Historical records suggest that Lady Anastasia was never close with her siblings. William suspected there was a rift—perhaps an ongoing conflict—within the Roselle bloodline.
She was the youngest daughter of the Earl of Roselle, who was the head of a family with a prestigious but obscure title. Her two older sisters, Lady Anne and Lady Caroline, held honorary titles that carried no affection.
From the cramped room where they were gathered, Louis's voice broke the silence.
"When you communicated with the Order of the Literary Hall through Communication Magic," he said, closing the door and lowering his voice, "it reminded me of something."
William averted his attention only briefly.
"Lady Caroline Roselle was once betrothed to Reinhard Ashford, the future heir to the Earl of Ashford," Louis continued. His gaze pierced the small, condensation-filled window. "But fate took a turn. It was Lady Anastasia who ended up marrying Reinhard."
There was silence. William didn't reply, but the memory lingered in his mind.
"Anne and Caroline only married lesser nobles—a baron and a viscount," Louis continued. "After Anastasia died, the entire Roselle family didn't show up for her funeral. The Ashfords immediately cut ties. There were no negotiations or letters of reply. Just...silence."
His tone lowered. "It was as if everyone wanted to forget her."
William listened, but not entirely. His mind was racing with possibilities. If this was truly about revenge, could it be related to Roselle's family?
But who? What kind of demon could make such a massive pact, slaughtering couple after couple in just one place—this church?
Too many questions. Too few answers.
William left without saying anything. Louis and Elizabeth didn't notice; they were still caught up in a conversation from the past filled with ash and thorns.
His footsteps echoed in the church hallway. The cold stone beneath his feet seemed to reflect his heartbeat. He climbed the narrow, spiral staircase, following instinct rather than logic.
Only the candlelight guided him. Its flame swayed and danced like the whispers of spirits.
Above him, a row of old doors stood. But only one felt...calling.
It was the wooden door at the end of the hallway, its paint peeling and its hinges rusted. From behind it came a faint dark aura. It was faint and almost invisible, but it was enough to make William's neck stiffen.
He took the candle off the wall hanging and slowly opened the door. The hinges creaked loudly, but not loudly enough to wake the entire church.
The room was small. There were two worn beds, a large wooden wardrobe, and a dusty table. It looked like a nun's or an old guest's room that had been abandoned years ago.
Only one thing caught his attention—a white curtain hanging in the corner and covering something large.
William pulled the curtain away with a light motion.
A mirror stood there. It was tall and framed in worn, dark wood. Its surface was opaque, yet still clear enough to reflect his image.
A young man with raven-black hair tied to the side and dressed in a red robe resembling maple leaves approached. He was a cold, familiar figure.
Nothing strange. William simply shrugged in disappointment. The dark aura he had felt earlier was now gone. It was like a shadow that was aware of being watched.
However, when he turned around, he caught sight of something in the mirror's reflection.
A shadow.
Not his.
He was standing still behind the slightly open closet door.
William turned quickly. The closet appeared empty. Only old clothes hung there, motionless.
He looked back at the mirror.
The shadow was still there.
Still standing. Still. Not breathing.
Something stood silently behind the slightly ajar closet door.
William turned quickly. At first glance, the closet appeared empty, just a dark space with the shadow of weathered wood.
But when he looked back at the mirror, the image was still there. Unmoving. Unmoving. It was still, like a spirit refusing to leave.
Its shape slowly became clearer:
A white dress.
A lace veil covers her head.
The figure of a woman—a bride.
William stared at the reflection with sharp eyes.
He glanced back and found the room silent. The closet was wide open and empty.
But when he looked back at the mirror, his heart pounded heavily.
The figure was now standing right behind him.
Before he could think, the woman in the wedding dress lunged.
Her nails were long and black, curved sharply like sickle blades. William shifted for a split second, avoiding the attack that nearly ripped his face off.
With cold composure, he clenched his fist. His fighting instincts flared.
He struck straight with a single blow—
—but all he struck was mist.
The figure exploded into black smoke that hissed like hellish vapor.
The mist was alive. It twisted wildly in the air and shot toward William like a hungry snake.
William's gaze changed. His brown eyes were now bloodshot and blazing like embers. A cold, sharp aura exploded from his body, making the mist pause and tremble in fear.
But it didn't retreat.
The mist attacked again.
William remained still, raising only one hand. A scattering of luminous silver butterflies flashed from his palm, beautiful yet ominous.
They crashed into the mist. Each time a wing touched the dark smoke, a scream was heard—not from William or the butterflies, but from something trapped within the mist.
The mist writhed, trying to resist. It was futile.
The silver butterflies were more than just beautiful. They were a curse that burned with a silver light, both bright and dark.
The mist was forced out of the room. William jumped to block it, but the black smoke assaulted him again, distracting him. Then, it vanished, evaporating into thin air in the hallway.
William stepped out. The hallway was empty. Dark. Silent.
There was no sign of fog. There was no trace of mana.
Only old stone walls and quietly burning candles remained, as if nothing had happened.
"William!"
The voice came from the stairs.
Elizabeth ran up the stairs, gasping for breath. Louis followed behind her, his face tense.
"I felt a surge of dark mana on the second floor as soon as you disappeared," Elizabeth said quickly, her eyes worried. She swept her gaze over William to make sure he was okay.
William stood up straight, slightly surprised by the concern. Elizabeth had just recognized him as William Langley, but the look in her eyes was the same as when he was Morgan Welshman.
A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. A mischievous idea struck him.
"I... got lost," he said quietly and dramatically. "Suddenly, a woman in a wedding dress with long nails attacked me. I was so scared."
Elizabeth held back a laugh. Her face was still worried, but resigned. She realized that William was only joking.