After her training session, Tagatha spent what little free time she had in the bath, scrubbing away the layers of sweat clinging to her skin. She washed with care since it was one of the few things in life she felt she still had control over, untangling her hair and rebraiding it into a neat bun. Whether it was her house or not, she refused to walk into the dining room smelling like dried sweat and musk. Appearance mattered. Especially today.
Once she was cleaned and dried, she changed into something more suitable for the occasion—a clean blouse of soft cream linen tucked into high-waisted slacks, paired with a short navy vest embroidered with the family crest. Simple.
As she walked down the main hall of the estate, her footsteps echoed softly against the polished marble floor. The long corridor was lined with oil paintings—each one a depiction of their family's proud history. Hunters of the Verill bloodline immortalized in pictures, not like most would live to be alive, especially in that profession.
There weren't many.
Only a handful of portraits lined the walls, it was a nice reminder of how rare it was to achieve such a title. Becoming a Hunter wasn't just difficult—it bordered on impossible. First, one had to be accepted into one of the Four Grand Magical Academies across the United Kingdoms. That alone required more than talent; it demanded connections. The backing of a high royal family, or a letter of recommendation from a renowned professor. Most gained entrance only after proving themselves through constant military service or royal prestige.
And even then, there was no guarantee.
The rarest route of all—the academies themselves sending an invitation to join—had only ever happened once in Verill family history.
But all who bore the title of Hunter within her bloodline had reached at least B-Class. One ancestor had even ascended to the rank of S-Class—a title so rare it earned him a surname granted personally by the king. He was the founder of their noble household, and the reason their family held a seat at the table among lesser royals.
They weren't one of the great magical bloodlines… but they had earned their name through sacrifice, and magical innovation. Their family had helped advance the kingdom's magical heritage by sharing self-developed spells and crafting techniques.
As Tagatha moved past the portraits, her gaze lingered on one in particular scene of her grandfather and great-grandfather in battle against spirit beasts, demon beasts, and towering high-tier monsters. They painted their poses frozen mid-clash, swords glowing with enchanted runes.
It was inspiring. And humbling.
Her footsteps slowed as she reached the doorway to the kitchen. A deep red carpet marked the threshold. She stared at it for a moment,her body tenses as her hand rested on the ornate handle of the door.
Relax, Tag, she thought to herself. All you have to do is tell him you've been accepted. Even if he doesn't support you… he can't stop you. There's nothing to worry about. Just breathe.
Easier said than done.
No matter what happened, Tagatha still looked up to her father. Despite his rigidity, despite the tension between them, he wasn't a bad man. Just cautious. Deeply cautious. And hopelessly blunt.
He wasn't one to offer gentle words of encouragement. But he worked for his family. Every day. As a Spirit Monger—one of the kingdom's most respected professions—he forged weapons and armor, enchanted relics and heirlooms. He didn't deal in praise. He dealt in effort and results.
That was why she needed him to understand.
She took a deep breath… and stepped inside.
The dining hall was warm with life. A round table sat at the center of the room, its surface carved from smooth oak and decorated with elegant golden markings that curled across its edge like gilded vines. Five places had been set—each with fine porcelain plates, polished silverware, and crystal glasses filled with water and wine. The soft clinking of utensils and the murmurs of swift-footed maids filled the air as they moved quickly between counters, placing the last of the steaming dishes.
The scent of baked spiced meat and roasted vegetables wafted through the room—but even that comforting aroma couldn't settle the tension in her shoulders.
At the head of the table sat the man who she needed to address.
Her father.
Tylian Verill.
Seated with perfect posture, he faced the doorway directly, eyes already lifted from the stack of documents in his hand. His dark blue gaze locked onto her the moment she stepped across the threshold. Lynthia was already seated to his left, no longer in her robe—she'd changed into a modest navy-blue dress, her hair combed back into a neat ponytail. Their mother, serene as always, sat on Tylian's right, with a gentle smile.
Tylian's presence, however, was anything but soft.
His hair was a cascade of long, dark silk slightly unkempt, yet refined. A thick, neatly maintained beard covered the lower half of his stern face, and his tuxedo—black and white with the Verill family crest embroidered over the heart—fit his frame like armor. Broad-shouldered, towering, and built like a professional athlete, he was 6,2, he exuded strength. Not just magical strength, but physical evidence of decades spent hammering molten steel and binding runes to artifacts.
He was a Spirit Monger.
And it showed in every inch of him.
Despite being her father, his appearance alone was daunting. And his sharp stare… Even more so.
"Ah, Tagatha," he said, his voice didn't sound a bit as intimidating as he looked. "Please—join us."
He gestured toward the empty seat across from him. It had already been set, the utensils aligned perfectly, the chair pulled slightly back—waiting for her.
Tagatha stepped forward slowly, each footstep echoing faintly against the marble tile.
Here we go…
Despite being his daughter, standing under Tylian Verill's gaze always made her feel like she was being judged for every action she took.
"I've been informed by your sister," Tylian said, setting down the stack of papers onto the table, "that you have something you'd like to tell me?"
He reached for his utensils before began to eat.
Tagatha immediately shot a sharp look across the table at Lynthia—nearly a glare.
You couldn't have waited until I got here to tell him? her expression read.
Lynthia gave her a sheepish smile, as she mouthed a silent, "Sorry... I couldn't help myself."
Tagatha sighed, exhaling slowly through her nose,she was here now, no use in dwelling on it.
"I... uh... y–yeah." She stumbled over the words at first, then caught herself and straightened her posture. She cleared her throat and spoke again, this time with more clarity. "I do. And... it's important."
Across the table, her mother tilted her head slightly as she joined the conversation. "What is it, dear?"
She was an ageless woman who carried herself like royalty. Though well into her fifties, she looked no older than her early forties and moved with the smooth poise of someone still very much in her prime. Her long hair matched Lynthia's, a deep black threaded with light electric-blue strands that shimmered faintly in the chandelier light, revealing her natural affinity for water. Her eyes were dark gray, were always calm and her every movement was composed.
She wore pristine white gloves that extended past her wrists, matching the gentle hues of her pearl-colored gown. As she raised her fork with perfect etiquette, her eyes never left Tagatha's.
Under her mother's gaze, Tagatha felt both comforted… and cornered.
"Well..." she began, her voice trailing off.
She hesitated.
Everyone at the table turned toward Tagatha.
Their eyes were on her and for some reason, that did nothing but made what she wanted to say harder to get off of her chest.
All she had to do was say it. Just one sentence. Easy. And just as easily... that same sentence could be shattered by her father with a single word.
What do I do…? the thought repeated in her head, like if she asked it enough, itll have the answers.. And in some way, it did, Lynthia came to her rescue.
Or perhaps her downfall.
Hard to tell.
"Taggy was accepted!" Lynthia beamed, sitting up proudly. "She's going to join the demon raid this week as her main evaluation!"
The room froze.
Her father nearly choked on his food. He coughed, eyes snapping up from his plate. Her mother, Luna, turned with surprise as well. Her brows furrowed gently.
"T–Tagatha…" Luna began slowly. "Are you sure that's what you want to do? I understand you want to make a difference, but..."
She trailed off. Luna always supported her daughter—but that didn't mean she wasn't terrified. This wasn't sparring in a courtyard. This was a demon beast raid. Tagatha had no spiritual techniques to fall back on. No elemental affinity. She had strength, yes, and grit—but this… this was death if she messed up.
Before Luna could find a softer way to phrase her concern, Tylian spoke.
"Absolutely not," he said firmly.
Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak, to ask why—but he was already answering.
"Tagatha," he said, placing his silverware down. His gaze met hers directly; his gaze was stern, but not cruel. "I support your ideas. Your goals. I've never once told you not to chase them. But a demon beast raid as your first test? Are you insane?"
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.
"Do you have any idea how many people died during those raids? Even seasoned initiates. And the evaluations? They're brutal. The military won't coddle you. They monitor the battlefield, yes—but they can only help you if there's something left to help."
"I know that!" Tagatha snapped, her voice louder than she intended but she didn't back down. "But they have healers. If we're injured, they can save us! And I won't be alone, I'll be in a team—the military assigns groups. I'm not completely hopeless. It's not like I'll be charging in by myself."
She looked at him, pleading for reason.
But her father raised his hand and placed it flat against the table, halting her words like a wall slamming down between them.
The room grew still.
Lynthia flinched, shrinking back slightly in her chair. Her hands curled into the fabric of her dress beneath the table, lips pressed tightly. She wanted to speak but she knew better. If she tried to defend her sister, their father would shut her down in a heartbeat.
"It doesn't matter," Tylian said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Magic isn't almighty. If you die, Tagatha… they can't revive you."
His voice was low with a truth no one could ignore.
"You lose a limb? Yes, maybe they can fix that. Even then—it's not easy. Not guaranteed." His eyes lifted to meet hers. "I'm not saying you're powerless. You're not. But against a demon beast? With no magic? Whether you're in a group or a whole platoon—if it's strong enough, you're dead. I can't take that risk. Not because I doubt you... but because I love you. You're already perfect as you are."
"Dad, please." Tagatha's voice cracked slightly as she fought to hold her composure. "For once, see where I'm coming from! I can't become anything if you keep trying to protect me from everything! I'm trying—"
"It's not protection," he cut in. "It's reality. You'll die."
There was a beat of silence. Then Luna placed her hand over his.
Tylian blinked, startled slightly as he turned toward her.
"Love…" she said gently, locking eyes with him. "Let's try to hear Tagatha out. Please?"
He opened his mouth, but Luna was already one step ahead.
"Just… listen. She always does what you ask. Without complaint. Without hesitation. Don't you think she's earned a moment to be heard? To have her choice acknowledged, without it being shut down before she even finishes speaking?"
Her voice was calm, but carried the full force of a mother's quiet strength.
Tylian hesitated. He looked down at their joined hands.
He was scared. Terrified. Not of demon beasts—but of losing his daughter to them. He knew Tagatha wasn't weak. In truth, she was one of the smartest, most determined children he'd ever known. Cunning, methodical, sharp. But in this world… being clever only went so far.
She had no magic. That truth haunted him more than anything.
She had already endured more than most ostracized by relatives, overlooked by teachers, bullied as a child for being "the powerless Verill." And now she wanted to throw herself into the very thing designed to break the strong?
Luna's hand squeezed his gently.
"Please…?" she whispered.
He closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose and slowly nodded.
"...Fine," he muttered.
Tagatha's heart skipped. She blinked.
"...Thank you." She tried to hide how stunned she was—but her voice betrayed it. That her father was actually listening… that her mother stood beside her in this… it was more than she ever expected.
She sat up straighter, finding her voice again.
"I'll prepare," she said firmly. "As much as I can. I know demon beast weaknesses. I know the spirit beast weaknesses. I've memorized every recorded spell in our archives, even though I can't cast them myself. I can read techniques from a glance—your techniques. And physically… I'm one of the fastest in the family. At least, among those my age."
Her eyes locked with his.
"I know this won't be easy. I know that better than anyone. But I don't want to give up just because I was born holding the shortest end of the stick. So please... I'll accept any help. Any preparation you can give me."
She took a deep breath.
"Just let me fight."
"No," her father said, his voice quiet but firm—immovable.
"I just... I can't let that happen, Tagatha."
His words struck the room like a thunderclap.
Both Luna and Lynthia froze, eyes wide with disbelief.
"I can't watch you throw yourself into something that could kill you. Too many in our family have already died to demon beasts—and they were far stronger than you."
"I—"
But he didn't get to finish.
Tagatha abruptly stood up from the table, her chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. The sound echoed through the room like the crack of a whip.
"Fine," she snapped through gritted teeth. "Then don't help."
Her voice trembled, but her back remained straight as she turned and stormed toward the door.
"Tagatha!" Luna called, half-rising from her seat.
"Taggy, please!" Lynthia said, nearly in tears herself.
But Tagatha didn't stop. Her hand landed on the doorknob, and she looked back—just once.
Her eyes met her father's across the room.
But she refused to let him see her cry.
"If you won't help, then don't," she said. "But I'm not letting you limit me. Not this time."
And with that, she turned away and closed the door behind her—softly, despite the storm in her chest.
The dining hall was plunged into silence.
Luna sat frozen in place, lips parted slightly, her hand still hovering in the air. Lynthia's head was lowered, her hands clutching her skirt, too stunned to speak.
Across the table, Tylian narrowed his eyes, staring blankly at the door that had just closed.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
Just sat there in silence.
Even the maids—trained to ignore familial drama, to keep their composure—cast brief, uneasy glances toward the door. Moments like this were rare in the Verill household. Moments when Tagatha raised her voice. When Tagatha walked out, she usually never acted like this, she was obedient.
Down the marble hallway, Tagatha marched quickly, boots tapping hard against the floor with each furious step. She raised the back of her hand to her face and wiped her cheek before the tears could fall.
Fine... I don't need help, she told herself, jaw clenched.
He never helped before. Why would now be any different?
She didn't know whether she was angrier at her father—or at herself for thinking he would say yes.
I just need experience, she told herself again, holding onto the thought like a lifeline. If he won't give me the training I need, then I'll find it myself.
Her hands curled into fists.
The forest... I'll go there. See them for myself. Demon beasts, spirit beasts—whatever they are. I need to know what I'm facing.
I'll prove him wrong. I'll survive. And I'll make him eat every word.