The silverware clinked gently against the porcelain, the only sound breaking the morning hush of the breakfast room. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, painting golden rectangles across the pristine tablecloth. A warm breeze stirred the linen curtains, but no one noticed.
Anthony James Whitman, The Right Honorable Earl of Whitman, sat quietly, his coffee untouched. His gaze was fixed on the woman seated across from him.
His wife—Betty—stirred her tea again and again, a soft, endless spiral of porcelain and silver. She did not sip. She did not look up. The gentle action seemed like an echo of the one before, a looped movement done purely out of memory. Her posture was straight as ever, but her shoulders carried an invisible weight, and her eyes — they were empty, distant, staring into her teacup as though it might offer answers she couldn't find in this world. As if her soul lingered in a place far from the breakfast table.
He studied her, his wife, with a tightening in his chest. This was not the fierce, teasing woman who had once tossed bread rolls at him in jest or scolded him with a mischievous smile when he forgot to take breaks during work. She wasn't here—not really. Her body was present, her hand stirring, but the soul within had wandered somewhere unreachable.
She used to tease him here. Used to give Jason a jam-covered smile and joke about how stuffy the nobles looked in their oil portraits. Now, silence cocooned her.
Across the table, Jason giggled at something he had just said—a cheerful story about his toy soldiers forming a bakery battalion. He paused for a beat, waiting for a response from his mother. Her usual laugh didn't come.
"...Mama?" he tried again, his voice softer, uncertain now.
Betty blinked, her head turning slightly as though pulled back from a faraway land. "Oh," she said, voice light as a feather caught in the wind, "I'm sorry, baby."
She reached out absently to brush his hair, but the gesture faltered halfway. Her hand dropped gently back to her lap.
Jason's smile dimmed. He looked down at his toast, now growing cold.
Anthony leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. "Betty," he said, low and gentle, "are you feeling unwell?"
Her eyes lifted to him at last—but only briefly. A flicker of recognition passed over her face, and then it was gone again, washed away by whatever storm she was holding inside.
"I'm fine," she murmured.
Her spoon stilled. She set it down carefully, methodically, and then pushed her chair back. The legs scraped against the floor like a sigh.
"Excuse me," she said, not meeting either of their eyes.
Anthony stood instinctively, but she was already walking away—slowly, yet deliberately—down the hall with the same quiet grace she always carried. Except now it felt like a ghost drifting through a memory of a life she no longer believed belonged to her.
The door shut softly behind her.
Jason looked up at his father, his small face pinched with confusion. "Papa… did Mama have another bad dream?"
Anthony didn't answer right away. He walked around the table, knelt beside Jason, and pulled him close, pressing a kiss to the boy's temple. "Maybe," he said quietly. "Maybe she did."
Jason curled into his arms. "I'll give her extra hugs today. That always helps, right?"
Anthony nodded against his son's hair, but his eyes were still fixed on the closed door.
The Earl felt his gut tighten. It wasn't just sadness she wore now; it was something deeper, something heavier. He had seen the signs before—the slow retreat of someone drowning in silence, of someone pulling into themselves. He'd lived with grief long enough to recognize it. He just hadn't expected to see it in her. Not after everything they'd begun to rebuild.
This wasn't the grief of a noblewoman who lost her parents. This was Betty slowly slipping into a storm no one could see but her.
And this time, he feared, she might not want him or anyone else to pull her out of it.
Days have passed, and a dreary pall seemed to have enveloped the entire Whitman Manor. The once bright and lively manor went through a reversal of atmosphere. The smiles of the household members slowly disappeared and an underlying tension can now be felt all throughout. As if they all went back in time. To the time when Lady Whitman just woke up from her coma. When she was wary of everyone and fearful of striking up a conversation.
From her position near the hallway arch, Jane watched her mistress with concern veiled beneath practiced stillness.
She was there from the beginning. She had seen how Lady Whitman fought hard and conquered her fear of everyone. And once she won, she had maintained that aura of purpose—even in the quiet, even in confusion.
But now? Lady Whitman drifted past like mist, her footsteps carried no direction, neither quick nor slow—just… absent. The woman who once marched through these halls with lists, sketches, and biting commentary about alternative metal polish and better ingredients for soup now barely lifted her head. She paused often, as if forgetting what she'd set out to do, murmuring something under her breath that Jane could never catch. She would look inside drawers and pick things up, only to put them back down. Sometimes, she'd place her hand on the wall, staring at it like it might remember something for her.
And then there were the nights.
At night, Jane had seen her mistress wandering barefoot through the corridors just like she did a lifetime ago. Slipping from her chamber as the rest of the house slept. She'd stop at locked doors, glance at portraits, whisper names Jane couldn't hear. Searching—not for ledgers or inventories. No. Jane had a sense this search was for something much deeper. Something personal. Something buried in a place not even this world could touch.
Several times, Young Master Jason tried visiting the countess in her bedroom or sitting room, asking to play or read bedtime stories just like usual. At first, Lady Whitman tried to play with the boy and tried to read him a story. But then, she would suddenly stop in the middle of it and would have this faraway look that sees no one, and then she'd start to cry. Eventually, Lady Whitman began going straight to sleep after dinner and pretend she did not hear her stepson coming in her room.
She knew there was something buried inside Lady Whitman that might have started to fester. Something more profound that the ominous gift package, dripping in blood, may have triggered in her. And it was clawing its way to the surface.
In the kitchen, the mood was just as somber.
"Did she eat today?" Mrs. Potts asked, setting down a cloth with more force than necessary.
"Barely, ma'am," replied one of the junior maids, her voice low.
Mrs. Potts pressed her lips tight. "That's three days now."
"And that smile's been gone too," Halley added, shaking her head. "She hasn't even asked about the greenhouse plans. That's not like her."
No, it wasn't, Mrs. Potts thought. It wasn't like her to pass a maid in the hallway and not offer a wink or a quip. It wasn't like her to forget the names she so proudly remembered. The woman who once asked about aching backs, offered to taste test soup batches, who even helped mop up after a water spill in the library—was now silent, dimmed.
They hadn't liked her before, that was true. Not the old, vicious Lady Whitman. But after she woke up from her accident, they have grown to adore her. Not because she was perfect, but because she saw them. Thanked them properly. And treated them like normal human beings, members of the household, not mere servants.
But this one? This version, whose eyes dimmed like the fire had gone out? It unsettled them all. It made the manor feel colder, untethered. As if they were all walking on eggshells, afraid that they would wake up one day and find her asleep once again. In a coma that might last even longer this time.
Upstairs, small feet padded gently over the carpeted floor.
Jason peered around the edge of the doorframe; one arm wrapped tightly around his stuffed soldier. The breakfast room looked the same, but it felt different. Mama sat still, her tea cold in its cup, her gaze locked somewhere far beyond the walls. She didn't ask about his reading lessons anymore. Didn't check his drawings or praise his clean uniform.
Mama hadn't laughed in days. She'd tried to read him a story a few nights ago. But her voice had faltered halfway through the second page. She'd stared at the words, lips moving silently like they weren't hers. And then she would start to cry.
He'd looked to Papa then. But Papa wore that serious face. The one he used when the butler delivered bad news.
Jason clutched his toy tighter. He didn't understand all of it, but he understood enough.
So, he tiptoed into the breakfast room and gently placed the toy beside Mama's teacup, the one she used to pretend was magical. The soldier stood upright, tall and brave.
Maybe Mama needed someone to protect her now.
Like she protected him.
*****Two hearts seek vengeance; two minds burn bright*****
The door clicked shut behind Earl Anthony Whitman with a weight that echoed down the polished corridor like the closing of a vault. Within the private study, the Crown Prince sat near the hearth, firelight casting long shadows across the heavy oak table where a half-empty decanter of wine sat untouched. Standing behind him with arms crossed and expression grim, the Grand Duke awaited as well.
"Your Highness," Anthony greeted, bowing deeply. "Your Grace."
The Crown Prince gestured for him to sit. "Whitman. Thank you for coming on short notice."
"I would have come even if it were shorter." Anthony's voice was flat but respectful. He eased into the chair, back straight, heart heavier than he let show.
The Grand Duke didn't waste time.
"We've reviewed your written report about the gift," he began, voice low and clipped. "You said the box was unmarked?"
"Yes. No seal, no courier records, no name. The packaging was festive—deliberately misleading." Anthony's jaw tightened. "But inside... the message was anything but festive. They desecrated every invention she ever poured herself into. Broken pieces, shattered deliberately. And they poured blood—likely animal, but..."
He trailed off, momentarily closing his eyes.
The Crown Prince leaned forward, clasping his gloved hands atop the table. "Two of our men also received almost the exact same thing."
Anthony's eyes flew to Crown Prince Alaric's grave face.
"Although, theirs were portraits of their family and loved ones. Destroyed and smeared with blood as well," piped Edward.
"Those packages were not just a threat—it was a message. Someone had taken the time to collect her creations as well as our men's family portraits, and ruin them with deliberate cruelty. And then send them all to their intended recipients at the same time. This was planned."
"We suspect retaliation," said Grand Duke Chambers.
"What if the other packages were just decoys?"
Anthony nodded once. "We've considered that as well. The Imperial Trade Sigil's implementation has disrupted smuggling routes and crippled the discretion that dirty officials once relied on. We caught three—"
"Six now," clarified Alaric. "We caught three more recently. The fourth was a customs inspector in the southern region and the other two were with him, trying to dispose of the Trade Sigil. They didn't know that our Imperial Trade Sigils are tamper-proof and could send signals to us once there are any attempt to destroy or disfigure it."
"Thanks to Lady Whitman's ingenious specifications on it," chuckled Edward. He was there when Bettina and Henry were discussing what features to inscribe on the Imperial Trade Sigils and how to make them even stronger.
"The Mage Tower also outdid themselves in creating the final product exactly as specified," praised the prince. "Though, we should probably not praise them too much. They might not be as humble as Lady Whitman," he added, chuckling to himself.
"Six people caught in total," acknowledged the Earl. "The rest… perhaps they're desperate."
"Desperate enough to turn vindictive," the Grand Duke murmured.
"Which means it could be a faction—not an individual," the prince added.
"I've tripled the guard rotations at Whitman Manor," Anthony said. "No servant may enter or leave without clearance. The estate gates are sealed by sunset. I've also dispatched trusted investigators to interview every courier service and delivery stable in the surrounding districts. So far, we've uncovered nothing useful."
The Grand Duke's mouth thinned. "That level of invisibility suggests influence. Possibly noble involvement."
"Or criminal groups emboldened by noble backers," Anthony agreed grimly.
The Crown Prince stood and approached the hearth, one hand behind his back. "We'll allocate palace resources to bolster your household security as well. It won't be public. I'll instruct the commander of the Black Veil Guard to lend discreet support."
Anthony gave a silent nod, quietly relieved. "Thank you, Your Highness."
But then the prince turned back to him, his tone shifting.
"And how is the countess?"
The question pierced deeper than he expected. For a long moment, Anthony said nothing, eyes lowering.
"She's…" he didn't know how to explain. "She was terrified, of course. But it's what came after that alarms me the most."
The Grand Duke exchanged a quick glance with the prince before speaking. "She left the management of our toy business to me, to Garren, and to our shop managers. Have you not tried to coax her into going back to work? It might help."
"I couldn't, she's… She's been quiet. Withdrawn. She eats but barely. Smiles, but not the same way. She wanders. Her office remains untouched. She walks through the manor halls as if she's searching for something—" He exhaled. "Or someone."
A pause.
"She used to tease me during meals," he added, almost absently. "Sometimes I'd catch her humming as she worked late into the night. Jason used to sit beside her, tinkering. But now… she sits silently. She watches Jason play instead of joining him."
"You believe this was more than fear?" the prince asked quietly.
"I think it struck a place deeper than fear," Anthony said. He didn't want to talk about it. But he wanted to talk to someone about it. Maybe just to get a different perspective. "I think it reminded her of something far older. Something painful."
The Grand Duke tilted his head slightly, watching him. "And you?"
Anthony's eyes flickered. "I feel powerless."
That confession hung in the air, heavy and unadorned.
"I would fight for her," he added, voice rougher now. "I would burn down the heavens if it meant she'd never have to retreat within herself again. But I can't fight what I can't see. And I can't protect her from memories that I don't understand."
A long, tense silence stretched across the study. Grand Duke Chambers looked down into the fire.
"She's not weak, Anthony," he said at last.
"No," Anthony agreed. "But she's hurt. And I don't know how to reach her while she's hiding behind silence and… shadows."
The Grand Duke slowly stepped forward, laying a hand on Anthony's shoulder.
"Let our agents track the threat. Let us root out the source," he said. "You—stay by her side. When a woman like her breaks, it's not with shouts. It's with silence."
Anthony nodded, jaw clenched.
The prince returned to his chair. "We'll keep this matter quiet for now. Whoever sent that warning will think we're standing still. Let them."
"They'll show their hand eventually," the Grand Duke added.
"And when they do," Anthony said softly, rising, "I'll be ready."
*****Bound by justice, forged in night*****
She didn't know how she ended up in the drawing room. Or maybe it was the gallery. Every hallway blurred together in her eyes lately—each one too polished, too quiet, too unreal.
A tray of pastries sat untouched on a side table, the scent of fresh butter and strawberry glaze hanging in the air like an affront. One of the maids must've left it there. Or maybe the chef. Someone was always trying. Flowers filled her room even more than before and they get changed more often to brighter blooms even before the previous ones showed any slight signs of wilting. Honeyed tea at just the right temperature. Her favorite blanket freshly warmed before bedtime.
They were all trying so hard.
And she couldn't bring herself to care.
Her bare footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet. Her reflection blinked at her from the glass of a framed painting; her eyes dulled like they belonged to someone else. Someone who shouldn't have been born into silk sheets and scented lotions. Someone who had abandoned a child.
Her breath hitched. She clutched the edge of a carved pillar and tried to still herself—but the thought rushed back like it always did.
Ethan.
Her little brother. Her sweet, clumsy, brave Ethan.
What was he doing now? Was he sleeping on the lumpy couch with a pillow half-shredded from cigarette burns? Or was he still up—scrubbing the mold off kitchen tiles to avoid getting yelled at? Was he even able to eat at least? Maybe her little Ethan was even now wandering the streets trying to find ways to earn money. For their vicious father. In her stead. Stepfather must be beating the shit out of him even now.
Or had that poor excuse of a man killed her stepbrother already? Just like her.
Her stomach twisted. She could almost hear it—the slam of the door, the shuffle of heavy boots, the slurred curses. In her mind's eye, she could see Ethan flinching, trying not to cry when the shouting started. And she could feel the phantom sting of guilt rising in her throat like bile.
How could she be here? In this mansion? Being dressed in velvet gowns, expensive jewelry, and sleeping on goose-down pillows?
How could she allow her hair to be brushed with care by a servant when Ethan probably hadn't been able to shower properly in days? How could she be fed three meals a day when Ethan was likely starving—eating crackers for breakfast just to make the milk last?
She choked back a sob and rubbed her eyes roughly.
The worst part was Jason.
That sweet little boy—so open, so trusting. His tiny hand used to slip into hers without hesitation. He used to laugh when she made funny voices for the toys, and her heart would swell, believing for a moment that maybe—just maybe—she could be the kind of mother who deserved his pure love.
But lately, when Jason tried to play, she'd inadvertently pull away. When he brought her drawings, she didn't have the energy to react properly.
Because every time she looked at him, all she saw was Ethan.
And the shame was unbearable.
She'd started pretending to sleep when he came into her room. Curled under the blanket, breathing slow, listening to his small footsteps retreat again. The disappointment in those little footsteps crushed her, but it still hurt less than having to look into his eyes and know she was giving him warmth while her real brother froze in the dark.
She walked past the very familiar library doors.
She must have read all the books related to magic in that room more than twice over. But none have been helpful to her quest. She also sent a letter to Mage Henry asking about the possibility of souls traveling great distances or even the possibility of one's soul possessing another's body. However, the helpful mage only sent a letter of apology, claiming that the Mage Tower have never once experienced it nor ventured into studying soul transference. His advice, though, at the end of his response letter, was this:
-----000-----
Although, if we do allow ourselves to assume that soul transference or possession is possible, then we must also wonder on the reason why the soul chose to possess a certain person's body. Was it the body that needed the soul or the soul that needed the body? If it was neither, then perhaps there's a separate, maybe higher, entity that made the possession happen. And if that is the case, then the body must have needed that soul—for help, perhaps? Alas, since soul transmigration has never happened before in the history of our world, one may only speculate on possibilities.
-----000-----
Ah, if it wasn't the Mage Tower that brought her soul here, then who could that entity be? Was it really because this body, Bettina's body, needed her help?
These and more questions were plaguing her mind again as her wandering took her deeper into the manor, past the music room, past the indoor conservatory. Her hand trailed along the wall like she needed the touch to stay grounded. She wasn't thinking anymore, just moving.
Then, somehow, she was there.
The portrait room.
She hadn't been here before. Didn't think a room of pictures could help her quest to go back home. But, at the threshold, the hush was immediate. Even the air felt heavier here, thick with oil paint and centuries of judgment. The rows of ancestors stared down at her with stony disapproval—men in military dress, women in lace and pearls, all of them painted to look more regal than human.
She began to feel along the walls, peek under the huge paintings, and lift under heavy draperies. Maybe she'd find something here.
And then she saw him.
Lord Marcus Whitman.
The plaque beneath the towering portrait named him clearly: The Right Honorable Lord Marcus Andrew Whitman, 8th Earl of Whitman.
She felt her skin prickle. That name—Marcus. Bettina's diary had mentioned a Marcus. The business partner who twisted deals behind closed doors. The one her parents didn't trust. The one who insisted on "expanding the company" right before the warehouse fire that killed them both. And yes, a Lord Whitman was also mentioned in one of Bettina's hidden stash of newspaper clippings that talked about that warehouse fire.
Her eyes darted between the plaque and the face above it.
His painted features were sharp and unforgiving. High cheekbones. A tight-lipped frown. The kind of man who didn't need to shout to be terrifying. The kind of man who demanded obedience just by walking into a room. He looked quite different from Anthony, except for the dark hair and blue eyes. Perhaps, Anthony inherited his mother's features.
And this man—this man had been the Earl. The Earl before Anthony James Whitman. Before her husband.
She swallowed hard.
If this was the man that Bettina's parents feared, the man they suspected, the man who stole this business empire and buried bones beneath it, then perhaps…
She turned slowly toward the hallway behind her. Her heart pounded now—not from grief, but from something else. A quiet fire. A stirring in the fog of her mind.
The master's chambers had once belonged to Marcus. They were now Anthony's.
But maybe—just maybe—something still lingered there.
A ledger. A letter. Anything of Lord Marcus's could still be there.
She needed to know.
For Bettina's parents. For the truth. For the family she had lost.
She had once believed that she was brought here to help Bettina seek justice for her parents. And maybe, if she found something important enough—something powerful—it could help return her back to Earth.
To Ethan.
To save him before it was too late.