The carriage wheels rattled over cobblestones as the Aldery family departed from the noble gathering. Moonlight spilled across the road, painting the world in silver shadows. Inside the carriage, silence lingered for a time, broken only by the steady clatter of hooves.
Duke Reinhardt leaned back against the seat, his arms crossed. His voice cut through the quiet like steel. "You saw tonight what words can do. Smiles sharper than blades. Flattery hiding poison. These are the games of nobles, Ernest. Learn them."
Ernest nodded, hands folded neatly in his lap. "Yes, Father."
Lady Isolde smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You were composed. Too composed, perhaps. A child should laugh, smile, even stumble. Nobles find perfection unsettling."
"I understand, Mother."
Her hand lingered briefly against his cheek. "Still, I am proud of you."
Ernest lowered his eyes politely. His mask held—obedient heir, calm and dutiful. But within, his thoughts twisted sharper than the wheels rolling beneath them.
The nobles were wolves in silk. They claw with words and smile as they bleed one another. The priests were worse—parasites demanding tribute in the name of gods too cowardly to descend. And then…
Emerald eyes flickered in his memory. A girl who bore whispers like a crown of thorns and did not bow beneath them. Celina Gold.
The cursed beauty.
Back at the Aldery estate, the servants lit lanterns along the halls as the family entered. Ernest excused himself politely and returned to his chamber.
The room was quiet, the air cool with the night's breeze drifting through the window. Moonlight stretched across his desk, where his notebook lay hidden beneath a stack of children's primers.
He sat, pulling it free, opening to a fresh page. His small hand grasped the quill, scrawling in messy letters that disguised the precision of his thoughts.
"Nobles = wolves in silk. Weak bodies. Dangerous tongues."
"Priests = hands of gods. Hungry. Must be cut."
"Celina Gold = cursed. Mana suppressed. Beauty weaponized. Shackled."
He paused, staring at the last line. Slowly, he underlined her name. Once. Twice.
The ink blotted faintly, a dark mark across the page.
Ernest set the quill down and leaned back. His gaze drifted toward the window. Beyond, the forest loomed under moonlight, the same woods where he had slaughtered wolves, goblins, even a Direwolf. The same woods where he had bent a Dungeon Seed to his will.
But tonight his thoughts lingered not on beasts, but on the girl who had stood untouched in a hall full of wolves.
Celina Gold.
He saw again the way she walked, unbowed by whispers, her emerald eyes calm, her composure steady. She had not smiled falsely, nor wept under scorn. She had not broken when others shrank from her.
She bore the gods' curse like armor.
Ernest's lips curved faintly. Strength. Not in steel, not in mana, but in endurance. The gods marked her, yet she endures. That makes her dangerous.
He pressed his palm to the cool glass of the window, his reflection staring back at him—pale skin, dark eyes too sharp for a child's face. The predator cloaked in innocence.
His voice was soft, steady, and merciless.
"The gods marked her. Proof that they bleed. Proof that their hands tremble. That curse will break one day. And when it does…"
His reflection smiled back at him, thin and cold.
"…she will kneel. Or she will stand beside me as I make them kneel."
The moon climbed higher, bathing his room in silver. Ernest sat long at the window, watching, his small frame still as stone. His mind replayed every whisper from the gathering, every sneer, every fearful glance cast toward Celina.
They pity her. They scorn her. They fear her. But none of them understand. The gods shackled her because she was dangerous. They revealed her value the moment they cursed her.
A soft laugh escaped him—quiet, humorless.
The gods are fools. Every chain they forge only proves what they fear losing. And everything they fear will belong to me.
He rose, crossing to his desk. The notebook lay open, her name underlined twice, the ink still drying. He tapped it once with his fingertip, a silent oath carved in ink and thought alike.
Then he closed the book and slid it beneath the bed.
The following morning came with golden light streaming through the curtains. Ernest dressed neatly, descending to the hall for breakfast. His father's words the night before still lingered in his ears: This is your world now.
But Ernest's mind whispered differently.
The forest was my crucible. The nobles my stage. The academy will be my chorus. And I…
His lips curved faintly as he lifted the cup to his lips, the water cold against his tongue.
…I will be the Voice that commands it all.