"Father…" a girl mutters, feeling an icy pressure in the air, cold and biting, like a winter wind slicing through her resolve.

  "Yes?" He replies, his voice as sharp and frigid as the atmosphere around them.

  "My guide… he's…" She coughs, the words catching in her throat.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," he says slowly, the icy presence dissipating slightly. He continues, his tone as indifferent as ever, "Sin-iddin-apli, you're talking about your guide, right? He died?"

  "Yes, I don't know how—I—" She struggles, her voice faltering, the words slipping away as if stolen by the chill in the room.

  "Why did you kill him?" he asks abruptly, his gaze piercing through the dimly lit hall. "I just came from the meeting

  Kokoro is dead. Funny how no one paid attention to his body; the Takashiro family should take it." He pauses, resting his hands on the throne—a throne as rugged and jagged as the man who sits upon it.

  Its uneven edges and impractical design contrast sharply with the aura of regality he exudes.

  Red carpets stretch from the entrance to the base of the throne, their rich hue a stark contrast to the dark, dimly lit hall.

  Shadows dance along the walls, flickering with the unsteady light of torches. The figure on the throne dominates the room, an embodiment of authority wrapped in a robe so dark it seemed to absorb the scant light around him.

  The robe is trimmed in silver and gold embroidery that flickers in the dim light, resembling the faint glow of distant stars on a moonless night.

  A wide, deep red sash is tied around his waist, cinching the robe and adding a vibrant splash of color to his otherwise somber attire.

  His hands rest lightly on his lap, one finger tapping rhythmically against his knee as though echoing a tune only he could hear.

  His long, silver hair spills over his shoulders, a stark contrast to the dark fabric, and his crown, which had seemed to lay carelessly on his head, now sits straight and proud, a symbol of his untamed dominion.

  Bel-ibni straightens his crown, fixing it with a deliberate touch. His eyes, a cold and piercing dark blue, scan his daughter, contrasting sharply with her warm brown eyes. He speaks again, his voice devoid of warmth or concern.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  "I'm sorry, he tried to—" she begins, her voice trembling.

  "He didn't try to do anything… why lie?" he interrupts as if knowing his Daughter lying intent , leaning back into the throne, his gaze shifting upward to the high, shadowed ceiling. "What's your Unwritten Skill?" he asks suddenly, a hint of curiosity breaking through his icy demeanor.

  "Past Echo," she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper.

  "Veil," he replies simply, almost dismissively.

  "Yes," she confirms, her eyes meeting his briefly before falling to the floor.

  "hmm, you definitely have the best skill," he says, his tone laced with a mix of sarcasm and reluctant admiration. He shifts his posture slightly, his presence still dominating the room.

  Sin-iddin-apli sits languidly on a low, cushioned seat at the side of the hall. Her posture, though relaxed, carries an unspoken command, as if she belongs there despite the intimidating atmosphere.

  She wears a robe of deep, serene blue that cascades around her like water, fluid and graceful.

  The robe's wide sleeves billow slightly with her movements, revealing the soft lining in pastel hues of pink, green, and yellow that add a subtle vibrancy to her attire—a quiet rebellion against the oppressive gloom of the hall.

  Beneath the robe, her legs are clad in loose, patterned pants of muted purple. Intricate, swirling designs trace their way across the fabric, a nod to ancient artistry and a whisper of distant lands.

  Her hair, long and white, falls freely down her back and over her shoulders, the strands thick and untamed. Some of it is loosely tied with a simple cord, just enough to keep it from her face, but not so much as to constrain its natural flow.

  The rest cascades in soft waves, framing her face and brushing against the beads of her necklaces—bold, spherical stones of earthy blues and greens that add a rustic elegance to her appearance.

  Bracelets clink gently at her wrists, each piece layered and deliberate, yet without ostentation.

  The room seems to shrink around her, the walls drawing closer as if to better hear her thoughts.

  She sits at the intersection of two worlds—one of quiet defiance and the other. wanting to kill her father, maybe seeing Ryuji do it gave her a sense of hope.

  She is a part of this place and yet distinct from it, a figure caught between the serenity of the present and the uncharted mysteries that lay beyond.

  "Now," her father starts, his tone darkening, "why did you kill your guide?"

  "I… You—I…" She stutters, shrinking under the weight of his scrutiny. Her father's distant eyes continue to bore into her, cold and unrelenting.

  "Do you want my attention? Is that it?" he presses, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

  "No," she replies sharply, her voice clear and resolute. It resonates through the hall, unwavering and fierce.

  "You're nothing like your mother," he says, almost as an accusation.

  "I know," she responds, her voice firm.

  "You do not want to be like her."

  "I do not," she agrees, the words heavy with unspoken history.

  "Tell me why you killed your guide," he demands again, his voice lowering into a dangerous growl.

  A shadow stirs in the center of the room, the large door that divides the room and the hall outside, and a man's figure begins to materialize from the darkness. The air thickens, and for a moment, it feels as though time itself has paused to witness the unfolding confrontation.

  "Are you talking about me?" the figure says, stepping forward. His presence sends a ripple through the tension, altering the gravity of the room as all their eyes turn to him.

  "you lied again" Bel-ibni mutters as the figure walks closer.