The vast, echoing training hall of the Roschild estate was a temple of discipline, a place where generations had honed their bodies and wills into weapons. Sunlight, thick and golden as honey, poured through the high arched windows, cutting through the dust motes that danced in the still air.
The stone floor beneath was a testament to countless battles, its surface a mosaic of faint scorch marks from fire Gifts and deeper gouges from bladed weapons. Along the walls, tall practice dummies stood like silent sentinels, their leather and straw bodies scarred and battered from years of relentless abuse. On polished racks of dark wood, an arsenal of weapons rested—from simple wooden practice swords to gleaming steel blades, their edges catching the light in silent promise. The very air was saturated with the familiar, almost sacred scent of effort: the tang of old sweat, the clean smell of polished oak, and the faint, metallic whisper of steel.
In the center of this space, a solitary figure moved with a frantic, desperate energy. The sharp, repetitive whoosh of a wooden blade cutting through the air was the only sound, a staccato rhythm of frustration that seemed to shake the very silence. It was the sound of a soul in turmoil.
The boy was Artur Lancaster, member of a respected branch family of the Roschild clan, and to any observer, he was the picture of noble perfection. At almost fifteen, his body was already sculpted by years of relentless training, the damp training gear clinging to a frame that was both powerful and graceful. His hair, gleaming like spun gold under the sun's rays, was plastered to his brow with sweat. His eyes, a brilliant and piercing gold, usually held a warmth and kindness that made him beloved by many. He possessed a handsomeness that was almost unreal, a classic beauty that seemed carved from marble. He was, by all accounts, the third point in a trio of childhood friends that included Leo Roschild and Rina Ellis.
But the boy training now was a stranger to that composed and benevolent image. This Artur was a creature of raw, unvarnished emotion. His face, normally arranged in a gentle smile, was now twisted into a grimace of pure anguish. Each swing of his wooden sword was not an exercise in form, but a violent exhalation of pain. The movements were sharper, heavier, fueled not by discipline but by a storm of feeling that threatened to tear him apart from the inside. The wooden sword felt like an extension of his rage, a blunt instrument against an enemy he could not see, but felt all around him.
Finally, the careful control he had maintained all day shattered. A guttural curse ripped from his throat, raw and startling in the hall's emptiness.
"Shit! How dare she? How dare she reject me?" The words were a low growl, the voice of a wounded animal lashing out. He brought the sword down in a reckless, powerful arc, the force of it vibrating up his arms. "How dare she!"
His mind, a tortured loop, dragged him back to that morning, to the moment his world had fractured. He had chosen the spot with such care, beneath the ancient cherry tree that stood on the estate's eastern hill. It was in full, glorious bloom, a cascade of pale pink petals that fell around them like a gentle, perfumed snow. The sky had been a perfect, untroubled blue. He had practiced his words for weeks, polishing them in his mind until they shone. He had envisioned her face—Rina's face—lighting up with understanding, then with joy. He had allowed himself to believe, truly believe, that the girl he had loved since they were children chasing fireflies in the garden would finally see him not as a friend, but as something more.
The memory of her rejection was a physical blow, a cold blade lodged in his chest. He saw it all again: her standing there, so heartbreakingly beautiful with her cherry-blossom hair framing a face of soft determination. Her pink eyes, usually so warm when they looked at him, had been steady and clear. "Sorry… it can never work out between us. You're just my friend."
The words had been calm, final. To Artur, they had felt like a death sentence. The world had seemed to slow, the gentle fall of petals becoming a mockery of his shattered hopes. He had stood there, frozen, as a cold numbness spread from his core. Then, as she turned to leave, the numbness had cracked, and a poisonous, insidious thought he had fought for years finally broke free.
"Is it… because of Leo, isn't it?" The question had left his lips as a bitter whisper, barely audible.
He had always told himself it was paranoia, a childish insecurity. He had forced himself to ignore the way her eyes sometimes followed Leo, the way her laughter sounded just a note brighter in his presence. He had buried his suspicions deep, telling himself that their bond as a trio of friends was unbreakable, that he was imagining slights where none existed.
But in that moment, her reaction confirmed his deepest fear. Rina, who had been so resolute, suddenly faltered. Her gaze darted away from his. The very tips of her ears, usually pale, flushed a bright, telling crimson. Her voice, when she spoke again, held a tremor that shattered the last of his denial. "W-What nonsense are you spouting? This has nothing to do with him. I—I'm leaving."
She had spun away from him, her movements quick and flustered, as if fleeing from a truth she herself could not face.
"You're heading to his side, aren't you?"
Artur had muttered, his head bowed, his voice trembling with the first stirrings of a dark, unfamiliar emotion.
Rina had stopped. The breeze caught her pink hair, swirling it around her shoulders as she glanced back over her shoulder. Her reply was not angry or defensive, but simple, straightforward, and in its simplicity, utterly devastating.
"Of course."
"I see…" Artur had bitten down on his lip so hard he now remembered the coppery taste of blood. His fists had clenched at his sides, his knuckles standing out white like bleached bones, the veins bulging beneath his skin like angry worms. In that instant, something broke inside him. The careful dam he had built over a lifetime to hold back his envy and insecurity shattered completely, and a seething, black hatred flooded in. It was a jealousy he had never allowed himself to fully acknowledge, and now it was consuming him.
He had always resented Leo. As a member of a branch family, his entire life had been lived in the shadow of the main house. He was the moon to Leo's sun, forever reflecting a light that was not his own. He was the one expected to be strong, but never the strongest; to be talented, but never the talent. He was forced to watch from the sidelines as Leo, the cherished heir, was celebrated, praised, and given everything Artur had to sweat and bleed for. And the cruelest part of it all? Leo had never acted like a rival. He had been a brother. He had dragged Artur into adventures, shared secrets with him, laughed with him, and defended him. Leo's genuine friendship had been a cage, making Artur's resentment feel like a personal sin, a betrayal of the one person who had never treated him as lesser.
But now, standing rejected and humiliated beneath the cherry blossoms, all those buried feelings erupted with volcanic force. The years of feeling second-best, the gnawing sense of inferiority, the bitter knowledge that no matter how hard he trained, he would always be "the branch family boy" in the eyes of some—it all coalesced into a single, burning point of hatred directed at his oldest friend.
The memory fueled his movements now. He swung the wooden sword with a manic intensity, over and over, until fresh, stinging blisters rose on his palms and burst, staining the hilt with a faint pink smear. He ignored the pain, welcoming it. It was a clean, simple hurt, unlike the complex, rotting agony in his heart. Each hollow thwack of the blade was a condemnation, a promise.
The thoughts came unbidden, dark and seductive, twisting his features into something ugly. 'I'll make him suffer a crushing fall… I'll drag him so low he loses everything. His name, his status, her… everything. Then she'll weep. She'll weep for rejecting me. I'll prove myself at the Blessing Ceremony. I was not born to fade into the shadows—I will blaze like the sun, and I will burn away everything he holds dear. Wait and see. You'll all regret this.'
The thought was a vow, tasted like iron and venom on his tongue. Beneath the steady, punishing rhythm of his training, something sinister had taken root in the fertile soil of his wounded heart. It was a seed of pure resentment, watered by tears of humiliation and warmed by the fire of his jealousy. He had no idea what this dark path would lead to, nor did he care in that moment of blinding pain. All that mattered was the storm within him. She shouldn't have refused him. Not after he had gathered every ounce of his courage. Not after he had loved her, and only her, for all these years. She was meant to be his. How dare she choose another? How dare she choose Leo?
It was unforgivable. She had no right. Absolutely none.