In the dungeon of Greyst Manor late at night, a damp musty smell mingled with the lingering stench of blood, sinking down along the stone steps. Torchlight flickered in the wall niches, stretching the shadows of iron chains into long, thin forms that dragged across the moss-covered floor—like rigid, dead snakes.
Ley's footsteps were quick, and a smoldering anger lay hidden in his eyes.
No sooner had he turned the corner than he saw two guards leaning against the iron gate.
Each held a wine flask, and a wine jar as thick as a bucket sat beside them. They were roasting a charred piece of meat over a torch, laughing so hard their shoulders shook.
"That elf's one tough nut—we whipped her all afternoon, and she didn't make a peep. I'm starting to wonder if we're just torturing a corpse,"
the guard on the left took a sip of wine, which dribbled down his chin, and spoke in a flippant tone. "Lady Shinobu's wasting her time keeping her alive. Tormenting a mute's no fun."
The guard on the right was about to reply when a dark figure blocked the torchlight.
Ley stood before them, a smile on his face, but there was no warmth in the corners of his eyes.
"Enjoying yourselves?" His voice was soft, like the wind brushing against iron chains, yet it carried a cold edge.
"Father put you here to guard the dungeon—was it so you could drink wine and roast meat?"
The guards' drunkenness faded instantly. They scrambled to their feet, and one of their flasks clattered to the ground. But when they saw who it was, their panic vanished, replaced by a faint look of contempt in their eyes.
"So it's Young Master Ley—you gave us a scare," one guard said, his tone dismissive.
"I want to see the imprisoned elf," Ley stated.
As soon as the words left his mouth, the two guards stepped forward, blocking the dungeon entrance tightly.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ley asked.
Everyone in the Greyst family knew Ley was nothing but a walking test subject for Satila's potions—the least favored son, and always gentle with the servants. He was hardly someone to fear.
The guards' expressions turned solemn. "The Lord of the Manor gave orders: no one but Lady Shinobu is allowed in. And we're especially not to tell the eldest young master about this," one guard replied.
Ley's smile didn't fade; instead, it took on a warmer edge. "It's cold tonight. I also want a drink to warm myself up."
One guard quickly offered his flask, but Ley ignored it. Instead, he slung an arm around one guard's shoulders, picked up the half-full wine jar,
and gulped it down in large swallows—gurgle, gurgle—until the jar was empty.
The guards stared in shock. They didn't know Ley had the constitution of a "potion vessel"—no matter how strong the wine, it could never get him drunk.
"Y-Young Master Ley… are you alright?" the left guard stammered.
Ley patted his shoulder. "Father put you here to guard the dungeon, not to drink. I'll let this slide this time." Then he turned to the right guard, his lips still curved in a faint smile. "As for you—be more careful in your next life."
"Yes, yes, sir!" both guards nodded hastily, but the contempt in their eyes remained. Being able to hold one's liquor was hardly a skill worth admiring.
The guard on the right, still silently sneering, suddenly felt a sharp pain in his neck. Strange—why was his field of vision rising higher and higher?
He saw his companion's face far below, contorted in terror. His gaze drifted downward, and he saw a headless body spurting blood like a fountain.
"So… my head's been cut off," he realized, before darkness swallowed him.
Ley wiped the blood from his blade and smiled at the other guard, who had frozen in terror. "Now, may I go in to see her?"
He curled his lips slightly, a smile as warm as the spring breeze brushing over a lake.
At the deepest part of the dungeon, Ophelia was chained to a stone wall.
Her prison clothes were soaked through with blood, the dark red fabric clinging to her body.
The parts of her arms and ankles that were exposed were covered in deep whip marks—old wounds overlapping new ones, not an inch of unmarred skin left.
The skin rubbed raw by the manacles had festered, and yellow pus trickled down the stone wall, pooling into small puddles on the floor. Her head hung low, her silver hair matted with blood and mud, hiding her face. Only the faint rise and fall of her chest proved she was still alive.
Ley's footsteps paused. He had seen Ophelia disguised as an ugly elf; he had heard Shinobu speak of her stubbornness under torture. But he had never seen her so… utterly broken. Like a bird with its wings snapped, robbed of even the strength to struggle.
Ophelia sensed someone approaching and slowly lifted her head. She had hidden a pale gray magpie feather close to her body, taking great care to keep it from the sweet-faced, deranged girl—Shinobu. No one knew this secret, not even Ley, who had been so close to her.
A day earlier, she had sent a message to Lily, her dearest friend in the Witch's Mutual Aid Society. The feather would vibrate when Lily drew near, a signal only she could sense.
Was Lily here to rescue her? But the feather hidden against her skin hadn't trembled at all.
Shinobu's face flashed into her mind—the girl with lavender-tipped hair, who smiled like a blooming cherry blossom. When she drew near, she would murmur, "Sister, your eyes are so bright, like the stars of Eldora."
But no sooner had the words left her mouth than a silver needle would pierce Ophelia's eye socket, and Ophelia would hear the crisp crack of her own eyeball.
Shinobu would gently wipe her face, her fingertips brushing Ophelia's cheeks as she said, "Sister, your face is so beautiful—it breaks my heart." Then in the next breath, she would press a red-hot iron to Ophelia's face, her voice turning harsh: "Is this the face you used to seduce my brother?"
She would grip Ophelia's chin, smiling as she asked, "Who's been helping you escape?"
while her whip lashed down on Ophelia's back, again and again, until the flesh was torn and bloody. She would turn to the guards and say, "Use the best potions—don't let her die," then glance back at Ophelia with a devilish grin: "Sister, are we the same? Can you turn pain into pleasure too?
Then let me make you even more 'pleased'—these potions will amplify your pain a hundredfold."
Every time she was tortured, Ophelia would repeat to herself: Her people needed her. She had to endure, to overcome, to stay strong. Through all that agony, she had never made a sound.
She had sent word to Lily long ago. Lily would come to save her—she had to trust in their friendship.
The footsteps stopped at her feet. They weren't Shinobu's—Shinobu's steps were light, with a skip to them. These steps were heavy, carrying a cold weight.
Ophelia slowly lifted her head. Her left eye was so swollen it couldn't open; her right eye had long been gouged out, the empty socket crusted with blood. Only one bloodshot eye remained, blurred as it focused on the figure before her.
It was Ley.
Her pupils contracted sharply. This was the same Ley—the third young master of the Greyst family, the one who had seemed so frivolous at the slave market; the "good-for-nothing" controlled by Satila and used as a pawn by his father. Why was he here? Wasn't he afraid of being discovered by Zoe, who had turned into a monster? Wasn't he afraid of dying?
"Tsk—you look even uglier now than you did at the slave market,"
Ley knelt down. His fingertips brushed the scars on her face, rough as sandpaper, but his touch softened, as if he feared breaking a piece of fragile porcelain.
"Didn't I tell you? Don't come see me looking like this—I'd lose my appetite just staring at you."
As he spoke, he reached out to smooth her tangled silver hair, his thumb brushing away the blood caked in her tresses. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
Ophelia said nothing, but tears suddenly splashed onto Ley's hand—so hot they made his fingers twitch. All the pain, fear, despair, and hidden grievances of these days came pouring out with those tears. She had thought her heart had turned as hard as ice, yet now, at the sight of Ley's warm face, she couldn't stop crying.
Perhaps it was because, for all his sharp words, he had never once tortured her.
"W-Woo…" She tried to speak, but only a muffled whimper escaped her throat.
Ley gently ran his hand over her body, then poured a special alchemical potion over her wounds. He had gone to his younger sister specifically to get this—it was a healing elixir that would leave no scars.
"Say… why aren't you talking?" He looked at Ophelia's tearful face, and his expression turned cold instantly.
Ophelia was more stubborn than he had ever imagined.
No matter what torture she endured, she refused to make a sound. Her coldness stood before him like a block of thousand-year-old ice, impossible to melt. Deep down, Ley felt a faint sense of frustration.
What was wrong with all these women? Except for Nanako, none of them were normal. Satila was a sadist, Shinobu a masochist, and Ophelia a man-hating block of ice.
"Y-Young Master Ley…"
A timid voice came from the corner. It was the guard who hadn't been killed. He huddled against the wall, his head bowed so low his chin touched his chest, his voice trembling like chaff in the wind.
"L-Lady Shinobu… first she cut out her tongue. Then she whipped her like a madwoman, asking if she'd confess."
Ley fell silent. "..." He'd still underestimated just how twisted his younger sister was.
He had no choice but to use the potion to reattach Ophelia's tongue first.
Ophelia leaned against Ley's arm, slowly opening her eyes to look at the moon in the sky. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds, only a faint glimmer seeping through—just like the night Eldora had fallen.
She spoke suddenly, her voice lacking its usual composure, carrying a faint, barely perceptible trace of shyness: "Why are you saving me?"
After all, one mustn't forget—by elf standards, she was still just a seventeen-year-old girl. Other girls her age dreamed of fairy tales with princes on white horses. Her world, however, was nothing but the ruins of her homeland and the weight of revenge in her heart. But even so… sometimes she felt so tired.
Ley glanced down at her, a faint smile playing at his lips—carefree, yet with a hidden depth. "Now that the princess of Eldora has endured such torment, you can better understand my hatred for this family and the kingdom, can't you?"