I was blessed—or so everyone kept telling me—to be born into the esteemed Starlight family as the youngest and only daughter.
My family consisted of my father, Rex Starlight, who served as the family head with stern dignity that never quite reached warmth; my mother, Jas Starlight, whose hybrid bloodline of spirits and humans made her something ethereal and otherworldly, like she wasn't entirely present in our reality; and my elder brother, Arthur Starlight, who was fourteen years my senior and carried himself with the confidence of someone who believed the world owed him everything.
My grandfather visited only during important occasions, his presence both commanding and distant, like some ancient god descending from the heavens to check on his mortal descendants before returning to whatever realm he inhabited.
Being born into such a prestigious family came with crushing weight—the constant expectations that I would awaken an affinity or talent related to spirits, that I would honor the Starlight name through my mere existence, that I would be extraordinary simply because my blood demanded it.
I was six years old when those expectations still felt like distant concerns, abstract concepts that adults worried about while I lived in the simple world of childhood where the most important thing was whether I'd get dessert after dinner.
At age six, during a meeting between our mothers, I encountered a boy named Riyan Descartes.
The Descartes family was legendary—whispered about in reverent tones usually reserved for discussing ancient heroes or terrifying monsters. Riyan was the only male offspring of this highly regarded family and held some title related to the Asura Clan that I didn't fully understand at the time.
What I did understand was that he was genuinely nice.
Not the fake nice that noble children learned to perform, but actually kind in a way that made you feel comfortable. His youthful face was endearing, with soft black hair that fell over his forehead and those striking crimson eyes that seemed to catch light in unusual ways.
But more than his appearance, it was his warmth that drew me in. He treated me like a person instead of a political asset or a pretty doll to be admired from a distance.
The Descartes Estate was breathtaking, nestled in serene surroundings that made our family estate seem cold by comparison. The family consisted of Riyan, his twin elder sister Livia—who was sharp and protective in ways that made me envious—his adopted sister Syra—quiet and observant—and their parents, Cris and Riya Descartes, who radiated actual warmth instead of the performative version I was used to.
The estate was a masterpiece of architecture and nature blending seamlessly. Gardens stretched in every direction, filled with flowers and plants that seemed impossibly vibrant and alive.
Upon meeting the Descartes family, I was immediately struck by how different they were from what I'd expected. They were warm, genuinely hospitable, treating me like I mattered as a person rather than as the Starlight family's political pawn.
Riyan and Livia took me on a tour of the estate, sharing stories with enthusiasm that was infectious. They laughed easily, teased each other without cruelty, and included me in their world like I'd always belonged there.
It was unforgettable, and from that day forward, whenever I could escape my family's suffocating expectations, I would make my way to the Descartes Estate to spend time with two of my earliest and only real friends.
Those visits became my sanctuary, the only place where I could breathe without feeling like I was disappointing someone just by existing.
When I was nine years old, something changed.
It started with the way Arthur looked at me during family dinners—his gaze lingering too long, carrying weight that made my skin crawl with instinctive discomfort I couldn't explain.
I was too young to understand what I was seeing. Too innocent to recognize desire twisted into something dark and possessive and fundamentally wrong.
I told myself I was imagining things. Arthur was my brother, fourteen years older, practically an adult while I was still a child. He was supposed to protect me, guide me, be someone I could trust without question.
Whatever I thought I saw in his eyes must have been tricks of lighting or paranoia born from too many scary stories.
But deep down, in a place I refused to acknowledge even to myself, I knew something had shifted.
The way he watched me had changed from brotherly affection to something that made my stomach twist with nausea I couldn't name.
And that change terrified me in ways I couldn't articulate to anyone.
I was thirteen years old when the worst night of my life occurred.
It was an ordinary evening in early autumn. I'd just finished a long shower after exhausting spirit affinity training that had left every muscle in my body aching. The hot water had helped ease some of the soreness, and I felt almost peaceful as I stepped out.
I dried off methodically, running the towel through my long hair, then put on my favorite nightgown—soft blue fabric with delicate embroidery that made me feel pretty and safe, like armor woven from comfort and innocence.
I stood in front of my mirror, running a brush through my damp hair, when I heard it:
The sound of my bedroom door opening.
The sound was wrong—too forceful, too deliberate. My door was supposed to be locked. I always locked it, a habit my mother had insisted upon that I'd never understood the importance of until that exact moment.
My heart began hammering as I turned toward the sound, brush still clutched in my trembling hand.
Arthur stood in the doorway.
He filled the frame with his presence, his hand still on the doorknob. For a moment we just stared at each other—me frozen in confusion and mounting horror, him with an expression that turned my blood to ice.
Then he stepped inside.
And slammed the door shut behind him with a finality that echoed through my entire body.
"Brother?" My voice came out small, uncertain, like a child's because that's what I was. "What are you—"
The words died in my throat as I saw his face properly in the lamplight.
His expression was twisted into something I'd never seen before on anyone's face—raw hunger mixed with violence that transformed his familiar features into something monstrous. His eyes, which should have held brotherly affection, burned with lust so naked and terrible that my entire body recoiled instinctively.
This wasn't Arthur. This was something else wearing his skin.
"Brother...!" I tried again, my voice rising with panic. "Stop! What are you doing?!"
He began approaching slowly, deliberately, like a predator savoring the fear radiating from cornered prey.
"BROTHER!" I screamed, backing away until my spine hit the wall hard enough to hurt. "STOP!"
My hands scrabbled against the wallpaper desperately, searching for escape that didn't exist.
"DON'T COME NEAR ME!"
He kept coming, each step measured and purposeful.
"HELP!" My voice cracked with desperation. "MOTHER! FATHER! SOMEONE HELP ME!"
But there was no response—not even an echo. My screams seemed to die the moment they left my lips, swallowed by something thick and oppressive that pressed against my skin.
Looking around frantically, I could see it now—the faint shimmer of mana forming an invisible barrier around my entire room. He'd sealed us in, cut me off from the rest of the world with magic I didn't understand but could feel suffocating me.
No one could hear me screaming.
No one was coming.
I was completely alone with him.
Tears began streaming down my face as the full horror crashed over me like freezing water. My body shook with sobs, terror and desperation mixing into something that threatened to shatter me entirely.
"Please," I whispered, pressing myself harder against the wall as if I could somehow pass through it. "Please don't—"
He grabbed me.
His hands were rough, brutal, fingers digging into my arms hard enough that I knew there would be bruises. His face was inches from mine, distorted with lust so intense it looked like actual madness.
When he spoke, his voice was unlike anything I'd ever heard from him—low and menacing, barely recognizable, like something demonic speaking through human vocal cords:
"Dear sister," he breathed, and the sound made me want to vomit. "Did you know? I am a Vessel for the Devil himself."
The words didn't make sense. Vessels? Devils? What was he talking about?
But the meaning didn't matter. His intent was written clearly in every line of his twisted expression, in the way his hands moved across my body with disgusting familiarity.
His fingers grabbed my nightgown, and I felt the fabric tear as he pulled with violent force. The sound of cloth ripping echoed obscenely loud.
"NOOOOO!" I screamed with everything in me, thrashing against his grip like a trapped animal. "HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"
The nightgown tore further, exposing skin to cool air. Shame burned through me alongside terror, making me feel dirty and violated even though he hadn't—
"I BEG YOU!" I sobbed, my voice breaking completely. "Please, please, I'm your sister! STOP!"
But he wasn't listening. His eyes were glazed over, focused on something beyond reason or humanity or basic decency.
His hand moved lower, grabbing at my exposed skin with rough fingers that made my stomach heave.
I screamed again and again, pouring all my strength into each desperate cry. My throat felt raw, voice cracking, but I couldn't stop. If I stopped screaming, if I gave up—
CRASH.
The sound was thunderous—the barrier shattering like glass, mana fragments dissolving into sparks of light that rained down around us.
And there, standing in the doorway with an expression of pure fury that could have melted steel, was my grandfather.
Relief hit me so hard I nearly collapsed right there. He'd heard me. Somehow, against impossible odds—maybe because he'd come to visit unexpectedly, maybe because my screams had reached beyond the barrier's limits through sheer desperation—he'd heard me.
And he'd come.
My grandfather, who was usually calm and dignified, who moved through the world with measured restraint, was transformed into something terrible and wrathful. His face was flushed red with rage so intense it seemed to radiate visible heat.
"YOU DAMN BASTARD!" he roared, his voice carrying power that made the walls themselves tremble.
He vanished.
One moment in the doorway, the next he'd crossed the entire room faster than my eyes could track. He reappeared directly in front of Arthur, his hand already raised.
The slap connected with a sound like thunder.
Arthur was sent flying backward through the air, his body ragdolling from sheer force. He crashed into the opposite wall, cracking the plaster, then tumbled to the floor in a heap.
For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Then Arthur began moving.
He stood slowly, deliberately, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. His face, which should have shown pain or shock or shame or something human, instead split into a wide, manic grin.
And then he laughed.
The sound was deep and guttural, filled with malice so pure it seemed to poison the air itself. It echoed through my room, through my skull, burrowing into my brain like parasitic worms.
"HAAAAHAAAAHAAAAHAAA!"
The laughter went on and on, rising in pitch and intensity until it no longer sounded human at all.
"Old Man!" Arthur's voice was gleeful, triumphant despite being struck down. "I'm not done yet! I will come back for Fera—" his eyes found mine, and I felt something inside me die, "—my beloved sister. My precious little sister who will be MINE."
He smiled at me then.
The expression was crooked, inhuman, something that belonged on a demon's face. It promised terrible things, whispered of horrors yet to come, spoke of obsession that would never end.
"I'll come back for you, Fera. I'll take what's mine. You can't hide forever, dear sister."
Then he vanished into the darkness, leaving behind only that chilling smile and the echo of his monstrous laughter ringing in my ears.
The sound of footsteps thundered through the hallway—dozens of them, rushing toward my room. The servants had finally noticed something was wrong. My parents were coming.
They burst through the doorway to find me standing frozen in the center of my room, grandfather positioned protectively in front of me, and my nightgown torn and hanging in tatters that barely covered me.
The scene painted a clear picture without needing words.
My mother's face went white, then flushed with horror and rage. My father's expression cycled through shock, incomprehension, and finally settled on fury so cold it seemed to freeze everything around him.
But it was my mother who moved first.
She rushed toward me with arms wide open, her face crumpling as tears began streaming down her cheeks uncontrollably. When she reached me, she wrapped me in a tight embrace that was gentle despite its desperation.
I felt her warmth, her love, her desperate need to protect me even though she'd failed when it mattered most.
And something inside me—something that had been holding together through sheer terror and adrenaline—finally shattered completely.
I collapsed into her arms, and the sobs that tore from my throat were the sounds of childhood dying, of innocence murdered, of safety revealed as the comforting lie it had always been.
My mother held me as I broke apart, whispering words I couldn't hear over the roaring in my ears, stroking my hair with trembling hands that couldn't stop shaking.
My father was shouting orders—search the entire estate, find Arthur, summon every guard they had, activate every ward and barrier, contact the authorities, contact everyone.
But I knew the truth even then, knew it with absolute certainty:
Arthur was gone.
And he had promised to return for me.
The Starlight family's blessed daughter had learned a terrible lesson that night:
Monsters don't always hide under beds or lurk in shadows outside your window.
Sometimes they sit across from you at dinner with a pleasant smile.
Sometimes they share your blood and your family name.
Sometimes they call you "dear sister" while planning your destruction.
And no amount of prestigious bloodlines or powerful magic or family honor could protect you from the monster that lived inside your own home.
After that night, everything changed.
My parents hired guards specifically for me. My room was warded with protections so strong they made the air shimmer. I was never allowed to be alone, never permitted to go anywhere without supervision.
But none of it made me feel safe.
Because I knew Arthur was out there somewhere, waiting, planning, obsessing over me with that twisted love that wasn't love at all but something far more terrifying.
And I knew, with the certainty that came from looking into his eyes that night, that he would eventually come back.
Just like he promised.
My visits to the Descartes Estate stopped completely. It was too dangerous, my parents said. Too exposed. Arthur might be watching, waiting for an opportunity.
I lost my sanctuary. Lost the only place where I'd felt genuinely safe and accepted.
Lost my friends.
I wondered sometimes if Riyan noticed my absence, if he wondered where I'd gone. We'd been close as children, in that innocent way kids become friends—shared laughter, shared adventures, shared complaints about adult expectations.
But we were never more than that. Just friends. Good friends who'd lost contact because my brother was a monster.
The years passed slowly after that night. I threw myself into training with desperate intensity, determined to become strong enough that I'd never be helpless again.
But no matter how much stronger I became, I couldn't shake the memory of Arthur's hands on my skin, his voice promising to return, that smile that haunted my nightmares.
The Starlight family's daughter learned to smile in public, to maintain appearances, to pretend everything was fine.
But inside, I was still that thirteen-year-old girl frozen in terror, waiting for the monster to come back.
And knowing that when he did, all the guards and wards and training in the world might not be enough to save me.