The last room at the far end of the second floor was known as the cursed chamber—once said to belong to a witch, and now claimed by the Lady of the Mansion herself.
No one dared approach it unless summoned.
Both girls stood frozen before the heavy door. The hallway was silent, the air so still it felt like the house was holding its breath.
They took a long inhale together, trying to steel themselves.
Knock. Knock.
Alena knocked gently.
From within came a sharp, cold voice, dripping with annoyance.
"Come in."
Gulp.
The girls glanced at each other. Then, summoning every bit of courage, they pushed the door open.
The room was dim, curtains drawn shut save for a narrow slit letting in pale daylight. Standing rigid in front of the window was a tall figure, her back to them.
The Lady of the Mansion.
A bold figure with stiff, prideful shoulders. Her crimson red hair, darker than Veralyn's, spilled down like dried blood. Black eyes like the dead of night glinted when she turned. Wrinkles lined her face—etched not just by age, but by a lifetime of cruelty and control.
Veralyn felt her stomach tighten, not with fear—but loathing.
The Lady's gaze landed on them with a predator's calm.
"Alena. Step forward," she commanded.
Alena obeyed, her legs weak beneath her.
"Y-Yes, Ma'am?"
"I asked you to bring Veralyn. And it took you fifteen minutes?"
The Lady's tone cracked like thunder, her eyebrow arching in rage.
"I—I..." Alena faltered, her voice barely a whisper.
The Lady took a step forward, her expression twisted in disapproval.
But before she could go further, Veralyn stepped in front of Alena—firm, poised, and unafraid.
She cut in front of Alena, like a shield. Her voice cool, her eyes defiant.
"Ma'am, that delay was entirely my fault."
She smiled, but her words dripped with irony.
"To look appropriate enough to come before you, it took me a full ten minutes. Honestly, if Alena hadn't helped me, I'd still be getting ready."
It was respectful on the surface, but every syllable carried a blade.
The Lady narrowed her eyes.
She stalked toward Veralyn and grabbed her face, fingers digging into her cheeks.
"You little mutt. Speaking without permission?"
A smirk played on her lips.
"You know I won't lay a hand on you today—not with my mother on her way to see you."
She shoved Veralyn's face aside.
Veralyn took two careful steps back.
The Lady settled into her elegant chair, her posture sharp and unyielding.
"My mother will be joining us for afternoon tea," she announced coldly.
"You will attend as well. I want you to ask her for your birthday present in advance."
"What? But why?" Veralyn asked, her confusion unfiltered.
The Lady's eyes darkened as she snapped,
"How dare you question me? What title do you possess to speak so freely?"
A cold smirk touched her lips.
"You're a nobody. Oh—my mistake—you are something. An illegitimate child."
Veralyn's fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, tightening into fists.
Seeing the reaction, the Lady's lips curled in cruel amusement as she continued to provoke.
"You are living proof of how my all-mighty sister wasted herself on lowborn filth. A stain on her name—and my family. That's why our parents never accepted you in public. To them, you are dead. Just like your good-for-nothing mother."
Veralyn's eyes turned red with fury. She was trembling—biting it back.
Watching her unravel seemed to thrill the Lady, who then spat,
"Your mother is better off dead. Such a pathetic slut."
That was it.
Veralyn's control snapped.
Without a word, she grabbed the vase from the side table and hurled it—shattering it just inches from the Lady's chair.
The sharp crash echoed through the room. The Lady jerked slightly, startled. Alena flinched behind Veralyn.
Then Veralyn stepped forward, leaned close, and whispered coldly,
"You should watch your mouth. I've got nothing to lose—unlike you. And about that vase? I'll just make you a prettier one."
She gave a tight-lipped smile and stepped back.
"If that's all, I'll see you during the meeting."
Veralyn bowed with practiced grace, then turned and exited with Alena trailing behind.
Neither of them spoke as they walked, but after a few steps—seven, maybe eight—Veralyn leaned against the wall and let out a long, shaky sigh.
Alena, wide-eyed, finally burst out,
"My Lady! That was savage. I didn't even recognize you. You left her—and me—speechless. I seriously thought you were going to crack Lady Lonley's head open!"
Veralyn let out a guilty chuckle.
"Honestly? I wanted to."
Alena stared at her like she'd grown horns.
"L-Let's run for now," she whispered.
Bloodline of the crazy, she thought, dragging Veralyn down the hallway.
"Wait!" Veralyn suddenly whispered, grabbing Alena's wrist.
"Let's go see Kirien. I'm not usually allowed on the second floor, so this is my chance."
Alena blinked, then smiled mischievously.
"Well, the Lady hardly ever visits his room, so… sure!"
Their moods shifted, lightening like clouds parting after a storm.
Bubbly and giggly, the girls tiptoed down the corridor, their skirts swaying as they made their way to the room of the youngest heir of the mansion.
Kirien.
He was a twelve-year-old boy born with fragile health—a porcelain child the household tried to keep untouched by the world.
His parents rarely allowed him outside, fearing even the softest breeze might carry him away.
With soft light red hair that caught the sunlight like a gentle flame and pale green eyes that held a glimmer of innocent wonder, Kirien looked like a storybook prince.
Unlike his older siblings—who bore their father's brown hair—Kirien alone had inherited a lighter echo of the crimson mane, making him look like a softer reflection of the family line, as if he belonged to a kinder version of their blood.