes downcast, fingers tight around the stem of her empty glass. She set it down on a servant’s tray with more force than she meant to and slipped through the nearest side door like a thief making an escape.

The night air hit her first—cool and sharp, smelling faintly of roses and stone. She sagged against the balustrade, only then realizing how tightly she’d been holding herself upright. Her heels ached viciously; she crouched and slipped them off one at a time, the relief so immediate she almost groaned. The cold marble under her bare feet was a mercy.

Her corset felt like it was biting into her ribs. She pressed a hand over the boning, wishing she could loosen it even an inch, just enough to breathe properly. But she was alone, and such a thing required hands other than her own. So she stayed as she was—trapped in stays and expectation—gazing out over the dark gardens like a prisoner staring at a distant freedom.

Somewhere behind her, laughter drifted out from the ballroom. It sounded too bright, too cruel. She shut her eyes, and for a moment all she could think was: I’m still not a puppet. I’m living, breathing, and choking on it.

She shut her eyes. For a heartbeat she thought she might be sick over the railing.

The thought flickered—strangely familiar—and she realized it wasn’t hers alone. It had been in her dream the night before.

That dream.

A dark, endless place. Her hair fisted in her hands, her reflection staring back, her lips bitten raw. The attic. The banishment. The weight of a hand stroking her curls when no one had ever done so gently. The voice that wasn’t a voice, telling her she had waited too long, telling her “just a little more.”

She almost laughed at the absurdity. It had been just a dream. And yet somehow it had been enough to pull her out of bed this morning, enough to make her swing her feet to the floor instead of curling deeper into the emptiness. Enough to keep her from doing something irreversible.

She pressed a hand against her corset and let herself breathe—shallow, but breathing all the same.

Cheering for me? she thought, eyes still closed. Who would cheer for the mad dog of Eckhart?

And yet the memory of that unseen hand in her hair lingered, warm and steady, like a phantom against her scalp. It steadied her even now, as the garden stretched silent and cold beneath her.

“Remember your [...], little one,” the voice had said.

She opened her eyes and stared out at the moonlit hedges, her hands still trembling against the stone rail. What had that voice said? To keep going?

Endure.

That was what Cha Siyeon had done. That was what Penelope Eckhart was still doing. Two names, two lives, neither belonging fully to her, both carrying the same curse.

Growing up with that hateful family, with those two brothers who wore cruelty like second skins—Siyeon had only one thing she could cling to. The Lady’s Love Project.

The game had been her salvation for those few years that she lived in that household.

She loved the easy mode best, the perfect, shining fairytale. Yvonne’s story. It was too good to be true, but she clutched it in both hands anyway, because believing in something sweet, even if false, helped her survive the bitterness of real life.

She remembered lying awake at night, staring into the dark, whispering Yvonne’s lines as if they were her own. Pretending her family loved her. Pretending she was the lost daughter welcomed home, not the unwanted burden left rotting in an attic.

But even as she clung to the fantasy, her hands—always—would drift toward the other icon.

Hardmode.

To Penelope.

Other players hated her. The forums dripped with vitriol. The imitation, a replacement that didn’t even do a good job.

Siyeon never felt that way.

Not once.

Because every time she looked at Penelope—whether as Yvonne staring at her rival, or as the player forced to pick through Penelope’s doomed choices—what she felt wasn’t contempt.

It was kinship.

That rare, agonizing kinship you only feel when you see someone who has bled the same way you have. Someone who wears your scars without needing to ask where they came from. Someone who can look you straight in the eye and say, I know.

And it hurt. God, it hurt.

Penelope Eckhart was never made to be a main character. She was just a poor, pitiful girl. Why didn’t anyone else see that?

She never once reached one of Penelope's good endings.

But… were there really any?

Every choice only often ended up cornering Penelope, with the dialogue and actions only securing her grave for her.

If that was true, did Cha Siyeon even have a chance of a good ending?

…

…

The apocalypse started when she was seventeen. Only a year or two until she could get out. Go to college. Move somewhere far, far away from her parasites.

She was walking back home with her groceries- a chore her older “brothers” had shoved off onto her ever since she came to their house.

But it ended up being the only reason she wasn’t buried under the rubble with them.

The ground trembled first, a subtle shudder that quickly became violent. It should have been her warning to run, but she didn’t.

She ran anyway—in the wrong direction, back toward her “home,” against the tide of panicked people. Another sign she should have seen.

By the time she reached the last corner, the street was empty. Her lungs burned, her legs ached, and she could only gasp for breath.

When she finally looked up, the sight froze her in place.

A creature was there. Not emerging, not stepping into view—it simply was. The street beneath it seemed to bend under its weight, asphalt buckling like paper in a child’s hands. Its body towered above the buildings around it, black and slick as oil, cracks along its surface glowing with a sickly green-blue light that pulsed like the heartbeat of some drowned city trapped inside.

Its head was enormous, impossibly large, shaped like a whale’s skull twisted into something alien. Two cavernous mouths split vertically and horizontally, each one darker than the night, as if the world itself had been swallowed and compressed into that void.

It just sat there, the room she had lived in for so long crushed and unidentifiable under the destruction.

There were bodies. Crushed. Malformed.

It made her sick. She dropped the bags she was holding and felt a cold shock of fear. Did it hear that? Would she be next?

The monster didn’t move. It didn’t seem aware of her at all.

Somewhere distant, a rational part of her mind thought: maybe it can’t hear, or perhaps she was too small to matter.

Fight or flight surged through her. Most of the world went numb except the need to survive. She ran. Hard. Fast. Prayed she was insignificant, prayed it wouldn’t follow.

She wanted to live, she was so close to freedom.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She couldn’t tell if the creature was moving behind her or if the world itself had become silent.

Then, a few streets down, she tripped. It was an uneven part of the sidewalk that she had memorized at this point, and yet, she forgot about it.

Well, this is what she gets for not paying attention.

Instinctively, she tries to brace for the fall, taking the brunt on her shoulder.

A sharp, explosive pain shot through her upper body. Her arm didn’t move. Her breath caught in her throat. Something snapped inside her, a deep, violent crack that made her vision swim.

She cried out, more from shock than the pain. The world seemed to tilt as she tried to regain her footing, but every movement sent stabbing agony radiating down her arm and across her chest.

Still, she forced herself up. Crawling, limping, every step of a fight, she dragged herself forward. Her adrenaline carried her through the pain, but the fear—pure, unrelenting—was sharper than whatever she had broken.

Somewhere behind her, the ground trembled again. The creature hadn’t moved, but it didn’t need to. Its presence was enough.

Cha Siyeon’s legs trembled beneath her, every movement sending hot, stabbing pain up her arm and through her chest. She knew she couldn’t keep running—not like this. The adrenaline that had been propelling her began to fade, and the second it did, the pain doubled, twisting her body into sharp spasms that left her gasping.

She forced herself to the side of the street, pressing her back against a crumbling brick wall. The wall was jagged, chipped—probably long abandoned—but it would have to do. She slid down it until she was crouched low, knees drawn to her chest, arm pinned against her side.

She pressed her face against the rough bricks, hoping the shadows would swallow her, hoping the creature wouldn’t notice. Every instinct in her screamed that hiding was useless, but the thought of trying to flee again—of dragging her broken body across the streets while the thing waited—was unbearable.

A wave of nausea hit her. Her vision blurred at the edges, the green-blue light from the creature still imprinted in her eyes. She shut them, trying to shut out the world, trying to convince herself that staying perfectly still might give her a chance.

Her arm throbbed uncontrollably. It felt like fire running from her shoulder to her fingers, a relentless pulse with every heartbeat. She dared not move it, and yet, even as she stayed perfectly still, the pain surged, almost as if the bone itself hated her.

Cha Siyeon hugged herself tighter, curling into as small a shape as she could manage. She knew she was exposed. She knew she was utterly vulnerable. But for the first time since the shaking began, she allowed herself to pause—to let her body rest, even if just for a moment.

Somewhere in the distance, a scream echoed faintly. Her heart clenched in her chest. It was an animalistic call, not like anything she had ever heard.

A shadow swept across, blocking out the light for a split second, and then it screamed once more. 

Tears welled up in her eyes. What in the world was happening?

Yet she didn’t move. She couldn’t. Not without agony, not without risking collapse. She clung to the illusion that the shadows, the jagged wall, and her own invisibility might buy time(though she didn’t know how long.)

Her uninjured hand hovered over her limp arm, trembling. The pain throbbed with every beat of her heart, a deep, insistent ache that made her stomach churn.

Carefully, agonizingly, she reached out and let her fingers brush the skin over her forearm. The movement sent sharp spikes of pain shooting up into her shoulder, forcing her to bite her lip to keep from crying out. She breathed through it, shallow, controlled breaths, willing herself not to make a sound.

Her arm wasn’t the problem– it was higher up.

She inched her hand higher, to the shoulder. The first touch made her flinch inward, her teeth clenching so hard she tasted copper. The fire of pain that erupted from just a light press made her world narrow, focused entirely on the agony pulsing beneath her skin.

She hesitated, every instinct screaming to stop, but her curiosity, her desperate need to understand, pushed her forward. Her fingers traced this time–not pushing– along the curve of her shoulder, every millimeter a trial. She felt the heat of her own skin, no doubt trying to swell.

And then… she felt it.

A jagged, unnatural edge beneath her fingers. Something was wrong—wrong in a way that made the pain make sense. A deep, cold dread settled in her chest as realization struck:

Her collarbone. Something she hadn’t even considered the strength of before.

The bone that ran across her clavicle had snapped so easily– just because she fell incorrectly.

The reason every movement, every attempt to lift her arm, every breath she’d taken felt like knives through her chest—it wasn’t just the fall. It was this. This broken, jagged bone that refused to let her forget it existed.

The knowledge made her flinch, the pain radiating through her arm and chest in a brutal, undeniable wave. She pressed herself tighter to the wall, trying to ground herself, trying to breathe without letting a sob escape.

She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the jagged bricks, and let herself shiver. Every instinct screamed to curl into herself, to be still, to survive.

She stayed there for four whole days, surviving only by drinking water from the concrete after it had rained.

Cha Siyeon had to live, even as every moment her consciousness begged to slip.

It was an agonizing wait. Every time she thought it was clear, another monster would show up. 

None of them ever saw her, thank god, but is was torturous.

It wasn’t until day five that she heard something that wasn’t exactly monstrous.

A tremendous crash echoed through the street—a sound that made the ground shudder under her feet, even from her crouched hiding spot. The unmistakable thud of a massive, heavy body hitting the asphalt resonated in her chest, reverberating through the broken bones in her shoulder.

Then, footsteps. Slow, deliberate, but undeniably human. A voice cut through the heavy silence, cautious but strong: “Anyone here?”

Her throat felt raw, her voice barely more than a whisper, but she called back. “H-Help… please…”

A moment later, a figure appeared in the distance, moving steadily toward her. A man, tall and lean, carrying a long sword at his side. “I’m Lee Soo Hyuk,” he said gently. “I’ll get you out of here.”

Cha Siyeon tried to speak, tried to explain her injuries, but the words came out broken, halting. She gestured weakly at her shoulder, tears stinging her eyes. Soo Hyuk didn’t hesitate. He knelt carefully, letting her lean against him, then lifted her into his arms with surprising steadiness.

Every movement made her whimper as her broken clavicle jostled, but he held her close, moving carefully through the shattered streets. She clung to him, too exhausted and injured to do anything else, and for the first time in days, she felt something like safety.

Finally, he arrived at a building that seemed untouched by the chaos outside. “This is a shelter,” he explained. “Monsters won’t come here.”

Lee Soo Hyuk gently lowered her onto a cot. She tried to sit upright, but the pain shot through her shoulder instantly.

He called over an old woman he called “Grandma Kim.”

Grandma Kim looked every bit the part of a comforting old lady, the kind whose presence alone seemed to soften the edges of fear. Her silver hair was tied back into a neat bun, wisps escaping to frame her kind, time-worn face. Lines of age carved her skin, but they deepened most around her eyes, where a smile seemed permanently etched.

She walked over and traced her fingers over Cha Siyeon's heavily bruised skin, a map of purples and reds that radiated heat.

“I’m so sorry,” Grandma Kim said softly. “I have a healing ability… but it can’t fix injuries like this at the moment.”

“Ability…?” 

“Ever since those monsters have appeared, people with abilities have started to, as well.” Lee Soo Hyuk says helpfully, a wrist resting on his hilt.

Grandma Kim nodded gravely, the wisps of her grey hair swaying slightly. "I think mine has some limitations. I healed a femur break only two days ago, and I haven't been able to use my ability since..."

“Oh,” Cha Siyeon shook her head weakly. “It’s… okay.”

Lee Soo Hyuk nodded. “I’m going out for more survivors,” he tells Grandma Kim.

“Be careful, you rascal.” she said, and he left just like that.

What a heroic person…

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Grandma Kim asked her.

“Cha Siyeon…”

“What a beautiful name.” Grandma Kim smiles, and it looks like she truly means it. "I'm sorry I can't do much more for you."

Grandma Kim calls over a boy her same age named Kim Rok Soo. He had been saved the day before and had already recovered enough to move freely.

Kim Rok Soo helped her sit upright, carefully supporting her as she ate and drank what Grandma Kim gave her.

Grandma Kim tended to others in the room, murmuring softly to the wounded.

Kim Rok Soo was quiet, but he watched her closely. “Your collarbone?” were the first words he said to her. 

Slowly, she nodded, “...yeah. You overheard?”

“No,” he shook his head. “Just how you carry yourself. And your neck is bruised pretty badly.”

Cha Siyeon let out a sigh, taking a sip of water.

“How did you break it?”

She swallows, pushing the creature out of her head. “I was running. I tripped and fell onto my shoulder.”

He blinked in mellow surprise. “That’s all it took?”

“That’s all it took…” She echoes.

Silence passed between them.

“You… you always help people like this?” she asked cautiously.

He shrugged, looking anywhere but her. “I just… follow what Grandma Kim says. And Hyung-nim.”

She nodded slowly, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. There was something about him—not just the way he moved, careful and deliberate, but the steadiness in his presence. It made the chaos outside fade, if only for a moment.

“Could you stay by my side until I fall asleep…?” She feels weird asking this to a boy she just met, but fuck it.

“I don’t want to.”

“...please?”

“...fine.”

He lowers her back down onto the cot, and pain doesn’t bloom in her chest when he does so.

Her good hand finds one of his, and while he doesn’t look too happy about it, he doesn’t pull away either.

Cha Siyeon closed her eyes, and fell asleep truly for the first time in four days.

…

…

Penelope had decided that she needed to return to the ballroom. She couldn’t mope out here all night, afterall.

Though, as she leaned down to put her shoes back on, a sudden shimmer ran across the balcony floor, catching her eye before she could even blink. It wasn’t fire, not quite lightning—it was something else, chemical and unnatural, curling up the stone like liquid sparks. Her skirts fluttered too close, and heat hissed along the edges of the fabric. Panic made her stomach lurch.

A tree just beyond the railing erupted in flames, the crackling blaze leaning toward her with impossible speed. She stumbled back, dragging one heel against the stone as she tried to escape the encroaching heat.

Her chest heaved; the stench of smoke burned her nose, the chemical tang of whatever had surged across the balcony made her throat tight. She barely had time to register the fiery limbs reaching toward her skirts when a sudden crash sounded from inside—the chandelier had come down.

Instinct overrode thought. She bolted back into the ballroom, half-tripping as her scorched skirts tangled around her knees, one heel already snapped and abandoned. The once-bright room swam in a haze of dust and panic, nobles drawing back like petals curling from frost. Her breath came ragged and uneven, a raw rasp over the noise.

And then the accusations ignited. Voices rose sharp as glass shards, striking her from every angle.

‘This looks really bad.’

“What—?!” She started, astonished that anyone could still be this willfully blind, still ignorant enough to think this was her doing.

“I don’t—I don’t know what—!” she tried, but the words stumbled out fractured. Why was she even trying to defend herself at this point? Her voice sounded thin against the room’s thick hostility.

Hands clamped down on her arms—iron gauntlets that pinched hard enough to bruise. The guards’ armor was cold where it pressed against her bare skin. She thrashed, panic curling up her spine like a live wire.

“I didn’t—please, I didn’t do this!” she begged, but her voice was swallowed whole. No one was listening. She was already condemned.

Somewhere glass shattered. A voice cut through the noise—fiery and imperious: “let her go.”

It was the mage from the envoy—Rosalyn. Her presence felt like a blade slicing clean through the fog.

Choi Han stepped closer too, silent but steady.

This was it. This was how she would die—here, humiliated, surrounded by their cold eyes.

Tears brim in her eyes and she feels her legs go weak. 

Tears brimmed, blurring her vision. Her legs trembled and she thought, Endure, but God, she was so. Fucking. Tired. of enduring.

Her fingers went numb first. Then her arms. Then the whole room dulled to a smear of sound and color. She let her head hang, strands of hair falling like a curtain between her and them.

When a voice tells the room to quiet, the guards holding her tremble. Though, she feels nothing, only the cold metal on her skin.

‘Could I run? Would it even be possible? I could turn around and jump off the balcony if I dodge the fire. But– the system's punishment wouldn’t make it matter.’

“Choi Han.” Her world lurched. The guards’ grip vanished. She stumbled, falling straight into someone’s arms. She looked up into his face. Recognition sparked there—in his eyes, and, absurdly, in hers, though for very different reasons.

The whispers rose again, a hiss like dry grass in flames, but Penelope couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice stripped of honorifics. It should have been rude, but instead it felt startlingly human.

“Burns. On my legs.” She says, voice trembling and it makes Choi Han’s eyes widen, though she doesn’t know why.

Rosalyn appeared at her side, calm and commanding, ushering Choi Han to let her go. He seemed at a loss for what to do with her anyway.

The mage led her down to the marble floor, easing her weight against her own body, fingers curling warmly around Penelope’s cold hand.

“Young master Cale will fix it. It’ll be alright,” Rosalyn murmured, like someone coaxing a child.

“Penelope Eckhart! What is the meaning of this?!” She hears Derick yell, and lord, has his voice ever been so annoying–

Rosalyn’s lips thinned. She looked as if she might turn him into a frog on the spot. But before she could, the queen’s voice sliced over everything like a bell.

It was all background noise—Derick’s bark, the queen’s commands, the frantic nobles—as Rosalyn glanced back at her and Penelope said softly, “Fire. There’s fire on the balcony.” Rosalyn's smile was bright and strangely casual. “Oh my, I guess someone else will have to deal with that.”

…what?

This person wasn’t normal.

Vaguely, Penelope caught sight of Cale Henituse across the hall, his mouth moving as he debated with the imperials. Something about alchemy, residue, spells—she couldn’t latch onto the details.

“Will… will it really be okay?” She asked the mage.

“Hmmm, well, did you do it?”

“No,” she replies.

Rosalyn is satisfied with that. 

Cale’s voice cut across the chaos again, smooth but edged with iron, arguing for the envoy’s innocence. Penelope felt the numbness begin to wear off like frost melting under sunlight.

Then, inevitably, the finger swung back toward her.

“No. She is not.” Cale’s denial cracked across the ballroom, firm and absolute. The conviction in his voice made Penelope’s throat sting with the urge to cry.

“Rosalyn,” he said, and the mage raised her hand. With a flick of her wrist, the balcony doors swung open.

The burning tree outside was visible to all now, her abandoned heel licked at by flames like a macabre centerpiece.

They believed it– she wasn’t guilty.

The rest blurred. Shouting, footsteps, a woman dragged out screaming—none of it stuck in her mind. The fire, the accusations, the biting gazes—everything dissolved into static.

Because right then, the glowing screen appeared before her eyes.

[Route:“A Crown Stained Crimson”

A diplomatic envoy arrives from a foreign kingdom.

You are invited to the Imperial Ball.

One guest is not who they seem.

Objective:Stop a War – Complete!

Rewards:

Access Hidden Content—-------------------------

—---------

—

…

Cale Henituse: Unlocked!

Meet your true family!

Penelope blinked. Her thoughts scraped to a halt.

‘Sorry, do what now?’

She wasn’t ready for another cruel joke, another cruel twist. But the words refused to disappear, glowing in that mocking, elegant script.

Her pulse thudded painfully in her ears as movement shifted at the edge of her vision. Boots clicking against marble, measured, steady. The crowd parted.

Cale Henituse.

He walked toward her like the world itself made room for him, his presence quiet but unyielding. Even Choi Han, who had stood so firmly at her side, stepped back as if instinctively knowing this wasn’t his place.

Penelope’s body felt heavy, boneless, as though the system’s screen had stripped her strength along with her certainty. She wanted to disappear, but when Cale crouched in front of her, lowering himself so his gaze met the shadowed curve of her face, she froze.

‘No. Fucking. Way.’

Above his head was an affection percentage. Of all the times for the system to shove that garbage in her face, it chose now? and- wait, why was it going up?

30%... 32%...

She blinked hard, trying to clear the numbers, but they kept climbing

34%… 38%…

Was this—was it broken? Or was the world just laughing at her?

Cale stilled. His gaze sharpened, his expression shifting in a way she couldn’t name. And then, under his breath, he said words she thought she’d never hear in her lifetime.

“You carry the same bloodline as me.”

The system all but exploded.

100%!!

Digital confetti rained over his head, ridiculous and surreal, a parody of celebration. Penelope stared at it blankly.

‘Okay now, what the actual fuck is happening.’

The absurdity tangled with the weight of his words, both pressing down on her chest until she felt half-suffocated, half-hysterical. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to scream, but all she could do was sit there, stupefied.

“What the hell did you just say?!” a voice barked—Reynold’s voice, sharp and grating, so familiar and hateful.

Penelope’s stomach turned to stone. Of course. Of course he’d be the first to sneer, to tear apart what little she had been given. She braced herself, waiting for the noose to tighten again.

But Cale’s aura slammed into the air like thunder. The pink-haired man choked on his own words, reduced to stammering nonsense. Choi Han’s hand rested on his sword, body angled to block him from coming closer.

And for once—for once—it wasn’t her fighting, begging, enduring. Someone else bore the weight for her.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her hands trembled as though they had been emptied of every weapon she’d ever clung to, every defense she’d ever forged. And yet, something in her chest burned with a fragile, reckless warmth she didn’t dare trust.

Hope.

Her eyes stung, blurred. She tilted her head, forcing herself to look into Cale’s gaze. Blue meeting brown—except no. Something shifted, deep as a current, sharp as wind cutting across a frozen field. She watched her reflection in his eyes, and the blue was no more. The color of his eyes was her own.

The tears broke free, absurdity and grief tangling until she couldn’t tell one from the other. Despite how stupid and confusing this all felt.

And when he smirked—soft, almost unwilling—it undid her more completely than any cruelty she’d ever endured.

“Welcome home, sister.”

Penelope’s world broke open, and for the first time in years, she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or collapse.

—

The hall had not yet recovered from the weight of Cale’s words. Whispers rippled like wildfire, nobles craning their necks to see the girl with the singed hem and the infamous young commander standing shoulder to shoulder.

“Impossible.” Reynold’s voice cracked through the murmurs. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. “She’s my sister. Ours. The Eckhart family took her in when no one else would.”

“Oh? Please, tell me more.” Cale drawled out as he helped Penelope stand.

Reynold seemed to mistake this for genuine interest.

“We found her on the streets and took her in!” He declares, as if it’s something to be proud of.

Cale looks to his newfound sister. “So you were adopted? I see. That makes this a lot simpler.”

Reynold’s eyes widened. “Simpler? What are you talking about?”

Cale’s lips curved, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “If she was adopted, then there’s no need to argue over whose family she belongs to. Her blood is Thames. Henituse. My sister.”

Penelope’s breath hitched. The nobles gasped, seizing on the word like carrion birds.

“That’s not how this works!” Derek cut in sharply, his voice like a blade. “Adoption is sanctioned by the crown. She is an Eckhart by law, bound to our house, protected by our name. Your words can’t undo that.”

Cale tilted his head, studying him. He shifted his hand at Penelope’s elbow, steady but not forceful. “I’m not talking about ownership. I’m talking about what she is. Who she is. And who she has the right to be.”

The Duke finally stepped forward, his authority silencing his sons before they could spit another rebuttal. His eyes bore into Cale, unyielding. “Cale Henituse, you overstep. Whatever blood runs in her veins, she has lived as my daughter, by my name. You would tear that away for your pride? For some…sentimental fancy?”

At that, Penelope flinched, as though the word sentimental had been a lash.

Cale’s voice dropped, iron wrapped in velvet. “No. For her sake. Because after twenty years, I’ve just looked into my sister’s eyes for the first time, and I’ll be damned if I let her think she has no choice but to play the role you assigned her.”

He turned to Penelope then, his expression softening, almost imperceptibly.

The hall was taut with silence. Reynold’s fists trembled, Derek’s mouth opened then shut, and even their father’s commanding posture faltered as Penelope’s gaze darted between them all—her adoptive family, who had given her a name but not love, and the stranger who had called her sister as though it were the simplest, truest thing in the world.

“Don’t twist this!” Reynold’s voice cracked, hoarse with something halfway between anger and desperation. He took a half-step forward before Choi Han’s quiet presence reminded him of the distance. His hands trembled at his sides.

Penelope’s eyes darted to him, and for a moment, her lips trembled as though she might speak—but nothing came.

Internally, deeply internally, Cale’s mind was a chaotic mess.

He could not believe this was happening right now. He didn’t even want to come to this ball in the first place. He’s retired, for goodness’ sake! Retired people were supposed to be drinking tea in a quiet garden, not uncovering secret familial ties and stopping wars in front of an Imperial court.

And Alberu. Cale just knew Alberu was going to laugh himself sick when he heard about this. The smug bastard had already joked about him having a secret sibling a week ago. Cale could hear his voice now: “Your family does have a history of omitting important things.”

Cale wanted to slam his head into a wall.

Of course, Choi Han had tried to be “helpful,” suggesting maybe there was just someone in this Empire who looked like him. And Raon—sweet, terrifying Raon—had immediately gone for the clone theory. Which, at the time, Cale dismissed as impossible nonsense.

And yet here he was, standing in front of a trembling girl whose eyes had literally shifted into a mirror of his own.

Somewhere, the gods were laughing at him. He was sure of it. The bastards.

But still—still—Cale’s thoughts cut through the mess, sharper than he wanted to admit. Because while he’d never met Penelope before today, and he’d never once imagined he had a blood sister, he’d be damned if he was going to let this girl return to whatever pit of vipers had made her look so hollowed-out and weary.

At this point, he was already ready to start investigating the Eckhart family for child abuse.

Because Alberu had been right. Cale’s family really did have a history of omitting important things. Though, his Hyung-nim was one to talk about family secrets.

On the outside, of course, his expression remained maddeningly calm.

Reynold’s jaw worked furiously. “You—you don’t understand! You don’t know what we’ve done for her!”

Rosalyn let out a cold, mirthless laugh, her voice carrying easily through the hall. “What you’ve done? You mean paraded her around like a scapegoat? Even now you can’t defend her without dragging her through the dirt first.”

Reynold flushed crimson, but Derek caught his arm again, visibly restraining him.

Cale brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Interesting,” he said mildly. “You all keep talking about yourselves, yet not once have I heard any of you ask her what she wants.”

That landed like a thrown dagger. The nobles shifted, murmuring again.

Penelope flinched, caught in the crossfire of gazes.

Alberu, standing slightly off to the side, pinched the bridge of his nose. “…Dongsaeng,” he muttered, low enough for only Cale’s group to hear, “if you’re going to start a war in the middle of a ballroom, you could at least warn me first.” Not to mention, it was right after Cale had just prevented a war from starting.

Cale gave him a thin smile. “It’s not a war. It’s a family reunion.”

Alberu only raised an eyebrow.

‘Human! You’re doing your scamming smile again! Are we going to scam them? Are we going to steal Auntie Penny from them?' Raon added that last part a bit too enthusiastically. 

'Auntie Penny...? How did he come up with that?'

Choi Han shifted closer, his posture calm but his hand lingering near his sword. His eyes were locked on the Eckhart brothers, a silent warning that he wouldn’t allow them near Penelope.

“If she was a part of your family as you claim,” Rosalyn’s voice cut through the noise, sharp as shattered glass, “then why hasn’t she run into your arms yet?” Her smile was all teeth, maniacal in its confidence.

Penelope did not move.

She stood at Cale’s side, trembling but unbound, free to step wherever she pleased. And yet—her feet rooted themselves where they were, her single heel discarded, her fingers curling in the folds of her skirt as if the very thought of taking a few steps toward the Eckhart’s left her breathless.

The Duke’s face darkened, but Cale’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and unyielding, pinning him in place like prey beneath a hawk’s talons. The older man faltered, his words dying in his throat.

“What… what is going on here…?” At last, the king’s voice broke the silence. The weight of his crown settled in every syllable as he stepped forward, his daughter close at his side looking like she wanted to hide under his coats.

Side by side, Cale and Penelope turned toward him. The moment their profiles aligned, the hall froze.

Two figures, two heads of red hair, two sharp gazes that reflected one another like a mirror.

The resemblance could no longer be whispered. It was undeniable.

The king's eyes narrowed as he looked between the Eckharts and the pair standing against them.

“Cale Henituse,” he said, his tone shifting into the authority of a decree. “Today, you have unmistakably prevented our nations from going to war.”

Cale inclined his head with the smallest nod, as though war-prevention was little more than an errand Alberu had forced onto his to-do list.

“And…” the king hesitated, his voice dropping into something more human, “I cannot deny the relation I am seeing with my own eyes.

His gaze shifted, settling on Penelope.

“Penelope.” Her name lingered in the air, softer than expected. “I would like to ask for your thoughts on the matter. As… an apology, for being wrongfully accused twice thus far.”

Cale’s brow furrowed. Twice? The word needled at him, demanding answers, but he swallowed it down. This wasn’t the time to interrogate kings. He could do that later.

Penelope’s lips parted–

Reynold stepped forward, desperate. “Penelope—”

“Don’t.” Rosalyn’s voice lashed across him, her eyes glinting like a blade unsheathed. “Let her speak for herself.”

The crowd held its breath.

Penelope’s gaze lingered on the Eckharts—her family in nothing but name. The people who had dressed her in their colors, bound her with their crest, and prayed she would become a replacement for someone else’s absence. Their faces now were taut with fear, anger, and desperation—but not love. Never love.

Her throat tightened.

Then her eyes shifted. To the stranger.

To the young man who had stepped into the fire without hesitation, who had quieted an entire hall with nothing but his will, who had done what she had longed for all her life—stood by her side, not because she was useful, not because she was convenient, but because she was herself.

Her lips trembled, a soundless exhale breaking from her chest.

“I…” The word was barely audible, but it rippled through the hall like thunder.

Pick the evil that she has come to know intimately? Or jump into the arms of the unknown that promise safety--though it’s no guarantee.

“I don’t…” Her voice cracked, but she swallowed, taking a breath before her voice came out steady and unwavering. “I don’t want to go back with you.”

Cale gave an approving nod.

The hall erupted in a dozen gasps, scandal and disbelief spilling from every corner.

The Duke’s face was drained of color. Derek staggered back as though struck.

The king nodded. “Then, this will be settled tomorrow.” His eyes drag across the nosy nobles, “in a more private setting.”

Some clear their throats and avoid his gaze.

“Penelope, you are free to stay in the imperial castle for the night while the Eckharts return to their estate. We will discuss this more tomorrow.”

Discuss? Like there’s even a possibility that Cale would let her go back into that hell? No chance.

“You won't go back to them if you don't want to. I promise.” Cale mutters into her ear.