Only when she slipped outside for air did she break.
She sat by the fountain, tears threatening.
Carlos appeared beside her like a shadow.
"Say the word," he murmured, "and I'll set fire to the whole ballroom."
She laughed wetly. "You'll be executed."
"Worth it."
He offered her a flower—plucked hastily from the hedges.
Not a rose.
A weed, really.
But beautiful in its rebellion.
Seraphine took it with trembling fingers.
"Thank you."
Carlos tilted his head. "You always thank me. But one day… I hope I can do something big enough that you never have to thank me again."
She looked at him.
And for the first time, something bloomed in her chest that wasn't pain.
It wasn't love—not yet.
But it was a beginning.
As the years passed, Seraphine bloomed in the Delacroix Estate like a forbidden flower.
She was no longer a child. At fifteen, her beauty had matured into something rare—graceful yet commanding, delicate yet strong. Her silver-blonde hair cascaded like a waterfall down her back, and her emerald eyes shimmered with secrets long buried beneath layers of silence.
She had grown into a woman of the kind of poise that made the courtiers stop and stare, even when she wasn't trying to. But with every compliment, she could feel Lady Jane's disdain growing thicker in the air.
It was always subtle.
A clenched jaw.
A tighter grip on her fan.
A dismissive glance when she caught Celestine fawning over Seraphine's looks.
The more Seraphine flourished, the more the Lady Delacroix sought to keep her confined.
But Celestine had grown more insufferable than ever.
Her once-perfect demeanor had started to crack, and jealousy had begun to seep through her painted smile. She fumbled during dance lessons. Her hair, once perfect and pristine, was now more often in disarray, and she could no longer perform the noble tasks without a constant assistant. It seemed that everything Seraphine did naturally, Celestine struggled to emulate.
One afternoon, while Seraphine was arranging the flowers in the sitting room, Celestine approached her with an expression veiled in false sweetness.
"You know," Celestine started, her tone sugary, "I've been thinking."
Seraphine kept her eyes on the vase, carefully placing a rose in the water. "What about?"
"About how you've been making a real nuisance of yourself," Celestine continued, her voice slightly tighter than before. "People are starting to notice. They say you're as beautiful as a noblewoman. You know, maybe you're finally becoming someone they can pay attention to."
Seraphine looked up then, meeting her sister's gaze. Her heart skipped, but she said nothing.
Celestine's lips curled into a tight smile, but there was no warmth in it. "I think it's time you remember your place. After all, I've been the daughter of the Delacroix family, and that's not going to change."
Seraphine only nodded silently, unwilling to play her sister's game. Instead, she turned back to her flowers, choosing to ignore the venomous undertone.
The more Seraphine excelled, the more she felt the growing distance between her and the rest of the Delacroix family. But as the whispers of her beauty and grace continued to spread, something else began to shift in the estate.
The Landon Mansion, once a lively stronghold of laughter and power, stood cloaked in silence for years after Elira's death. The grand halls echoed only with shadows, and Maika often found herself staring at empty rooms that once should have held the voice of a child—her child.
She had died so young… before Maika even got to call her by name again.
The grief was like a curse, one that did not scream but quietly poisoned from within. For months, Maika couldn't bear to look at baby clothes or children's books. Every time she walked past the nursery they had prepared in secret, her knees weakened.
Carl tried to be strong—for her, for Caveen—but even he couldn't deny the way the loss changed him.
For a time, he withdrew. Took longer missions. Drank more often. Stayed in the training yard longer than needed. And though they shared a bed, they did not speak of her. Not because they didn't want to—but because every word was a blade reopening the wound.
But time, as cruel as it was, forced them to breathe again.
Slowly, Maika stopped crying every morning.
Carl started returning home earlier.
The ache never truly left, but it softened into something bearable, and eventually… they learned to live again.
---
Carl soon resumed his role as the Head of the Landon Empire, establishing order across Santossa City once more. The Council respected him. The citizens admired him. And while the empire's expansion consumed much of his time, Carl never forgot what mattered most.
At night, he always came home.
Even if it was only to sit in silence with Maika beneath the stars, holding her hand.
---
Maika, on the other hand, chose a different path for healing.
She returned to the Witch Clan—to the path of her blood, her power, and her legacy.
Though she was born a vampire, the black magic inside her—the forgotten, forbidden blood of the Carellos—had begun to whisper. And Maika listened.
Under the guidance of Elder Virell of the Carello clan, she immersed herself in her mother's ancestral knowledge. She studied sigils that burned into bone, potions that altered fate, and illusions that even high witches feared to cast. Her power, once sealed, now pulsed with dangerous clarity.
But she did not learn for power.
She learned for protection.
For Caveen.
Her son had always been special—born of vampire, lycan, and now a trace of witch. A child of three bloodlines… and therefore, a target. The Council still watched. Enemies still whispered. But Maika would not lose another child. Not again.
She trained Caveen herself in secrecy.
By day, he learned combat and diplomacy under Carl.
By night, he practiced incantations and ancient chants at the altar beneath the moonlight, guided by his mother's hands.
And when he asked her why, why they had to hide, why he had to learn these things before other children even learned to wield a sword—
Maika only said, "Because your blood is not just power, Caveen. It is prophecy. And prophecy always comes with a price."
---
One day, Carl returned from Queen Vantess with a sealed letter.
He looked older now—weathered from years of duty and buried grief—but his eyes still sparked when they landed on Maika and Caveen in the courtyard.
"They've summoned us," he said flatly. "Queen Vantessa."
Maika narrowed her eyes. "About?"
Carl handed the letter over.
"About the Crimson Order."
The name made her blood run cold.