Risha walked through the drafty corridors of the West Wing, her small feet making no sound on the cold stone. Beside her, a young maid named Anna followed at a respectful distance, her head bowed. To anyone else, Risha looked like a doll—pale, perfect, and vacant.
Inside, her mind was a storm of silver light.
*His mana... it was like the deep earth. Steady. Heavy. But quiet.*
Risha's brow furrowed. She couldn't stop thinking about the dining hall. The original Isaac's mana had always felt like a swarm of angry wasps—stinging, erratic, and sharp. But today, it had pulsed with a rhythm she had never seen in him.
*Is it a trick?* she wondered. *Is he hiding his nature just to surprise us with something worse?*
She knew the truth of this house better than anyone. To the outside world, the Helmsgards were the "Shield of the North." To those within the walls, they were a collection of different poisons.
Her "Father," Count Alaric, was a tyrant who ruled through exhaustion. He pushed the peasants to farm land that was more rock than soil, and those who couldn't pay his high taxes were sent into the "Gleaming Mazes"—ancient, monster-filled ruins—to scavenge for mana crystals. Most never came back.
Elias was no better. He was a spark looking for a hayloft. He treated the commoners like livestock and kept a circle of "cronies"—the sons of lesser knights—who followed his every whim, bullying anyone who dared to look them in the eye.
And Marta... Risha felt a cold bitterness at the thought of her "Mother." Marta wore the face of a saint, but her hands were draped in jewels bought with the blood of the miners. She spent most of her months in the Capital, attending galas and social gatherings, only returning to the border when she needed to play the role of the "Grieving Noblewoman."
None of them were good. So why did Isaac's mana feel... *peaceful*?
"We are here, My Lady," Anna whispered, opening the heavy doors to Risha's chambers.
The room was vast, high-ceilinged, and freezing. Despite the wealth of the family, the room felt empty. There were no toys, no colorful paintings, and no warmth. It was a room designed for a "tool" to rest in, not a child.
Risha walked toward the tall vanity mirror. She climbed onto a small stool to look at herself. A small, frail body stared back. Her skin was the color of winter milk, her silver hair hanging like a shroud around her face. She looked like a ghost haunting a palace.
She turned away from the mirror and walked to her bed. Tucked under the heavy, grey silk pillows was a small, ragged object.
It was a plush rabbit.
Its fur was matted and grey, one of its button eyes was missing, and the stitching along its ear was coming apart. To the Helmsgards, it was trash. To Risha, it was the only thing that proved her life before the "Grey" Orphanage had been real. It was the last thing her mother had touched before the smoke took her.
Risha climbed onto the bed and pulled the rabbit into her lap, her thin fingers stroking the worn fabric.
*If he has really changed, he will have to do more than just eat his vegetables,* she thought fiercely. *He has to prove he isn't a Helmsgard. He has to prove he isn't a monster.*
She closed her eyes, and for a brief moment, a memory flickered—not of this cold stone room, but of a workshop filled with the smell of molten glass and a father's laugh.