The healer's office smelled of herbs, chalk, and faintly of roasted chestnuts. Shelves leaned with jars filled with powders, dried roots, and things Suzan didn't want to identify
The man himself—a silver-haired healer with spectacles forever sliding down his nose—squinted at Suzan as though she were an especially troublesome math problem. He tapped her forehead twice, as if checking the ripeness of a melon.
"Any dizziness?" he asked.
"Only when you stand too close," Suzan replied sweetly, her lips curling in mock innocence.
He ignored her. "Pain in the chest? Shortness of breath?"
"Only when Lily nags me."
"Suzan!" Lily hissed, scandalized.
"What? That's a symptom," Suzan said with an airy shrug.
The healer hummed, unfazed. He pressed his stethoscope charm against Suzan's back. "Breathe in. Again. Hold." He shifted, then pinched her wrist gently, feeling for her pulse.
Suzan dangled her legs from the examination bed, swinging them back and forth with a grin, like she was bored of being healthy.
"Well?" Lily demanded at last, leaning forward, her hands clasped together in anxious fists.
The healer adjusted his spectacles, frowning slightly. "Strong pulse. Clear lungs. No fever. No weakness."
"See?" Suzan chirped, bouncing off the bed before anyone could stop her. "Told you! I'm so healthy it's criminal."
"Healthy people don't bleed like that," Lily muttered.
Suzan leaned close and stage-whispered, "Maybe I just have dramatic sinuses. It's a condition."
Lily groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Why do I even try?"
The healer scribbled a note lazily. "Whatever happened, it left no trace. She's perfectly well. Stronger than most, in fact. Perhaps stronger than she should be."
That last remark hung strangely in the air. Lily caught the weight of it, her gaze sharp with concern. Suzan, however, only clapped her hands.
"Well then! Mystery solved! I am, as I've always said, indestructible." She darted for the door, calling over her shoulder, "Come on, Lily, let's go celebrate with something fried, greasy, and full of regret."
Lily sighed, following, worry still etched on her brow.
They left the healer's ward, stepping into the chilly night. The cobblestones gleamed damp in the moonlight, and most of the city was already asleep.
Suzan shoved her hands into her pockets and skipped half a step ahead, humming. "Well, that was a spectacular waste of time."
"You nearly collapsed in the vault," Lily reminded, her tone sharp but her eyes soft. "Excuse me for worrying about you."
Suzan shot her a sidelong glance, a smirk tugging her lips. "You worry too much. Maybe you should see a healer for that."
"Very funny." Lily swatted at her sleeve, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
"Better wasted time than wasted life," Lily countered.
Suzan smirked. "Still dramatic."
For a while they walked in silence, until Suzan burst out: "Those treasures though! Shiny, glittery, dangerous. Did you see that one mirror? Bet it eats people."
Lily shook her head. "And you nearly stuck your hand through it."
"Nearly! I exercise restraint, you know. Sometimes."
Her laughter filled the street, but Lily's mind kept circling back to the vault. She remembered finding Suzan deep among the columns, her eyes rimmed red, her voice faint and shaky when she spoke. Lily had wanted to press her about it, but she'd swallowed the words. Not tonight.
Suzan was quiet now too, her grin lingering but her gaze somewhere far away.
When they reached the fork in the street, Lily tugged Suzan's hand. "Promise me you'll go straight home."
Suzan rolled her eyes. "I'm not five."
"Promise me." Lily pleaded "no detours. No rooftops. Just… home."
"Yes, Mother Hen." suzan beamed, paused, then gave a small two-fingered salute. "Fine, fine. Straight home. Cross my heart and hope not to trip."
"That doesn't sound like a promise."
"It's the best you'll get" Suzan smiled faintly and gave her farewell "goodnight, Lily."
"Goodnight."
They parted—Lily hurrying off, Suzan slipping toward her own home, her grin fading the further she went.
That night, after parting with Lily, Suzan returned to her little house by the vase stall. The street outside was quiet, washed silver by moonlight. She pushed the door open, set her shoes by the wall, and slipped upstairs to her room.
Her room was small—just a narrow bed, a crooked dresser, a table littered with scraps of parchment and odd trinkets. Suzan flopped onto her bed with a groan, staring at the ceiling as if it owed her answers. The silence of the room pressed in, broken only by the faint tick of the old wall clock. For a moment, she almost convinced herself she could sleep. Almost.
But her hand drifted to her face. Her fingers hooked at her jawline, then pressed along the faint groove of the mana-carved wood. With one fluid motion, She tugged lightly, and the invisible mask came free.
The mask slipped off like any ordinary mask might—no resistance, no ceremony—yet the moment it left her skin, the air shifted, like the atmosphere recognized something was hidden and now demanded to be seen.
Only the mask was no toy. It was a subtle piece of enchanted craftsmanship, shaped from pale wood, enchanted by Jane to cling weightlessly to her skin. It had blurred Suzan's true features, softening them into the mischievous, forgettable street-kid face she wore every day. It never came off unless she herself took it out or if someone smacked her face hard.
Without it, the difference was startling.
Suzan sat upright, mask dangling loosely from her fingers, and stared into the mirror across the room.
The girl reflected there was not the scrappy, sharp-edged street rat she let the city believe in. Her features were refined, almost otherworldly, cut with the kind of effortless grace that made every angle seem deliberate—smooth cheeks, a jaw just soft enough to carry nobility, lips that curved naturally into expressions people remembered. Her eyes, no longer just mischievous green, now burned like gems polished by firelight, carried a depth too old for her claimed age. Her hair, no longer dulled by disguise, shimmered in a golden cascade that looked spun from sunlight catching even the dim candlelight with threads of molten gold. It was the face of someone born for portraits and halls of marble. The kind of beauty no cloak of mischief could bury. The kind of presence no one would ever mistake for a street child.
Noble. Regal. Royal.
She walked to the mirror and, hesitating only once, lifted her bangs away from her forehead. There it was. Beneath it, the truth of her bloodline revealed itself.
The mark. The fairy's mark, A faint sigil etched into her forehead—a fairy holders birthright. Only it wasn't alive. The soft light it should've borne was smothered, sealed beneath a black sigil that crawled across it like a dead vine. Once radiant. Now bound, lifeless.
Her grip tightened around the mask in her hand.
Her breath trembled out of her. She stepped back, sat heavily on the bed, and dug out the locket that never left her chest. Snapping it open, she stared at the tiny photograph inside: her parents smiling with such warmth it burned. But her part—the chubby, mischievous child—was ripped away, only a torn edge left where she should've been.
Her eyes stung. Tears blurred the edges.
For a heartbeat, her chest stirred with the memory of that day. She had been small, nervous, wriggling as the painter scolded her for not sitting still. Jane had plucked a daisy from the garden and handed it to the man, making everyone laugh. The warmth of that laughter pressed against Suzan's ribs now, bittersweet.
Suzan clutched the locket tight. But it was the frame in the vault, larger than life, that struck hardest. Seeing herself there, whole, in her parents' embrace. The family complete.
Her throat ached.
But more than nostalgia pressed on her chest. The memory of pain returned—the crushing agony she'd felt when stepping into the library. Like her insides had been pulled apart. That agony she knew too well.. And then, just as suddenly it started, it was gone, washed away when that voice whispered to her. Even now, the fear slithered back.
Her arms wrapped around herself, trembling. 'Is it starting again? Why now? Please, no...… not again". The curse had been silent for years. She had thought it gone.
"No," she whispered into the quiet. "Just… normal pain. Normal body pain." She laughed, too high, too thin. "That's all."
But she knew better.
Normal pain didn't feel like that. Didn't pull like that. Didn't burn like that.
She hugged herself tight, trembling, whispering reassurances she didn't believe herself. Because her body remembered the truth. She had suffered it before, remembering exactly what it felt like to have her insides torn apart for four years straight.
And she feared that it was waiting for her again maybe this time worser.
But morning came anyway.
Suzan awoke with sunlight spilling across her bed. She slid the mask back into place until her reflection was once more the cheeky, forgettable Suzan everyone knew.
And with that, she carried on as if nothing had happened.
Suzan was Suzan again.
By noon, she was back to her antics—She tore through the market square like a whirlwind, shouting greetings, heckling a nobleman's wig, leaping crates just to prove she could, stealing pastries from a distracted baker, ducking guards who gave half-hearted chases, and laughing like the world had no weight.
Normal. Loud. Chaotic. Unstoppable.
Meanwhile, deep beneath the palace, The vault was silent when the investigators entered, its grand marble arches still humming faintly from disrupted mana. Dust floated like disturbed snow, but the air felt wrong—too neat, too deliberately tidy.
The leader of the investigation team, Captain Arven, a sharp-eyed man with graying temples and the weight of twenty years in royal service, crouched low, brushing a gloved hand over the stone floor.
"Footprints," he said quietly. His voice carried authority, instantly drawing the others' attention.
The younger investigator, Taren, bent close. "Two sets. Small. Children, perhaps."
Another officer retrieved a few strands of pale hair caught on a cracked corner of a stone pedestal. He raised them into the light. "Hair. Not dark. Light-colored. Likely female."
"And this—" A mage tapped a shimmer caught in the air, his palm glowing faintly as he teased out the lingering residue. "Mana distortion, faint but layered. Too faint for an untrained thief. This was masked—deliberately masked."
Arven straightened, his eyes narrowing. "So they cleaned it?"
"Yes," the mage replied. "But too well. No natural flow leaves such symmetry. This reeks of manipulation."
"Which means," Arven said, his gaze sweeping the vault, "our culprits wanted us to see this. They knew we'd find it."
He turned to another investigator, pressing the hair strands and a torn scrap of brushed fabric into his hands. "Identify these traces. I want a name, a face, and where they've been walking in my city."
"Yes, Captain."
Arven motioned to the senior mages, and a glowing crystal orb was placed in the center of the vault. Its surface rippled as if disturbed by water. "Play back the fragments. Let's see what happened here."
The air shimmered. Slowly, ghostly shapes flickered into form—memories imprinted into the very mana of the vault.
At first, only two figures appeared—two small silhouettes walking cautiously through the treasure chamber. Gasps ran through the investigators as the figures clarified: a white-haired girl and a brown-haired girl.
"Children?" one of the investigators whispered, incredulous.
The image showed Suzan and Lily moving carefully, peering at relics like tourists marveling at strange animals. Their expressions were open, unguarded. The girls whispered, pointed, even laughed quietly—amazed, rather than scheming.
"Doesn't look like thieves," Taren muttered.
"They don't even touch anything," another noted.
The projection continued. The two girls circled the vault in awe, then, nervously but harmlessly, they left together.
The room of investigators murmured. Some shook their heads.
"Children sneaking in, too curious for their own good."
"Doesn't explain the break."
"Keep watching," Arven ordered.
The crystal glowed again. The memory jumped forward. The same white-haired girl reappeared—but this time, she was alone. Her steps were hurried, her eyes too focused. She went straight toward the center, where the relic had been sealed.
Gasps rippled again.
"She came back," Taren whispered.
"Alone," someone added.
The projection wavered—her form glitching, blurring—and suddenly in her place, shadowed cloaked men flickered into view. Their shapes bent unnaturally, their faces obscured, their presence unstable. Then the memory snapped back—showing Suzan again.
Suspicious," muttered one investigator. "If she was alone, why are those silhouettes behind her?"
"Because she wasn't alone," Arven said coldly. "But whoever tampered with this made her the focus. Look—see the layering? Their energy signatures are too faint. Someone weakened them deliberately."
Her small hands reached for the relic. She took it. She ran.
The scene dissolved into static.
The investigators were silent.
One slammed a fist against his palm. "That's it. Open and shut. She stole it."
"Or they tampered with the memory," another countered. "Look at the blurring. The cloaked men's presence. Someone wanted her image here."
"Still, she returned. That part is real."
"She touched the relic with her own hands. That much can't be faked."
"Then perhaps she's working with them."
The room divided quickly—half convinced of her guilt, half deeply uncertain.
Arven raised a hand, silencing them. "Enough. Debate is useful, but let's keep sharp. Whether she's their ally or their pawn, one fact remains: she appears in the fragments. Which means the enemy wants her tied to this incident. Either she's important to them—or convenient."
He stepped closer to the crystal orb, staring at the frozen image of Suzan's pale hair and wide green eyes. "In either case, we cannot ignore her."
Just then, a guard rushed in, panting. "Captain! We found her traces. We've identified the girl."
The room hushed.
The report was laid on the table. Descriptions of Suzan tumbled out: mischievous, chaotic, always in trouble, careless in covering her tracks, known for teasing guards and running wild through the capital.
One investigator who had defended her innocence stared at the report in disbelief. "This… this matches perfectly. The carefree nature. The recklessness. Not hiding her trace—exactly what we see here. It's her."
Another muttered, "If the cloaked men know her this well, enough to use her mannerisms, then she's either been with them—or they've studied her."
Arven's gaze hardened. "Which makes her dangerous either way."
The debate grew heated, voices rising:
"She's a child—look at her. They're framing her."
"She's cleverer than she looks. What better disguise than a street brat?"
"Her personality matches too well. That's no coincidence."
"She is used and doesn't even know."
"She could be innocent."
"She could be their key."
Finally, Arven's voice cut through, cold and decisive:
"Enough. Innocent or guilty, this girl is involved. The memory showed her holding the relic. Whether she took it by choice or manipulation, she is the thread we follow. We bring her in, alive and unharmed, and we get answers."
A silence settled. The team nodded, grim but resolved.
Arven turned toward the door. "At first light, we move. Find her residence. Bring her in."
In the end, they weren't sure what to believe. But one truth cut through the uncertainty:
The girl had been with the cloaked men. Whether as ally, bait, or something stranger—she was part of this.
And that meant she was now a target of suspect.
Morning light filtered weakly into Suzan's little home, brushing across crooked shelves and the faint smell of yesterday's bread. She sat at the table, munching a crust, swinging one leg lazily as though the world had no claim on her.
She hummed under her breath, crumbs dusting her chin, utterly oblivious to the boots drawing closer outside.
She plopped her chin into her sticky hands, green eyes sparkling as she spoke aloud in mock formality talking to the house as though it could hear her.
"Dear kingdom, bow before me, for I have consumed all the fried bread and therefore claim sovereignty over snacks."
Her laughter bubbled up, echoing in the empty little room.
Then— a knock.
Not a polite tap. Not timid. Not neighborly, not Lily's usual patient rap-rap.
This one was hard, commanding, the kind that shook the wooden door on its hinges.
Suzan froze mid-bite, crumbs falling from her mouth.
"…Well," she muttered after a beat, tilting her head. "That doesn't sound like Lily. She usually knocks like she's begging the door not to yell at her."
Another boom rattled the frame.
Suzan snorted, wiping her mouth on her sleeve, but picking another slice and heading to the door.
"Maybe she wants me to help clean something. Poor Lily—always the broom, never the glory. But—" she spread her arms wide, addressing the empty house like a stage, "I didn't invite anyone to a party this early! What rude guests."
She giggled at her own joke, completely unaware. Completely unprepared.
Because Suzan—carefree, teasing, mischievous Suzan—had no idea she was already framed.
No idea her life, as she knew it, was about to break apart with the next knock.