Under the velvet hush of twilight, the Carter estate stood in quiet majesty, its silhouette etched against a sky dusted with stars. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and anticipation, as if the night itself were holding its breath.
Inside, preparations had reached their final flourish. Candles flickered in ornate sconces, casting golden halos across marble floors and gilded mirrors. Every detail—every flower, every ribbon—had been chosen with obsessive care.
Tonight marked a turning point: the long-awaited coming-of-age celebration for the Carter twins, Ophelia and Adelia. For weeks, whispers had rippled through the aristocratic circles, each rumor more extravagant than the last.
Guests began to arrive, their footsteps echoing softly through the grand hall. Conversations bloomed in hushed tones, eyes scanning the room for glimpses of glamour and secrets worth retelling.
And then, as the clock struck the hour, the great doors stirred.
Adelia entered first—graceful, golden, glowing. Her rose-colored gown flowed like petals in motion, and her green eyes sparkled with warmth and mischief. She didn't follow the light—she was the light. The room turned to her without hesitation.
Then came Ophelia.
The beauty remained, but the air shifted.
Her steps were slow, deliberate.
Stormy blue eyes caught the light like secrets, and her dark hair fell like a velvet curtain, hiding an untold tale.
And her dress? Elegant. Dark. Silent. Just like her.
It didn't matter if it cost more than Adelia's or was stitched with finer lace—because it wasn't made to compete.
It was made to remain apart.
The whispers came quickly.
"That's her twin? They don't even look related."
"Clearly an illegitimate child."
Soft laughter. Passing glances.
And Ophelia stood there—hearing it all, as always.
She didn't speak. She didn't flinch.
She simply wore that familiar cold smile—one shaped by years of wounds too ordinary to name.
She no longer compared herself to Adelia… she'd given up that war long ago.
But that didn't mean her heart wasn't quietly suffocating.
The party bloomed with chatter, laughter, and clinking glasses. Adelia dazzled at its center—radiant and effortless.
Ophelia, meanwhile, kept to the shadows, quiet in the corner, more a formality than a guest.
She hadn't wanted to come, but duty outweighed desire. As the Marquess's daughter, absence meant insult. So she stood there—far from the spotlight, far from the noise—not out of bitterness, but with a quiet longing for the night to end. She didn't seek eyes or titles. All she wanted was to vanish.
Far from all this social bustle, Ophelia had her own world—one no one knew. Naturally gifted, drawn to the arts, skilled in painting and playing music, but her heart belonged elsewhere... to the art of dueling. An old passion that no one blessed, for it was hardly a pastime fit for a lady of society. Her family saw it as a stain; she saw it as her only freedom.
She refused to be the delicate lady waiting for a knight to save her. She wanted to wield the sword herself—to fight for her own self.
Every night, after the house fell silent, Ophelia would slip out of her window. In the secluded garden behind the manor, where no one could see her, she practiced—strike after strike, round after round. It wasn't just training; it was a ritual of survival. Over time, it became more than a desire—it became a necessity, something she couldn't live without.
The clock crept toward midnight. The lights still shimmered, and the music clung to its rhythm like a mask refusing to fall. Ophelia stood by a marble pillar, her eyes fixed on the ticking hands, her thumb pressed against her lips in quiet frustration. Her body ached beneath the weight of the gown, and the invisible expectations wrapped around her like chains.
Then came the footsteps—heavy, deliberate.
A man in his late forties approached, his smile stretched too wide, too practiced. He extended a hand.
"Care for a dance?"
But the sweetness in his voice was sour underneath. His eyes betrayed him—mocking, predatory.
"A lonely girl like you… easy to charm. Easy to forget. All holes feel the same in the dark."
Ophelia didn't flinch. She stared at his hand as if it were something rotten, then slapped it away with a sharp snap.
Her voice was ice.
"Disgusting old man. Do I look like prey to you? Or have you not seen a mirror since the last century? I'm sure even stray dogs would bark in horror at your face."
He stiffened, rage crawling across his features.
"How dare you?! A girl of such modest standing speaks to me like this? Do you even know who I am?"
Ophelia tilted her head, her smile thin and lethal.
"Oh, forgive me. At your age, confusion is expected. Alzheimer's must be settling in—asking who I am when you clearly wouldn't remember even if I told you."
The old man's anger boiled over. He raised his hand to strike, but Ophelia didn't move. Instead, she caught his wrist firmly, squeezing until his face twisted in pain and his knees buckled beneath him.
The hall fell silent. Eyes widened. No one spoke.
Then a sharp voice broke through the stillness:
"Ophelia! How dare you lay hands on Duke Lincoln's consort?"
Her father's glare cut through the crowd, but Ophelia remained calm. She let go of the man's wrist, brushed her hands off lightly, and said with quiet defiance:
"Sorry, Father. You know how I am. Next time, I might not stop at his wrist—I might break his arm."
Marquis Carter's face darkened, his voice rising:
"Ophelia—"
But she didn't wait. She turned and walked out of the hall, her steps steady.
Outside, she took a deep breath, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"Well… that old fool was useful after all. One nightmare gone."
As she neared her room, a soft laugh echoed behind her.
"Haha… what a mess."
She turned quickly. No one there.
She looked left, then right.
Empty.
"Was I imagining it? Doesn't matter."
She made her way to her room, where she quickly dressed for training, and eased the window open after confirming the hallway was clear. With practiced silence, she climbed down into the night.
Through a thicket of dense bushes, she reached the hidden yard—her sanctuary. At its center stood a battered straw dummy, flanked by a few crudely carved wooden swords. Everything bore her touch, built in secrecy to shield her practice from prying eyes.
She gripped the sword tightly and lunged.
Strike after strike rang through the air, each blow sharp, deliberate, echoing with tension.
Then—laughter.
Soft at first, then unmistakable. The same mocking sound from earlier.
"No… this isn't just in my head."
Her gaze sharpened, sweeping the shadows. The laughter lingered, playful and taunting, like a thread tugging at her nerves.
"Show yourself! are you too afraid to face me?"
The chuckle returned—clearer now, edged with amusement, as if the voice thrived on her challenge.
Ophelia stood still, her eyes scanning every corner for the source of the voice. Her heart pounded fiercely, but she kept her composure.
Suddenly, a shift in the air behind her made Ophelia turn sharply. In one swift motion, she raised her wooden sword, its tip aimed precisely at the throat of the figure now standing before her.
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, laughter spilling from his lips—unbothered, unshaken.
"Ha ha… do you really think that toy could slit my throat?"
His voice was smooth, laced with arrogance. His eyes gleamed with a confidence that bordered on insolence. But Ophelia didn't back down.
She struggled to find the right words to describe the man before her. His soft white hair resembled chrysanthemum petals, and his eyes were blue like the depths of the ocean—vast, unreadable, and quietly powerful. His calm appearance held something unsettling. He seemed out of place in this world.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice steady.
Then, after a pause, her gaze sharpened.
"Or rather… what are you?"