Rina didn't know how she made it back to the hallway. Her legs moved on their own, detached from her thoughts, which swirled like a storm in her mind — raw, chaotic, unrelenting.
The moment the doors shut behind her, she felt something inside her collapse.
She staggered down the hallway, one hand brushing the cool stone wall for support. Her breath trembled in her throat. The rich scent of lavender and citrus drifting from the courtyard — once comforting — now made her stomach twist.
She paused by one of the arched windows, staring blankly at the distant gardens. The amber leaves shimmered under the sunlight, and the tall hedges stood like sentinels guarding a secret world she no longer belonged to.
"How can she be so calm?" Rina whispered to herself. Her voice cracked, the words barely audible over the hush of the wind outside. "How can she look at me and not care…?"
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the windowsill. Her nails dug into the smooth marble.
All her life, she'd been told to behave. To be graceful. To uphold the honor of the Amberhart name. And she had tried — gods, she had tried. But now? Now she felt like a puppet, strung up and dancing to someone else's will.
The image of her mother's face — cold, unblinking — lingered in her mind. That empty expression. That effortless dismissal. Rina had gone in hoping, just for a second, to be seen. Heard. Loved.
But all she saw was power. Unyielding, rigid, absolute.
"I hate this," she muttered, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I hate everything about this."
Her reflection in the glass stared back at her — a girl dressed like a princess but breaking like a prisoner.
"I don't want to marry him…" she said again, softer this time. "I don't care what his name is, or what power his family has. I don't want to belong to someone I've never met."
She turned from the window and resumed walking, each step heavier than the last. Her heels clicked against the floor, muffled by the thick red carpet, as she headed back toward her room — the only place where she felt the illusion of control.
As she reached her door, she paused. Her hand lingered on the golden handle.
She inhaled slowly, trying to steady the chaos within her.
Her room welcomed her like an old friend — soft golden light filtering through the curtains, the faint scent of jasmine and cinnamon, her untouched breakfast tray resting on a silver cart by the fireplace.
Everything was just as she'd left it… yet nothing felt the same.
She walked over to her vanity table and sat down, eyes drifting to the ornate mirror. Her gaze met her own reflection. Her golden eyes were still glassy, rimmed with red. Her fiery hair tumbled in disarray over her shoulders, the curls no longer perfect from sleep and stress.
What would he think, this Jean Roche, if he saw her now? A broken girl dressed in luxury — silent, angry, lost.
She didn't even know what he looked like. No portrait. No letter. Nothing.
Just a name whispered between nobles. A boy from the reclusive Roche family. The son of Naoko Roche — the woman whispered to be half-goddess, half-monster.
Even that sent a shiver down Rina's spine.
Naoko Roche.
She had heard the rumors. Everyone had. The woman who never aged, whose power rivaled even the Archmages of the continent. A woman said to have bathed in the blood of demons, who once destroyed an entire city on a whim. Her name was a ghost story in the corridors of power. And that… that was to be her mother-in-law?
She shivered and held her arms around herself, suddenly feeling cold despite the warmth of the fireplace.
What kind of boy would a woman like Naoko raise?
"Is he like her?" she wondered aloud. "Cruel? Empty?"
The thought made her sick.
She turned away from the mirror, frustrated tears rising again. She didn't want to cry anymore, but the weight on her chest was unbearable.
"I wish I was born someone else," she whispered. "Someone ordinary. Someone free."
She moved to the edge of her bed, sitting where she had collapsed the night before. The sheets were still wrinkled from her restless sleep, the pillows still damp from her earlier tears.
She curled her legs up beneath her and pulled a velvet blanket around her shoulders.
Outside, birds began to sing — a soft melody of morning life returning to the world. But to Rina, it only felt like mockery.
What was the point of a beautiful day when her future was already stolen?
She closed her eyes and let the silence cradle her.
But her thoughts would not sleep.
**"I need to find a way out..."**
The idea was a whisper. Small. Dangerous. But real.
For the first time, she allowed herself to think it. Not just feel the sadness. Not just scream into her pillow. But *think* of escape.
Not from the mansion. Not physically. But from this fate.
"I need to find a way to stop the wedding," she said, the words tentative, like stepping onto thin ice. "I need time. Leverage. *Something*."
She didn't know what. She didn't know how.
But if her mother could play the game of power — so could she.
She had to.
Because if she didn't fight now, her life would never be hers again.
She looked toward the tall armoire in the corner of the room. Behind its mirror-glass doors lay the gowns she'd wear for formal dinners. For engagement announcements. For weddings.
The very thought made her stomach churn.
"I won't wear white for a man I've never met," she whispered bitterly.
Then, slowly, her eyes lifted to the large oil painting above her fireplace — an image of her as a child, painted on her fifth birthday. Her mother stood behind her in the painting, regal and distant, her hand resting on Rina's tiny shoulder.
Even in that memory, Amelia's expression had been the same.
Emotionless.
Rina stood.
She walked over to the painting and stared at it for a long moment.
Then, with one swift motion, she pulled it from the wall. It fell to the floor with a heavy *thud*, the frame cracking against the stone tiles.
She didn't flinch.
She simply turned back to her bed, sat down, and drew the curtain closed.
She would cry no more.
Tomorrow, she would begin preparing. Not for a wedding.
But for war.