I stood in Arthur’s ruined study, gazing out through a shattered window where the night wind howled and tugged playfully at the hem of my white dress. Moonlight filtered in through the jagged glass, casting pale beams across the ash-streaked floor and illuminating the small metal chest cradled in my hands. It was cold and surprisingly heavy, despite its size — the kind of weight that spoke of something precious hidden within.

  With a soft click, I opened the chest, and there it was: a ring, nestled in a velvet-lined hollow. Its silver band was masterfully crafted, but it was the ruby that caught my breath — a deep, vivid red, almost alive in the moonlight, glittering like frozen fire. I held it up toward the window, letting the moon's glow refract through the gem’s flawless facets. The craftsmanship was exquisite, clearly the work of a jeweller who understood both artistry and opulence.

  I let out a low whistle, partly in admiration and partly in amusement. Whatever the story behind this ring, it would sell for a small fortune. Enough to fund a month′s worth of vodka-fueled indulgence, maybe even two if I haggled hard. Carefully, I lowered the ring back into its nest and snapped the lid shut with a dull metallic sound.

  Still, something about its presence here didn’t sit right. Arthur had never struck me as the romantic type — not toward Mary, not toward anyone. He was cold, practical, often cruel in his ambitions. And yet, this ring felt intimate, purposeful. It wasn't a casual heirloom or an investment. It was meant to mean something.

  Frowning, I stepped further into the study, letting the weak moonlight guide me as I sifted through the wreckage. Most of the documents had been reduced to ashes or warped by the flames. I nudged aside a half-burnt sheaf of papers with my foot, catching sight of a ceremonial sword hanging askew on the far wall. A token of pride, no doubt, but nothing of real value. Still, no other treasures presented themselves — no jewels, no documents, no secret compartments.

  Reluctantly, I turned back to the ring, flipping open the chest once more. I examined the band closely this time, rotating it slowly between my fingers until the faintest inscription caught the light: L.W. The letters were small, delicate, etched into the inside of the band with elegant precision.

  “Who the heck is L.W.?” I muttered aloud, half-hoping the presence I sensed in the hallway would finally stop lurking and step forward.

  A soft voice answered from behind the blackened doorway, accompanied by the flickering light of a lamp. “Lucinda White? Maybe he was in love with you since the very beginning.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, unsurprised to see Mary standing there. The firelight played across her features, highlighting a mix of curiosity and discomfort. I let out a soft laugh at the suggestion and shook my head.

  “I highly doubt it,” I said with a smirk. “We both saw each other as…” I paused mid-sentence, realizing too late that what we had wasn’t what most people would call normal. “...business partners,” I finished awkwardly. “This ring isn’t for me.”

  To prove my point, I slipped the ring onto my finger. It slid too easily, wobbling loosely before I let it fall back into the chest with a soft clink. It was far too small to fit Arthur’s fingers, yet clearly not made for mine either. That only left one option — it was intended as a gift.

  But to whom?

  Even as I searched my memory, there were no mentions of an L.W. No late-night confessions, no veiled hints. Arthur had been meticulous in his words, his thoughts guarded. Whoever this ring was for, he had kept her well-hidden.

  “And who do you think it was meant for?” Mary asked gently, curiosity beginning to bloom in her voice. Finally, a hook I could pull.

  I smiled, not the predatory grin I often wore, but something softer. More hopeful. An opportunity, rare and fragile, had just presented itself.

  “Want to find out?” I asked, holding the ring between two fingers like a clue in a mystery novel. “She had a family name — so she’s likely nobility or at least a wealthy merchant’s daughter. Is there a family registry somewhere?”

  Mary nodded thoughtfully. “The town hall keeps such records. If she was born here and came from an influential family, we might find something. Otherwise... it could be a dead end.”

  Still, it was something — a thin trail of breadcrumbs, but I didn’t care. What mattered was walking the path with her. Gaining her trust, her attention. Maybe even something more.

  Without warning, I reached for Mary’s hand and tugged her out of the scorched room and into the hallway, the chest secured under my arm.

  “What about Tom?” she asked as we moved through the entrance doors.

  I glanced at her sideways, smirking as we descended into the uncertain dark together.

  “What about him? He’s sleeping,” I said, glancing back toward the house one last time. “He’s got a few tasks to handle tomorrow, poor thing.” My tone was casual, but my mind was already elsewhere — on the future, on Mary, on the tightrope I was balancing just to stay near her.

  “Oh, could you lend us some money for clothes?” I added, more as an afterthought than a plea. “I know white is your family's signature look, but honestly, it gets a little… monotone after a while.”

  Mary gave me a sidelong glance, her brow raised in that faintly judgmental way she did so well. Still, she nodded without a word, and we walked in step together, the air between us quiet but no longer cold.

  The front door creaked shut behind us, and the cool evening wrapped around our shoulders like a thin veil. Crickets chirped lazily in the distance, and the scent of damp earth followed us as we made our way along the garden path. For a moment, the world felt deceptively still.

  “Why are you this interested in the ring?” Mary asked, her voice as composed as ever, but the curiosity lurking beneath it was unmistakable.

  I hesitated just a breath before replying, then gave her the most honest answer I could manage — at least on the surface.

  “I’m not,” I said plainly. “I just wanted to do something with you. That’s all. There’s no hidden agenda, no trick, no ploy. I just… I want to become your friend.”

  I turned to her with what I hoped was a genuine, sweet smile — though even I knew how much effort it took to appear disarming. Her reaction was not unexpected. She frowned. I saw it instantly — the disbelief that flickered in her eyes like a shadow behind a curtain. My smile had been on point, but my previous actions were like a thick wall between her and me.

  “Is it alright if I don’t trust you?” she asked quietly, and though her tone wasn’t cruel, her words cut deeper than I cared to admit.

  A sigh escaped me before I could stop it. Heavy. Frustrated. What else do I have to do? Must I bare every wound, every inch of vulnerability, just to earn a single drop of grace from her?

  “It is…” I murmured, almost to myself. Then, a small, brittle thought surfaced. “I fear water.”

  The words came out too suddenly, unplanned — like something delicate cracking under pressure. I was offering her something real. Something that mattered. My weakness.

  She blinked at me, clearly puzzled. “And where is this coming from?”

  I flinched slightly at her tone. No understanding, no softness. She didn’t see it for what it was. Didn’t grasp the risk I was taking. I tried to explain — and then faltered. There was no point. She wouldn’t get it.

  “It’s… forget it,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. The silence between us thickened.

  “Oh no,” she said, the sarcasm sharp now. “Please, do go on. Tell me all of your weaknesses. Who knows, maybe I’ll trust you one day if you give me enough ways to kill you.”

  That stung. Not because it was harsh, but because I was trying. I really was. And she still saw me as a monster playing at civility.

  “I…” My voice caught, then steadied. “You already know how. Kill me during the day. It’s the easiest way.”

  Mary stopped walking for a second. Whether from surprise or exhaustion, I didn’t know. The words hung in the air between us — raw, absurd, and horribly honest.

  I turned to her slowly, searching her face for a sign that she understood how off-course this entire conversation had gone. “What went wrong?” I asked quietly, almost pleadingly. “I was trying to connect with you.”

  And I was. Despite everything — the blood, the lies, the inhuman patience it took to keep myself composed — I still wanted something as fragile and human as friendship. I didn’t even know if I could have it anymore. But I wanted it. With her.

  “You’re asking that now?” Mary snapped, her voice sharp, brittle — like glass under too much pressure. She thrust a trembling hand toward the smoldering silhouette of the mansion behind us. “Have you ever considered that I didn’t want this? Any of it?”

  Her voice caught slightly, but she powered through. “Or a monster who insists on calling me mum as if that makes this all easier to accept? Do you have any idea how wrong that feels?”

  I faltered. My mouth opened, but nothing coherent came out at first. I looked away, unwilling to meet her eyes. The silence stretched thin between us until I finally spoke, my voice quieter than I intended.

  “I… I just wanted a shot at a normal life.” I swallowed hard. “I only wanted to know what it feels like to have a real family — not something twisted and cruel, not a manipulation, not a tool. Just... normal.”

  As I turned my head slightly, I caught the faint shimmer of something on my cheek. Tears. Real ones. That realization startled me more than anything else. I couldn’t remember the last time I had cried without pretense — and yet, even as they traced down my skin, Mary’s gaze hardened.

  “You’re lying,” she said flatly.

  “No, I’m not!” My voice cracked like dry timber. “I know I’m messed up! I know I’m nothing like you or even Tom. Neither of you understands how it feels…”

  I paused. My throat was tightening. The words clawed their way up like they’d been waiting years to escape. Should I say it? Would it even matter?

  Mary tilted her head. Her tone shifted, just a touch. “How what feels?”

  I stared down at my hands, clenched so tightly that my knuckles had turned white. “How the first thing you wake up to in your whole goddamn life is emotional torture. And then it turns physical. How it feels to be whipped over and over until your skin doesn’t feel like skin anymore — just meat to be punished because the food wasn’t to his liking. How it feels to be raised — no, crafted — into a psychopath no one can love.”

  The tears came freely now, no longer strange or foreign but burning and raw. “I’m trying, Mary… I really am. I don’t even know why. Maybe it’s because you remind me of what I could’ve had. Or maybe…” I trailed off and drew in a shaky breath. “Maybe I just don’t want to be alone anymore.”

  I didn’t expect her to believe me. The pity in her eyes was fleeting — quickly replaced by suspicion.

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  “You’re playing with me,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual edge.

  That hurt more than I expected.

  “No, Mary…” I met her gaze, my voice calm despite the storm inside me. “I’m not.”

  I wiped the tears from my face, smearing them carelessly away with the sleeve of my white dress. “I mean it.”

  She crossed her arms, skeptical but no longer combative. “Prove it.”

  I hesitated. How could I? How does one prove sincerity when their every action is scrutinized, every word dissected for falsehood?

  “Mary… I… I can’t.” My voice broke on the last word. “Maybe you and I live in two entirely different worlds. Maybe no matter what I do, you’ll never see me as anything other than a monster in disguise. But even monsters want to be loved.”

  There was a long pause. She didn’t speak, and neither did I. The moon hung heavy above us, casting its pale silver glow across the path as if the world itself were holding its breath.

  “But I still want you to give me a chance,” I said at last. “Just twenty-four hours. I’ll be myself — no lies, no masks. I swear it. And if by the end you still want me gone, Tom and I will handle the elven threat and leave this place for good. That’s my promise to you.”

  She didn’t respond right away. Her brows furrowed as if weighing the weight of my words against years of distrust and pain. I could see her thinking, calculating — the way she always did. And in that moment, I was more terrified than I had ever been. Because this time, I had something to lose.

  While she stood in silence, I turned inward, trying to make sense of what had changed in me. Why her? Why now? Mary had never compelled me like the others. There was no invisible thread pulling me toward her. And yet… I wanted to feel her hand ruffle my hair, to be drawn into the comfort of her arms, to see acceptance in her eyes — not revulsion.

  I wanted her to look at me and not see the monster I feared I truly was.

  And then… she nodded.

  My heart jumped. I barely stopped myself from leaping in joy. I had a chance. Just one. But maybe that was enough.

  Now, I only had to use it wisely.

  Soon afterward, Mary guided me through the dark, winding streets of the sleeping city. I hummed softly under my breath, swaying slightly with each step, my nose scrunched against the cold, musty air. Our hands were intertwined — hers firm and steady, mine swinging playfully at her side. We must have looked like a mother and her daughter returning from an ill-timed evening stroll. The thought made me smile.

  Of course, we didn’t wear anything that might draw unwanted attention. My white dress, a symbol of our strange little family, was now mostly concealed beneath a modest black coat — a borrowed thing that smelled like dust and long-forgotten closets. Mary, in contrast, wore a simple maid’s outfit, the fabric plain and practical. There was nothing about us that screamed nobility — unless you knew how to look deeper.

  The city was hushed under a blanket of moonlight. Most windows were dark, and the usual bustle of city life had dwindled to silence. A few shady figures slunk in the distance, leaning against alley walls like shadows waiting to pounce — but even they, upon seeing us, chose to look away. Whether it was the presence of a mother with her child or something instinctive that made them uneasy, I couldn’t tell. But I was almost disappointed. I would’ve enjoyed showing them what real danger looked like. Alas, no such wish was granted.

  Instead, we walked in peace through the merchant quarter, the buildings here far better maintained than the rest of the city’s grime-covered sprawl. The structures rose three stories high, built tight against one another, with ground floors that bore faded signs advertising shops, bakeries, tailors, and cobblers. Even at night, the street felt clean — the kind of clean that hinted at money changing hands daily. Though the street wasn’t paved, it was free of horse dung and debris, probably thanks to the diligence of some low-paid morning sweepers. I tried to imagine it filled with life: wagons creaking, people shouting orders, shopkeepers bargaining loudly over crates of vegetables. A scene I would never witness firsthand. A world that would never belong to me.

  Roughly ten minutes later, we stopped in front of a sturdy stone building. It stood out against the timber-framed structures like a noble among peasants — rigid, grey, and proud. Stone was rare in this part of the city, probably imported at great cost. A place of power, if ever I saw one.

  Mary approached with the decorum of someone accustomed to knocking on important doors. She rapped gently — a polite rhythm that barely stirred the air. Nothing happened. We waited. Still nothing.

  I rolled my eyes, stepped forward, and knocked again — this time hard enough to make the wood shake in its frame. The sound echoed into the street, waking a dog somewhere in the distance. Soon after, light bloomed in nearby windows, and I caught a few silhouettes parting their curtains, whispering nervously.

  “Who’s there?” came a groggy voice from within.

  I smiled broadly and turned to Mary with a self-satisfied look. My way works better.

  “Mary White,” she replied coolly. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Mustermann, we would like to speak with you.”

  The door creaked open with cautious haste. An elderly man with greying hair and a sleep-creased face peered out before promptly stepping aside. Despite the hour, his manner changed the moment he recognized her.

  “Lady Mary, it is an honour to welcome you — even at such a late hour,” he said with a courteous bow. His gaze then slid toward me, still holding Mary’s hand, and softened with warm curiosity. “And this must be your daughter? Lucy, is it?”

  I nodded politely, still smiling but saying nothing. Sometimes silence made people more uneasy than any words I could muster.

  “Yes, she is,” Mary confirmed, her tone laced with a practiced melancholy. “She’s been living up north with her aunt for many years… I rarely got to see her. And now that Arthur is no more…”

  She trailed off and closed her eyes in what must have been an attempt at sorrow. It would have been convincing for most — and clearly was for the mayor — but I knew better. That wasn’t sadness in her voice. It was performance. Mary, too, had learned to wear masks.

  “My deepest condolences, milady,” Mr. Mustermann said, his voice rich with sympathy. “Should you need anything — a place to stay, food, assistance of any kind — you need only say the word. The city is at your service.”

  I resisted the urge to sneer. The man’s sincerity wasn’t the problem — it was the servility that made my skin crawl. Another one, kneeling before her like she’s the Queen of Solaris. I’d seen this behavior before: people fawning, flattering, offering themselves up for approval. It was no different than Arthur’s sycophants, those bootlickers who bowed until their backs broke.

  I tightened my grip on Mary’s hand just slightly and leaned my head against her arm — a picture of innocence I knew the mayor wouldn’t question.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mustermann,” Mary replied gracefully. “We have a small request regarding a name. I understand your offices keep track of city-born families?”

  “Indeed,” he nodded. “Please, come in.”

  We stepped over the threshold, into the warm, lamplit interior of the mayor’s home. I said nothing, but I glanced at Mary from the corner of my eye. She was handling this all so perfectly. Calm. Commanding. Collected. But I knew she wasn’t in control of everything — not yet.

  “Thank you for your kind words. We’re here to look through the birth registries,” Mary said smoothly, not missing a beat. Her voice had regained its calm nobility, as if this sort of late-night visit to city officials was entirely routine.

  The mayor blinked at her, clearly surprised. “At this hour? May I ask what you’re searching for?”

  Mary hesitated, her lips parting — but no excuse came forth. Her eyes darted for a moment, and in that brief silence, I sighed quietly.

  “…Proof that she’s my mum,” I said matter-of-factly, my voice tinged with disappointment. She was clever — far more than most humans — but tonight, she was off her game.

  The mayor gave a small nod of understanding, either too polite to question further or too tired to care. “I see. It’s this way.” He turned and led us down a narrow, wood-paneled corridor until we stopped before a heavy oak door.

  With a grunt, he pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit room cluttered with shelves. A library — though “archive” might’ve been a better term. Books and scrolls were crammed into every available space, some teetering in dangerous piles, others yellowed with age and fraying at the edges. The air smelled of parchment dust and old secrets.

  “Do you require my help?” he asked, glancing between us.

  “A warm tea would be very welcome,” Mary replied politely, stepping forward into the room.

  He nodded, bowed faintly, and shut the door behind us without further question. Only once I heard his footsteps fading did I move.

  “Honestly,” I muttered, brushing past Mary to inspect the shelves, “I thought you'd have a better cover story.”

  She rolled her eyes and knelt beside a crate of bound ledgers. “Why did you even say that? That I’m your mum?”

  “Because it is true. And it gave us an excuse,” I replied, scanning the spines of the books with growing irritation. “Besides, you’ve been calling me your daughter all day in front of everyone. That ship has sailed.”

  The room was musty and chaotic, its organization more theoretical than practical. Rows upon rows of cracked leather tomes filled with the scribbled histories of this city’s citizens — births, deaths, marriages, trades. Most of it completely useless, except for one thin section tucked into the far corner of the room: the birth registries.

  Mary brushed dust from the cover of one such ledger, flipping it open with care. “So… how exactly do you intend to prove I’m your mother in the first place?”

  I crouched down beside her and pulled another book from the stack. “Tom is going to forge a birth certificate,” I said simply, flipping through the pages. “We'll say I was born in some northern village. All we need is a doctor’s name — someone Arthur trusted enough to sign my ‘birth’ — ideally one who’s been dead for a while.”

  Mary paused. “You’re using money from the mansion’s cellar, aren’t you?”

  I looked up at her, arching a brow. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s not like Arthur’s going to use it anymore.”

  She exhaled through her nose and returned to scanning the registry.

  Unfortunately, the books weren’t organized alphabetically. That would have been far too convenient. No, these were arranged chronologically, which meant we had roughly fifty years to dig through — assuming Arthur’s obsession with control hadn’t extended into the unnatural.

  Frustrated, I yanked the first volume of many from the shelf and let it fall open in my lap.

  “And if the doctor isn’t dead?” Mary asked, glancing sideways at me, her voice low and pragmatic.

  My first instinct was to make a snide remark — something about accidents, long staircases, or sudden heart attacks. But then I remembered my promise. Twenty-four hours of honesty. No lies. No manipulation.

  So instead, I took a deep breath and said, “Then we’ll improvise. Maybe we find another doctor who was close to Arthur. Or we… persuade the existing one.”

  Her eyebrows lifted at my wording.

  “Legally,” I added dryly. “Mostly.”

  Mary said nothing, but I saw the faintest trace of amusement tug at her lips before she buried it in another book. For a moment, the two of us worked in silence, the room filled with nothing but the rustle of paper and the soft creak of shifting wood.

  “We wouldn’t be able to murder him anyway,” I said thoughtfully, tapping my finger against the spine of an old ledger. “The timing would be far too suspicious, and the consequences not worth the gain. As much as I hate to admit it, we’d have no choice but to name another physician—less believable, perhaps, but safer.”

  I glanced over at Mary, expecting the usual disapproval or wary glance. Instead, I was greeted with an expression that caught me off guard—something bordering on relief, or maybe even amusement. Her eyes softened just slightly, as if my unwillingness to immediately leap to bloodshed challenged an expectation she hadn’t realized she held.

  It was almost funny. Had she really pegged me as someone who solved every problem with a blade or a well-placed shove down the stairs? Admittedly, violence was satisfying, but even I understood it was a blunt instrument in a world that required subtlety. Sometimes, words and forgery worked far better than fangs and fire.

  “Luke Himmelsl?ufer,” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the dusty silence of the archive. “That was Arthur’s doctor. He passed away about a year ago.”

  I tilted my head and blinked at her in surprise. She hadn’t hesitated to give me what I needed. No drawn-out protest, no moral debate—just the answer. A small, genuine smile crept across my face, unbidden. Perhaps, just perhaps, we were finally finding some common ground amid the chaos.

  “Thanks,” I said simply, with more sincerity than I’d expected to feel.

  But then a strange thought rooted itself in my mind, refusing to be ignored. Without another word, I closed the old volume in front of me and set it aside, brushing past Mary as I strode to the opposite end of the cluttered library. She watched, clearly confused by the sudden shift, but followed with silent curiosity.

  I ran my fingers along the newer bindings, searching not for a name but for a pattern—an idea that had been gnawing at me for some time. Arthur had never attempted to produce an heir with Mary, despite her noble blood and the expectations of their union. That absence had always struck me as odd. He was a man obsessed with legacy, with control—so why would he ignore the most obvious route to ensuring his bloodline endured?

  Unless… it wasn’t Mary`s bloodline he intended to preserve.

  I paused, my hand resting on a leather-bound ledger from just a few years prior. My mind was racing. Arthur had married into the White family—not as a mere formality, but as a calculated maneuver. A way to embed himself into an ancient name, to reshape it from within. A parasite with ambitions of becoming the host. If that was true, then perhaps he had been grooming a successor… but not of Mary′s blood.

  That was why I no longer searched for the White′s name. I searched for every birth recorded by Luke Himmelsl?ufer. Not just one thread—but the whole tapestry.

  And yet, as the dust rose around us and the candles flickered with each turn of the brittle pages, a problem revealed itself:

  The registry was a maze of disarray. Each scribe had their own system—if one could call it that. Entries were neither alphabetized nor thoroughly indexed. Births were recorded chronologically, but without consistent formatting, and many names were scrawled in the lazy half-cursive of tired clerks. Luke’s signature changed from record to record—sometimes elegant and clear, other times reduced to an indecipherable ‘L.H.’ or a smear of ink. It was exceedingly difficult to find anything.