The soft clink of silver against porcelain echoed faintly through the quiet bedroom as Rina set her fork down, her dinner untouched. The tray sat on a marble-topped table near the window, where moonlight spilled in like ghostly silk, painting the obsidian walls in cold, silver hues. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and lavender, as if the room had been prepared in anticipation of royalty.
After a long pause, she rose from the velvet chair and wandered back to the center of the room. The silk nightgown she had found laid out on her bed whispered against her skin as she moved. Deep crimson, almost black in the low light, it contrasted sharply with her fiery red hair, which now cascaded freely down her back and over her shoulders. Her golden eyes—usually burning with intensity—now seemed hollow, dimmed by something too heavy to name.
She looked around.
This room… it could've been her own back in the Amberheart estate. The same opulence, the same elegance. The same kind of royal bed carved from whitewood with intricate golden details curling like vines along its edges. But this one was just a little larger. A little darker. A little colder.
Much like the fate that awaited her here.
With a heavy sigh, she walked slowly toward the bed and let her body fall back onto the silken sheets. Her hair fanned out behind her like a crown of flame against snow. She stared up at the high, carved ceiling, where gold-and-silver patterns glimmered around a grand crystal chandelier. Her fingers clutched at the edge of the blanket. The silence was too loud. Too deep. Her thoughts wouldn't stop.
*"Tomorrow."*
That word rang in her head like a curse.
Tomorrow she would meet the boy—no, the **weapon**—her mother had chosen to bind her to.
Tomorrow, she would have to smile through her own silent scream.
She turned onto her side. Closed her eyes. Opened them again.
Sleep wouldn't come.
The stillness of the room became unbearable.
With a sudden breath, she stood up, her bare feet silent against the marble floor. She pulled the deep red robe over her nightgown and walked to the door, her fingers trembling slightly as they touched the handle. The golden doorknob turned with a soft click, and she stepped into the hallway.
The corridor outside was dimly lit by flickering sconces. Their warm golden light cast long shadows along the walls, dancing between statues, velvet drapes, and oil paintings of long-dead ancestors with eyes that seemed to follow her. The floor beneath her feet was obsidian black, polished to a mirror sheen, and her reflection followed her in silence with every step.
The palace was quiet—unnaturally so. Even the air felt heavier here, as though holding its breath.
*"This place... it's going to be my home."*
The thought didn't bring comfort. Only a tighter knot in her chest.
Her hands brushed the edge of the walls as she walked. She was trying to map the place in her head, or maybe just find something that made her feel… grounded. But all she could feel was how vast everything was. How empty.
Every corner she turned felt like entering a painting. The Rocchi estate was crafted like a museum of power—walls lined with relics, books with ancient bindings, weapons mounted like trophies, and flowers in silver vases that never seemed to wilt.
But no life.
Nothing living pulsed here except for her own quiet breath.
Until—
A sudden sound. The soft creak of a door.
She stopped.
From the far end of the corridor, she saw a shadow move—a figure had just slipped into the kitchen.
At first, she assumed it must've been one of the household staff. A servant finishing up late-night duties. But something about the way the figure moved caught her attention—too silent, too purposeful, and yet… casual.
Curiosity tugged at her like a whisper.
Without thinking, she followed.
Her steps were quiet, deliberate. The marble floor was cool beneath her feet as she padded softly through the corridor. Her heart beat just a little faster, though she couldn't say why. Maybe it was the way the palace seemed to shift in the dark—how the silence no longer felt empty but **expectant**.
She reached the doorway to the kitchen and paused.
Her hand hovered over the edge of the frame.
Inside, the lights were dim, and the warmth of the ovens still lingered in the air. The faint aroma of herbs and roasted meat clung to the room like memory. A tall silhouette moved quietly near the counter. His back was turned to her. Broad shoulders. Black hair. He was pouring something into a cup.
She froze.
Something deep in her chest stirred—**recognition**, maybe, or instinct.
*"That's not a servant..."*