It had been a while since Sylvie left.
Now, I sat alone in the dark — silence wrapping around me like a second skin. The once-bright library, a place of lively voices and drifting pages, had sunk into shadow. Every lamp had been dimmed — save one. A lone chandelier above my head flickered softly, its warm light casting a golden pool over the table beneath, but fading long before it could touch the distant walls.
My shadow stretched across the polished wood like a quiet echo of myself.
I sat still — unmoving — my hands folded gently, fingertips lightly touching, forming a delicate arch. My thoughts churned beneath that calm exterior, storming inside a head held still.
What do I do now?
I had told Sylvie I had a plan.
A lie — but a necessary one. Dressed in confidence, laced with assurance, it was enough to keep her from doubting. From questioning me. From hesitating when I told her what to do.
But the truth?
I didn't know anything.
Not even the basics.
Not a single book in this grand, towering sea of tomes held a whisper about the Awakening Ceremony. I had searched everything — read titles until the gold lettering blurred, flipped pages until my fingers numbed — only to find emptiness.
Where am I supposed to find the answers?
Frustration twisted within me like a thorned vine, coiling tighter with every heartbeat. But just before it could swallow me whole, a thought flickered through the chaos.
Mother.
A former princess of the Empire.
If anyone knew the hidden truths — the secrets that even dukes weren't privy to — it would be her. Not from books. But from bloodline. From whispers passed between queens and heirs, in the halls no scholar had ever walked.
My chair scraped softly against the marble as I stood. The sound was swallowed quickly by the heavy silence.
I rushed out of the library.
But halfway through the corridor, I stopped.
The manor was still. Cold moonlight poured through the high, arched windows, painting silver puddles across the stone floors. Shadows clung to the pillars. Not a soul moved.
It was the middle of the night.
She's probably asleep.
I let out a breath, my shoulders lowering, the urgency melting into quiet acceptance. There was no point in disturbing her now. The answer could wait. One more night wouldn't break me.
The night guards I passed didn't speak — only nodded. They were used to it by now. Me wandering through the halls like a restless ghost.
Eventually, I returned to my room.
Calling it a "room" felt… wrong. It was a chamber built for someone far greater. Tall windows stood like silent sentinels, and the vaulted ceiling above seemed to stretch into the heavens. One window directly above the bed spilled moonlight down like liquid silver, cascading across the soft covers.
I stood at the edge of the bed, shedding my clothes in silence. The fabric slipped away until I remained in nothing but my underclothes. I slipped beneath the sheets.
Cool silk. Moonlight. Stillness.
I lay on my back, staring up at the stars beyond the glass. They blinked in and out behind slow-drifting clouds, far too quiet, far too peaceful.
And slowly — without resistance — sleep found me.
---
The next morning…
"Young master, wake up."
A voice, soft but commanding, pulled me from the edge of dreams.
Sylvie.
Her voice cut through the warmth of the blankets like a gentle blade. I turned away, groaning, pulling the covers tighter over my head.
Since I came to this world… sleep had become peace.
In that other life, every time I closed my eyes, it felt like I might never open them again. Back then, sleep wasn't rest. It was retreat. And sometimes not even that.
But now—
I felt the blanket shift. Tugged.
"Don't do it, Sylvie," I mumbled, voice muffled under the cocoon of fabric, clinging to the last traces of warmth like a child clutching a dream.
"Young master," she said, voice firmer now. "Everyone is already waiting for you at the dining table. You have to get ready."
The resistance in the blanket grew.
I was losing.
With a defeated groan, I let go — only to roll right off the edge of the bed.
A dull thud.
'Ah… it hurts.'
But instead of getting up, I rolled again — right under the bed. A slow crawl. The marble was cold against my skin, but not cold enough to wake me fully.
"Sylvie, tell them I'm not hungry…" I muttered, sprawled like a fugitive avoiding judgment. "Let me sleep just a little longer…"
Then—suddenly—light.
Too bright. Too direct. I squinted, cracking open one eye.
Sylvie stood above me, lifting the entire king-sized bed with one hand.
The other rested on her hip.
Her eyes — sharp blue, narrowed with quiet authority — stared down at me with terrifying calm.
A chill ran down my spine.
Without a word, I shot out from beneath the bed and bolted into the bathroom like my life depended on it.
---
After bathing, I stepped out, rubbing a towel through my wet hair.
Sylvie was waiting, arms full of clothes, her expression carved from marble. Beautiful, yes. But unyielding.
"Why do you have to make that face every time…" I muttered under my breath, sighing as I reached for the clothes. "Not that your face is ugly — in fact, it's dangerously pretty. A man would kill just to see that face every morning."
I glanced at her.
"Tch. Ruining such a beautiful face with that look…"
She blinked — the smallest flicker of surprise — but her voice remained steady.
"What does a five-year-old know about the face of a girl, young master?"
"Yeah, yeah. You're right. What would a five-year-old know about beauty?" I shrugged. "But keep that expression up, and no one will marry you."
That's when I caught it.
Just a flicker.
Her eyes widened — just slightly — before she turned her face away.
"Wh… Why wo–would I marry someone? Hm?" she mumbled, voice tight.
She's flustered.
I paused mid-movement, halfway into my shirt, and stared.
My brows rose in disbelief.
"You! Don't tell me you're really looking for someone to marry?"
Her cheeks turned the faintest shade of red — barely noticeable — but it was there.
"Young master," she said stiffly, "my marriage should not be of any concern to you."
But her eyes… they told a different story.
That just confirmed it.
"Well, whatever. It's your life. You're free to do whatever you want." I slipped my arms into the sleeves and buttoned the front slowly. "But if you don't find anyone…"
I looked at her, my voice calm, steady.
"I'll marry you."
There was no smile. No blush. No teasing glint in my eye.
Just a simple truth — veiled beneath what sounded like a joke.
But I knew better.
I wasn't going to marry anyone. Not Sylvie. Not anyone.
Not because I didn't like girls. Not because I feared it.
Because I didn't deserve love.
I'd only ruin it.
I turned away and quietly finished dressing. Sylvie didn't say anything. Her face stayed calm — as if my words had rolled off her.
Maybe… that was for the best.
---
We walked together toward the dining hall.
The corridor was bathed in soft morning light. Golden rays poured through stained glass windows, coloring the white stone walls in fragments of amber, rose, and emerald. The chandeliers above remained unlit — the sun alone was enough to illuminate the way.
As we reached the wide double doors, I could already hear soft clinking — silverware on porcelain, hushed conversations.
When we entered, my gaze immediately moved to the two ornate chairs at the head of the long table.
Mother and Father sat side by side — regal, composed. Draped in noble silks, bearing the weight of their status with practiced ease.
Roman sat to Father's left, posture perfect.
"Morning mom, morning dad, morning brother," I greeted as I stepped closer.
Vincent looked up first — a smile lighting his face. Roman nodded calmly. Aurora's lips curved into a gentle smile.
I made my way to the seat beside them and sat down.
The morning passed like a soft breeze — warm, calm, with quiet conversations dancing between the clatter of plates and forks.
Soon after, Father rose and left — duty pulling him toward the empire's endless responsibilities. Roman followed, his books awaiting him.
As for me — I stood quietly and walked beside Mother.
It was time.
Time to ask the question that kept me awake beneath the stars.
And perhaps — finally — to get an answer.