I walked up to my father, my voice trembling so hard the words barely left my throat. "Father... you once said House Regulus could get anything. Get me Mia. Bring her back, Father." My hands gripped his arm, my nails digging into the heavy fabric of his coat.
"Father, bring her back! I beg you! I'll be good, I'll do whatever you want... just bring her back!"
He looked away, his jaw tightening until the bone nearly snapped. He gave a silent signal to Wayne, and they began to walk toward her coffin. I got there before them, throwing myself against the polished wood, clinging to it as if my own life were leaking out of the seams.
"No! No one is taking her!"
Suddenly, a pair of powerful arms wrapped around my waist, yanking me back. It was the Duke. I thrashed against him, screaming, watching through a blur of tears as my father and brother bore the coffin away. "No! Mia! Don't take her! MIA!"
The Duke dragged me to a quiet corner of the hall. He slid down against the wall, pulling me onto his lap and pressing my face hard against his chest to muffled my sobs. I hit him—weak, useless blows against his armor—until my strength finally failed. I pressed my face into the crook of his neck and cried until the world tilted, falling into a black abyss of pure exhaustion.
When I opened my eyes, I was back in my room.
For three days, the Regulus estate was silent. I had locked myself away, refusing food, light, and company. The servants whispered that the God Child was mourning. The nobles whispered that I was stabilizing my power.
They were both wrong. I was simply waiting for the screaming in my head to stop.
On the morning of the fourth day, I finally stood. I faced the mirror, dressed in a sharp, high-collared gown of deepest charcoal. My white hair was pulled back so tightly not a single strand dared to stray. My face was a mask of marble—smooth, cold, and utterly unreadable. The "God Child" light was gone from my eyes, replaced by a hollow gold that looked more like cold coins than sunlight.
I walked down the grand staircase, my heels clicking against the stone like a death march. My father was waiting in the foyer, his eyes narrowing as he took in my composed appearance.
"Iris," he said, his voice cautious. "The Crown Prince has been waiting in the drawing room for three hours. He is... concerned."
"How touching," I replied, my voice a flat, dead calm. "I'll see him shortly."
"Before you do," Father stepped aside, revealing a young girl in the shadows. She looked to be about Mia's age, with wide, nervous eyes. "This is Sarah. She will be your new personal maid. You cannot manage the household without assistance."
The air in the foyer plummeted. I looked at the girl—at her trembling hands. She was a replacement. A pawn to fill a hole that was infinitely deep.
"A new maid," I murmured, walking toward her. Sarah flinched as I reached out, my fingers catching the edge of her pristine white apron. "Do you know what happened to the last girl who wore this uniform, Sarah?"
"I—I heard she was a hero, My Lady," the girl stammered.
"She wasn't a hero," I said, leaning in so only she could hear the ice in my breath. "She was my soul. Do not ever try to be her. Do your work, stay out of my sight, and perhaps you'll live longer than she did."
I pulled my hand away and walked into the drawing room. Arwin was pacing by the fireplace. The moment he saw me, he rushed forward, his face twisted with desperate relief.
"Iris! Thank the heavens. I've been out of my mind with worry. After what happened... the power you showed..." He reached for my hands, but I tucked them behind my back.
"The power I showed?" I tilted my head. "Is that why you're here, Arwin? Because you're worried about me, or because you've realized your fiancée is the most powerful weapon in the empire?"
Arwin's face flushed. "How can you say that? I've come to take you to the Palace. It's no longer safe here. The Church is already demanding an audience, and you're under my protection—"
"Protection?" I let out a soft, humorless laugh. "You couldn't even protect me from a boar, Arwin. Why would I trust you to protect me from the world?"
The door slammed open before he could answer. It wasn't a servant. It was Wayne, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on the Prince with pure loathing.
"The Duke of Crisis is at the gate," Wayne announced, his voice like grinding gravel. "And he isn't asking for an audience. He's demanding one."