The day felt wrong from the very beginning—not because of the events themselves, but because Lyria felt as though she was repeating something that should never have been repeated.
She moved along a path that felt far too familiar, like footsteps falling over traces that had already existed. It was not merely something she had seen before—it was more like something she had once lived through, though with details that had slightly shifted, like a world that no longer aligned perfectly with her memory.
Inside her mind, memory and reality refused to merge neatly.
She knew what should happen, and she knew how she should respond. And yet, her body no longer moved automatically as it once had. Expressions that used to come without thought now felt like something she had to choose, one by one—like putting on something that no longer quite fit.
That made her pause, more than once—not because of her surroundings, but because of herself.
Around her, people continued to play their roles as they always had. But there was one thing that continued to unsettle Lyria: certain reactions felt unmistakably familiar, as though she had witnessed them in another time that should never have been connected to this day.
And among all of them, her five stepchildren stood in the same place.
Shiria, the eldest, stood with the most stability. She was only a year younger than Lyria, yet the way she held herself made her appear more composed than the situation demanded. She did not move much—only her gaze occasionally lowered before returning forward, as though she had already experienced a moment like this and knew how to endure it.
Abel stood near her, one year younger. He showed little reaction, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders, a quiet sign that he was holding something back from view.
Kael, two years younger than Abel, was far less capable of hiding his emotions. He lowered his head too quickly at times, then raised it again, as if trying to regulate his own breathing. His hands would clench, then loosen, never truly at ease.
On the other side, Estia and Ermes stood together. Estia was clearly unable to restrain herself completely—her eyes glossed over more than once, and she would quickly wipe her face, as if afraid of being seen. Ermes, her twin, was no calmer; he took short breaths and lowered his head for longer moments before looking forward again, as though forcing himself to remain standing despite his instability.
Lyria observed them, yet found nothing that was truly new.
And that was precisely what made everything harder to understand.
Because everything felt as though it had already happened in almost the same way. Not identical, but similar enough to make her question whether she was truly living something new, or merely being dragged back into the repetition of something that had already reached its end.
Amidst it all, she heard whispers around her.
"What kind of expression is that?"
"Shouldn't she look more affected?"
Lyria heard them, yet did not immediately respond.
The problem was not that she failed to understand the situation. On the contrary, she was too aware of how someone should react in circumstances like this. And yet, every time she tried to adjust herself, the expression never truly felt like her own—it felt like something she put on, not something that arose naturally.
And in the midst of all that, she remained uncertain:
If she had to choose how to react… then what was truly happening within her?
After the funeral, when the world slowly returned to its coldest form, Shiria approached Lyria.
She was still dressed in the same black attire, as though the color had not yet loosened its hold on her. Her steps were calm—too calm for someone who had just stood in the center of loss.
"I know this is not the appropriate time," she said, her voice flat yet measured, "but allow me to offer my congratulations… on becoming the head of the family, Mother."
The last word did not fall like a form of address—
but like a marker of distance, deliberately placed between them.
Lyria did not respond immediately.
In her mind, the sentence was not new. She had heard it before—on the same day, in the same place, with the same tone—as though time had merely replayed the scene without allowing even the smallest detail to change.
And just like before, she knew what lay behind those words.
Not acknowledgment.
Not acceptance.
Something closer to a carefully wrapped push—meant to make her stumble in the position she had just inherited, to make her appear unfit to hold it, to give the world around them a reason to whisper just a little longer.
But the most difficult part of it all was not the sentence itself.
It was a single word, chosen with deliberate care.
Mother.
To Shiria, it had never sounded like a form of address.
It was more like a line drawn on purpose—to ensure that everyone understood that between Lyria and the five children of Orness, there existed no bond truly born of recognition.
The other four never used that word. They chose forms of address that were more honest, more direct, and less polite.
Only Shiria used it like this.
Not to close distance—
but to define one that could not be bridged by position, by title, or by time imposed upon them.
Lyria understood that.
Once, she had reacted—sharper, quicker, like someone still trying to prove something.
But this time, she simply stood in silence a moment longer than necessary.
Her expression did not change—or at least, not in a way others could read.
There was something within her that had learned that opposing such words would not change their meaning—it would only prolong their echo.
And when she finally spoke, her voice came out softer, more composed, as though she chose each pause carefully, leaving no space for anything else to grow between them.
"Shiria, there is no need to worry," Lyria said at last, her voice calm, not raised even slightly.
She did not hold the gaze for long—only enough to ensure her words reached their mark without being dragged into unnecessary emotion.
"All of this belongs to you. No more, no less."
There was a brief pause, as though she was rearranging something within her thoughts before continuing.
"I am merely a stranger who happened to guard what belongs to you. And that… will remain unchanged."
The final sentence did not sound like a defense, nor a plea for understanding.
It sounded more like a decision that had long been accepted—spoken once more so that it would not change shape in the eyes of anyone who heard it.
In front of her, Shiria did not react immediately.
There was a brief pause that felt like an empty space between two decisions, as though she was confirming that nothing more needed to be said, and nothing further needed to be shown.
Then, with a composure that was almost too precise, she replied,
"I understand."
Her voice was short, neither rising nor falling—like a straight line deliberately left without curve.
She then lowered her head.
Not hurriedly, nor hesitantly. The motion was measured, like someone who had learned repeatedly how to leave a conversation without leaving room for misinterpretation.
"Please excuse me, Mother."
The word appeared again—but this time it no longer carried emphasis or distance. It felt more like part of a protocol she chose not to alter.
After that, Shiria turned.
Her steps moved away in a steady rhythm—neither hurried nor heavy. Like someone who was not fleeing, yet not moving toward anything either—simply stepping away from a point that had already concluded.
Lyria did not call her back.
She merely watched as the figure slowly diminished within a space that felt too quiet after words had ceased.
And there, within the silence that remained, nothing had truly changed.
Only that distance remained—neither growing nor diminishing—like something that had never been meant to be bridged from the very beginning.
After Shiria's departure, Abel approached without haste, as though every distance had already been measured from the beginning—how close he was allowed to stand, and how far he must remain as an outsider.
"I heard you secluded yourself for several days after Father's death," he said calmly, his voice even. "Marchioness. I did not expect you to attend the funeral. But… thank you for making the effort."
The words sounded like appreciation, yet there was no warmth within them that was truly directed at her. It felt more like an acknowledgment that a role had been fulfilled correctly—properly, according to expectation, without causing disturbance.
And Lyria understood that without needing it to be explained.
To Abel, her presence was not a matter of feeling, but of balance. Like a name written on paper that had to remain filled so that the structure would not appear flawed. If she had not been present, what would have collapsed would not have been grief—but the image of House Orness in the eyes of others.
And that, it seemed, mattered far more.
"Excuse me, Marchioness."
He gave a short bow, as though the conversation had ended exactly where it had been meant to from the start, then turned away without waiting any longer than necessary.
His departure left no sound.
Only space that seemed to contract once more.
Lyria returned to the estate without truly feeling the movement of her own steps. Like a body following a path already memorized, while her mind remained elsewhere—at points that felt too familiar to be coincidence.
Something was wrong, yet not clearly shaped enough to be pointed at.
Not merely because of the funeral itself, but because of the pattern that kept repeating—similar words, the same distance, and the way those around her seemed to follow a script she had already seen before.
As though the world had not truly changed—
only replayed its scenes with slightly altered details.
In her room, she sat in silence.
But that silence was not empty. It felt full instead—like a space filled with something unseen, pressing in from every direction.
And within that pressure, time seemed to split into two layers.
One was today—real, cold, undeniable.
The other was three years ahead—locked within her like memories that should not yet exist, yet remained whole, sharp, and unwilling to fade.
She saw again things she should never have known yet: decisions she once thought small but left long fractures behind, words she only understood too late, and regrets that did not arrive as a single explosion—but as a slow, unending rain that eventually became part of her.
None of it felt like the future.
It felt like something that had already happened—
and was now being replayed without permission.
From that point, something within her began to change.
Not an explosion—
but a slow hardening, like metal forced to cool against its own will.
If this truly was her future self returned to this point, then there was no longer room to walk without direction. No longer any luxury to remain confused within the same cycle.
She was no longer the thirteen-year-old girl who had once been married too early, placed into a world that had never truly acknowledged her existence.
She was the Marchioness of Orness—
not only in name, but in memory, carrying the weight of six years she should not yet possess.
And if the world had once taken something from her without reason she could accept—
then this time, she would not remain in the same place.
She would change what was to come.
Even if she had to force the course itself to fracture.
More than that—
she would search for the beginning of everything.
Including her own death.
One sentence still remained, refusing to fall apart with time:
"Your death… will be a blessing to many."
It no longer felt like a vague tragedy.
Now, it felt like a knot.
Something deliberately tied—
so that no one could see who held the other end.
Who exactly were these "many"?
And whose interests had, all this time, quietly benefited from an end that was supposed to belong to her?