"...Mother."
"Don't you dare call me that!"
In the semi-darkness of a damp room, more like a dank crypt than a living space, silence hung. It was broken only by two voices — one timid, quiet, the other exuding icy hatred.
Here, in this wretched hovel that even the boldest imagination could not consider part of the palace sprawling in the Imperial City, time seemed to have stopped many years ago.
On the cold floor, her back pressed against the wall, sat a woman.
Her once graceful figure was hunched, her shoulders slumped, and in her entire appearance there remained not a trace of that refinement that had once made men pause in respectful admiration. The dress she had been wearing for several years had turned into pathetic rags held together by old threads. This was a vivid portrait of oblivion — living proof that luxury had left her life forever.
And yet her eyes — pale, full of animal fear and hopelessness — were fixed on the sole creature that had dared to disturb her seclusion.
"...Mother," came the timid little voice again.
A small, dirty hand with broken nails carefully reached out to the woman.
The woman's face contorted. Her eyes, which just a moment ago had been filled with apathy, flared with wild rage. As if a mad stray dog had rushed to her feet, she forcefully shoved the outstretched hand away from her.
"I said — don't you dare call me that!" her voice broke into an icy shriek. "Don't you dare touch me, you abomination!"
She tried desperately to shield herself from this hated creature, gathering rags around her and crawling further into the corner. Every movement she made exuded such overwhelming disgust that even the walls seemed to shudder at such cruelty.
"Mother..." the word sounded for the third time, becoming the last straw.
The woman's eyes became clouded with a crimson veil. Anger, despair, years of bitterness and humiliation — all of it mixed into a single dense fog, depriving her of reason. She lunged from her spot with the agility of a madwoman, attacking the creature that was twice as small and weaker than her.
Her fingers closed tightly around the thin child's neck.
These were fingers that had once known only the touch of silk and rose petals. Now they dug into the fragile flesh with such force that her knuckles turned white. The woman squeezed tighter and tighter, and in every movement she made, there was not just malice — but a primal, all-consuming hatred. She looked into her child's face with such ferocity, as if before her was not a living person, but the embodiment of all her misfortunes.
"You..." she hissed, not loosening her grip. "Because of you... because of you, he turned away from me. Because of you, I was thrown out like an unwanted thing. You ruined my life!"
The child did not resist. The little hands that just a moment ago had reached out to their mother seeking protection hung limply along her body. Her already pale face took on an increasingly deathly hue.
But the woman did not loosen her fingers. On the contrary, she leaned closer, peering into her daughter's fading eyes, and her lips were touched by a strange, almost blissful smile. In that gaze, there was not a drop of pity — only the morbid relief that comes to a drowning person when they finally decide to sink to the bottom, taking another with them.
She spoke the words.
The very words she had repeated to her daughter since her birth — like a mantra, like a curse that had pursued the child from the first minute of her life in this world.
"Asil, please die."
***
Several hours had passed since the departure of the Lord of the North and her younger sister. In the commoner's estate, the hands on the clock had long since passed noon.
Michel Carter sat at a worn wooden table in the tiny kitchen. His gaze was fixed on the window, beyond which stretched the gray, uninviting landscape of the working-class quarter. Since Remesis had left this house, his thoughts had been in a state of scattered chaos.
Before him stood a question from which it was impossible to flee: what to do with this worthless, shattered life now?
In past times, when he still bore the proud name of heir to the ducal house of Carter, such questions did not trouble his mind. The future was mapped out for years ahead, and every step was calculated. Now, not a trace remained of that brilliant future — only emptiness, loneliness, and the bitter taste of loss.
At least, one thing he knew for certain.
"Don't worry," Michel's voice sounded almost indifferent, although a barely noticeable smirk lurked in the corners of his lips. "I do not intend to burden you with my presence for long."
He did not turn around, but he felt that very gaze on his skin — worried, full of anxiety, which the maid had cast on him for the twentieth time in the last hour.
"M-mylord!" the woman threw up her hands. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "That's not what I meant at all! I swear, I didn't want to..."
"Of course," Michel finally turned to her, and a semblance of understanding flickered in his tired eyes. "I already know what you are thinking."
And you know what? It was logical.
He sighed heavily, looking away.
His reasoning was truthful. He could not — had no right — to stay in this house longer than necessary. This maid's family, already barely making ends meet, could not afford to feed an extra mouth. But the matter was not even about the meager supplies or cramped rooms.
Far more terrifying was the danger he was bringing upon these people by his very presence.
His younger brother, Livius Carter, the man who had usurped the place that rightfully belonged to Michel, had surely already dispatched his hounds throughout the city. He would clearly not rest until he found his older brother. And if his people discovered Michel here... Seyla and her family would face the fate of accomplices.
Therefore, Michel made a decision. He would leave today.
And, strangely enough, the direction in which he should move was completely obvious to him. In truth, there was only one choice.
"Hmm... forgive me, what was your name?" Michel waved his hand casually, not even bothering to hide that he had forgotten the name of the woman who had sheltered him under her roof.
The maid, accustomed to such treatment from the nobility, only humbly lowered her gaze.
"My name is Seyla, my lord..."
"Ah, right, Seyla," drawled the former heir to the duchy, and there was not a hint of sincerity in his voice. This name remained in his memory just long enough to ask the next question, after which it was supposed to disappear without a trace. "You mentioned earlier that the inauguration ceremony of the new head of the order took place today?"
Seyla was momentarily confused. Her eyes widened in surprise — she had not expected that the young lord had even heard their morning conversation with Lady Remesis. Nevertheless, she obediently nodded:
"Y-yes, that's right... The ceremony was supposed to take place this morning in the central tower."
In truth, Michel had heard about this completely by chance. But now this random piece of information had taken on a very special significance for him.
After all, his sister Katrina was the only person in the entire empire who could extend a helping hand to him in this hopeless situation. Or rather, not Katrina herself, but her wife — Iliana Alseid, the woman who had become the new head of the Astrological Order and whose name was now on everyone's lips in the capital.
Michel thoughtfully drummed his fingers on the tabletop.
The House of Alseid... Perhaps this was the only refuge he could consider now.
In the entire south of the empire, there remained no family capable of issuing an open challenge to Livius Carter, who had seized power in the duchy. But the Alseids were an exception. Their influence, power, and connections — all of this could become a secure fortress for Michel.
And given that Iliana Alseid now possessed not only political weight but also the real power of the head of the order... this was even more than he had dared to hope.
Moreover, would his sister's wife refuse help to her own brother-in-law in trouble?
This thought seemed reasonable and encouraging. But as soon as Michel imagined meeting Katrina, an unpleasant chill settled in his soul.
Katrina...
They had not spoken for a long time. For the last month and a half, not a single letter had come from his sister, although before she had written to him with enviable regularity — every week, or even more often. But then they stopped.
And Michel suspected why.
His heart clenched unpleasantly as he remembered their last meeting. Katrina had come to the Carter mansion then, spending several days on the road to see her father and the brother with whom she had once been inseparable. And he... he had not even found time for her. He had pleaded urgent matters that supposedly could not be delayed.
But had those matters truly been so important? Was work a sufficient reason to ignore a sister whose love and devotion to him had been unconditional all these years?
Michel smiled bitterly at his own excuses.
No, of course not.
And Katrina...
She was probably offended. And she had every right to be offended. That was probably why she had left so hastily back then, without even waiting for him to free up. That was why she no longer wrote to him.
"Perhaps I should apologize to her..." Michel muttered under his breath.
Now, when not a trace of his former pride remained, when he found himself at rock bottom, deprived of everything he had, he finally realized what value that connection had held. And how miserably he had allowed it to be destroyed.
"...Mylord?"
Seyla's voice broke through the haze of his thoughts, bringing him back to reality.
Michel blinked, focusing his gaze on the woman who was looking at him with anxiety and some strange, unreadable expression.
"Yes?" he responded, still under the sway of heavy thoughts.
"Are you... going to leave?" Seyla asked cautiously, fidgeting with the edge of her apron.
Michel slowly nodded, seeing no point in hiding the truth.
"Yes. I will leave soon," he spoke calmly, even distantly. "So you don't have to worry. I do not intend to become a burden to you."
"And where..." Seyla faltered, but curiosity or, perhaps, concern got the better of her. "Where exactly will you go, my lord?"
The question caught Michel off guard. He paused for a moment, peering into the maid's face, as if trying to discern a hidden subtext. His first impulse was to evade answering — the caution that had seeped into his blood over the past weeks suggested that he should not entrust his plans to just anyone.
But after a pause, he decided.
Seyla was the woman whom his sister Remesis, with her keen sense of people, trusted implicitly. And this family, at the risk of their own lives, had sheltered him when the rest of the world had turned away. If he could not trust them, then who could?
"I intend to go to the Alseid house," Michel finally said, and his voice sounded firmer than he had expected.
Seyla was silent, and he continued, as if making excuses:
"I think that will be the safest decision. Katrina... my sister has surely heard all the news by now. She is surely worried, looking for me. If I go to her, she will..."
He didn't finish the sentence, because he noticed.
Seyla's gaze changed. Her eyes, which just a moment ago had expressed only sympathetic concern, suddenly froze. Her pupils contracted, her breath caught — the woman seemed to hold her breath, unable to utter a word. A strange expression, which Michel could not read at all, was frozen on her face.
"What?" he frowned, sensing something was wrong. "What is the matter?"
Seyla was silent. Her lips trembled, as if she were trying to find words, but they got stuck in her throat.
"What is it?" Michel's voice became sharper. A vague, groundless anxiety began to stir within him. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
The woman looked away. Her hands, resting on her apron, trembled slightly. She hesitated — Michel saw it, felt the tension thickening in the air, becoming almost tangible. For what seemed an eternity, Seyla struggled with herself before finally deciding to raise her eyes.
"...Mylord," her voice was quiet, barely audible. "Actually... I have to tell you something."
Michel stared at her in bewilderment, still not understanding what exactly could have caused such a reaction. His eyebrows drew together over the bridge of his nose, an expression of tense expectation frozen on his face.
"What exactly?" he asked, and notes of irritation mixed with growing anxiety slipped into his voice.
Seyla took a deep breath, as if gathering her courage before a leap into icy water.
What she said in the next moment made Michel Carter's heart skip a beat.
His eyes widened, his pupils contracted to the size of a pinhead.
Blood drained from his face, and he turned so pale that his skin became almost transparent in the dim light of the kitchen lamp. He sat, unable to move, unable to utter a word, while the maid's words continued to ring in his head.
The air in the room, already heavy, became impenetrable to him. Michel suddenly realized he could not breathe. Could not think. Could not believe what he had just heard.
Horror froze in his eyes.