The quiet triumph of the servant's passage was short-lived, for the daytime in the Zaqor Manor belonged to a different kind of danger. While Rrejy's anger was like a raging storm and Ralph's malice was loud and clumsy, there was a far more insidious presence that ruled the household from the shadows: Tere, Nard's stepmother.
Tere was a woman of icy elegance. She dressed in flowing, pale-violet silks that whispered against the marble floors, and her face was always a mask of serene, aristocratic perfection. But beneath that flawless exterior lay a mind as sharp and toxic as a poisoned needle. She had married Rrejy shortly after Maria's passing, quickly installing her own son, Ralph, as the golden child of the estate, while systematically pushing Nard into the dirt. To Tere, Nard was not just a useless hollow shell; he was a living stain on her family's perfect reputation, a constant reminder of the legendary Maria whom she could never truly overshadow in the annals of the kingdom's history.
That afternoon, Nard was summoned to the conservatory, a lush, glass-domed garden filled with rare, high-tier magical flora that Tere curated.
As Nard entered, his shoulders slumped and his eyes dull, he found Tere standing near a blooming Lunar Lily, her slender fingers gently pruning its silver leaves. Ralph stood beside her, looking pleased with himself, while two handmaids hovered in the background.
"Ah, Nard," Tere murmured, her voice smooth and sweet like honey, yet carrying an unmistakable chill. She did not look up from her flower. "Do come in. I was just telling Ralph how essential it is to prune away the dead, useless branches of a plant so that the true blooms can flourish. It is a lesson that applies to many things in life, wouldn't you agree?"
Nard kept his head bowed, staring at the polished stone floor. "Yes, Stepmother."
Tere finally turned her gaze to him. Her eyes, a cold, calculating shade of violet, swept over his worn tunic and calloused hands. A faint, pitying smile touched her lips. "Look at you. It breaks my heart to see you in such a state, Nard. The son of the great Maria, reduced to a common laborer. Your father is quite right to be disappointed. When I look at Ralph, I see a brilliant future—a boy who will carry the Zaqor name to new heights. But when I look at you... I see only a ghost."
"He doesn't even deserve to stand in your garden, Mother," Ralph sneered, crossing his arms. "The magic here is too pure for a parasite."
"Hush, Ralph," Tere said softly, though her eyes remained locked on Nard, searching for any sign of defiance. "We must have charity for the broken. Tell me, Nard, do you never feel a sense of shame? To walk these halls, knowing your mother gave her life to save your father, only for her legacy to end in a hollow vessel? It must be a terrible weight, knowing you are the reason she is gone, and that you have absolutely nothing to show for her sacrifice."
The words were designed to cut, a delicate, venomous probe meant to shatter whatever spirit Nard had left. Beneath his sleeve, Nard's fingers twitched. The emerald-white core around his heart pulsed defensively, reacting to the cruel mention of his mother. But Nard remembered Beru's training. He compressed the anger, grinding it against his bones, keeping his outer expression entirely vacant.
"I am sorry to be a burden, Stepmother," Nard muttered, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Tere watched him for a long, quiet moment, her smile tightening slightly. She was a master of reading people, and for a fleeting second, she felt a strange, almost imperceptible shift in the air—a tiny fluctuation of energy that vanished before she could grasp it. Her eyes narrowed.
"You may go, Nard," Tere said, her sweetness evaporating into cold indifference. "Take the weeds from the back garden and discard them. Do try not to trip over your own feet."
As Nard bowed and retreated, he heard Ralph's arrogant laughter echoing behind him.
Once he was safely in his spartan chambers, the small bird with the jagged scar fluttered from the windowsill, landing on his shoulder. The bird's amber eyes glowed with a fierce, protective warmth.
"She is a serpent, Nard," Beru's resonant baritone whispered in his mind. "Her words are poisoned, but her eyes are sharp. She is beginning to sense that the 'hollow shell' is not as empty as it seems. We must be even more cautious."
Nard sat on the edge of his cot, his gaze steady and clear. "She can say whatever she wants about me, Beru. But she will never mock my mother's memory again. Not once I am ready."
"Then let that resolve guide your training," Beru replied, his avian form shifting slightly. "The serpent has shown her fangs. Now, we must make sure yours are sharper."