The silence after Bertha's frantic escape weighed heavily on Aria, like the stone walls of her prison room. Her heart hammered in her chest, a frantic rhythm against the dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight. She had won this battle, but the war still loomed ahead. Dinner awaited her, filled with Silas's cruel smirk, Elara's cold disdain, and Drusilla's sweet venom.
She limped to the cracked porcelain washbasin, where tepid water barely covered the grime at the bottom. *Survival Step One: Hygiene.* As she scrubbed her face with a worn cloth, the cold water sharpened her senses. She studied her reflection in the tarnished metal mirror hanging above the basin.
**Aria Lynette Varein.**
Her face was undeniably beautiful, even bruised and pale beneath the dirt smudges. High cheekbones, a delicate jawline from the mother she never knew, and eyes that shifted from stormy grey to sea-green depending on the light. Her dark chestnut hair fell in tangled waves, matted with sweat and stable dust. It resembled the face of a porcelain doll – beautiful, fragile, and completely breakable. *Not anymore,* she thought fiercely, meeting her own gaze. *This doll fights back.*
> `[GSS NOTIFICATION:]`
> `[OBJECTIVE UPDATED: PREPARE FOR DINNER ENGAGEMENT.]`
> `[THREAT ASSESSMENT: SILAS VAREIN (VERBAL/PHYSICAL AGGRESSION - HIGH), ELARA VAREIN (SOCIAL SABOTAGE - HIGH), DRUSILLA VAREIN (PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIPULATION/POISON RISK - EXTREME).]`
> `[RECOMMENDATION: ARMOR (SOCIAL DEFLECTION), WEAPONS (VERBAL PRECISION), COUNTERMEASURES (OBSERVATION, CAUTION RE: FOOD/BEVERAGE).]`
*Armor and weapons. Got it.* The System's clinical assessment reflected her own thoughts. She rummaged through the battered oak wardrobe. The clothes inside were sparse and outdated. Gowns from past seasons, fabrics slightly worn. She settled on the least offensive option: a simple gown of deep forest green wool, high-necked with long sleeves. It was sturdy, hid the bruising on her collarbone, and wouldn't wrinkle easily. *Camouflage.*
Getting dressed was painful and frustrating. The laces seemed determined to tangle, and every twist sent fresh jolts through her bruised ribs. By the time she wrestled her hair into a simple braid, sweat beaded on her forehead. She looked presentable, though austere. Nothing like Elara's carefully chosen silks, but it would have to do.
The walk to the family dining hall felt like a gauntlet. Stone corridors echoed with distant clatter from the kitchens. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and woodsmoke, mixed with the ever-present scent of damp stone and neglect. Servants scurried past, eyes downcast, but Aria caught a few fleeting glances—curiosity mixed with wariness. News of Bertha's humiliation spread fast. *Good.* Let them wonder.
She paused before the heavy oak doors leading into the dining hall, taking a deep breath. *Poker face. Engage.* She pushed the doors open.
Inside, the scene was a display of chilly nobility. A long, dark table dominated the room, set with gleaming silver and fine, slightly worn porcelain. Count Valerius sat at the head, a mountain of stern silence carved from granite. His dark hair was streaked with silver, and his face showed the weight of duty and perhaps unspoken sorrow. His eyes, the same changeable grey-green as Aria's, flickered over her as she entered, acknowledging her presence with a grunt before returning to the document in his hand.
Lady Drusilla sat to his right, elegant in pale lavender silk. Her blonde hair was artfully arranged, her smile serene, but her calculating brown eyes swept over Aria like a hawk assessing its prey. **"Ah, Aria, dear. You look… recovered."** Her voice was sweet, yet icy. **"We were beginning to worry that Silas's little joke had caused lasting damage."**
Silas, seated beside Elara, snorted into his wine goblet. Elara merely arched an eyebrow, her gaze raking over Aria's simple gown with undisguised disdain.
**"Resilience is a Varein trait, Stepmother,"** Aria replied smoothly, taking her assigned seat at the far end of the table, opposite Tristan and Isolde. Her voice remained calm, hiding the tremor she felt inside. **"Though perhaps not one Silas has fully cultivated."**
Silas's head snapped up, his hazel eyes flashing. **"Watch your tongue, Aria."**
**"Merely an observation, Brother,"** Aria said, unfolding her napkin with deliberate care. **"Based on recent evidence."** She met his glare evenly. The challenge lingered in the air. Silas looked ready to respond, but a sharp glance from Drusilla silenced him. *Point to me.*
Tristan, the eldest brother, watched the exchange with detached interest. He resembled their father—stern, dark-haired, imposing—but his grey eyes had a sharper, more analytical light. Isolde, the eldest sister, was engrossed in a slim volume bound in blue leather, her expression one of boredom. They were islands of indifference in a sea of hostility.
Soup was served—a rich, fragrant broth. Aria observed Drusilla carefully. The Countess took a delicate spoonful, her movements graceful. Only then did Aria lift her own spoon. *Observe. Mimic. Survive.* The soup was surprisingly good, warming the chill inside her.
**"The Saintess's arrival in the capital has caused quite the stir,"** Drusilla remarked casually, dabbing her lips with a napkin. **"Such divine radiance. They say she healed a dozen beggars with a touch near the Western Gate today."**
*Vanessa.* Aria kept her expression neutral, but inside, her mind raced. *Already healing? That wasn't supposed to happen until after the Academy arc!* The System's earlier warning about 'critical story deviation' echoed ominously in her mind.
**"A true beacon of piety,"** Drusilla continued, her gaze sliding toward Aria. **"It would be beneficial for House Varein to be seen in her favor. Particularly for its younger members seeking… prospects."** The implication was clear: *Make yourself useful or be married off to the highest bidder.*
**"Divine favor rarely comes to those who seek it solely for advantage, Stepmother,"** Aria replied quietly, meeting Drusilla's gaze. **"True piety sees through artifice."**
A flicker of surprise crossed Drusilla's face, quickly masked. Elara made a small, disdainful noise. Valerius finally looked up from his papers, his brow furrowed as he truly focused on Aria for the first time that evening. His gaze lingered on her eyes, so similar to the woman he'd lost, now filled with an unfamiliar steadiness. He grunted again, a non-committal sound, and returned to his reading.
The rest of the meal passed in tense silence, broken only by the sound of cutlery. Aria ate sparingly, sampling only what Drusilla ate first, her mind working furiously. *Prospects.* The Academy was her prospect. Her escape route. She needed information. She needed *capital*.
---
Two days later, bruised but determined, Aria slipped out of Varein Manor through the neglected herb garden gate. She wore a simple, hooded cloak of undyed wool, blending in with the common folk on Valentia's bustling Merchant's Way. The air was thick with the shouts of hawkers and the smell of baking bread, spices, leather, and less pleasant things—unwashed bodies and horse dung.
Her target was **The Gilded Quill.** On the surface, it looked like a reputable bookseller and scribe service, but whispers in Aria's fragmented memories hinted it was a front for the **Shadow Ledger**, Valentia's most elusive information broker and underground merchant guild. Its owner was notoriously reclusive and always masked.
Sena Lee, however, knew exactly who was behind the silver raven mask: **Cassian Vale.** In the webtoon, he was a charming, morally ambiguous rogue with connections everywhere, secretly the disinherited second son of a powerful border baron. His defining trait? A pathological hatred for low-quality ink and a fondness for lavender-scented sealing wax.
The Gilded Quill was a narrow, three-story building squeezed between a bustling apothecary and a noisy blacksmith. Shelves sagged under the weight of scrolls, ledgers, and leather-bound tomes. The air was filled with the scents of parchment, dust, and… faintly, lavender. A young apprentice with ink-stained fingers looked up as Aria entered.
**"Good day, Miss. Seeking knowledge or service?"**
**"A consultation,"** Aria replied, keeping her voice low and slightly rough to disguise its natural timbre. **"Regarding a… specialized procurement. For a discreet patron."**
The apprentice's eyes sharpened. **"Master Vale is occupied. Perhaps I can assist?"**
**"The patron requires Master Vale's particular expertise,"** Aria insisted, projecting quiet confidence. **"Specifically, regarding the formulation of… cleansing agents derived from rendered fats and alkali salts. With potential for… *luxurious* fragrance."** *Soap.* Basic, effective, and potentially revolutionary in a world dependent on harsh lye blocks or greasy tallow cakes.
The apprentice blinked, clearly caught off guard by the specifics. **"I… see. One moment."** He vanished through a beaded curtain at the back.
Aria browsed a shelf of regional maps, pretending to be interested while she observed the shop. Her gaze caught on a prominently displayed brochure: **ROYAL ACADEMY OF VERMILION - ADMISSIONS PROSPECTUS.** Her heart raced. She subtly angled herself to read it.
> `[GSS SCAN INITIATED:]`
> `[ITEM: VERMILION ACADEMY PROSPECTUS.]`
> `[KEY DATA EXTRACTED:]`
> `- APPLICATION DEADLINE: 6 WEEKS.`
> `- ENTRANCE FEE: 500 GOLD CROWNS.`
> `- REQUIREMENTS: NOBILITY (CONFIRMED), MAGICAL APTITUDE (TESTING), LETTERS OF RECOMMENDATION (x2 MINIMUM).`
> `- TESTING: MANA SENSITIVITY, CIRCLE FORMATION POTENTIAL, ELEMENTAL AFFINITY.`
*500 Gold Crowns.* Aria's stomach sank. That was a fortune. Her allowance wouldn't cover a fraction. *Letters of Recommendation?* From whom? Tristan? Unlikely. Her father? Impossible. This problem felt immense.
The beads rattled. The apprentice returned. **"Master Vale will see you now. Follow me."**
The back room was a cluttered den of organized chaos. Scrolls were stacked haphazardly, strange artifacts crowded the shelves, and the lavender scent was stronger. Behind a wide, scarred oak desk sat a figure wrapped in shadow, his face hidden by a beautifully crafted raven mask. Its dark, polished eyes gleamed like onyx.
**"A 'cleansing agent' with luxury potential?"** Cassian Vale's voice was a smooth baritone filled with amusement. It echoed lightly from behind the mask. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers; his hands were elegant, long-fingered, and surprisingly clean for a merchant. **"An intriguing proposition from a… hooded patron. Please, enlighten me."**
Aria met the dark voids of the mask's eyes. *He knows I'm noble. Probably female. But not who.* She channeled Sena Lee's cold confidence. **"Current cleansing methods are inefficient, unpleasant, or too expensive. I propose a solid compound, easy to lather, using rendered fats—animal or plant-based—saponified with purified alkali. Additives: essential oils for scent, herbs for skin benefits, possibly even mineral pigments for visual appeal. Target markets: Nobility looking for luxury, Commoners seeking effectiveness at lower concentrations."**
She laid a rough sketch on the desk—her design for a simple mold to create soap bars. **"Initial focus: Lavender and Chamomile for calming, Mint for invigoration. Premium versions in decorative boxes for the nobility. Simpler versions wrapped in waxed paper for common folk."**
Vale remained utterly still behind the mask. The silence stretched, filled with assessment. Then, a low chuckle escaped him. **"Practical. Blunt. Profitable. I appreciate efficiency. You understand the value of… presentation."** He tapped the sketch. **"The concept has merit. Production? Distribution?"**
**"I provide the formulations, basic molds, and branding concept,"** Aria explained. **"Your network manages procurement of base materials, large-scale production in a discreet location, distribution through existing channels—apothecaries, mercers, perhaps even bathhouses. Profit split: 60% to the Shadow Ledger for operations and risk, 40% to me. Anonymously."**
**"Ambitious terms for an unknown,"** Vale mused, tilting his raven head. **"40% is… generous to you. Why not seek a traditional patron?"**
**"Traditional patrons ask traditional questions,"** Aria replied flatly. **"Anonymity is crucial. My value lies in the knowledge. Your value is in the infrastructure and discretion. Do we have a deal?"**
Another pause. Vale picked up the sketch, studying it. **"Lavender,"** he murmured, almost to himself. **"A refined choice. Very well, 'Mistress Alchemist'. We have a deal. A trial batch. One formulation. Lavender. Bring me the precise recipe and a small sample within three days. If it meets expectations… we proceed."** Relief, sharp and sweet, flooded Aria. "Agreed." She turned to leave.
"One more thing," Vale's voice stopped her. "The Academy deadline is approaching. This could be a costly endeavor for an anonymous patron. A successful venture could ease those burdens quickly."
Aria froze. *He knows.* How much? She didn't look back. "Noted." She walked out, the raven's onyx eyes seeming to bore into her back.
Later, carrying a small bundle of purchased herbs—chamomile, mint, and precious lavender—and alkali salts hidden beneath her cloak, Aria navigated a quieter side street towards the manor's rear gate. Her mind buzzed with formulas and calculations. *Lard or olive oil? Purification process…*
Suddenly, a commotion erupted ahead. A cart piled high with crates had overturned near the mouth of the alley, spilling turnips across the cobblestones. The carter yelled as a crowd gathered, blocking her path. Annoyance flared. She ducked into a narrower, shadowy alley as a shortcut.
Halfway down, she stopped. Leaning against the grimy wall, mostly obscured by a stack of empty barrels, was a figure. Tall, broad-shouldered, with silver-blond hair shining dully in the gloom. *Leon Alberecht.*
He wasn't in his guard uniform. Instead, he wore simple, dark, travel-stained clothes. He held a small, worn leather pouch, his gaze distant, lost in some private torment. His knuckles were white where he gripped the pouch. The air around him felt heavy, filled with a grief that almost felt physical.
Aria hesitated, torn between the instinct to retreat and chilling curiosity. Before she could move, Leon's head snapped up. His eyes, usually cautious and observant, locked onto hers. In that moment, the mask slipped. She saw raw, unfiltered anguish—a deep well of exhaustion and despair that took her breath away. It was the look of a man who had faced true horror a thousand times over.
He flinched, the haunted expression vanishing as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual calm composure. He straightened, tucking the pouch inside his tunic. "My lady," his voice was rough and gravelly. "These streets are unsafe. Let me escort you back."
He stepped forward, moving effortlessly despite his size. Aria noticed a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his left hand as it rested near the hilt of the practical short sword at his belt. Then she saw it—a glint of silver at his throat, mostly hidden by his collar. A pendant. Simple, circular, made of a dull, greyish metal. A hair-thin crack ran through its center, pulsing with a faint, sickly light for a fraction of a second before fading.
> `[GSS ALERT: ARTIFACT DETECTED!]`
> `[ITEM: TEMPORAL ANOMALY CONTAINER (SEVERE DEGRADATION: 0.05% INTEGRITY LOSS SINCE LAST OBSERVATION).]`
> `[WARNING: CHRONOLOGICAL INSTABILITY EMANATION INCREASING.]`
*Temporal anomaly? Chronological instability?* The terms screamed danger, but their meaning was unclear. Leon's intense, guarded stare offered no answers.
"You seem… unwell, Sir Leon," Aria said, keeping her voice steady, her own expression neutral, though her mind raced.
A flicker of something—pain? irony?—crossed his eyes. "Merely weary, my lady," he replied, his voice carefully emotionless. He gestured towards the alley's exit. "Shall we?"
As they walked the short distance back to the manor gate in tense silence, Aria felt the weight of his presence beside her, the silent intensity of his watchfulness. He wasn't just guarding her body. He was watching her *soul*, measuring it against some unseen standard. The cracked pendant felt like a ticking bomb strapped to the heart of her fragile new existence.
He opened the small gate for her. As she stepped through, he spoke again, his voice so low it was almost drowned out by the rustle of her cloak. "Be careful, Lady Aria. The world is far more fragile than it seems. Death wears many faces."
Before she could respond, he vanished, slipping back into the shadows of the alley as if he had never been there. The heavy gate clicked shut behind her, leaving Aria alone in the manor's neglected garden. The scent of lavender from her bundle suddenly felt overpowering, and the memory of Leon's shattered eyes and the pulsing crack in the pendant burned in her mind. The path to the Academy seemed steeper, the shadows deeper, and the silent knight guarding her carried a secret that felt older and heavier than the stones of Varein Manor. Death wore many faces, and Leon Alberecht had seen them all. She just didn't know *how* yet.