Clutching the picnic basket to her chest, Marin flew down the stairs and sprinted toward the castle's main gate.
She arrived just in time to see knights mounted on horseback and a magnificent black carriage drawn by four horses, its doors emblazoned with the grand coat of arms of House Vines.
The carriage was larger and more ornate than any she had seen before.
"Hah... hah... Your Grace!"
Still catching her breath from running, Marin called out softly.
The Duke, already seated inside the carriage, turned his head toward her voice.
"What is it?"
"Here."
She thrust out the picnic basket she had been clutching against her chest. Olive, standing beside the carriage, quickly took it from her hands.
"There is already quite enough food prepared, Miss Marin."
"It's not food." She shook her head. "It's a gift. Something... for His Grace."
Olive regarded her with a *what on earth is she talking about* expression, but Marin pretended not to notice.
"Bring it inside," the Duke commanded.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Olive handed the basket into the carriage.
"Have you finished all your work?" Gerald asked.
"Yes."
"Then we depart."
As the Duke leaned back against his seat, Marin whispered—so quietly it was almost to herself:
"Please be careful. Return safely."
Her gaze remained fixed on the carriage.
Even this carriage alone filled her with dread. She wished fervently—*desperately*—that no one would be hurt.
No one heard her whisper.
No one except the Duke.
Gerald paused. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward her once more.
His eyes remained hidden beneath the black ribbon, yet somehow it felt as though their gazes met in the empty air between them.
His scarlet lips parted. The corners lifted, ever so softly.
"I'll be careful. And I will return."
Marin's pale green eyes widened at the unexpected response.
How he had heard her, she couldn't fathom—but her words had reached him.
"Alright!"
She smiled radiantly, nodding with cheerful vigor.
The Duke settled back into his seat and spoke to Olive:
"Move out."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Olive swung into the saddle, and the four-horse carriage rolled swiftly through the castle gates and disappeared down the road.
---
## — Years Ago —
"Hey, little one."
"I'm *not* little."
The boy playing with his toys puffed out his cheeks and shot a sideways glare at his older sister, Monica.
Her black hair fell in waves to her waist. Her eyes gleamed like polished onyx beads. Her face was angelic—utterly beautiful.
She was his pride. But when she teased him, he sometimes hated her.
"You don't even reach my waist," Monica declared, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "That means you're small."
"That's not true! I'm *not* small!!!"
"Oh-oh. Is our little one angry?" She clasped her hands together in mock sympathy. "Should I give our little one some candy?"
"Hmph." He crossed his arms over his chest and turned away sharply. "I won't play house with you anymore."
*This time, candy won't be enough.*
His sister was so much older than him—practically an adult already—and she *constantly* teased him.
*I will never forgive her.*
*And I won't play with her ever again.*
"You'll regret it," Monica sang, her voice lilting with amusement.
"I don't know such words."
Monica gazed at her pouting little brother with eyes that said *I adore him beyond all reason*.
"The candy is *very* big."
She dropped down to sit in front of him and revealed what she had been hiding behind her back—a snow-white puff of cotton candy, fluffy as a cloud plucked from the sky.
The boy's eyes went wide. He had never seen such a thing before.
"Is that... candy? Not a cloud?"
"I plucked it from the sky just for our little one."
"*Wow!* Really?!"
"Of course." Monica's smile was radiant. "This sister would reach for the stars themselves for our little one. So—are you going to keep playing house with me?"
Suppressing a grin, she extended her little finger, demanding a promise.
"Uh-huh! Sister! I'll be there!"
The boy eagerly hooked his tiny finger around hers.
Taking the cotton candy, he gazed up at his sister with pure adoration shining in his eyes.
Monica smiled broadly and ruffled his black hair with affection.
*Beautiful sister. Brave sister, who can reach even the clouds and stars from the sky.*
*Hehe.*
---
"Ow—it *hurts!* Mom! Dad! Sister! My head hurts! My ears hurt! My nose hurts! My whole body is *burning!* A-AHHH!"
The boy rolled across the floor, writhing in agony, screaming without pause.
The five-year-old's birthright—the secret of his bloodline—had manifested far too early.
The Duke stood rigid, teeth clenched, watching his son with anguished helplessness. Beside him, the Duchess pressed a hand to her heart, suppressing tears as she shared her child's suffering in silent torment.
At that moment, the door to the room swung open.
The sound struck the boy like a thunderclap. He clutched his ears—
And collapsed into unconsciousness.
Monica rushed toward her brother, but the Duchess blocked her path.
"Mother—"
"Don't come near."
"He's *sick!* He's screaming like that—why won't anyone comfort him?! He's only *five years old!*"
When Monica's voice rose in desperate fury, the Duchess pressed a finger to her lips, commanding silence.
Helplessness flooding through her, Monica turned her frantic gaze to her father.
"Father—why is he in such pain?"
Instead of answering, the Duke carefully gathered his unconscious son into his arms.
Meeting his daughter's bewildered, frightened eyes, he shook his head slowly.
"...Forgive me."
---
Noise and commotion echoed faintly in the distance.
The young man opened his eyes slowly.
*Today was the day.*
His sister was leaving for the south. For her wedding.
He had spent years in this spire—isolated as completely as possible from the outside world, shielded from noise, from life, from everything.
After learning from his father the secret of their bloodline, he had done nothing but train. Learning to control his five senses. Learning to *survive* them.
The years crawled past like wounded animals, but his senses still slipped from his grasp more often than not.
When he had first awakened in this tower after losing consciousness in his room, he had demanded to go back.
But he quickly learned: the more he cried, the greater his own agony became.
So the young man fell silent.
At the very top of the spire, there was less noise. But whenever rain fell, the deafening roar of droplets against stone would drive him to the edge of unconsciousness.
His heightened sense of taste made eating torture—food refused to go down his throat.
He could see dust motes suspended in the air, each particle sharp and distinct. He had grown accustomed to living with his eyes closed.
The cheerful, lively boy gradually lost his voice.
The longer he went without speaking to anyone, the more numb he became.
"Hey, little one."
Then—from far away, like an echo across vast distance—came his sister's voice.
The young man leaped to his feet and rushed to the spire window.
The tower was surrounded by a high fence, built to keep everyone away. But beyond the wall, beneath a large tree, stood his sister.
He hadn't seen her in so long.
She was still as angelically beautiful as ever.
The young man studied her face intently, memorizing every detail, imprinting her image so he would never forget.
Monica didn't seem to see him. She continued speaking, her gaze fixed on the top of the spire:
"You can hear me, can't you? I know you can." Her voice carried clearly despite the distance. "The secret of the bloodline is supposed to be *secret*... but who am I? I found out everything."
She paused, her expression shifting to indignation.
"They say you can hear my voice from this far away? Father is too much. *How can this be?* I'm leaving to get married, and he still won't let me see you."
Monica's black eyes glistened with tears.
She brushed them away quickly with her sleeve and forced brightness back into her voice:
"Hey, little one. I'm getting married. He's a kind, good man. When I first saw him, I thought an angel had descended from heaven. He's *so* handsome—that's why I decided to take him home with me."
Despite everything, a smile tugged at the young man's lips—the first in longer than he could remember. He touched his mouth in surprise, startled to feel the unfamiliar expression.
"I'll be happy," Monica continued, "so when you get out of there, come visit me in the south sometime. I'll write to you often. Even if you can't answer—please read my letters. Okay?"
She extended her little finger into the air, just as she had done years ago, demanding a promise.
The young man raised his own hand and stretched out his little finger, as if reaching across the impossible distance to hook it around hers.
Monica lowered her hand. A sob escaped her.
"I wanted so badly to watch you grow up..." Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I can't even hug you. I'm so sorry... *Gerald.*"
For the first time, she called him by his name.
Not *little one*.
*Gerald.*
And then Monica fell to her knees in the dirt and wept openly, crying like a child.
Gerald rushed to the table.
He scrawled words onto a handkerchief, wrapped it tightly around a fist-sized stone, and secured the knot.
*Crash!*
The stone shattered the window. It arced through the air, flying far, far beyond the fence—
And landed directly at Monica's feet.
She gasped in surprise and picked it up with trembling hands.
Unfolding the handkerchief, she read the words written there.
Then she pressed it to her chest and burst into fresh tears.
> *Congratulations on your wedding, sister.*