The man strode in quickly, almost in a rush.
And yet, the mark of nobility still lingered in every step—firm, steady, commanding.
His polished shoes crossed into Maeve's chamber. A room utterly pitiful for someone bearing the title of a lady.
Cramped, with rotting wooden walls that seemed to scream for repair. A darkness clung to the old timber, stubbornly refusing to be brightened.
The air reeked of damp and mildew, filling the senses with stale heaviness.
Forget luxurious furniture—In her chamber, there was only a small vanity table, a weathered dining table, and a rickety old chair.
There was no sense of aesthetics, only the forced utility of bare necessities.
The room was nothing but empty, neglected.
A chamber that should never have been used.
Better left sealed away, isolated in the far corner of the Duke's grand estate.
But its owner had spoken otherwise.
Maeve was deemed only worthy of this forsaken space.
Anyone with eyes could see the warning in this arrangement: Maeve was no true lady. She was a stain reluctantly acknowledged.
Inside a Duke's castle overflowing with warmth and splendor.
But not for Maeve.
Look at her now. The Duke's second son stood before her, fury blazing in his gaze.
His beautiful silver hair whipped with restless motion, mirroring the storm of anger threatening to erupt.
And his eyes—deep, ocean blue—seemed ready to drown the miserable lady before him.
[Holy shit, he's hot. But why do those eyes look like they're begging to be poked out?]
"Eleonora. Approach not this witch again. Hast thou bewitched my brother's mind once more? Hast thou instilled false guilt within him for the sake of such a wretch as thee?" the handsome man declared, his voice heavy, brimming with restrained fury.
He and Maeve bore a striking resemblance—as though mirrored in opposite genders.
Yet the anger of the Duke's second son could not be stilled. His jaw clenched; the sinews of his neck stood taut. His gaze seemed poised to devour Maeve, who lay trembling upon her bed.
"I... I..." Maeve stammered, clutching the blanket up to her chin, her breath shallow.
"Thou, servant. What is thy duty worth, when thy master lay nigh unto death by the witch's hand, and yet thou permittest them to meet?" Dominic's words cut across the room, his fury turned upon the servant by the door, who lowered his head but cast a smoldering glare at Maeve.
[I take it back. He's not handsome. He's a damn bastard.]
[And that damn servant. Oi, pig-eyes, stop glaring like that.]
"My sister, remain not here. Leave this wretch to herself," Dominic said, seizing Eleonora's hand gently yet firmly, guiding the elegant lady toward the door.
"Brother, pray cease this cruelty. Dost thou not pity Maeve? I would remain by her side until she is healed," Eleonora pleaded, her voice trembling, her eyes glistening.
"Why must thou remain by one who pushed thee into the lake? Eleonora, kindness must know its bounds. She hath deceived thee."
"Maeve is not thus. I am certain. Though I felt... as though someone had pushed me," Eleonora whispered at last, her gaze falling sadly upon Maeve.
[What kind of shitty drama is this? My head's killing me, just get lost already. Especially you, you damn silver-haired bastard.]
"And only you two were there. If not this witch, then who?" Dominic's blue eyes slowly began to calm, gazing at his beloved younger sister Eleonora with sorrow.
Yet that gentle expression swiftly vanished the moment his gaze shifted to Maeve.
Dominic's blue eyes widened, gleaming like a predator looming over its prey.
Maeve shrank further, her small frame curling in on itself as if to shield her body.
She wrapped herself tightly in the thin blanket, though it offered no real protection. Cold sweat dampened her trembling hands.
Her tiny fingers quivered uncontrollably—despite the morning air being anything but cold.
For a fleeting moment, a cruel and terrifying memory clawed its way back into her mind. Only seconds long—yet it left a devastating mark.
Maeve's breathing spiraled out of control, ragged and uneven.
Her gaze lifted toward her second brother—the merciless predator before her.
[What the hell was that memory?]
[Body, stop shaking like a pathetic coward already!]
[Move, damn it. Stop trembling!]
[What the hell did this stuttering girl do before I came here?]
[The lake? She was pushed? This body is the culprit?!]
[Are they insane? Who the hell would believe such a timid weakling did that?]
[Wait. This is way too similar to that nightmare. If it's connected... what mistake did this body commit?]
[Someone who tried to help by jumping into the lake even though she couldn't swim? Who the hell would buy that?]
[What kind of lunatic would choose to die like that?!]
Maharani's thoughts clashed violently within her head.
The storm of words and emotions crashed against one another until she did not even realize Eleonora had already left the chamber.
Dominic had dismissed his beloved sister, yet the tall man advanced toward Maeve's bedside, his fury far from spent.
"Witch."
"Answer me, witch!" Dominic's roar thundered through the chamber.
"Ack!" Maeve winced in pain, her eyes fixed on Dominic's large hand that threatened to snap her fragile arm
[Fuck, he's strong. Why the hell is he crushing my bones like that?!]
[Wait—where the hell did that weird girl go?]
"It hurts, brother..." Maeve whispered hoarsely, each word strained.
"It hurts? Ha! And can a witch feel pain? Thou didst wound my sister, and now dare to speak of pain?" Dominic's fury had reached its peak, his blue eyes raging like a storm-tossed sea, brimming with wrath.
Maeve could not reply. Her frail body merely absorbed the agony, her heart pierced as though by jagged steel.
"We had resolved to cast thee into the lake. Thou shouldst have perished there, bastard-born... Yet my sister, in her boundless mercy, entreated me to grant thee aid." His words struck like stones hurled with venom.
[Oh, come on. If you're gonna help, at least don't whine about it afterward. Hypocritical bastard.]
"I... I never thought to slay Eleonora. She is my sister. I sought to aid her, yet I cannot swim," Maeve answered desperately, her voice trembling but resolute.
[Yes—that dream, it was the clue.]
"Thinkest thou I would believe such drivel? Thou didst shove her into the waters, and when thy devilry was near exposed, thou didst feign drowning to prolong this pitiful charade."
"No... no! I did no such thing. Pray, believe me!" Maeve pleaded, yet her blue eyes faltered, unable to meet his.
The wretched lady bowed her head deeply, crushed beneath his gaze.
"Be grateful that thou art sick. Else, I should have punished thee without mercy."
Maeve's eyes trembled at his words, her entire body sinking under the weight of them.
Meanwhile, Dominic, the Duke's second son, didn't care.
He left, leaving his hunted rabbit in peace and contentment.
He had succeeded in suppressing his second sister.
This was the lot of Maeve, the discarded daughter of the Duke's household.